It didn’t suit her. It was too innocent, too sweet, when she was all female power.
He held her hand, liked the feel of her palm against his. “Ivy,” he repeated softly, and her eyes darkened. He rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand, wanting to see if he could fluster her the way she’d flustered him. “Just Ivy?”
“Is that a problem?” Her gaze was steady, her expression amused. Not flustered in the least.
But when he let go, he noticed the unsteadiness of her hand, how she curled her fingers into her palm.
“I like to know who I’m talking to.” Wanted to know more about her.
“You’re talking to me.”
“I could find out easily enough,” he pointed out. All he had to do was make a call to the front desk or ask to speak to the restaurant’s supervisor.
“You could, but there’s no reason to. You and me? We aren’t going to be friends.”
“We’re not?”
“Hardly. Look, we both know there’s a...pull between us. A strong one. I didn’t come up here so we could get to know each other better, just as you didn’t ask me to have a drink with you within five minutes of meeting me so we could swap life stories. We want to explore this attraction between us. Why pretend it’s something other than what it is? I don’t need it prettied up. I don’t need small talk, persuasion or seduction, and I sure as hell don’t need promises.” She laid her hand on his arm, scooted closer, her fingers warm, her scent surrounding him. “I want you, Clinton,” she said, drawing his name out as if tasting it on her tongue. “Tonight, all I want is you.”
Desire slammed into him like a wildfire, threatened to burn away his willpower and common sense. Her agile mind and sharp sense of humor intrigued him. Her face and body attracted him. But it was the combination of everything—her looks and personality, her intelligence and wit—that left him speechless. Breathless.
Made him want her with a hunger that bordered on desperation.
She was dangerous to his self-control. His pride.
He had to figure her out. Had to do whatever was needed to gain the upper hand.
Even if part of him was screaming at him to take what she was offering and leave it at that.
“You declined to have a drink with me,” he reminded her. “Refused to even speak to me.”
“Still stuck on that, huh?” She patted his knee. “How about you build a bridge and get over it?”
“You changed your mind when you found out my last name.”
Letting her hand rest on his leg, she raised her eyebrows. “Wow. I’m not sure if you’re giving yourself too much credit. Or not enough.”
He grinned. “Believe me, darlin’, I give myself plenty of credit.”
“Just not everyone else. Or maybe,” she continued softly, “it’s just me you don’t think too highly of.”
What he thought was that she was just like everyone else. No matter how much he wished she wasn’t. He had to question everything. Everyone. He was a Bartasavich.
And he had to know that wasn’t why she was here.
“Weren’t you the one who said people were users?” he asked. “I need to know who you are. Why you changed your mind.”
* * *
IVY WASN’T SURE whether to smack the man upside his too-handsome head or laugh outright. She was practically in his lap, her hand on his thigh, and he wanted to talk about why she was there?
There was obviously something wrong with him.
And, possibly, something amiss with her, as well, since she was enjoying their verbal battle so much. When they finally came together, it was going to be explosive.
A thrill shot through her, anticipation climbing. She could hardly wait.
She smoothed her hand up his leg an inch. His muscles tensed, and he grabbed her hand to stop her from exploring any farther.
Too bad. She liked the feel of him. Solid and warm. She sensed there was an edge to him underneath the expensive clothes, a power he kept carefully contained.
She couldn’t wait to be the one to make him lose that control. “The beauty of a situation like this is that I can be whoever you want me to be.”
“I want you to be honest.”
She almost scoffed, but then she looked at him, really looked, and saw that he meant it. He was attracted to her, yes, that much was clear, but he wasn’t going to give in to his desire. Not until he got what he wanted.
Silly, stubborn man.
But he wouldn’t be the only one who was going to lose if he sent her on her way. And really, telling him what he wanted to hear wasn’t a big deal. She was still in charge. Still the one deciding how much to share. And how much to keep hidden.
It didn’t have to change anything, didn’t mean there was anything between them other than sex. Uncomplicated, no-strings-attached, possibly mind-blowing sex. A one-night stand between two virtual strangers who would go their separate ways in the morning.
That last realization cinched it. She didn’t have to worry about opening up, just the tiniest bit, to a man she’d never see again. Nothing she told him would matter after tonight.
“There’s more to you than you let on,” she said.
He frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You wanted to know why I changed my mind. You think it’s a game, and it’s not. Well, maybe not completely.” Her throat was parched, so she took a long drink then set her glass down. Tugged her hand from under his. “I had every intention of keeping my distance from you. I thought you were exactly as you seemed. Arrogant. Bossy.” She pursed her lips as she considered him. “Entitled. Uptight—”
“I get it,” he said, his tone all sorts of dry.
But he didn’t correct her or try to claim he wasn’t those things. She could appreciate a man who knew his strengths as well as his weaknesses.
“As the night went on you surprised me. You didn’t flirt with other women after I turned you down, which makes me believe you weren’t out to get laid.”
His laugh was a quick burst of sound that scraped pleasantly against her skin. “Let’s not get carried away.”
She returned his grin. “You weren’t only out to get laid. If you were, plenty of women at the party would have been willing to give you anything you wanted. So I knew you weren’t just out to scratch an itch. Plus, you did your best to keep your mother sober—and off the dance floor—and you tolerated her thick-necked date, which means you feel responsible for her well-being or, at least, her reputation, and care about her feelings. You sat with your father for almost an hour, which means you’re patient.”
And she didn’t even want to think about what it said about her that she’d noticed how long he’d sat by the wheelchair, talking to the uncommunicative man. How upset he’d seemed.
“You came to my room because I’m a good son?” he asked, clearly not buying it.
Except it was the truth. Just not all of it.
She edged closer, her knee pressing against his. “I realized it was unfair of me to make assumptions about you based on how you looked.”
People did that to her all the time. They saw her face, her body, her clothes and thought they knew her.
She’d long ago stopped trying to get them to see her as something more than her looks. Why