Then it hit her. He didn’t find her attractive.
In a scene out of an alchemist’s nightmare, the gold excitement in her chest turned to lead misery and sank into her stomach. Of course. Mr. Perfect would want Ms. Perfect. Rose probably had told him she was Demi Moore’s double to get him to come.
“Do you want a drink, Riley?” Because she sure as hell did. “Scotch okay?”
He nodded. She moved to the tray she’d brought in earlier from her place, and poured out two stiff drinks. While she did this, Tom-now-Riley walked around the apartment, examining Rose’s clutter of knickknacks: her collection of still-life paintings, sometimes two deep on the red walls; the bowls of potpourri that made the room smell like some anonymous chemist’s idea of fresh.
Melissa crossed to him and handed him his drink. “Cheers.”
She raised her glass in salute, then drained half of it.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Thirsty?”
She smiled and laughed somewhat stupidly, which was very un-perfect of her. “Nervous.”
He nodded, which seemed to be his preferred mode of communication. That weird judgmental expression was still on his face. In spite of the fact that he was perfect, and mysterious, and sort of terrifying in a dangerous, wildly erotic way, she was also starting to find him a little annoying. If he thought what she wanted was so disgusting, why had he come? If he thought she was so disgusting, why didn’t he leave? He didn’t seem the type to worry about politeness.
“So.” She folded her arms across her chest and exhaled a short, forced breath. To hell with him. “How about those Red Sox?”
His grin was slow and surprising, spreading across his face and making grooves in both cheeks, a double in the right one. She couldn’t help smiling back. You couldn’t be in the room with a man who smiled at you that way and not smile back. Even if you sort of wanted to slug him in the gut.
“Think they’ll go all the way this year?” She opened her eyes wide and blinked repeatedly.
He actually chuckled that time. Then he took a healthy swallow of Scotch and put it down behind him on Rose’s mantel, without looking, as if he simply sensed it was there. He stood, hands on his hips pushing back his jacket, staring at her with an intimate I-know-what-we’re-going-to-be-doing-later look in his eyes.
Melissa drew in her breath. Her face turned cold and probably pale, then reheated in a flush of warmth that spread down her body and made her skin feel as if it was reaching out to be touched. Oh. My. Lord. The man could seduce a nun. Maybe he did find her the tiniest bit attractive, after all. Or maybe he’d promised Rose and felt he had to.
Whatever. Melissa wasn’t ready to get cozy yet, not until she’d figured out his strange attitude. And she had this thing about not kissing men until they’d uttered at least four complete sentences.
She backed away and gestured toward the couch with her drink, nearly spilling it in the process. “Would you like to sit down?”
He sat in the burgundy wing chair, the lace antimacassar looking idiotically feminine and out of place behind him.
Melissa gulped more of her drink, its tingly warmth adding to what she already felt from Mr. Perfect’s incredible sex appeal. Maybe if he’d actually talk she wouldn’t be so freaked out.
“Why are you nervous?”
She barely escaped choking on her Scotch. What the hell did he think? If she hadn’t seen the piercing intelligence in those eyes, she’d wonder about his brain power. “I don’t exactly do this often.”
“No.”
She snapped her head up and gaped at him. He kept his gaze level, unperturbed, slightly challenging. Something in the way he’d said “no” did what women had been fighting against for generations: it meant yes. It meant he thought she invited strange men over to explore her sexuality all the time.
“Excuse me?” She stood up, feeling slightly unsteady, beginning to be annoyed in earnest. “Would you mind lifting yourself above the four-word sentence and explaining that?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Do I need to?”
She came very, very close to flinging her drink in his lap. Instead she slammed it down on Rose’s brass table. What a total jerk. This was a major disaster. And he’d been so—
She wasn’t going to use that p word again. Not for a jerk, not even a perfect jerk.
She pointed furiously down at her shoes. “Flats, so you wouldn’t think I’m a tramp, and because I was worried you might not be tall. Knee skirt, plain navy, no sit-down wrinkles across the front—i.e., not too short, not too tight. Basic off-white top, normal makeup, plain old hair. All calculated during the last nearly sleepless twenty-four hours in an obsessive and carefully laid plan, to ensure that if you didn’t find me attractive, or if I didn’t find you attractive, the rejection would be minimal because I didn’t go all out for seduction.”
She jerked her arm straight out in front of her. “Observe the shaking hand, complete with sweaty palm. If you’d like to feel my pulse I think you’ll find it one step shy of panic level. Now. Please tell me exactly what would make you think I’ve done this before.”
His eyes narrowed, then his expression changed to contain something that seemed like admiration. He grinned that slow sexy grin which changed him from terrifying to devastating. “I apologize. You’re perfect.”
Melissa would have laughed, except he sounded like he was mocking her, and she was still furious. He thought she was perfect? “Two sentences that time. I dare you to up the count.”
He stood and took a step toward her. “I’m not much of a talker.”
The implication was there, in his eyes, in his purposeful nearness. I’m better at other things. Melissa reached down for her drink and walked toward Rose’s tiny kitchenette, unsettled to the verge of tears. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for this man. Two minutes into their meeting he was playing mind games, and she hadn’t a clue why. Maybe he thought it was sexy. Maybe he thought making his victims want to stick pins in him would be fabulous foreplay.
It wasn’t. Not even close.
She drained her glass and poured herself another Scotch, knowing she wouldn’t be able to come close to drinking even half of it. She’d rather not exhaust her dignity by throwing up in Rose’s toilet. But it gave her something to do, something to help her escape his calculating stares and overwhelming presence. Something to help calm her while she figured out how to get the evening back on track.
“Look, Riley.” She clenched the whiskey bottle, not yet brave enough to turn around and face him. “I’m kind of a mess over this whole thing. So if you could make it a little easier on me, I’d appreciate it. I don’t know what you expected, but obviously I’m not it.”
She took a long, healing breath, glad to have all that out in the open…and held it. He’d come up behind her. Close. She could feel his warmth, could feel his eyes on her. She wished her hair was still long so the back of her neck wouldn’t feel so exposed. Her sleeveless cotton shirt had only a slightly scooped front and back, but she might as well have been wearing a bikini top, the way she felt.
“You’re better than I expected.” He drew his hands down her arms in a light, caressing touch that ended with him circling her wrists in a firm grip she had a feeling would tighten impossibly if she tried to pull away. Although his tone still hovered between compliment and insult, Melissa’s heartbeat sped up. She stood entranced, imprisoned, and somewhat shamefully aroused.
“I