“That’s sexist.”
“You American women…you mustn’t be so on guard. ‘Twas only an endearment.”
“How can I be your sweetheart when we just met?”
“Not my sweetheart,” he admitted. “But I must say, judging by how many times I’ve wanted to smile since the moment you opened your mouth, I think you must be very sweet and very funny and very good-hearted.” He grinned. “Stealth catfish attacks notwithstanding.” Letting go of her arm—the silky skinned, soft arm—he added in a half whisper, “I’m looking forward to knowing you, Annie Davis.”
He meant it. But the fact that he’d said it to her almost surprised him. Sean didn’t usually let his guard down so quickly. Something about this young woman, however, had him dropping the smooth veneer and the jaded mannerisms that suited him so well in his daily life.
He wasn’t flirting, or charming his way into her good graces. He was merely speaking honestly to her, something he wasn’t often free to do with women. Usually he was paid to tell them exactly what they wanted to hear.
Except “no.” They never liked hearing that. Sean, however, had no compunction about saying it.
“We are supposed to be getting to know each other, aren’t we?” he asked. “So tell me about yourself.”
He waited, wondering how she’d respond, this sweet-smelling blonde, who watched him with uncertain eyes.
“That word you said…what language was that?”
“Irish…some call it Gaelic.”
She frowned. “Can you speak without the accent?”
“We still haven’t established that I’ve got one,” he murmured, for some reason enjoying teasing her, even if it might someday cost him a mouthful of raw fish. Cute, that.
She looked away a frown tugging at her pretty mouth. “Well, I don’t think I ever said he didn’t have an accent.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Pardon?”
“I mean him.”
“I ask again. Who?”
“It doesn’t matter. I was talking about you…the you I want you to be, if you’ll agree to it.”
He sighed. “I think I need a drink. Want one?”
When she declined, he gestured toward the bartender. He pointed to a bottle of whiskey and motioned first for a finger full, then widened his fingers to make it a double.
The drink was in his hand a few moments later, brought by an attentive waitress in a short black skirt. She smiled coyly and brushed her hand against his for a moment longer than was technically necessary to pass him the napkin-nested glass. Then she sauntered away, a definite flounce in her step.
“Boy, talk about rude.”
“What?”
“That waitress totally ignored me, not offering me a drink or even a glance. Like I wasn’t even here.” She rolled her eyes. “She might as well have ripped off her uniform and scrawled her phone number on those fake double-D’s of hers.”
“How did you know they were fake?”
“Oh, puh-lease…” Then, obviously having noted his inflection, asked him the same thing. “How did you?”
He responded the same way. “Oh, puh-lease.”
A tiny twinkle appeared in those eyes and her lips quirked up a bit at the edges.
Liking that glint of humor, Sean cast a leisurely gaze over her, taking in every inch of the woman standing before him, beyond just the attractive face, understated hairstyle, simple jewelry and clothes. He noted the delicate swell of her breasts beneath the silk of her dress. There was no question of how perfect, how natural, her curves were.
He sipped his drink. Slowly.
Her shoulders appeared capable, yet somehow fragile, her bare arms strong, yet pale and slim. Her body was in perfect proportion, her height an ideal match for his. She could easily tilt her head back to meet his kiss.
And Sean suddenly found himself wanting that kiss. A lot.
“You obviously know something about women,” she said, not sounding entirely pleased at the observation.
He knew enough to know she was one-hundred-percent female. And that she was instinctively messing with his head.
What, he wondered, would she do if he bent slightly to brush his lips across hers, as he suddenly wanted to do? Would she pull away if he cupped her waist in his hands, rested the tips of his fingers on her hips and tugged her close? Would everyone else in the room see the brush of their bodies as an innocent hug, or as the carnal invitation he knew he would be extending?
“I should thank that waitress, you know. She helped me confirm just how stupid this is,” she said, any hint of a smile disappearing.
Her tone chased away his sensual mood. He couldn’t believe she had truly been jealous about the ridiculous cocktail waitress, whose overblown charms had nothing on the more understated ones of this woman. “She was rude to you, but it’s cute that you’re jealous.”
The way she tilted her head to one side—puzzled—told him he’d misread her. Now he realized she hadn’t been jealous. In fact, she looked almost…deflated. Morose. “That’s not it. I mean this whole situation is stupid. I give up. Nobody’s going to buy us as a couple.”
Ignoring the obvious question—why anyone would have to—he asked the more interesting one. “Why not?”
Frowning, she gestured toward him—his face, his shoulders, his tux—then glanced down at herself. “We’re not what I’d call a match made in heaven.”
“We are a match made at an auction,” he pointed out. “And that’s all that matters.”
“No, it’s not,” she murmured, those amazingly expressive eyes shifting away again, as if she had something she didn’t yet want to tell him.
“What exactly is it you’re worried about?”
“Somebody meeting us would take me for your secretary.”
He snorted at the thought of him having a secretary. What? To keep track of his…appointments?
She ignored him. “Or your dental hygienist. Not your girlfriend.”
Girlfriend? He didn’t have those. Ever.
This auction was strictly for a one-date relationship, which was about Sean’s max when it came to his personal life, anyway. Or, at least, it had been for the past several years, since he’d told his old man to shove his estate and his plans for Sean’s future—including an appropriate marriage—and had hit the road, determined to find his mother and the other side of his history.
But he didn’t argue, still wanting to get to whatever point she was trying to make. “Or they might take me for your mechanic. Who gives a damn what anybody else thinks?”
At that, a rumble of soft laughter escaped from her mouth, sounding so genuinely merry, he couldn’t prevent himself from echoing it with a chuckle of his own.
“Yeah, right. Remington Steel showing up to fix my minivan. That’s exactly what people will see.”
A minivan…horrendous. “Who is Remington Steel?”
“He was a character on a TV show. My mom’s favorite when I was a kid.” Her brow scrunched in concentration. “Wait, Pierce Brosnan is Irish, right?”
“Oh, that show,” he replied. “Yes, he