His eyes swept over her in an inspection so slow and intimate it left her with the distinct impression that he'd seen right through her simple black dress. "Fortunately, I have a solution."
"Oh," she said. "Um, what?"
That wide, gorgeous mouth curved up. "I thought that would be obvious, Megan. I want you."
Chapter Three
Megan blinked, certain she must have heard him wrong. "What did you say?"
Heat flashed in his eyes, and she swallowed, not certain if it was borne from anger or desire. "I think you heard me just fine."
"I--" She paused, her mouth dry and her words lost. She had no idea how to answer. For that matter, she wasn't sure how she felt. Was she confused? Insulted?
Was she, God forbid, actually a little bit flattered?
No. Absolutely not. He was being a prick and yanking her chain--and he was damn sure doing it on purpose.
She lifted her chin, determined to remain professional even in the face of his antics. "I can't possibly have heard you right."
"No?" He pushed away from the desk and came toward her, and oh, holy hell, the man had a presence. He walked with purpose--and she couldn't shake the somewhat unnerving feeling that right then his purpose was her.
She shifted, intending to take a step back, but then she saw his lips twitch, and she was certain that he was laughing at her. Amusing himself by intimidating her, and patting himself on the back when it worked.
Bastard.
She dug in her heels and held her ground. "I came here to apologize for the misunderstanding and to ask you to please consider participating in the Man of the Month contest. The Fix on Sixth is a popular bar in a historic location on Sixth Street. This contest has turned into an incredibly well-attended event, and it's no secret that the contest is the cornerstone of a marketing campaign designed to increase revenue at the bar and, thus, keep it's doors open into next year and beyond."
Whew. She squared her shoulders and drew in a breath, impressed that she'd gotten all of that out without faltering. Then again, she'd practiced in front of her mirror for a good ninety minutes last night, and once more on the walk over.
He cupped his chin in his fist, one finger extending onto his cheek as his head tilted slightly sideways. He looked like an academic--an insanely sexy academic. And she had absolutely no idea what he was thinking.
After a moment, he turned, walked behind his desk, and sat down, the city spread wide behind him. "Please," he said, with a nod to a leather and chrome guest chair.
She took the seat gratefully, certain that they'd passed the unpleasantries and were moving onto the details of how this would work and what The Fix could do to alleviate any inconvenience the whole mess had caused him.
Parker leaned back in his chair, his fingers now steepled under his chin. "Let me make sure I understand. You're telling me that--even though the error was entirely yours--because The Fix is a popular establishment with financial issues, I should enthusiastically tarnish my reputation and jump on board?"
She couldn't help it; her brows shot up. "Tarnish your reputation? Yours? The man whose picture's been flashed on the TMZ website more than Paris Hilton? Your reputation?"
He leaned forward, his hands clasped on his desk, his eyes on her, and his expression as commanding as she'd ever seen.
"Yes," he said, the easy tone belied by the formal posture. "My reputation. A reputation I've been working diligently to repair since I founded PCM Enterprises. A reputation that I've culled together piece by painful piece, meeting by interminable meeting with investors, doctors, FDA representatives, bankers, lobbyists, and more politicians than I like to think about. A reputation that I've clawed free from the wreckage of my bad choices in Los Angeles, and which you have just rendered invisible by including me in a line-up of men who are going to prance across a stage like a troop of goddamn Chippendale strippers."
"Oh." She licked her lips as she sank a bit into the chair. "Oh," she repeated, because she really didn't know what else to say.
With a rough shove, he stood, his chair rolling backward into the window from the force of his motion. For a moment, he simply stood there. Then he stalked around the desk until he was standing right in front of her, and she had to either tilt her head back to meet his eyes, or stay as she was with her eyes about level with his crotch.
She tilted, though the whole situation ticked her off. Dammit, she should have remained standing, because this position was intimidating as hell, and even though she'd screwed up, she'd come here to eat crow, not be intimidated. "I assure you, there is absolutely no prancing during the contest."
His brows rose. "Isn't there?" He stepped backward until he was leaning against his desk. "That's odd. Because I could have sworn the whole contest went something like this." He kept his eyes on her as he spoke, and all the while he was slipping off his jacket.
Her mouth went dry, and she actually jumped when he tossed it onto his desk. But she really almost lost it when he narrowed those ice blue eyes at her, loosened his tie, and then let it trail through his fingers as it dropped to the floor, as casually as a man undressing for bed.
During that whole process, he never stopped walking, and with each step closer her breathing grew more shallow and her body more aware. The man was like a sensual magnet, and the closer he came, the more her entire body seemed to yearn to go to him. Her blood humming. Her nipples peaking. Her lips tingling.
And then--oh, dear Lord in heaven--he started to unbutton his shirt. One button, then another, and another, until he paused right in front of her, the tiniest smattering of chest hair peeking out from the starched white cotton, so enticing that she almost had to sit on her hands to keep from reaching out to touch him.
He stopped after three buttons, and her mouth fell open, disappointment rolling off her in waves.