Lust fired through his bloodstream and hit his groin like a missile.
Well, damn...
‘Hi.’
He handed her the champagne glass and gave himself a mental high-five when she took it. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman in a while. And before the night was over he intended to have her—after all, his make-out skills had improved considerably since high school, and he’d never had a problem getting any girl he wanted even when he’d been the boy good girls were warned to stay away from.
But first he was more interested in uncovering all the fascinating secrets lurking in those big, beautiful and guarded eyes.
‘Drink up, cher,’ he said, laying on the Cajun manners his mama had drummed into him as a kid. ‘Whatever you said to Dan Carter to send him packing,’ he added, clinking his glass against hers as he mentioned the CEO she’d just given the bird, metaphorically speaking, ‘I salute you. The guy’s an entitled jerk. I have it on good authority.’
* * *
Luke Broussard! In the flesh.
‘You... You do?’ Cassie spluttered, taking a gulp of the champagne the man she’d been discreetly trying to locate in the crowd had just handed to her.
‘I do.’
He tapped his nose, his firm, sensual lips stretching into a grin so full of laid-back hotness she could feel the effect right down to her toes—even in the heeled sandals which had been punishing her feet for over an hour.
Funny thing... She couldn’t feel the pain any more as she became fixated on that seductive smile—full of confidence, and heat, and rueful amusement...and directed squarely at her. As if they were sharing a particularly good joke.
Although that couldn’t be right.
She tried to get her jet-lagged brain back into gear.
Was this actually happening? Or was she imagining it out of desperation and fatigue and the Aperol Spritz she’d chugged down too quickly as she’d struggled to relax enough to make small talk?
She’d been at the wedding for what felt like an eternity, and there had been no sign of Luke Broussard and no one who knew him had seemed willing to talk about him. But Ashling’s dress choice had worked its magic—or rather its curse—because she’d been approached by a selection of increasingly pushy guys, the last of whom had asked her point-blank if she’d like to spend the night on his yacht.
She’d met enough American men in business to know they could often be staggeringly forthright, but the leer in that man’s eyes had made her feel unclean.
Luke Broussard’s eyes, though—a striking emerald changing to a deep forest-green around the rim of his irises—were full of something a great deal more dangerous to her peace of mind... Not to mention her breathing... Because the look in them had triggered an urge to step closer to him, to gather the hint of his clean scent—pine soap overlaid with man—and bask in the mocking approval in his expression. Which could not be good.
His husky American accent sounded different from the others she’d heard this evening too. Slower, deeper, less sharp, the soft purr brushing over her skin and making it tight and achy.
The snapped, mostly blurred shots she’d found of him on the internet hadn’t done him justice. He’d seemed conventionally handsome in those pictures, but in person his features were more rugged and a great deal more breathtaking. The strong jaw, darkened with the first hint of stubble, was matched by a prominent nose and chiselled cheekbones. His left brow was rakishly bisected by a piratical scar, and his dark wavy hair looked as if he’d missed his last few appointments at the barbers.
The hint of a tattoo on his collarbone—was that barbed wire?—revealed by the open collar of his shirt, only added to the aura of raw masculinity, untamed and defiant, and as out of place in this exclusive setting as she was... But for entirely different reasons.
The shock of having him walk up to her so boldly gave way to curiosity—and that odd yearning which she’d have to examine later. Much later.
For goodness’ sake, Cassie, say something smart and erudite. Draw him out. Don’t stare at him like a dummy.
She took another sip of champagne to buy some time and think up something coherent to say. Why did this feel like a strange exotic dream—both dangerous and exciting—rather than a golden opportunity to further the interests of Temple Corp?
‘I’m not sure if Mr Carter is a jerk,’ she managed, having finally grasped enough of the conversation to actually participate, ‘but he was certainly very forward.’
‘Forward, huh?’ Broussard’s scarred eyebrow arched and his lips quirked as if she’d said something amusing. ‘What was his pick-up line?’
‘He invited me to spend the night on his yacht. Apparently it’s very big.’
His lips quirked some more. ‘Classy,’ he murmured. ‘What did you say?’
‘I told him the truth—that it probably wasn’t a good idea as I can get seasick on a pedalo.’
His eyes sparkled, the tantalising curl of his lips making her breath thready. What was it about his smile that made it seem dangerous and precious at the same time?