He stared at me suspiciously for a second and it occurred to me that every single aspect of me had just been observed, catalogued and filed away for future reference.
Then, just as suddenly as he’d opened the door, the man turned and strolled back into the suite, talking to someone on his phone as he went, his voice a deep, gritty rumble. He appeared to be wearing only a pair of worn blue jeans that sat low on his lean hips, leaving his massively muscled shoulders and back bare. A Chinese dragon had been inked into the smooth olive skin, the colours all brilliant blues, reds and greens.
I blinked again, staring, oddly shaken though I had no idea why. Because it wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen a shirtless man before. I’d also seen a fair number of tattoos in my time—my brothers all had them, plus I was involved in the car industry where it was practically de rigueur. Still, I hadn’t seen anything quite as beautiful as that one.
I swallowed, for a second unsure whether to follow him or wait. But since I wasn’t the waiting type I stepped into the suite, shutting the door behind me as I followed him into the lounge area.
He stood with his back to me, still talking on his phone and so I took a moment to study him.
Okay, so this was the scary Ash Evans.
I’d seen pictures of him—who hadn’t? He was built like a heavyweight boxer with the height of a basketball player, his face scarred all to hell from an encounter with the wrong end of a knife back when he’d been a teenager. He was an absolute beast of a man—at least according to one gushing female journalist who’d been granted the rare privilege of an interview and had obviously been bowled over by him.
I’d scoffed at all the over-the-top language in the article—honestly, the way some women got when it came to men, I couldn’t understand it. But being in his presence now, I could see what she was talking about.
Even though he had his back to me, he stood in the middle of the lavishly appointed room as if he owned it. No, more as if he owned all of Paris. A fierce kind of energy radiated from him, kinetic and masculine and utterly compelling.
I knew what it was. Two of my brothers were race car drivers and they both had it in spades: pure male confidence.
Luckily, I’d had plenty of practice in dealing with it and my solution was simply to be as confident and in-your-face as they were.
I waited patiently for Mr Evans to wrap up his conversation, staring at his beautiful Chinese tattoo until finally he’d finished and turned to face me.
Intense blue eyes met mine and my breath caught for the second time that day.
The pictures of him were one thing, but the reality was a whole different ball game. His features were blunt, but roughly handsome and somehow made even more compelling by the famous scars that bisected them. One scar narrowly missed his right eye, while another caught one end of his mouth and twisted it, making it look as if he was sneering. A third highlighted his hard, square-cut jaw. But it was those eyes that really dominated his rough-hewn face. They were so blue, electric almost, reminding me weirdly of lightning in a thunderstorm.
Hot.
The thought came out of nowhere, hitting me like a gut punch. Because he was, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even noticed a guy in that way.
Since the Mark incident I’d put my love life on hold because I simply couldn’t be bothered dealing with all the drama involved, and, so far, I hadn’t met anyone who’d made me want to change my stance.
Not that Ash Evans was even in my league.
I didn’t actually have a league.
Conscious that I’d been standing there, staring at him like an idiot, I shoved my momentary fluster away and I stuck out my hand. ‘G’day, Mr Evans,’ I said, going full Aussie. ‘I’m Ellie Little. I’m—’
‘What do you want?’ His voice was as rough and gritty as sandpaper, and his stare skewered me like a pin through a butterfly. ‘I told the hotel I wasn’t to be disturbed.’
Obviously I was getting a taste of Mr Evans’s famous rudeness. So far, so billionaire. And to be honest, nothing I hadn’t come across before either driving or in the Australis workshop.
‘I’m not from the hotel,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I’m your chauffeur.’
‘Chauffeur?’ He ignored the hand I was still holding out. ‘I usually have Bill.’
‘He wasn’t able to make it to Paris. One of your assistants okayed a replacement.’ I lowered my hand since it didn’t look as if he were going to shake it. ‘Don’t worry, sir. I’ve been given a full rundown of your—’
‘Don’t call me sir. I’m Mr Evans to you.’ He shoved his phone into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘And my assistant never mentioned this.’
With some dudes if you gave them an inch, they took a mile, and clearly Evans was in this camp. I’d found the best way to deal with it was to be as laid-back as possible, all the while making it clear that you were not there to be walked over.
‘I’m sorry you weren’t contacted, Mr Evans,’ I said easily, giving him a wide smile. ‘But that’s not really my problem. I’m just here to do my job.’ And to fix Dad’s little investment issue. But I couldn’t ask him about that now; I needed to build up a little rapport with him first.
There was a silence.
Clearly he did not like my answer, because his gaze became arctic, the electricity in his eyes taking on a bright, cold glint. A sense of threat gathered around him and I could suddenly see why people might be scared of him because that, combined with his height and scarred face, made him pretty damn intimidating.