“Caught you,” he murmured, his voice deep and smooth, an accent marring the words, making them slightly unfamiliar and him about twelve hundred times more attractive.
“What?” I stuttered, trying to find the cool demeanor that had done me so well for twenty-six years.
He grinned, his face losing that harsh sculpted quality with the expression. He had one dimple on the left side of his mouth. I had a sudden urge to lick it.
I actually found myself leaning forward before I snapped back, scowling at him and then my glass. I didn’t think I’d imbibed enough alcohol to render me into a bumbling idiot. But maybe my tolerance was waning with old age.
That was a scary thought.
Much scarier than crow’s-feet.
“Your glass do anything particularly offensive to you tonight, sweetheart?” he asked, his accented voice dancing with amusement. “Need me to rough it up for you? I’m sure it’ll give a hell of a fight, but I’m ready to do it. To protect the fair maiden’s honor.”
“I can protect my own honor,” I told him sharply. “And I’m no maiden, honey. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re at a biker party. The only princess here is Lucky.” My eyes went to the biker, who was grinning and giving me a not-so-subtle thumbs-up.
How in the world could a biker covered in tattoos, practically the face of Muscle Weekly, give a thumbs-up? And pull it off?
I brought my icy gaze back to the man I was currently talking to, careful to avoid those eyes. I focused on a small scar above his eyebrow instead. “And if you haven’t noticed, I’m far from a princess myself. No pink in sight. In fact, I might just burst into flames if pink or taffeta touched my body,” I continued.
I’d gone from a bumbling idiot who spoke in single words to a bumbling idiot who didn’t know when to stop talking.
His eyes swept down my black, skintight leather pants that I’d saved for six months to buy on sale. A reason why I could never gain weight for the rest of my life, they molded to my legs perfectly. And went with my strappy Guccis. I had a tight black cami on, which dipped way low, showing off my less-than-ample assets. I’d compensated with a chunky necklace that took up half my chest and weighed a ton. My midnight-black hair was piled into a messy bun, though it was rebelling and falling in tendrils around my face.
That’s where he finished. Keltan. At my face. That was after he set my entire body aflame with that singular look.
I was actually breathing heavily.
From a look.
You’d think I hadn’t lost my virginity to Justin Ample, the quarterback, in the back seat of his mom’s Challenger.
That I’d been saving myself for a hulking man with eyes I could drown in and a body that pagans would sacrifice to if he was in ancient Greece.
“No, babe. You don’t look like a princess,” he agreed, voice smooth. “But you do look like fuckin’ royalty.”
His words filtered through my mind, and my gaze went to the thick cords of his neck as he spoke, watching the muscles in it move.
I snapped my eyes back up to the beautiful foreign man who I gathered to be a friend of Gwen’s, considering he arrived with her, and his accent was almost identical to hers, if a lot more manly.
A lot.
“You’re from New Zealand,” I said. It wasn’t a question, more of an accusation. Plus, what did someone really say to a statement like he just said? To pretty much a complete stranger?
It was insane.
And even more insane how much it curled into my stomach, making me feel a fluttering feeling that I would never admit, out loud at least, felt a fuck of a lot like butterflies.
He grinned again, folding his arms so the designs on them moved as though they were alive. “Guilty as charged. Think the accent gave me away? Or the rugged good looks that your Yank men can only dream of possessing? You are surrounded by some seriously ugly men. Thank God I’m here to give you something nice to look at.” He gave Cade and Lucky pointed looks.
I pursed my lips against my smile.
He could not be attractive, tall, and funny with an accent to boot. Not possible. And he could not be all of those, plus be… interesting to me.
No.
“Keltan,” he continued, his eyes on me, losing their teasing glint.
I wanted to squirm under the gaze, but I squared my shoulders and forced myself to paint a bored expression on my face. I leisurely sipped my martini, the heat of the alcohol nothing compared to the burn of his gaze. “I know,” I said by response.
His grin deepened, not at all perturbed by my lack of manners.
My mother would likely be having a heart attack if she could see me now.