A Taste Of Fantasy

“Corporate.”

“How did you know?”

He tapped the side of his head. “I’m brilliant.”

She snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He took a sip of beer, straight out of the bottle— Leinenkugel’s Red, brewed up north in Wisconsin. Drinking out of the bottle was sexy on men. Samantha approved.

“What kind of law?”

“I’m corporate counsel for ManForce temporary agency. I handle discrimination cases mostly, racism, sexism and sexual harassment.”

“Uh-oh.” He held up his hands. “I better watch what I say.”

She lifted her brows acknowledging his statement, but not responding. Never hurt to get that information on the table. Men were usually pretty wary after they found out what she did. Nice little weapon, one she wasn’t afraid to use, not that she got herself in situations like this often. But by the way his eyes warmed at the sight of her, she was starting to be damn glad she’d gotten herself into this one.

“And what do you do for fun, Samantha?”

He spoke softly, suggestively. Samantha started to roll her eyes, but then it occurred to her that if he kept up this kind of macho pickup-line crap, he might qualify as the Swaggering Butthead and then she’d get to see him naked. “Define fun.”

“Nonwork activities.” He winked. “You don’t strike me as the type that sits in bars for excitement.”

“Oh?” For some reason that stung. As if she had Desperate Divorcée written all over her instead of Confident Woman On the Prowl. “What type do I strike you as?”

“Beautiful, classy, elegant.” He looked her over as if he was thinking about having her for dessert. “More at home at the opera, or the symphony or in a five-bedroom split level with hubby and lovely children.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to charm or insult me?”

“I’m trying to be honest. How you take it is up to you.”

Samantha gritted her teeth at the same time she was starting to get seriously excited. Mind games. Just what a true Swaggering Butthead was into. Keep his prey off-balance, subjugated. “I’m not into opera, I go to the symphony maybe twice a year, no kids and…” She gave a nonchalant shrug, though it was still hard to say. “I’m not married.”

“Divorced.”

She shot him a look. Yup. He had her pegged. One deep to-hell-with-you breath and Samantha regained her composure. “It happens.”

“You didn’t think it would?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Of course not.” He tipped the beer back into his mouth and put it down on the bar with an emphatic thud. “If you ask my opinion, which you didn’t, marriage is a fairy tale force-fed to us from birth.”

He paused for her reaction. She gave him none. “It’s unreasonable to expect two people to be able to stand each other’s neuroses for all eternity. But there you have it every day.” He gestured with his hand and let it slap onto the bar. “People standing at the altar, sure that mindless infatuation bound to deteriorate is something special and mystical and everlasting. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

He looked surprised, as if he’d only been baiting her in his best Swaggering Butthead manner, and was anticipating a surefire reaction of hysterical female outrage. “You agree?”

“No. You’re right, I didn’t ask your opinion.”

He blinked once, then clutched his chest as if she’d shot him. “You got me.”

“Easy target.”

“I guess.” He signaled the bartender, pointed to their glasses and held up two fingers. “Can I buy you another beer?”

She rolled her eyes, secretly enjoying his high-handedness. Swagger on, baby; you’re doing just fine. “Apparently you can.”

A couple moved away from two stools behind him at the bar; a trio of thirty-something guys wedged themselves into the space. Jack Hunter slid off his stool, pulled it closer to her and slid back on, acknowledging the thanks of the men behind him.

“So.” He grinned, his knee nudging the side of her thigh.

“So.” She gave him an offhand look, hoping he’d think the flush on her face was from the warm bar and the beer. “What do you do?”

“Guess.”

“Hmm.” She pretended to look him over carefully, as if she hadn’t been doing that already from the second they met. Nicely dressed, linen pants and a loosely woven cotton shirt. No jewelry, early thirties she’d guess. But describing his clothes didn’t begin to capture his real look. The male confidence, the killer eyes that were so magnetic it looked as if they were lit from inside….

“You’re a male stripper.”

He burst out laughing. “Now how did you guess that?”

Samantha shrugged, trying to contain her own laughter. God this was fun. Beat the hell out of staying at home with Blanche and Fudge. “It’s written all over you. Jack the Stripper.”

He laughed again, this time letting his eyes linger on hers after the chuckles died. She held his gaze for a few seconds, then looked away. Holy heat wave. The chemistry was astounding.

“I’m a photographer. I shoot commercial stuff primarily, but I’m also working on a series for a gallery on Carpenter Street.”

“No kidding.”

He grinned, a slow charmer’s grin that made her grab her beer for a long sip. “No kidding.”

Samantha put her glass down and ran her finger around the rim, not at all mystified by her sudden need to touch. “One feeds your pocketbook, one feeds your soul?”

“Yes.” His eyes shifted from lazy sex to sudden alert focus, as if she’d surprised him by being in possession of a brain, lawyer or not. “Exactly.”

“Very nice.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He sat watching her, drumming his fingers on the bar as if he was considering something carefully.

Samantha shot him a look. “So, have you decided?”

He cocked his head in a question. “Decided?”

“Whether to say it or not.”

The same surprised awareness flickered through his eyes before he laughed and leaned his chin on his hand, looking at her like she was a piece of his very favorite chocolate cake. “Yes.”