Wicked & Willing

“Be careful,” he warned as he sat on the other chair. “It’s deceptive with the breeze. Redheads tend to burn, right?”

She raised a brow. “Who says I’m a natural redhead?” At this point in her life, Venus could barely remember what her natural hair color was anymore, though she thought this was pretty close. She’d run the full color spectrum in the past several years. But red was definitely her favorite.

“Whether you are or not, stick with this,” he murmured, glancing at her hair with a look so intimate it felt like a touch. “A woman with eyes as green as yours should be a redhead.”

His quiet flattery hit home. The man was a charmer.

“And a man with a face like yours is usually wearing a wedding ring,” she murmured, needing to make sure he was available before they went any further. Venus might like men, but she never went after the taken ones.

“Not married. Not involved,” he replied easily.

She wondered if he heard her audible sigh of relief.

When he didn’t respond by asking the same question, Venus paused. Was he not interested? Or was he so interested he simply didn’t give a damn whether she was available or not? Hoping it was the latter, she offered the information anyway. “Me, neither.”

Far below them, the traffic rumbled by, evidence of the bustling city life during a hectic Monday rush hour. But up here, high above it all, Venus felt completely separated. Alone. Except for this sexy stranger with the mouth she felt she had to soon kiss or die trying.

He gestured toward her sandal. “That could probably kill someone if it fell from this height.”

She intentionally flipped it harder, setting a tapping rhythm with the shoe.

He grinned. “Okay, so I’ve got ulterior motives for wanting you to move your legs.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared intently at her foot. “What is it?”

“I think it’s called a shoe.”

He chuckled. “No, I meant that.” He pointed toward her ankle. Leaning even closer, he reached for her leg and gently tugged her foot off the railing. Venus sucked in a breath at the feel of his warm fingers on her calf, wondering if he heard the crazy pounding of her heart within her chest. She heard it—it roared to life in her head as she focused every bit of her attention on the brush of his skin against hers.

“This,” he said softly as he placed her foot on his knee, completely disregarding any possible damage to his expensive trousers. Then he leaned over to look at her tattoo. He touched the tiny hummingbird she’d had put on as an unemployment present last year. “Very pretty. Did it hurt?”

She could only manage to shake her head. If she tried to make a sound, it would emerge as a whimper. Or a plea.

He continued touching her, tracing the shape of the blue-green bird with the tip of his finger, cupping the back of her calf with his other hand.

The chair suddenly felt harder against her bottom. She shifted uncomfortably in the suddenly too-tight jean shorts. And her breath barely made it into her lungs as she focused on the way he looked at her. The way he touched her.

“Why a hummingbird?” he asked, still not letting go.

She didn’t answer at first, not quite able to. She couldn’t even think of anything but the way his gentle touch would feel, sliding up her leg, beneath her shorts. Touching her where she suddenly felt hot and achy.

Finally, drawing in a ragged breath, she whispered, “I like hummingbirds. They’re aggressive as hell, but still delicate and small. Just like I always wanted to be.”

Shaking his head reprovingly, he tsked. “Why do women always want to be the opposite of what they are? Even when they’re stunningly beautiful?”

She snorted a laugh, drawing his stare to her face. Okay, she was the opposite of delicate and small. But she didn’t think she was the opposite of aggressive. Or so she’d been told. Then she focused on the stunningly beautiful part.

That worked.

“I’ve suddenly discovered I really like tall women.”

Oh, yay!

“Any other tattoos anywhere?” he asked, letting his gaze travel across her bare shoulders and neck.

Her body reacted, her nipples hardening beneath her shirt. Feeling them scrape against the cotton, she wondered if he noticed. “No,” she said. “But I’m thinking about it. I’m not sure I’ll like my next choice once I turn seventy-five or eighty.”

He raised a questioning brow. “Next choice?”

She nodded. “Jessica Rabbit.”

When no look of understanding crossed his face, Venus gestured toward her top. If he hadn’t seen her body’s reaction to the way he’d held her foot before, he’d surely notice it now.

She tugged the cotton tight, revealing the sexy, red-haired cartoon character vamping it up on the front of her T-shirt. In a bubble above the bombshell’s head were the words, “I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way.”

Venus liked the sentiment.

“Ahh,” he said, staring hard at her shirt. His voice sounded thick. Yeah, he’d noticed.

“She doesn’t look like a rabbit,” he offered, still delicately stroking her ankle, absently caressing her calf until she nearly writhed in her chair.

“She’s, uh, not…” Venus managed to reply. “That’s her married name.”

“What about you? Are you bad? Or are you just drawn that way?”

She closed her eyes, leaning back in her seat, silently asking him to continue the tender stroking of her leg. “Maybe I’ll let you figure it out for yourself,” she murmured.

He finally let go of her foot, as if realizing they were moving really fast for a couple of people who hadn’t yet introduced themselves.

“I’ve thought about getting one,” he admitted, gently shifting her foot off his lap. Then he chuckled ruefully. “Not that anyone would believe it.”

“Why not?”

He answered with a secretive smile. “Let’s just say people see me in a certain way. A tattoo wouldn’t go with the image.”

“I know how that goes,” she muttered, not even able to count the times someone had been surprised by her intelligence, or the business sense hidden beneath the exterior package and smart mouth. “But you don’t exactly look like Mister Boring Businessman.” Gesturing toward his tanned skin, she mused, “Looks like you’re no stranger to the sun yourself.”

“I actually live on the beach in south Florida. Or rather, I did, until last week.”

“You moved here? To Atlanta?”

“Not permanently. I’m not sure where I’ll end up. I’ve recently found myself with a lot more freedom than I expected.”

She couldn’t resist. “So you made parole, huh?”

Deadpan, he nodded. “Certainly. Amazing how quickly they let us homicidal maniacs out nowadays.”

“Tell me you didn’t get sent up the river for throwing red-haired females over balconies.”

He shook his head, a twinkle in his pale green eyes. “Only natural redheads.”