As You Like it

Remy shot a quick glance over at Beau. Want me to rat you out or not?

His preliminary impulse was to shake his head, glide right out the side door and disappear into the crowd. But he knew better. He’d learned the hard way you couldn’t run from your problems.

Plus this particular problem had the upside of being intriguingly attractive.

And it had been a very long time since he’d gotten laid.

But the dark recesses of his brain warned: You know you’re not the kind of guy who can kiss and then sprint.

It was true. He had never been able to treat sex casually the way most men seemed to be able to. Other than Angeline, he’d only had one other sexual partner and she had been his high-school sweetheart.

He blamed his inherent sexual loyalty on his basic need for connection. Having grown up in a fractured home with no real place to call his own, getting yo-yoed from one continent to the other, from one step-family to the next, Beau longed for a steady, stable woman he could make a life with. That’s why he’d had such trouble letting go of his relationship with Angeline long after it was evident their basic values clashed.

But he wasn’t a kid anymore whose mother was too busy pitching hissy fits to pay him the slightest bit of attention. Wasn’t it time he overcame his annoying impulse of equating sex with love?

Not that he was jumping to any conclusions about Miss New York City. But his unexpected sexual desire for her did raise a few issues.

“Beau Thibbedeaux?” the woman repeated to Remy. “I understand he’s part owner of this bar. Where might I find him?”

Beau pushed up the brim of his cap with one finger and settled his chair firmly on the ground. “I’m Beau Thibbedeaux.”

The woman whirled around to face him. Her eyes widened as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh.”

“What do you need?”

She planted an optimistic smile on her face and darn if her eyes didn’t scrunch up in the cute little way he’d imagined. In the blink of a second, she hopped off the bar stool and took two long-legged strides across the floor, her hand extended dominate side up, leaving him with no choice but to get to his feet and accept her proffered palm.

Her skin was warm against his. Her smell—clean, sophisticated, enticing—teased his nostrils and made him itch to nuzzle the nape of her neck.

“How do you do, Mr. Thibbedeaux? I’m Marissa Sturgess.”

Nice name, he thought, but said, “You may call me Beau.”

Silently he tried it out. Marissa. He liked the romantic way her name rolled off his tongue. He imagined whispering it in the dead of darkness and felt his body heat up.

Her smile deepened and simultaneously dug a soft place into the center of his solar plexus. He’d had a lot of practice assessing manipulative smiles and he could have sworn hers was genuine.

“Beau,” she said and the sound of his name on her lips was positively testosterone stoking.

Bizarrely enough, her eyes seemed to burn him. Everywhere her gaze landed, his skin sizzled. His nose, his cheeks…his lips.

Involuntarily, he lifted a hand to his mouth.

Weird.

“I’m a huge fan,” she said.

Fan? Oh no, was she some kind of computer-geek autograph seeker who’d acquired carpal tunnel syndrome from countless hours of playing his most popular video game, Star Tazer?

She indicated his baseball cap with a wave of her hand and he laughed. Oh yeah. The Yankees.

He was still trying to puzzle together who she was and what she was doing here when she said, “I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”

Now, that sounded like the prelude to a sales pitch. She was a saleswoman not a lawyer. Yes. That would explain the shoes.

But not his sudden disappointment because he’d misjudged her smile.

“I’m just the silent partner,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Remy. “My brother handles all the purchasing orders.”

“I’m not selling anything.”

He folded his arms over his chest, his hands tucked under his armpits and his feet planted shoulders’ width apart. “No? Isn’t everyone selling something?”

“Can we talk?”

He waved at the chair across the table. She eased into the seat and he plunked down opposite her. Remy hustled over with her Perrier and a fresh beer for Beau.

“Got yourself a live one,” Remy whispered. “Go for it.”

Marissa’s lips curled in amusement. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Remy grinned back, nudged Beau in the shoulder with his elbow, winked and nodded at him.

Beau kicked Remy lightly in the shin. Knock off the matchmaking.

Thankfully, a couple of customers strolled in and claimed Remy’s attention.

“Ignore my brother. He can’t stand it because he’s married and I’m not.”

She dropped her gaze for a fraction of a second and pressed her lips together before raising her head and meeting his eyes once more. There it was again, the hint she didn’t feel quite as competent as she hoped to appear.

“Mr. Thibbedeaux. Beau.” She took a sip of Perrier, and then settled her hands in her lap. “Why don’t I just cut to the chase? I’m an account manager for Pegasus software in Manhattan.”

He said nothing, just watched and waited. He’d heard of Pegasus. It was a small but rapidly expanding company that had built their reputation on cutting-edge technology and a penchant for maverick risk taking.

“Our largest client is Baxter and Jackson.”

“The sex institute?” He purposely put an emphasis on the word sex to see if he could provoke a blush. No such luck. Her professional persona was firmly in place and she wasn’t about to encourage him. But, although her lips didn’t turn up at the corners, her eyes did crinkle and he felt as if he’d been awarded a grand prize.

“Yes. The sex institute.”

“Must make for a titillating work environment,” Beau said, exaggerating the first syllable of titillating. He made sure his voice was low and husky and provocative.

“At times.”

Cotton candy wouldn’t melt in her mouth; her expression was that dry. He wondered what it would take to wet her up from the inside out.

“So what does all this have to do with me?” he ventured, although he had a pretty good idea where the conversation was headed and he was loath for it to roll there. Maybe he was wrong and she would surprise him, he hoped wistfully.