Home > Womanizer (Manwhore #4)(12)

Womanizer (Manwhore #4)(12)
Author: Katy Evans

And straight at me.

His stare hits me like a lightning bolt.

I glance away.

Wynn jerks her head in the direction of Callan. “What’s up with him anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well he’s got some willing little friend hanging right by him, and he won’t take his eyes off you.”

I don’t dare turn. I shrug in my best attempt at nonchalance. “I work for him, he’s probably uncomfortable that he can’t be as bad as he likes because I’m here,” I say playfully.

I feel him glance in my direction, and for some reason my eyes feel magnetized to his.

He stands there as if he knows he is good looking times a thousand.

He casts a glance at my little outfit.

We exchange a subtle look that may not be so subtle at all. For a long moment I study his face without hurry, feature by feature. His eyes drink me up too.

And suddenly I can’t stand the intensity of his stare, even from across the room.

I excuse myself and wander down a hall, just looking for a little place here that doesn’t have him in it.


I keep walking and hear his footsteps come closer. I open the next door frantically and find myself staring into a utility closet, and as I realize it’s the wrong door, he takes my wrist and pulls me inside.

His warm gold-bronze eyes are full of expectation. “Were you not going to say hello?”

“Not really.”

He just smiles and crosses his arms and rocks back on his heels, his eyes scanning my getup. “Gold, huh?”

There’s a teasing light in his hazel eyes, unmistakable.

“I have a rather boring corporate life, I live for the weekends.”

“And I live to see you in that little outfit.”

Something fizzles warmly inside my stomach at his words. “Please save your antics.”

“It’s a compliment.” A thoughtful smile curves his lips; he chucks my chin. “If you got them more often you might recognize one.”

Nervous by his teasing, I move a step back and bump into a bunch of shelves.

He surveys me in silence, voice low. “Will you be home later tonight?”

“Yes, but not for you.”

“I’d like to talk.”

“Talk to the tart you’re with.”

“That tart is a good friend of mine and heiress to the Darhausen Wine dynasty.”

“There are tarts in every tier of life. Yours happens to be wearing real diamonds, though not much else. She’s practically naked in someone’s living room.”

“It’s my living room. And I know naked, and that’s not it,” he says with a seductive crinkle of his eyes, taking a step forward.

This is his home?

Shocked, I turn and he touches my shoulder, the warmth of his fingertips on my bare skin startling me. Nearly whimpering, I spin away to avoid the contact.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

I exhale.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m embarrassed.”


“I danced for you.”

“You dance very well.”

“And I seduced you.”

“I know. I was there.”

“And you let me.”

“I did,” he agrees, planting a hand next to me on the wall, leaning closer. “I’m glad I’m the one you seduced and not some intern.”

“You’re not the guy I meant to seduce! I was seducing Derek!”


“Aha.” I nod, hating the butterflies I feel when he looks down at me. “Anyone but you.”

“That’s not true. It was my tongue in your mouth last night, and it was you moaning like crazy when I put it there.”

“It shouldn’t have been there.”

“I say it should’ve. And so did your moans.”

“Those were for Drake.”

“Derek.” His eyes sparkle in amusement, and more butterflies appear.

I purse my lips to keep from saying anything else.

“Hey,” he says, roughly and with unexpected sweetness, “I’m still the same guy you were with last night.”

“No, you’re not.” I scowl. “You led me on. You were amused about it.” I want to cry.

“I find myself constantly amused by you, I plead guilty to that.” He’s speaking so sweetly to me I’m only getting sentimental about it.

“Thanks. You should’ve told me I was hired to be your own personal clown.”

“You’re not my clown.”

“I’m not anything of yours. I just work for you.” I shake my head and swallow the lump in my throat. “I thought we were friends. Turns out our friendship was as fake as . . . this ring. As fake as my job at your company.”

He has a thousand friends out there. I mean, why would he want to hang out with the twenty-two-year-old little sister of one of his best friends?

“Your brother asked me for a favor, true,” he agrees, frowning at my words now, “but I’m not running a charity here. I looked at your résumé. You’re well qualified, a little rebellious and with a mind of your own. I appreciate that. And while Roth asked me for a favor, I plan to live up to my side.”

“I’m not some sort of tool for you to feel better about yourself,” I resentfully say.

“No, you’re not. And I would feel better if those blue eyes would stop shooting bullets at me. I enjoy the way you treated me, how real you were with me. I don’t get that a lot.” He shifts forward, his gaze completely honest and open and oh so warm as he seizes my chin and forces me to meet his gaze. “So I prolonged the time you wouldn’t know. And I wanted you last night. And I still want you now.”

I drop my gaze to his throat.

The air starts to feel thick enough that my lungs strain for oxygen. Callan and I are absolutely still, me staring at his neck yet achingly aware of his stare fixed on me.

I go through the conversations we shared and feel more and more like a stupid girl with a crush on the guy who wouldn’t give her the time of day. The notorious womanizer everybody knows . . . seduced by drunk little me.

“Will you fucking look at me, Olivia?” he growls softly.

My eyes fly up to his. Oh god, he looks frustrated. He sounded frustrated. He said “fucking.”

I’m fucking shocked! For a man who exudes so much control, yeah, it’s fucking shocking.

He clenches his jaw, then reaches out and grabs my hand, yanking the door open with the other.

“Let’s take this outside.”

My eyes widen as he leads me down the hall, his hand warm on mine, and I know I should pry it away, but I can’t.

We step outside, onto a huge terrace with garden views as far as the eye can see.

He leads me to a lounge and tugs me down to sit next to him, and only then releases my hand. He’s staring at me, and I am staring at the expanse of skin revealed by the undone top buttons of his shirt.

It feels like we’re back in our own little world, but not quite.

I don’t know what to do with my freed hand all of a sudden, curling my fingers into my palm because it tingles. Because his touch lingers.

He continues staring at my profile in quiet desire for something. What, I don’t know.

I look at him, and he looks at me, lifting his brow.

He looks at me so piercingly I have no choice but to look back.

“So did you go? See the sights?” He shifts forward, his voice soft, barely audible in the wind.

“I went to the Art Institute. I still want to see so much more. I haven’t been out of Texas all that much. My fear of heights gives me panic attacks just thinking about flying. I can only seem to fly on my brother’s . . . well.”

I shrug, searching for the words.

“Even though I know I’ll be okay, physically my body reacts in panic,” I finish.

The attentiveness in his eyes, the way he listens, it’s hard not to notice. “What happened?” he asks.

“So, we had this tree house when we were little. I think . . .” I hesitate in continuing, but one look into his eyes and I’m done for. I add, “I think we should have a cigarette.”

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