tell you were going to be tall like you are now.”
Taylor was again tempted to laugh. She had seen pictures of herself at three years old. She had been average size then, maybe even a bit small for her age. Her first growth spurt hadn’t happened till a couple of years later, at least. She was about to throw this guy some lines of her own, of the brush-off variety, when she noticed a man coming through a doorway at the end of the bar that extended the length of the room. He stopped for a moment to say something to the bartender. Taylor was looking at him with such concentration that, when he turned, he caught her staring. The directness of his gaze connected them, one to another, across the room with a flash of electric intimacy that almost made Taylor look away. She felt suddenly apprehensive, but she held his stare despite the flutter in her chest that was her heart picking up speed.
He was powerfully angular, almost too imposing for the low-ceilinged barroom. The lines of his face might have been chiseled from the rich-grained wood of the beams supporting that ceiling. His cheekbones were high and resolute, like the ridge of collarbone below his square, dimpled chin. He seemed out of place somehow in this smoky barroom, as if he was meant to be out-of-doors, among trees and landscapes as rugged as himself.
He began walking across the room. He was headed, in as straight a line as possible, directly toward her. She had guessed who he was the moment she saw him. He walked as if he owned the place, and that meant he had to be Destiny Maxwell. She felt that ownership reach out toward her the way it sometimes did with very strong-minded men. She steeled herself against its strength. She wasn’t about to be dominated, especially not by this particular man, no matter how strong-minded he might be. If this was to be a test of wills, she was determined to come out the winner.
Still, she couldn’t deny how attractive he was. She had seen it in the photographs in her portfolio, but those had only been pictures. The man in the flesh was even better-looking, almost disturbingly so. She would have preferred that not to be the case, but Taylor wasn’t accustomed to lying to herself. She had to admit, if only in private silence, that even the way he walked was somehow unsettling to her. He moved fast across the room without appearing to hurry at all, as if he wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t the kind of man who hurried for anybody. He might put on a little speed when his priorities required it, but he didn’t hurry. That would mean behaving as if something really mattered to him. Taylor guessed that this man didn’t like things to matter to him, or to let anybody know they did.
Des Maxwell might possibly be the handsomest man she had ever seen. He might also be the coolest and the most detached, and that coolness and detachment intrigued her. It also made her increasingly uneasy with every step he took because, the closer he got, the more striking he looked. As he approached she noticed more details about him, such as that he was quite tall, six feet or more. She couldn’t tell exactly from this angle. His hair was bronze and gold, much like April Jane Cooney’s. His deep, copper tan made Taylor aware of her own snowbird-pale skin.
Taylor felt a sudden shift of perspective, as if she had turned abruptly at an angle to see something not visible in her former line of vision. However, she hadn’t moved a muscle. She knew what was happening. She had experienced it before. The barroom scene disappeared for her for an instant and was replaced by something much more disturbing. She could see her body stretched out full length and naked. His nude body lay atop hers. Their skin touched, almost blended, but remained mysteriously different, like night from day.
Then the image was gone, as suddenly as it had materialized, and she was watching him stride toward her once again. Unfortunately, as with other such experiences, the shadow of the vision remained, along with its aura of strong sensuality. Taylor struggled to erase that sensation from her consciousness. She reminded herself that she’d always been put off by men who were what she thought of as too handsome. Vanity usually came along with such physical gifts, and arrogance. The way this particular man moved led her to suspect a generous portion of both.
Still, Taylor had to concede that the very sight of him had shaken her. Or, could it be just the vision she was reacting to? She hadn’t gotten over being startled when this kind of thing happened. She doubted she ever would. The experience made her feel unprotected, as if her usual defenses had toppled and she was left completely vulnerable. She definitely didn’t want to feel that way now, in front of Des Maxwell. She stifled the impulse to swallow hard against the rapid beating of her heart.
“Well, Jethro,” the tall man said when he reached the table. “You usually don’t prowl your way in here till the weekend.”
She wouldn’t go so far as to say there was a sneer in his voice, but it came very close to that. Meanwhile, though he was talking to Jethro, Destiny Maxwell was staring at her. His green eyes didn’t waver an instant from their study of her face. She felt their imposition so keenly that she was tempted to slap him for his rudeness, or maybe to dispel the shock his close-up gaze seemed to be causing to her system. She could actually feel her stomach tightening into a knot under his scrutiny. The vision of herself naked under him had already unnerved her. His stare couldn’t help but add to her uneasiness. She felt the warmth of a blush rise unbidden beneath the white cotton of her dress. The thought that he deserved a slap grew stronger, as if he might, in some deliberately insolent manner, be forcing this blush upon her, all the while enjoying her embarrassment.
“You two know each other. Right?” Jethro asked, glancing from one icy stare to the other.
“Not really,” Taylor said.
“I’m afraid you’re wrong about that. I’m Des Maxwell, and you are Taylor Bissett, which means I’ve known you almost all your life.”
Maxwell sounded so aloof he might not have been there at all, as if his words had been spoken with no connection to the rest of him. Taylor found that aloofness as provoking as his rude gaze and his calculated movements. Besides, she was getting tired of being declared an old acquaintance by men she had no memory of ever meeting.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “I do not know you.”
The waitress walked up behind Maxwell with a frothy white drink on her tray. “He ordered you a piña colada,” she said with a nod toward Maxwell in response to Taylor’s inquiring glance.
Taylor caught the flash of adoration in the young woman’s eyes as she looked up at her boss. Unfortunately, Taylor couldn’t help understanding that look. In addition to the attractions she had already noted, his hair fell winsomely across his forehead, and a thatch of sun-blond curls peeked through the open neck of his shirt in disturbing contrast with his tanned skin. He was positively spilling over with masculine charm, and she was keenly aware of the danger in that. She told herself she was determined to avoid such danger and that it was the power of this determination which made her hand tremble as she reached into her purse for her wallet.
“The drink is on the house,” he said and took hold of her wrist before she could pull out her money.
His fingers were warm against the thin skin above her pulse. She felt that pulse quicken as if it might begin at any moment to pump visibly beneath his touch. She pulled her hand away from him before that self-betrayal could happen.
“I prefer to pay my own way,” she said, handing a bill to the waitress, who had watched this exchange with considerable interest.
“Suit yourself,” Maxwell said with a shrug.
“Say, you two, what’s all this sparring about anyway?” Jethro darted halfway up from his seat and yanked the chair opposite Taylor’s away from the table. “Why don’t you sit down and take a load off, Des?”
“What do you say, Ms. Bissett? Should I take a load off, as Jethro puts it, or take a walk?”
Taylor stared straight back at him. She forced herself to be just as cool as he was. “Suit yourself.”
“In that case, I accept your invitation, Jethro,” Maxwell said, sitting. “How’ve you been, anyway?”
“I’ve been super, Des.” Jethro looked bewildered, as if he might be surprised by Maxwell’s acknowledging him at all.
“And