to him.
Closing the distance between them, he took her extended hand. Petite would seem like the right word for her. Still, he had an idea there was much more to her than her slight size.
“Max Donovan. I’ve been here a couple days, too. Wonder why we haven’t met before now.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been working a lot from my room.”
“What type of work do you do?”
She paused, like she was considering her answer, then with a tilt of her head said, “I’m a writer.”
“Really?” He would have placed her in media or something where she could talk and smile. It seemed she liked to do both. He liked to see and hear her do both. “What do you write?”
Her brown eyes brightened, her grin going from cordially nice to sensually soft. “Romance,” she said, her voice lowering slightly. “Know anything about that subject, Max Donovan?”
Chapter 2
Was she flirting with him?
Of course she was. He was, hands down, the finest man she’d ever seen. And because she’d gotten into boys early—at around ten was when she had started noticing the opposite sex—she’d seen her fair share of good-looking men.
But this man was like a walking god. All right, that was probably cliché, she’d blame that on the romance writer’s mind. Still, she couldn’t argue the facts.
He was tall—damn, she loved tall men—over six feet, like a good couple of inches above it, she concluded. His skin was the color of melted caramel, his eyes some dreamy toss-up between green and gray. It was hard to tell in this kitchen with the not-so-great lighting. He was muscled and sculpted and just basically existing as if he were meant to be painted, put in a frame and thoroughly enjoyed. His hair was great, she surmised immediately. Thick, a sandy-brown color and long. Not down his back long, but not close-cropped either. Actually, it looked as if he may have at one point had dreads or twists, because the two- to three-inch length looked wavy and soft. That was really the clincher for her since her own hair was worn in shoulder-length twists. She loved natural styles and applauded men for stepping outside the box and wearing their hair differently as well.
She wanted to lick him, like a caramel lollipop. That made her sound like a slut with a sweet tooth.
Yet, it was so true.
Standing here in this old-fashioned kitchen with its linoleum floor and Formica countertops with the moonlight spilling through the windows was the perfect prelude to hot summer sex.
And her imagination was on total overload.
“You write romance novels? Hmm, wouldn’t have pegged you for the fairy-tale type.”
He was talking.
Stop ogling him and talk maturely, she warned herself.
“Why? What’s wrong with fairy tales?”
“Reality’s better,” he said and she knew he was being honest. She liked that in a man.
“A fairy tale can happen in real life. It’s all about the imagination. Prince Charming can come in many forms, a millionaire businessman, a talented NBA player, a suit-and-tie corporate type, the cable guy,” she said, ticking off her answers with her fingers.
He smiled. His eyes changed when he did, becoming a little lighter, she thought.
“Come on, would you really consider the cable guy a Prince Charming?”
“If he provided the heroine with everything she needed or desired, yes. It’s not about the wrapping, it’s what’s beneath that makes the package worth while.”
There, chew on that a minute, Mr. Nonbeliever.
He shrugged. “Okay, I guess you can rationalize your opinion. So what brings you here? Are you from South Carolina?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. No Southern accent.”
“I’m from New York. My family runs an art gallery there.” She wasn’t sure why she’d told him this. She never used her family background to impress men. Ever. Was she trying to impress him?
“What do you do, Max?” she asked, loving the way his name rolled off her tongue.
“I’m in real estate,” he responded. Then, with a nod of his head, he signaled that they should have a seat at the big table across the room.
The chairs were wooden, as was most of the furniture here. But she liked the kitchen, with its big windows and open floor plan. Cabinets lined the better part of two walls, with windows decorated with eyelet curtains at equal intervals. The floor was bright white with little blue flowers, an old design but it worked in here. Pulling out a chair, she almost smiled at the heavy feel against her hands. Old furniture, antiques, had that feel. Weathered. Used. Loved. She liked it, so she sat down.
“That’s a vague answer. What do you do in real estate? Buy? Sell?”
He sat in the chair right next to hers, so close she caught a whiff of what would be his cologne, a little muted because he would have put it on early this morning, after his shower maybe. Still, the scent seemed to match what she’d seen of him. Confident. Intriguing. “Both.”
“Cryptic again. You don’t like talking about yourself much, huh?”
He shrugged. “I just think there are more interesting things to talk about.”
“Okay, well let’s talk about the company you work for, what do they do?”
He smiled and she smiled back.
“Persistent. I like that.”
His words sent little shivers dancing down her spine.
“My cousin and I are partners in a company that purchases properties, refurbishes and resells them.”
“Oh, you’re house flippers. I’ve seen them on television.”
His quick frown was unmistakable. “We’re not house flippers. We buy properties such as large estates, office buildings, resorts. We’re a much higher class than those you see on television.”
Because he seemed a bit bothered by her assessment of his business, Deena pushed on. She couldn’t help it, it was just her way. “You’re into the ‘class’ thing? Like you’re better than them because you don’t buy houses that everyday people would want? What class are your clients? Better yet, what class am I?”
He straightened in his chair, those intriguing eyes keeping her still, frozen in his gaze.
“First, that’s not what I meant. I do not abide by any class system. I was referring to the level of real estate work I do in comparison. Second, I never judge people by their circumstances. And third, I like your tattoo.”
Deena opened her mouth, fully prepared to blast his response, but then she snapped it shut. “Okay,” she said finally, clearing her throat. “Ah, thanks.”
He’d seen her tattoo. When? Probably when he’d first come into the kitchen because she knew she’d been alone at the pool. She shifted in her chair and tried to keep her gaze steady with his. But she had to admit, his compliment had thrown her off.
“Do you like butterflies?” he asked, his voice suddenly somber.
“Butterflies and moonlit walks.”
He lifted a brow. “Are you asking me to walk with you under the moonlight?”
She stared at him a second longer, thought about what he’d asked and what she wanted. He was fine, but he was also sure of himself. Sure that he could have anything and anyone he wanted. Of course, this was her quick assessment of him and she could certainly be wrong. But for right