It made a loud popping sound, and she’d stood there with a quiet smile on her face while bubbles spilled down her arm. The group of people at her table cheered. All men, he’d noticed.
She wasn’t on a date, though, from what he could tell. The table was piled with note cards, as if they were some kind of study group.
Note cards. In the middle of a wine bar on Friday night.
“That was quite the party trick,” Ryan had said after he’d abandoned his coat, his drink and the trio of business associates he’d been meeting with.
He’d had to talk to her. Had to.
For the better part of a week, he’d been avoiding every marriage-minded single woman in Manhattan. But the knife-wielding goddess had gotten under his skin instantly. He wasn’t even sure why.
Yes, she was pretty. More than pretty, actually. Beautiful, with full red lips and long, spun-gold hair—the kind of hair that made him hard just thinking about what it would feel like sliding through his fingers.
But it had been more than her looks that had him spellbound from all the way across the crowded room. He’d felt an inexplicable pull deep in his chest when he looked at her. And as he came closer, there’d been something else. She’d had secrets in her eyes.
“It’s not a party trick,” she’d said, looking him up and down. A scarlet flush made its way up her porcelain face. “It’s called sabering.”
She’d gone on to explain that French cavalry officers had used their swords in a similar manner to open champagne during the Napoleonic Wars. Which didn’t explain in the slightest why she was doing it in a wine bar on the Upper West Side, but Ryan hadn’t cared.
It had fascinated him. She’d fascinated him...
Fascinated him enough that he very purposefully neglected to mention his last name.
A car rounded the corner. Ryan turned in the direction of the sound of tires crunching on packed snow, but it wasn’t the Bennington limo. Where was the damned thing? He was freezing.
He bowed his head against the wind and walked toward the newsstand, hoping the old man could sell him some coffee.
He felt bad about the name thing, even now. Even after she’d shown him the door within minutes of waking up in her bed. It wasn’t as if he’d lied to her. He’d just left off his surname.
Call me Ryan.
Thinking about that made him wince. It made him sound like a player, when in actuality, he was anything but.
That was the big irony of his current situation. Practically overnight, and through no fault of his own, he’d developed a reputation. A reputation that had no basis in reality.
It had been a relief when he realized Eve had no idea who he was.
Eve, with her butcher knife and lovely head full of history.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The man behind the newsstand looked up. “Yeah?”
“Have you got any coffee back there?”
The man nodded. “Sure do. Extra hot.”
“Perfect.” Ryan opened his wallet and removed a few bills. As he handed the old man the money, his gaze snagged on a magazine.
Gotham. But the title didn’t matter. It was the image on the magazine’s cover that gave him pause.
A man’s face.
His face.
If Evangeline Holly hadn’t known who he was last night, she would now.
Six weeks later
Ryan was late.
In the three years since he’d been named CFO of the Bennington, he’d been the first member of the executive staff to arrive for work every morning. He was notorious for it.
Sometimes the chief executive officer purposely tried to get there first, just to get under Ryan’s skin. But Ryan had a sixth sense when it came to predicting moves like that, probably because Zander Wilde wasn’t just the CEO. He was also Ryan’s cousin. The two men had known each other a lifetime. Ryan knew Zander like a brother.
Consequently, he wasn’t the least bit shocked to find Zander waiting for him when he strode into his office five minutes later than his usual arrival time. Annoyed, yes. Shocked, not so much.
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Zander was reclining in Ryan’s chair with his feet resting on the smooth mahogany surface of his desk, ankles crossed. He folded the newspaper in his hands and shot Ryan a triumphant grin. “Looks like I got here first.”
Ryan set his briefcase down and lowered himself into one of his office guest chairs. “Pleased with yourself?”
Zander’s smile widened. “I am, actually.”
“Enjoy your victory.” Ryan lifted a brow. “Especially since it was three years in the making.”
Zander shrugged. “I’ll take it. A win is a win.”
“If you say so, but would it kill you to get your feet off my desk?” He glared at his cousin’s wing tips.
Zander rolled his eyes before planting his feet on the floor and sitting up straight. “I need to talk to you about something. But first, what’s wrong? You’re not dying or terminally ill, are you? You’re never late.”
“It’s 7:35 a.m.,” Ryan said flatly.
Zander’s only response was a blank stare.
“I’m not dying. I was just...” He cleared his throat. “Delayed.”
“Delayed?” Zander smirked. “I get it now. This is a bachelor-specific problem.”
He cast a pointed glance at the framed magazine cover hanging above the desk. Gotham Names Ryan Wilde New York’s Hottest Bachelor of the Year, the headline screamed.
Six weeks had passed since Ryan had learned about his “coronation,” as Zander liked to put it. His feelings about the matter had remained unchanged since that snowy morning at the newsstand in the West Village. Namely, he loathed it.
He especially loathed seeing the magazine cover on the wall of his office every day, but it was preferable to having it on display in the Bennington lobby, where Zander had originally hung it. Ryan suspected it had been a joke and his cousin had never intended to leave it there, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The terms of their compromise dictated that the framed piece made its home on the wall above Ryan’s desk.
Oh joy.
“Let me guess.” Zander narrowed his gaze. “You were out late last night fighting women off with a stick.”
Hardly.
Ryan hadn’t indulged in female company for weeks. Six weeks, in fact. Although his recent abstinence wasn’t altogether related to the Gotham feature article.
He couldn’t seem to get Evangeline Holly out of his head. A couple of times, he’d even gone so far as to visit her building in the Village. He’d lingered on the front steps for a few minutes, thinking about their night together.
It had been good.
Better than good.
It had been spectacular, damn it. The best sex of his life, which was reason enough to let it go and move on. That kind of magic only came along once. Any attempt to recreate it would have been in vain.
Maybe not, though. Maybe the night hadn’t been magical at all. Maybe she’d been the magic.