His voice was low and a little husky, reminding me of aged whiskey with a smoky finish. I liked it, which was annoying. Actually, more than liked it. It made my insides hot, and I noted the flesh between my legs felt a little wet.
Probably just sweat, I told myself. I was not attracted to this guy, no matter how stunning he looked. Men this gorgeous were always trouble.
Just look at my dad. Pretty on the outside, completely rotten inside.
I narrowed my eyes and tightened my mouth into a flat line. This bozo knew he was good-looking and sexy-sounding. And he wasn’t above using his charms to his advantage.
“In your dreams.” I tried to hiss it at him.
He ran his tongue over a row of perfectly straight white teeth and squinted at me. “Do you know who I am?”
Was he serious? I let my gaze roam over him. It took a while because he was so damn tall. But I wanted to be thorough…from his head to the broad shoulders and lean frame with ropey muscles, the nicely formed chest peeking through the V of a slate-gray shirt, narrow hips and nice pair of legs encased in black jeans…then back up. He had tattooed forearms and one of those huge wallets on a chain attached to his belt.
He looked at me like he was waiting for me to fall at his feet.
Puh-leeeze.
I, Emily Katarina Breckenridge, did not fall at any man’s feet. Seeing how Dad treated Mom was a one hundred percent foolproof vaccine against pretty men’s charms. Yes, it was true—my mom had married my dad for his face. Look how that had worked out. Dad was with another woman, and Mom was waiting for him in that huge, echoing house back in McLean. If he was feeling especially considerate, he’d shower at the hotel before heading home.
“As it happens, I don’t know who you are. Do you know who I am?”
The man pulled back a little, eyebrows rising. It was his turn to run his gaze over me. Slowly. Insolently. And the skin along my spine and chest felt weird, somewhere between a hot tingle and an itch. I grimaced. Probably dried sweat from the exercise. Back sweat and boob sweat were the worst.
I was most definitely not thinking about him naked. Or in my bed. Or in me.
His mouth started to purse. And almost immediately after that, his nose wrinkled. I recognized the evaluating, assessing look in his eyes. I’d seen it plenty of times in my dad’s, most recently when I became a romance novelist.
How dare this ice cream thief judge me?
“No,” he said finally.
I gave him a fake smile. “So we’re even.” I tugged at the tub, but he still wasn’t letting go.
I didn’t have all night to fight this guy. I needed to shower for the first time in four days, take a short nap and get back to work.
How to make him back off…?
I flicked my eyes down. “Oh my God!” I screeched, infusing the high-pitched yell with all the disgust I could muster. “There’s a cockroach on your foot!”
“What?” He looked down, flinching.
And his grip on the ice cream relaxed. I yanked it out of the fridge and placed it firmly in my cart.
“Hey!” he protested.
“What?” I put a hand on my chest with all the innocence I could muster. “You’re the one who let go.”
“That was cheating!”
Cheating? He wanted to talk about cheating? All the frustration with my dad resurfaced, aggression boiling in my blood. “What are you going to do? Fight me for it?” I snarled, letting him see my teeth, and raised my clenched hands to signal that I was willing to bloody that pretty face to keep the ice cream I’d just earned. Hopefully he’d be intimidated.
His expression twisted in distaste. “Fight some homeless alcoholic? No thanks.”
“Ha. Call me whatever you like. I still won!” I fist-pumped the air.
He was looking like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. It was obvious he’d expected me to hand over the tub of ice cream ambrosia.
Over. My. Dead. Body.