But this time I recover quickly and turn my lips up into a slow, knowing smile as we hold each other’s gaze. In contrast to the flash of hunger I catch in his eyes, he nods his head nonchalantly with an arrogant curl to his mouth before looking away.

But I keep staring.

And there’s something about the whole exchange that infuriates me.

I need to remember he’s just my cover, the man I need to partner up with to protect my ass. So there’s no reason to be irritated that he just reeled me in with those eyes and then disregarded me without so much as a second look. Ironically it’s the exact same thing I had planned on doing to him – use my looks right off the bat if I sensed any attraction in order to catch him off guard enough to use my brain and intuition to do my job.

I may be an agent, but first and foremost I’m a woman, and no woman likes to be made to feel inconsequential. For the first time in forever I am pissed about someone not noticing me.

Agitated and irritated, I’m suddenly tossing back the shot I had no intention of drinking. The burn comes fast, and I hope my sense follows suit, because no man has ever thrown me off my game when it comes to work, romantically or otherwise – and yet with a single glance, Tanner Thomas has done just that.

I turn the glass around in circles on the scarred tabletop as I try to figure out what exactly it was about the exchange that instantly had him getting beneath my skin. It was ten seconds tops, and yet those ten seconds packed a punch I never expected.

It had to be the look he gave me. While I’ve seen him a hundred times filing live reports – and I’ve both appreciated his looks and admired his skills – nothing prepared me for the absolute intensity in his eyes. Not to mention the flash fire of heat that surged in my lower belly when our gazes met.

And with that last thought, I’m immediately shoving my chair back. All my best laid plans have gone out the window: play it cool, meet face-to-face for the first time tomorrow, fly under the radar. I’ve made a living on being able to read people, and in that brief meeting of our eyes, he was able to get a visceral reaction out of me. That in itself is rare. Even more unheard of is for me to take the bait and say fuck it to my rules, which is exactly what I’m doing by walking across the bar to face this head-on.

There’s something about the contradiction between the look in his eyes and his rigid posture that tells me he doesn’t like to be handled. Wants all of the control. And God yes, in a lover that’s sexy as hell, but in a man I have to work with under difficult circumstances, it’s not so appealing. I need to get the upper hand here so I can control the situation before it even starts.

Fate has to be on my side because the barstool next to Tanner is vacant when I approach. So I slide into the seat, face him, and wait for him to look my way. I know he senses my presence. I can see the stiffening of his posture, the fleeting tension in his fingers, but he doesn’t lift his eyes from where he’s tracing lines over the grooves on the scarred wood bar top.

He’s attractive in an odd combination of rugged mixed with preppy pretty boy. Camera-worthy looks but with a hint of edge to the lines giving character to his face.

The seconds pass as I wait him out, questioning my decision to come over here, but I won’t back down now. I’m not wishy-washy. Hate women that are. I didn’t get where I am professionally by being a damn doormat. But standing here waiting for him to glance my way suddenly unnerves me.

“Whoever you’re looking for, I’m not him,” he says without looking up.

The part of me that felt uncertainty sags in relief and welcomes his hostility. I can definitely work with his lack of warmth, hold on to it, and use it to my advantage to find my footing. He has no clue that we’re about to enter into a partnership.

“I don’t believe I’m looking for anything.” I feign nonchalance, don’t want to give him any more than he is giving me and yet at the same time hope it brings a reaction out of him. Something. Anything.

“Good.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, but at least he hasn’t gotten up and left. I glance up to the bartender and then back toward Tanner. “Whiskey sour,” I order from the bartender, and notice a slight startle of Tanner’s head in my periphery. I smirk, his reaction giving me the perfect in to get his full attention. “And put it on his tab.”

Bingo. Tanner snaps his head up and immediately meets my gaze. If I thought the intensity in his eyes was powerful before, it’s tenfold now. The problem is that it’s not just the intensity that pins me immobile, but also the unique amethyst color of his eyes mixed with his undeniable good looks. Proximity to him might not have been a good idea because I find myself captivated by him.

A completely foreign and unwelcome feeling hits me so fast that I shove away from the bar top. I maintain my smirking expression and the challenging look I’m giving him even as my insides somersault into nothingness and that quick ache of lust hits me head-on. The flash of intrigue commingled with amusement in his eyes tells me that he’d love nothing more than for me to be the typical female I’m sure he’s used to dealing with: compliant, starstruck, fumbling over her words.

He’s got another think coming if that’s what he’s expecting.

“I don’t believe I offered to buy you one.” He leans back and angles his head, eyes assessing and daring me all at once.

“Well, I don’t believe I asked you to be an asshole either, so the drink’s on you.” The comment is off my tongue before I can think it through. We stare at each other like two caged animals circling, each trying to figure the other one out, and knowing regardless of our indifference, there is definitely a game of some sort being played between us. Good thing I know what that game is.

“Then I guess you should steer clear of me and neither of us will have to worry about me being an asshole.” He grunts the words out, and I don’t know whether I should be glad or upset about his response.

On one hand, his lack of interest could make this whole mission easier. He’ll leave me alone, let me do my thing, so long as I get my work done when he needs it. On the other hand, he’s damn attractive, and it could be extremely beneficial to use sex appeal to my advantage. Reel him in, keep him under my wing, and get my job done quicker by playing the innocent-female card.

The problem with using sex appeal, though, is that I’ve watched other female agents play theirs up, draw lines, erase them, redraw them, and in the end get hurt by becoming too emotionally invested.

All my training has warned me that there will be one person who will make me cross that line. No way. Not me. The job, the mission, the objective, all three mean way too much to cross any lines, regardless of the sexual chemistry I feel licking at my heels as I stand here and hold his stare.

I wait for the comment I can see forming on his lips to come, but just as unexpected as this conversation has been, he breaks our eye contact without saying another word and refocuses on the glass in his hand.

“So you’re the one, huh?” My thoughts turn to words before I realize what I’m saying, and disbelief robs me from saying anything else as Tanner turns to look at me again, glass stopped midway to his lips, and that way he has of staring straight into you and seeing every single thing you want to hide.

“The one?”

And without any pertinent words being exchanged or even so much as an introduction being made, I know without a doubt that Tanner Thomas is the one person who’s going to make me question crossing that damn line. Call it a gut reaction or a psychotic episode, but I have a feeling that this mission is going to be anything but the easy get in, get out, get done type that I had planned on it being.

And it will have nothing to do with the mission but rather everything to do with the attractive man before me and his inquisitive eyes.

Once I process the thought, try to laugh it off, and ferret it away to worry about and obsess over later, I scramble to answer his question hanging heavy in the air between us. Make the comment relevant somehow, some way.

“Yep, the one that every reporter in this room hates and wants to be all at the same time,” I explain, speaking nothing but the truth I’ve come to learn while waiting for him to arrive.

Skepticism causes him to narrow his eyes, and amusement has him pursing his lips as he tries to figure out if he believes me. I’m not sure if he does because he breaks our stare and motions to the bartender for a bottle of whiskey. The exchange of money for the bottle happens quickly. Tanner scoots his chair back, grabs the neck of the fifth of alcohol, and gives me a half-cocked, arrogant smirk.

“Yep, I’m the one.” He turns his back to me and strides away.

Cocky son of a bitch. And he most definitely is, yet I still watch him leave the bar, lifting the bottle up to the protests of the other journalists gathered to welcome him back.

And even when he’s cleared the doorway and I can no longer see him, I’m still watching. There’s just something about him when I most definitely don’t want there to be.

He’s the one all right.

Hopefully he’s the one I can avoid.

Sweet Ache




And don’t miss K. Bromberg’s sizzling

SWEET ACHE

Available now from Piatkus wherever books are sold!

Quinlan

The Southern California heat mixed with the second week of school has really done a number on me. I’m ready to melt into the cool air-conditioning of the Fine Arts offices as I pull open the door, tired from a late night hanging out with Layla – my fault but still aggravating nonetheless – and having had to deal with some dipshit undergrads in the teaching assistant session I just came from didn’t help matters.