Beg for Me(10)

By: Natalie Anderson

He played the game too because there was nothing nicer than collecting the winner’s spoils. Or at least he had played until he’d found it monotonous. Then he’d gone a step or three too far. But he’d been acting the super-saint way too long if he was feeling even a hint of attraction to this scruffy thing who’d screwed up so badly. And as for that random moment of protectiveness?

He gritted his teeth.

Don’t get suckered by big eyes and beautiful hair and softness. Don’t go light on her because she looks all vulnerable-yet-determined.

It was his brother and his buddies who were the heroic sort, Logan was all shark.

Min waited, trying to keep her anxiety from building. Trying to breathe.

Be still my beating heart.

He was... he was...

Be cool my heating blood.

She’d seen him in a million pictures, yet none had prepared her for the reality of Logan Hughes in the flesh.

Living, breathing, hot. So devastatingly handsome with his dark hair and hewn features and those eyes.

No wonder the guy had supposedly slept with a billion women, one look at him and she was clenching her own thighs together to stop them sliding apart. As for the damp heat seeping onto her panties already? A second in his presence and she was already thinking sex. Tall, compelling, he was freaking mesmerizing.

It’s his reputation. It’s only because you’ve been told over and over and over what a sex god he is.

But it wasn’t just his reputation. He looked at her—steadily, implacably, judging. His blue eyes hadn’t been graphics-program enhanced. Maybe they were colored contacts? Maybe he really was some paranormal creature? Min’s mind circled, giddy, all out stupid.

Then he walked closer. Close enough for Min to figure they weren’t contacts, his eyes really were that ice blue.

“Araminta Jones,” he said slowly, almost seeming to savor her name—except there was that edge.

A lethal bite was but a second away.

She inclined her head but didn’t answer. She should. She should say ‘Logan Hughes’ in an equally cool, patronising voice. But her damn vocal cords were unreliable when she was this nervous.

Her best chance of avoiding a stutter was to speak with a whisper. Put on a ‘voice’. But damned if she wanted to do her Marilyn Monroe impression for this guy. He’d think she was coming on to him. And that was never happening. Ever. Even if he did look like a cross between a Hollywood bad boy and a Greek god—chiselled, stony perfection.

She could handle this situation some other way. Theoretically she could handle any situation. Her mother had hammered manners into her from the moment she was born, as part of her ‘you must marry-well’ plan. The plan mom had enacted for herself several times over.

Min could apologize, bow, scrape, grovel, smile and get out of here relatively unscathed.

Except there was something in Logan Hughes’ eyes that made her want to refuse to apologize. She didn’t want to bow and scrape and grovel to him. If anything, she had the wicked urge to piss him off even more. That fallen angel face reflected it all, he was an arrogant jerk who’d had everything his own way for far too long. The whole world knew that.

“Please take a seat.”

He gestured to the large sofa. She glanced at the chairs either side of his big desk. He didn’t want to go formal? He wanted to sit on the sofa next to her? That entirely inappropriate awareness shot through her system again—a wave of heat connecting her lips and breasts to that ache burning deep within her belly.

All those parts wanted to be touched—taken—by him.

Oh for Heaven’s sake, get a grip.

She’d stand. She’d stay here only long enough for the bullet to her career and then she’d leave. Five minutes, tops.

He walked to the other side of the room, taking a moment to glance out the window. She turned to face him and caught his gaze briefly resting on her butt. Oh he was shameless. And she was not blushing.

“You don’t want to sit?” He actually smiled.

Min’s ‘impending danger’ alarm rose. So did her temperature. It was too hot in here. Why was he smiling, why wasn’t he shouting at her already?

The last thing she wanted to do was use her breathy voice. But it was either speak slow and airy and sound bubble-headed, or be stuck on the first letter of his name for the next half hour. Or just be stuck.

She could manage telephone conversations so much better. She didn’t have to look at the person. She could keep her eyes on the catch phrases she used most often and had written down and had practiced to death. Most of the time it was manageable. But right now it was in the forefront of her brain.