Page 139 of Charming Deception

He laughs abruptly. “Never let Savannah hear you say they are. They’re actually not a lot alike, but they’re both stubborn as hell. With Harlan, you need to talk in facts and figures, black and white. Shades of gray just annoy him. And the thing about Harlan that people don’t always realize, to their detriment, is that he’ll always expect the worst of you until you prove him wrong.”

“So, he’s a pessimist?”

“I’d say he’s downright cynical.”

“And Savannah’s the opposite?”

“No. Not the opposite. But she’s all about the feel of things. Why should she care about something? You need to get that across, quickly, or she won’t have time for you.”

“I guess that’s understandable. She’s probably a busy woman.”

“That, and she grew up with four alpha brats who were always ruining her day with some mess or another. She tried to outman us for so many years, until maybe she realized she couldn’t. When she stopped trying to compete with us, though, I think it left a weird void in her life. I think she’s still figuring out how to deal with the hand she was dealt. Pro: she was born a billionaire. Con: she’s got us to deal with, for life.”

“Well, now I feel sorry for her,” I tease.

“So do I,” he says seriously.

“And how should one communicate with Jameson Vance? I mean, for best results?” I innocently lick wine from my lip.

His eyes track the movement of my tongue, and heat tingles across my skin. His tone is molten when he says, “All you have to do is be honest.”

We stare at each other.

When did this become foreplay?

No. Not foreplay.

Foreplay leads to sex.

I clear my throat, and change the subject. “You have a lot of empathy for your sister.”

“I do. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.”

A slow smile spreads across my face.

His wine stops halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“I was just thinking, you empathize with Rowan the same way.”

He sets his wine down and drops his head back on the seat. “Fuck. I’m boycotting book three.”

“No, you’re not,” I purr. “You’re dying to know what happens next.”

“I think I know.” He gives me a darkly disapproving look that I’m pretty sure is meant for the male protagonist of my books. “Let me guess. Wolf fucks up.”

“Maybe.” I sip my wine as my heart absolutely races. It thrills me that he’s responding so strongly to my books.

I didn’t expect that.

But I love it.

What more could an author hope for?

I’d never pictured any of my readers looking like him, though.

“But maybe he also fucks her a lot more, so it’ll be worth it?” I tease.

His eyes hit mine, all dilated pupil and ravenous need. I actually suck in a breath.

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