Page 2 of The Cottage on Pelican Bay

“Oh, I see.”

If the way he was looking at her was anything to go by, he really did see. More than she liked or preferred. At that moment a waitress came up to take her order and he told the woman to put it on his tab.

“You don’t have to do that, Saint.”

“I want to,” was his response.

She flashed him a grin. “Okay. I’ll never argue with a man who’s a Saint.”

The sound of his chuckle made every hormone in her body sizzle. “The storm has you stranded as well,” she said.

“Yes. I take it you’re in the same predicament?”

“That’s right,” she answered. There was no reason to correct his assumption that she was stranded due to the airport being closed. Her plane had landed. She just couldn’t drive where she needed to go.

“Do I detect a French accent?” he asked.

An amused twinkle appeared in her eyes. “Yes. And do I detect a Northwestern one for you?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“No need to feel guilty.” She leaned closer. “I like it.”

He angled over the table and said, “And I like yours.”

She knew the exact moment he’d realized he had dipped his head closer than he’d probably intended, and their lips were within inches of touching. Instead of pulling back, their gazes locked. She noticed when his smile faded, and his look became as intense as hers.

Suddenly a deep sexual hunger flared to life within her. She was driven to lick her tongue across the fullness of his lips. So she did so, with shameless fortitude. Zara wasn’t sure what she’d expected...other than the glint of surprise that appeared in his dark eyes at her bold move.

Playing it cool, she said, “I like your taste.” Licking her lips, she settled back in her chair.

“Do you?” Looking like he was gathering his wits, he sat back in his chair as well—as if for the time being he needed to be a safe distance from her. She wasn’t bothered by the thought of that. She also liked the fact his lips were still wet.

“Yes, Saint, I do.” At that moment the waitress returned with the drink she’d ordered, a piña colada. She felt his eyes watching her as she tried her drink. He was probably wondering if she was usually this daring. He would be shocked to know she wasn’t. But there was something about this man, who’d introduced himself as Saint, that brought out a naughtiness in her she didn’t know existed. That said a lot for a twenty-eight-year-old woman who’d only slept with two men in her lifetime.

When the waitress left and they were alone again, he said, “I believe I would like your taste as well, Angel. So, when can I sample it?” The sound of his husky voice spiked arousal in her, sending images of him doing that very thing—tasting her, but in a different way—flitting through her mind. Heat curled inside her at the look he was giving her.

She eyed him back while thinking that she knew nothing about him other than he was handsome as sin and had the ability to generate desire in her very core. It didn’t help matters that since her breakup with Maurice, she hadn’t been interested in sharing a bed with a man...until now.

She sipped her drink again. Going for broke, as well as for bold, she said, “I know of a way for you to do that, Saint.”

“And what way is that?” he asked, as a jolt of sexual energy bombarded Saint’s senses. He thought this gorgeous creature sitting across from him was definitely no angel.

Yet, he liked it. Hell, he liked everything about her.

When she had entered the bar, she’d done so with the sexiest walk he’d ever seen by a woman in all his thirty-four years. His heart had pounded with every step she took in a sexy sundress that showcased a pair of beautiful shoulders. When she’d come to a stop in front of him, he’d gazed into the most captivating pair of hazel eyes. They were perfect for her almond-colored skin. As far as he was concerned, everything about her was perfect. Even the way her hair was pulled back from her face and held hostage by a clip complemented her features. She had a plump pair of sexy lips, and he liked the size of her breasts and the pair of shapely legs in sandals.

He knew Angel wasn’t her real name and figured she’d said that because she didn’t believe Saint was his. Although he was born Evans Toussaint, those who knew him called him Saint. A part of him thought maybe he should correct her, but decided that if he did, she might feel compelled to come clean with her real name as well. If she felt more comfortable using an alias, he didn’t want to put her on the spot. As far as he was concerned, she could think—or do—whatever she wanted. If this angel wanted to be naughty, he had no problem letting her. Just like he had no problem letting her discover he was no saint.

And to think, after what his ex-girlfriend had put him through, he’d been convinced his body had lost any desire for a woman. He certainly hadn’t been interested in anyone since he’d broken up with Mia almost a year ago. Now, not only did he like Angel’s naughtiness and boldness, but damn, a strange abundance of heated lust—strong, thick and unrelenting—had taken over his body. Intense heat flowed between them. This woman had him floating on a cloud of sensations the likes of which he’d never experienced before. Was she an angel or a witch? She had to be one or the other because this thing between them defied logic. At least in this universe it did.

“Give me your room number and expect me in half an hour,” she broke into his thoughts to say.

He honestly didn’t think she was serious and decided to call her bluff. “I’m in room 954.”

She nodded and then, without another word, she finished her drink, stood and walked out of the bar, and not once did she look back.

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