Page 2 of You Complicate Me

“I’m cold,” she said dryly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His smirk morphed into a full-fledged grin, and Grace fought the urge to fan herself. Jesus, the grin was nothing short of panty-dropping. A smile like that should be illegal. All those straight white teeth and the dimple that carved into his cheek…it was gratuitous, really.

And his eyes? An amazing oceanic mix of blue and pale green. Men shouldn’t be allowed to have eyes that pretty.

“Let’s start over,” he said. He held out his hand. “I’m Nick. Nick O’Connor.”

She was so busy staring at his eyes—and being envious of his thick, dark eyelashes, if she was being honest with herself— that it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. She took his hand. “Grace. Grace Montgomery.”

Something akin to recognition lit his eyes for a moment, making her wonder if he knew her. Had they met before? But she immediately dismissed the thought. If she’d met this guy before, she’d remember it.

His hand was warm and callused, and dwarfed hers. Her gaze traveled from his hand up his thick forearm, exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. His biceps strained the fabric of that shirt, as well. If the arms were any indication, a muscly chest and flat stomach were a foregone conclusion.

She considered then that her judgment might be impaired. No one was this good-looking. Or else Nick O’Connor was genetically blessed in a way that was totally unfair to all other men.

Tequila goggles. She was wearing a set of tequila goggles. There was no other explanation.

He cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to his face. He let go of her hand and she fought the urge to grab his again. She knew she was an embarrassment to feminists everywhere, but there was something insanely comforting about having a big, strong guy holding her hand. If she’d grabbed him early on, maybe she wouldn’t have needed the Valium. Or wine. Or tequila.

“So, Grace,” he said, “have you always been a nervous flyer?”

She laid her head back against the seat, suddenly feeling a little off balance. “Yeah. I don’t like being closed in. Or depending on people I don’t know to fly the plane. And land the plane.”

“Uh huh. So you’re one of those.”

She frowned at him again. “One of those what?”

“Control freaks.”

“I am not a control freak.”

Was it her imagination, or had she slurred that sentence?

He gave her the panty-dropping grin again. Yep, she’d slurred.

“Whatever you say, angel.”

Being called a control freak was kind of a hot button for Grace. It was something her ex-husband never failed to bring up when they’d argued, which had been often. And the fact that this total stranger would agree with her ex pissed her off. She also took exception to him assigning her a nickname. Grace unbuckled her seatbelt and stood up to tell him so.

And that’s when her memory got a little…fuzzy.

She had a distinct memory of poking him in the chest, telling him he didn’t know anything about her. He’d told her to sit down. To calm down. She’d refused, colorfully and loudly. She’d tried to badger a man in another row into trading seats with her. The guy had refused, colorfully and loudly.

Nick had gotten in the middle of that argument and tried to tell her something about who he was, what his job was, but she was too busy yelling about…something to catch all of it.

The next thing she knew, Nick had forced her back into her seat. He might’ve also threatened to cuff her if she got into any other arguments with passengers, which seemed a little excessive. And…kinky.

“I’m sorry,” she thought he’d said at that point.

“I’m sorry, too,” she vaguely remembered responding.

Then, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she might have leaned over and puked all over his shoes. After that…there was nothing but blissful, blissful unconsciousness.

Chapter Two

Nick watched Grace through the two-way mirror in the interrogation room/holding cell at the Indianapolis airport. Her long, golden blonde hair frizzed around her heart-shaped face like a tangled halo. Those amazing moss-green eyes of hers were bloodshot and at half-mast as she rested her pale forehead on her palm. He’d be willing to bet she felt like hell.

“Grace Emerson Montgomery,” Walden Carroll said from behind him, reading the contents of a manila file folder. “Age twenty-seven, five-foot-six, one-thirty.”

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