Page 6 of Stone Rules

Based on their hair styles, it’s an old picture. But the man is gorgeous. Dirty-blonde hair that’s a little long and roguish. And the way he’s smiling at his bride brings out a dimple in his cheek.

My eyes wander to some of the other pictures. Most are men who share similar features. His brothers, perhaps. Or his children. One boy in particular looks vaguely familiar and I wonder where I’ve seen him.

Before I can finish my examination of the pictures, the stunning platinum-blonde behind the thick partition startles me. “Mr. Stone will see you now.” She slides a heavy glass window to the side and leans over the counter, displaying cleavage that she clearly intended for me to see. “You can come through that door.”

She points toward a door on my right, her gesture revealing long manicured fingernails that have me wondering how she manages a phone or keyboard.

Her eyes follow me as I cross the room to where I’d been directed. I can feel her sizing me up. Maybe she’s even been doing it the entire time I’ve been waiting.

I reach the door and pull on the handle, but I’m met with resistance and it fails to open.

I look at Barbie, raising my brows at her in question.

“Oops,” she says. “Sorry.” She reaches over to push a button on the wall next to her. I hear a click and then the doorknob turns when I try again.

I look back at the thick glass partition where she’s watching me. I guess in this kind of work, they probably have more than their share of scorned spouses that might be pissed at them. I’ve seen one or two in my time. Scorned women, that is.

I walk through the heavy door and am met by the man in the wedding photo. Well, it’s him, but it’s not. This guy is even hotter than that one, if that’s even possible. His hair is longer than the man’s in the picture, touching the collar of his clean and pressed white button-down shirt. The way it curls up at the ends begs for female fingers to grab onto it.

His eyes are dark. A chocolate brown that is accentuated by the midnight-black skinny tie that is so expertly tied, you know it’s not just worn for special occasions. Suddenly, I feel the urge to grab that tie and drag him back onto that white leather couch.

I’m sure Barbie would have an issue with that, however, based on the way her eyes are shooting daggers at me right now. Maybe she’s his girlfriend. Or wife. Shame.

I’m tall by women’s standards, five-foot-eight to be exact, but I still have to crane my neck when he comes close enough to extend his hand.

“Ms. Tate, I’m Ethan Stone. Nice to meet you.”

Oh, hell. Even his name is hot. And although I usually hate being called Ms. Tate, the way his deep voice drips of sultry sex, I can almost envision him screaming it as he pumps into me from behind. Or on top. Or underneath. Doesn’t matter to me.

Confidently, I place my hand in his and allow his large fingers to envelop my small ones. And even though his hand doesn’t linger any longer than is professional, I don’t miss the fact that his eyes do.

Apparently, neither does Barbie. “Hmmpf,” I hear her disapproving grunt from behind. I turn my head and catch a glimpse of the back of her stiletto heel before it disappears around the corner.

“Nice to meet you, too. Thanks for working me in on such short notice. And it’s just Charlie.”

“Not a problem, Charlie. And I’m just plain old Ethan.” He gestures for me to follow him down a hallway.

“Nothing plain or old about it,” I mumble, staring at his broad shoulders that taper down to a slim waist covered by grey linen pants.

“Sorry?” he asks, stopping in a doorway, motioning me through.

“Oh, nothing. I was just saying how much I like your office.”

The left side of his mouth lifts into a smile like he knows I’m full of shit. And, holy God, there is that dimple. The one from the photos. I have a sudden urge to put the tip of my tongue into it.

“Is she your wife?” I nod in the direction of reception.

“Gretchen?” he responds in anare-you-kiddingtone.

“Girlfriend?”

“Neither. Please have a seat.” He walks around a large rectangular glass desk that is pretty much empty with the exception of a laptop and a file folder. It’s strange, but the desk—the entire office—looks like he does. Sharp. Clean. Crisp. Well, except for his unruly hair which is a contradiction to the rest of him.

“Doessheknow that?” I ask.

He sits in a high-backed brown leather chair that further complements his eyes. Did he choose that exact color on purpose, I wonder?

“Gretchen is” —his eyes search the room for words— “an old friend.”

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