Page 15 of Reckless Desire

“What are you thinking, Sydney?”

My name from his lips is a rasp, dirty and sensual.

Why does he want to know what am I thinking? For fuck’s sake, he is getting paid anyway. He doesn’t need to work overtime.

“I think you’re very good at your job.” It’s just a whisper, but it could have been a tornado because he flinches like my words caused him pain. My mind spirals to a new level of confusion.

“You think it’s just business to me?” He snorts.

He shakes his head and pushes off the wall. Losing his warmth impacts me more than I care to admit. As much as I’m grasping my belief that this is not a good idea, my body is not in agreement. And now Hunter acts offended?

“An honest transaction, you called it.” This time my voice is steadier. My conviction not so much.

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down and he opens his mouth, but then changes his mind and pushes the button without saying a word.

The elevator lurches up and I grab the sidewall rail for balance. I wish there was a bar to settle the war between my mind and body.

The core of my problem is my mind not being a hundred percent on board with the abort mission either. The physical attraction is undeniable, but the conversation downstairs left me craving more. I want to get to know this man.

Sleeping with him would lead to regret, but talking to him might lead to a deeper connection. And he was right. That is so much more intimate. How does one shake that off?

Hunter doesn’t look at me anymore. He drums his fingertips on the sides of his legs while standing a step ahead of me. Even though his previous closeness and his later reaction left my mind scrambling in all sorts of directions, I’m trying to use the time to gather myself.

When the door dings open, he steps out and slides his arm in, to keep them from shutting again, so I can exit safely.

His smirk is back, the one he carried into the lobby when we met earlier. It seems tense, but it’s there. That confident grin is a part of his toolbox. A professional mask. Devastatingly handsome, but still only a mask.

I wish I had an inventory list of all the tools of his trade so I could find the ones that belong to the man himself, not the professional. Would I be pleased or disappointed?

When he places his hand at the small of my back to lead me toward the room, the tingling in my core returns.

Hunter opens the door. “After you, Sydney.” Again, he kind of hisses the S in my name. Nobody has ever said my name with so much steam.

Oh my God. London really went out of her usual frugal way and picked decadence over anything else. This isn’t a room. It’s a suite the size of a ballroom, and I can only see the living area from my place in the doorway. The level of luxury is beyond reasonable. It’s tasteful, I think, but definitely not understated. No, this is opulence in your face.

Money has never been an issue in my family. My mother was from an old family that made a fortune in the financial district. And while her parents had never approved of my blue-collar father, we lived comfortably. And the family’s finances improved further when my father met Bianca Cassinetti two years after my mother’s passing.

Most of my siblings are wealthy, either successful entrepreneurs or managing their trust funds sensibly. I chose to be a teacher, but it wasn’t my choice to spend most of my money to pay off Jeremy’s debts. But I’ve made my peace with that.

Places like this room are not my thing. As though this whole encounter isn’t uncomfortable enough, the room is not going to make me feel relaxed.

“Your sister wants only the best for you,” Hunter says, and walks to the coffee table where a bottle of champagne is waiting in a bucket of ice. “Would you like some?”

“Yes.” I take off my shoes and, all my hesitations aside, the softness of the carpet is unbelievably soothing on my feet. Perhaps there are some advantages to this kind of luxury.

There is a long sofa in front of the window and two love seats on each side of the table. We take one each, sitting across from each other. His heat reaches me despite the glass coffee table between us.

“Do you gamble, Hunter?” I take a sip.

He doesn’t answer right away. He supports his glass on his thigh, rolling the stem between his fingers. I don’t think he is contemplating my question. He suggested this isn’t just business to him and that indirect admission of his interest in me hangs heavily between us, but I’m not going there.

“I guess I gamble in some areas of my life, but if you’re asking in the literal sense, I don’t. Do you?” He continues twirling his glass, not looking at me. Strangely, I wish he would.

It’s not the intensity of his burning gaze I miss. But penetrating me with those hooded eyes seemed his sole mission this whole evening, so now it feels like he’s backing away from… well, from whatever this is.

“I’ve been to Vegas a few times, but I can’t say I gamble. I do have gambling debts, though.” I snort at the irony. Shit, why did I even admit that? I asked him the question because I want to know the motivation behind his line of work, not to share the gory details of my life.

“You went to Vegas a few times and ended up with gambling debts? They must have been some trips.” He takes a sip of champagne and looks at me finally, but his look is guarded now.

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