Chapter 3
Chapter Three
T hat was crazy! She hadn’t been paying attention, and that wasn’t like her.
Saskia Oliver knew how fast people drove on San Francisco streets, trying to make the next light before it turned.
She’d never run into one of those AVs before, literally or figuratively.
But she’d slept so late, and now it was midafternoon, and missing her first coffee of the day messed with her system.
Maybe she was addicted to caffeine. She’d been steeping herself in that heavenly aroma when she stepped into the street to avoid those girls.
No self-respecting San Franciscan ever stepped into the street without looking first.
But he’d rescued her. Her reaction to him was even crazier. He was just so… so… delicious. She wanted to lick him like her favorite ice cream cone. And she just did not think about men that way. Not normally. She should have thanked him profusely, then gone on her way.
But this man had saved her life. And he was just so… so… everything . Then she’d suggested a drink. Another thing that wasn’t like her.
Her appointment could wait. Because there might never be another opportunity like this with a man as drop-dead gorgeous as this one. If not for him, she’d be dead, for God’s sake!
She looped her arm through his. “I know a great place. The cocktails are fabulous.” She assessed him a moment. Was he a cocktail guy, or…? “They also have good draft beer, if you’d prefer.”
Clay Harrington said, “Draft beer or cocktail, either one. Because we need to celebrate that you’re still in the land of the living.”
And she led this exquisite man to her favorite bar.
Of course she knew who he was. She’d worked for years in the art world, and she’d seen Art Space, his new video platform, watched interviews about how innovative it was, how perfect for artists who wanted to put their work out without a lot of hassle and criticism.
Though how he’d accomplish that, she had no idea.
Outwardly, he seemed like a good guy. And he had saved her life.
Based on her past experience, though, she didn’t trust him or his new platform.
He could be luring unsuspecting artists, taking advantage of them because they were unknowns.
Really, no one could promise an artist that they wouldn’t be hassled once their work was out there for everyone to see. And to judge.
She’d read the articles, watched the interviews, and knew his history. A highly successful entrepreneur—not to mention to die for in the looks department—he came across well on screen, the perfect combination of dark hair, startling blue eyes, and a body that made her pant.
Several years ago, he’d developed an exercise and nutrition app, then sold it for a whopping half billion dollars.
His Harvard degree was in business. What could this man possibly know about exercise and nutrition?
It was just a way to jump on the app craze and make money.
Now a billionaire, he’d moved into the art world, starting this video platform where artists could showcase their work, create podcasts about their process, their inspiration, and sell their art in virtual galleries.
But what on earth could he know about art?
Businesspeople cared only about the value of something. They didn’t understand art or artists.
But the man was so handsome he actually made her heart stop.
That hadn’t been the car. No, it had been the sight of him.
Before she’d recognized him. When she’d been gazing into those sexy eyes and getting hot and bothered.
Then there was his voice, the deep tones like fingers playing all her strings.
He hadn’t been smarmy, as if she owed him something for saving her life. She didn’t want to believe he was like the other rich art patrons out there preying on struggling artists. She’d had her fill of that type.
But a man that devastatingly handsome could make people believe in him. He made her want to believe in him.
He made her want other things too.
Plus, he’d pulled her off the street before the car could mow her down. Would a smarmy user have done that?
It was time to find out. Okay, it was also time to breathe in his delicious male scent, to gaze into those beautiful eyes, to?—
Whew! Get hold of yourself, Saskia.
She backed away as they entered the bar. “Why don’t you get us a table? I have to make a call. I had a meeting. But it’s more important that I buy a drink for the man who saved my life.”
“Shall I order for you?”
“That would be great. A Toasted Almond. The bartender will know what it is.” She craved the sweetness of amaretto and the coffee taste of Kahlúa. Then she shook her finger at him. “But don’t you dare pay for it. This is on me.” She pulled a bill out of her tunic pocket.
“You don’t need to pay me back.” He stared her down, his eyes seeming to touch every part of her without actually moving. “I couldn’t stand there and watch such beauty get creamed by a robotaxi.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What about an ugly guy?”
He laughed, a soul-touching sound. “Or an ugly guy either.”
“Let me pay anyway,” she insisted. “Because I want to.”
Gazing into her eyes for a long moment that seemed to steal the very breath out of her lungs, he finally took the money and headed to the long mahogany bar with its rows of bottles reflected in the mirror behind it.
The place wasn’t full, since it wasn’t even close to five o’clock, and she headed to the back by the bathroom hallway and tapped her phone, making her call. “Hey, I know we had a meeting. I swear I was on my way. But I need to postpone till tomorrow.”
The answer was just as rushed. “But I got this huge offer I need to tell you about.”
She looked at Clay Harrington’s backside as he leaned on the bar. “Let’s table that until tomorrow.”
An exaggerated breath huffed air on the other end. “Okay. But I really need to talk to you. Call me ASAP.”
Clay had a table and their drinks when she finished, and she slid into the seat next to him rather than across from him, their knees touching.
“Isn’t this place great? The owners recently refurbished the upstairs, turning the place into a funky hotel, with dark wood paneling like down here in the bar, and super-cool artwork.
” She’d asked for a tour and found each room decorated uniquely, the paintings all having a different theme.
“I love that they put as much thought into the art as they did the accommodations.”
Clay looked around him at the polished hardwood floors, the long, elegant bar, the old-time San Francisco photos on the walls. “I like it.”
Then he slid her drink to her. She sipped before saying another word, the sublime taste of Kahlúa, cream, and amaretto hitting her tongue and tingling in her toes.
Or maybe that was him. Oh yeah, it was breathtakingly him.
Spreading her arms, she tipped her face to the ceiling, eyes closed as she relished the moment. “Oh my God. I’m alive.”
He saluted her. “Thank God, you’re alive.” He slugged back his draft beer without getting a trace of foam on his upper lip. “I’m Clay?—”
She raised her hand, cutting him off. “My name is Saskia. And you’re Clay. That’s all either of us needs to know. Right?”
Something flickered in his magnetic blue eyes, as if he wanted to say they needed more. But he agreed. “That’s fine with me.” Then he asked, “What do you do for a living?”
“I don’t want to talk about work .” She gave the word a disgusted little twist, not wanting to get into any arguments about what he did.
That would only piss her off, and she didn’t want to lose last night’s really great high.
Or the adrenaline rush of having narrowly escaped with her life this afternoon.
Or the sweet thrill of sitting across from the most gorgeous man on the planet, who smelled delectably spicy and whose deep voice strummed her nerve endings and excited all her cells.
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “Then what would you like to talk about?”
“Don’t tell me work is the only thing in your life. Are you married? Do you have kids?”
The articles she’d read hadn’t mentioned his relationship status, as if that part of his life was a closed book to the media and his hungry audience.
He answered as if she was something different. Something special? “No girlfriend. No kids. Not even an ex-wife.” He smiled, one eyebrow raised. “What about you? Single? In a relationship? Married? Divorced? It’s complicated?”
She laughed. “That sounds like a social media questionnaire.”
His eyes seemed a little hotter, a little deeper, as if a flame were lighting them from behind. “Which is it?”
Suddenly, it didn’t matter who he was. She wanted those beautifully sculpted hands all over her. She wanted to taste the yeasty beer on his tongue. She just plain wanted in a way she hadn’t for five years. She wanted him .
“Single,” she whispered, unequivocal and uncomplicated.
The atmosphere around them turned damned near steamy.
Clay let her lead, and they talked about everything, except work.
About their favorite books, TV shows, movies, actors.
His favorite books were mostly business or theory or art history, even things like The Art of War .
Hers were all fantasy authors and fantasy series.
His movies and shows were mostly spy thrillers with intricate plots.
Hers were things like The Hunger Games and Buffy the Vampire Slayer , even if the latter had first aired when she wasn’t more than a toddler.
They found so much in common—not what they liked to read or watch, but that they both loved books and movies.
On his third beer—and her third Toasted Almond—Clay was nowhere near drunk. But he was nicely lubricated. He suspected she was too.
She raised her half-full snifter. “I’m not sure if I’ve thanked you enough for saving my life.”