10. Sage
SAGE
Something about him feels deliciously familiar.
I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Or maybe I want to, but I’m not sure that I should .
Or that I’m ready to.
So I zero in on the man in front of me.
Cole Donovan.
Pictures don’t do him justice.
Pictures don’t always convey smolder. Because his dark eyes are the most intense I’ve ever seen. They are bedroom eyes. They are I’d like to know what you look like naked eyes. A wicked glint tangos across those dark irises as they sweep over me.
And that glint? It tugs at something. A fresh memory, a dirty hope.
But I push it aside as I catalog more of the man in front of me.
The competition.
I steel myself, trying to strike thoughts of his sex appeal from my head.
Because that smile he wears? That sliver of a grin? It’s of the we’re colleagues but also ruthless competitors variety. I’d do well to remember that—we might need to work together, but we will always be chasing the same prize. To be the hotel that visitors choose first.
And I’m sure he’d be so damn happy to eat some of my hotel’s revenue for breakfast.
Speaking of his lips . . .
Another sliver of an image flashes before me brightly, like a crack of lightning across the darkening sky. I rewind to the other night. To the feel of my American’s lips on me. On my breasts, on my neck, on my mouth.
Then I fast-forward to mere moments ago when he said my name, when Cole Donovan breathed Good morning, Sage , all raspy and growly on his lips, like he knew the secrets of my name. Like he knew me as the stranger he met the other night.
My mind screams no.
This can’t be the same man. My competitor can’t be my secret lover. Or rather, one of my secret lovers.
Shake it off, Sage.
Focus on the now.
Let go of your fantasies.
I stride across the plush carpet in my high-heeled shoes, fixing my focus on everything real around me.
The desk.
My office.
The place where I make decisions.
Where I run this luxury hotel and all the other ones around the country and the world too. This is not the room to indulge in fantasies. Nor is it the moment to linger on sensual memories.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Donovan. I’m so glad you could come to my hotel.”
His lips twitch almost imperceptibly.
Like he wants me to see a little hint of something in them. Saying he knows me. He has a secret. And he relishes that secret.
I swallow roughly. My skin warms as he stares at me and I take his hand.
No. “Warms” is wrong. More like sizzles from this man’s touch as he wraps his fingers around mine, almost like he’s reminding me what he can do with those fingers.
And I know.
I know that hand.
Intimately.
I do my best to remain cool, but it’s hard. So hard when he whispers in a seductive voice, “I assure you, Ms. Carmichael, the pleasure is all mine.” He takes a beat and levels me with another intense gaze, his eyes shimmering with desire. “Emphasis on pleasure.”
So. Much. Emphasis.
My breath hitches, my body hums, and my libido throws a ticker-tape parade. The traitorous bitch.
This man.
For a few delirious seconds, I’m lust-struck. I don’t want to let go of his hand. I don’t want to do the right thing. I want to do the bad thing. The dirty thing. I want to tug him against me and revel in the press of his body. I want to taste those lips again.
I want to let him unclip my hair, jerk my neck back, and blaze a trail of hot, filthy kisses along the column of my throat. And then tell him to do it again. What he did the other night. I want to let him slide his hand between my legs and get me all the way off.
Or better yet, ask him to bend me over my desk and show me what he can do when he hikes up my dress.
Ask him to fuck me hard, fuck me dirty, fuck me with his friend watching.
These thoughts.
These out-of-nowhere thoughts.
But are they truly out of nowhere? Or has he awakened a part of me that was sleeping peacefully for far too long?
A part of me that’s peeking around corners of my desire, peering down halls of my lust, whispering, Do it again, do it again.
Somehow, I find the will to put on my best professional voice. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He says nothing. Just does that thing again with his lips. That little twitch. That hint of mischief.
“You’re delighted to make my acquaintance?” And then, like he’s savoring the next word, he breathes out, “You mean . . . again ? You mean delighted to make my acquaintance . . . again .”
I could grab his tie. I could yank him against me and say, Yes, you cocky bastard, I am fucking delighted and let’s find out how much. Because this is not simple delight; it is wicked, filthy desire. Instead, keeping a very stoic expression, I say, “And is that how I look?”
I try to be tough, but it’s hard to maintain the facade when his eyes eat me up. They devour me. They undress me.
With his hand still clasping mine, he rumbles, “Yes, that’s how you look. Do you want to know why I say that?”
I take the bait, lust leading me on. “Why do you say that, Mr. Donovan?”
He lets go of my palm, raises his hand, and slides his finger down my collarbone to the neckline of my dress. His touch sets my body on fire, turns my veins to liquid gold. “Because you look the way I feel.”
He says it all whispery, growly, and holy fucking shit .
His words.
His body.
The way he stares at me like he owns my pleasure.
Like he knows my pleasure.
Like he wants to pour it in a glass, drink it down, consume it.
The hair on my arms stands on end. His wicked words send tingles through me, around me, wrapping me up in them like someone has sprinkled me with erotic pixie dust, and it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
“And how do you feel?” I ask, unable to resist this back-and-forth.
He steps closer and utters one dangerous word. “Hungry.” That’s all he says. He imprints it on the air.
And I answer with the truth. “Me too. Yet indulging would be a bad idea,” I say, a little amazed I got that out.
A lot amazed because I am all hot and bothered, and I need to cool it down. I picture dropping a bucket of ice water on my head.
There. That works.
“It would be a terrible idea,” I add, as rational as I can be.
“It would be the worst idea.”
“We can’t do anything about desire.” I pivot, doing my damnedest to go full CEO. “Why don’t we sit and talk about how we can work together? Since that’s where we should pour our energies.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Especially since I’m new to town,” he says, and there’s still a hint of seduction in his voice. Perhaps that’s his natural state.
But I can’t let it affect my state of mind, which must remain on business.
That’s what my sister and I have focused on for the last few years—revamping this hotel.
We completed the renovation recently, and it’s paying off.
After a couple of rough years, we’ve turned the ship around, and now the hotel is thriving.
My sole job is to grow it, and in so doing, to both honor my parents’ legacy and provide for the people I employ.
That is it.
I can’t entertain these wild fantasies involving Cole Donovan, the man I vie for business with. Hell, he might very well have won The Exquisite Show. He might be going after Max and Alex. For all intents and purposes, he’s the enemy . . . and so I should keep him close.
Business close. Not naked between the sheets close.
We sit on the couch, across from the table where I left the gift for him.
“Tell me, what do you think of Las Vegas so far?” I pose the question to him, to this handsome man sitting on the couch with me, hoping that talking business will eradicate the dirtier thoughts from my head.
He takes a moment, like he’s carefully considering his answer. “It’s a little different than the Italian Riviera.”
“Does that mean you prefer where you were before?”
A sly grin crosses his lips. “I tend to enjoy all sorts of fascinating locales. Though I think Vegas has a tremendous amount to offer,” he says, each word dripping off his tongue like seduction.
Anything he says sounds like sex. So I try to keep the conversation professional, firing off more questions about the Italian coastline.
But even as we talk about cities and the things we like about them, trading tales about our time on the Riviera and what makes that area tick, I’m aware of the undercurrent to our conversation.
It’s in the air, this charge between us.
“Your hotel is quite successful there,” I say.
“And I hope my hotel here will be quite successful too.”
“Hope?” I arch a brow, teasing him a bit. “ Hope doesn’t sound like you. Are you just being polite? Aren’t you the type of man who declares something will be successful rather than hopes for it?” I ask, my voice dropping into a masculine tone as I mimic him.
His grin goes crooked. “Were you just imitating me, Ms. Carmichael?”
“Did you enjoy my imitation?”
“I did. What else can you imitate about me?”
“ I’m a man who knows what he wants ,” I say, parroting his words from the other night. I’m doing a horrible job of being businesslike. But flirting is a powerful drug, and it’s enticing me to take a hit, then another.
“That remains true. And rest assured, I wasn’t saying hope to be polite.”
I laugh, perhaps to try to deflect from my own desire to get closer to my rival. “You don’t need to soften anything for me.”
He raises one dark brow, his brown eyes glinting. “Oh, trust me, Sage. Nothing is soft around you.”
I blush. Flames lick my cheeks. Heat rushes to my core. I do my best to return to business matters, and perhaps even learn some intel. “The Invitation is a stunning property. Some might even call it . . . exquisite .”
The way his lips twitch tells me I hit the mark. He’s the winner. He nabbed the show.
“Exquisite? That’s what you’d call it?” he asks.