Matchless Millionaires: An Improper Affair. Elizabeth Bevarly
put a foot wrong—as if he knew exactly how to ingratiate himself with women.
“Tate Henderson,” the guy said, offering his hand.
“Ryan Sperling,” he responded, ignoring the hand.
Tate’s face registered surprise. “Ryan Sperling? The guy behind El Ray Technology?”
“None other,” he responded curtly.
Tate, however, became more animated. “I’ve heard of you. You’re a legend in the cable world, not to mention a favorite on Wall Street. Those shares you offered—“
Kelly stifled a yawn with her hand.
Ryan glanced at her. He was putting a damper on her tête-à-tête with Tate and she clearly wasn’t happy about it.
Ryan didn’t mind invoking his wealth and power when it suited his purposes, and now definitely suited his purposes.
Ryan signaled the bartender and leaned forward, wedging himself between Tate and Kelly to order another drink, tonic water that he intended to sip while he kept an eye on Kelly’s Brenda Hartley impersonation.
Turning back after he’d ordered, he took the opportunity to murmur to Tate, “Sweetness is on her way to Happyland. I’m here to make sure she gets home safely—and alone.”
Tate raised his eyebrows. “What’s she to you?”
“There’s a family connection.”
The other man’s lips quirked up. “It’s always something like that.”
Tate downed the rest of his drink, then leaned back to reach into the pocket of his jeans.
“Leave it,” Ryan said. “I’ll settle the tab.”
Tate gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and slid off his bar stool as Ryan stepped back from the bar.
Kelly frowned. “Where are you going?”
“It’s been a pleasure, sweetness,” Tate responded, tossing an amused look at Ryan.
Kelly’s frowned deepened. “You’re leaving?”
Tate glanced at Ryan. “I’d ask him.”
Ryan and Kelly both watched as Tate moved off toward the door, then Kelly swung to face Ryan.
“You chased him off,” she accused.
“No chasing was involved.”
“Thanks a lot,” she muttered. “It’s none of your business.”
She took another swallow of her drink, then looked surprised when she came up short.
Ryan watched as she signaled the bartender.
“Don’t you think you should go easy?” he asked.
“I’m not talking to you.”
He sighed and settled down on the bar stool beside her, opposite the one where Tate had been sitting. Clearly, she wasn’t going to make this simple.
“If you’re looking for some action, why don’t you go after the guy you really want?” he challenged.
She surveyed him. “I don’t want you.”
He arched a brow. “That wasn’t the case when you were moaning in my arms.”
Her lips pursed. “Go away.”
“Can’t. That option isn’t available to you.”
They sat without talking for close to an hour. She made vain attempts to flirt with other men, but Ryan knew his presence—like a dragon at the gate—would keep them away.
He’d have to put a stop to this at some point soon. She was obviously a drinking lightweight and, despite the sex-on-heels outfit, she seemed unaccustomed to the bar scene.
Finally he watched as she finished her drink and tossed a look his way. He looked back at her.
“You’re cute, you know?” she said, her voice a little slurred.
He arched an eyebrow. “Some have said so.”
Now this was an interesting turn in the conversation.
She tilted her head and touched his hair. “You’ve got wonderfully thick, dark hair.”
He stiffened at her touch, and want shot through him.
“Such deep, dark eyes.” She sighed, then pronounced, “Mysterious.”
She looked back at his hair and said sadly, “You’d have beautiful hair if you kept it longer than almost military length.”
An unbidden smile tugged at his lips. Nobody used a soft, frilly word like beautiful for him. And though he knew it was the alcohol talking, he felt his body grow taut in response.
She leaned toward him but, when it seemed as if she was about to lose her balance, his hand shot out to steady her, clamping down on her thigh—and staying there.
They both looked down, then she looked up and met his gaze.
“Nice hands, too,” she said huskily.
He could see the lovely rays of golden-brown in her hazel eyes and his hand tightened on her leg.
Then he caught himself. He wasn’t here so she could hit on him. He was here so he knew she got home okay.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She sat back. “Go?” she echoed. “Well, that’s direct.”
“You’re slurring your words.” He called over the bartender, then covered their tab plus a hefty tip.
She hopped off the bench, showing off mile-long legs and he sent up a prayer for resistance he didn’t have.
Then, because she teetered on her heels, he took her arm. And when that didn’t seem to do the trick, he bent in one quick motion and swung her into his arms.
She gasped and he could feel every luscious curve of her pressed into him.
He moved toward the front door, and one of the other patrons opened it for him.
He glanced down at her as he walked over the gravel drive to his car. “You know,” he said wryly, “I think I like you better drunk.”
“You know, I think I like you better when I’m drunk.” She frowned, concentrating. “Wait. Did I say that right?”
He smiled. “It came out okay.”
She looked at his car. “A black Mercedes. I wasn’t surprised you drive a Mercedes. You’ve always had money.”
He ignored the comment about money. Dangerous territory, he decided, right before he set her down—against the car, just in case.
He got the front passenger door open. “In you go.”
She looked around, perplexed. “Where’s my car?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re in no shape to drive.”
“Hmm … I guess I agree?”
Then, because she chose to just stand there and he was getting impatient, he picked her up and put her in the front seat.
He reached across her for the seat belt and strapped her in, all the while brushing against her, picking up her scent and testing his endurance even more.
“What’s the perfume you’re wearing?” he asked roughly.
She smiled. “Sin.”
“Of course.”
He closed the passenger door and went around the front of the car.
On the drive over to the lodge, she was chatty. She yawned a few times,