Wicked & Willing. Leslie Kelly
agreed to visit this Longotti guy for one week, to explore the possibility that she was his long-lost granddaughter. Just because she personally had serious doubts that she was—and didn’t particularly want to be—did not mean it was entirely impossible. The odds were better than, say, getting struck by lightning. Or winning the lottery.
Or finding a nice guy who wanted to get married and have a house in the suburbs and a few babies before Venus was too old to enjoy them. She sighed at that cheery thought.
Anyway, whatever Gallagher was up to was on his head, not hers. She was just along for the ride. A well-paid ride.
She had, however, been curious enough to call her foster mother and ask her about the birth certificate. Maureen had told her she’d lost the original in the break-in, but had also said the Child Welfare Agency had forwarded a box of things after Venus had turned eighteen. Confirming she still had the box somewhere, she told Venus she’d mail it to her in Baltimore.
Nearly purring in the warmth of the sun, Venus began to hum, then to sing, a favorite old rock-and-roll song that fit her mood perfectly. When she heard the soft slide of a glass door opening, however, she stopped singing and opened her eyes. She expected to see Leo, accompanied by an old man.
She was almost afraid to look. Would his face seem familiar? Would his smile look like her own? Would he see something in her that reminded him of his long-lost son?
Stop it, Venus. It’s not true and you know it.
When she saw a younger man standing there instead, her heart raced faster, anyway.
Good lord, they grew men well in the south!
Shading her eyes with her hand, she studied the stranger in the gray suit. A guy in a tie. Her first impulse should have been to leap off the balcony in self-preservation. But somehow, after months of relative apathy when it came to men, Venus remembered what she so very much liked about them.
Just about everything.
Besides, she was in Atlanta for one week only. How much damage could even a guy in a tie do in one little week?
First things first—was he tall enough to meet her number-one requirement on her man list? At just a smidge under six feet herself, Venus never went for guys she’d tower over in spike-heeled do-me shoes. A girl had to have her priorities.
All lean, muscled male wrapped up in an elegantly tailored package, this man obviously stood a few inches over six feet tall. Meets height requirement. Check.
He was also dark-haired, another personal preference. His thick, chestnut-brown hair was cut conservatively, but ruffled a bit in the strong breeze blowing between the high-rise buildings. It would probably be tousled like that when he woke up in the morning.
Her mouth went dry. She swallowed and continued staring.
His face was magazine-model handsome. Lean jaw, straight, strong nose. Heavily lashed to-die-for eyes the color of springtime leaves. And one of the most kissable mouths she’d ever seen on a guy.
Kissing was one of her personal favorite things to do, and got her vote for being the all-around best activity for the mouth. It ranked even higher than eating rich, dark chocolate, which was probably in her top five. As for the rest of the list…well, that was flexible, depending on her mood, the time of the month and her romantic status. With someone like this incredible man, however, she could definitely picture the possibilities. She nearly moaned at the image.
Her gaze moved lower, to his left hand. No ring.
Perfect.
“Good afternoon,” she said lazily, her mouth widening in welcome, a signal no man alive could miss.
He smiled back just as lazily, just as aware. Those eyes darkened and his smile faded as they stared at each other for a long, heady moment. Then, taking his cue from her, he expressed not a hint of surprise about finding a strange, casually dressed woman sunning herself out here on the balcony. “Good afternoon to you. Enjoying the sunshine?”
She nodded and turned her face to the sky, drawing in a deep breath. “Love it.”
“Be careful,” he warned as he sat on the other chair. “It’s deceptive with the breeze. Redheads tend to burn, right?”
She raised a brow. “Who says I’m a natural redhead?” At this point in her life, Venus could barely remember what her natural hair color was anymore, though she thought this was pretty close. She’d run the full color spectrum in the past several years. But red was definitely her favorite.
“Whether you are or not, stick with this,” he murmured, glancing at her hair with a look so intimate it felt like a touch. “A woman with eyes as green as yours should be a redhead.”
His quiet flattery hit home. The man was a charmer.
“And a man with a face like yours is usually wearing a wedding ring,” she murmured, needing to make sure he was available before they went any further. Venus might like men, but she never went after the taken ones.
“Not married. Not involved,” he replied easily.
She wondered if he heard her audible sigh of relief.
When he didn’t respond by asking the same question, Venus paused. Was he not interested? Or was he so interested he simply didn’t give a damn whether she was available or not? Hoping it was the latter, she offered the information anyway. “Me, neither.”
Far below them, the traffic rumbled by, evidence of the bustling city life during a hectic Monday rush hour. But up here, high above it all, Venus felt completely separated. Alone. Except for this sexy stranger with the mouth she felt she had to soon kiss or die trying.
He gestured toward her sandal. “That could probably kill someone if it fell from this height.”
She intentionally flipped it harder, setting a tapping rhythm with the shoe.
He grinned. “Okay, so I’ve got ulterior motives for wanting you to move your legs.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared intently at her foot. “What is it?”
“I think it’s called a shoe.”
He chuckled. “No, I meant that.” He pointed toward her ankle. Leaning even closer, he reached for her leg and gently tugged her foot off the railing. Venus sucked in a breath at the feel of his warm fingers on her calf, wondering if he heard the crazy pounding of her heart within her chest. She heard it—it roared to life in her head as she focused every bit of her attention on the brush of his skin against hers.
“This,” he said softly as he placed her foot on his knee, completely disregarding any possible damage to his expensive trousers. Then he leaned over to look at her tattoo. He touched the tiny hummingbird she’d had put on as an unemployment present last year. “Very pretty. Did it hurt?”
She could only manage to shake her head. If she tried to make a sound, it would emerge as a whimper. Or a plea.
He continued touching her, tracing the shape of the blue-green bird with the tip of his finger, cupping the back of her calf with his other hand.
The chair suddenly felt harder against her bottom. She shifted uncomfortably in the suddenly too-tight jean shorts. And her breath barely made it into her lungs as she focused on the way he looked at her. The way he touched her.
“Why a hummingbird?” he asked, still not letting go.
She didn’t answer at first, not quite able to. She couldn’t even think of anything but the way his gentle touch would feel, sliding up her leg, beneath her shorts. Touching her where she suddenly felt hot and achy.
Finally, drawing in a ragged breath, she whispered, “I like hummingbirds. They’re aggressive as hell, but still delicate and small. Just like I always wanted to be.”
Shaking his head reprovingly, he tsked. “Why do women always want to be the opposite of what they are? Even when they’re stunningly beautiful?”
She