Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas

His flustered boyishness—like a teenage boy worried about what to say to the girl—took her by surprise. Where’d the cocky, in-your-face guy go? The one who blurted that line about tying him up and making him write bad checks all night?

Sudden heat crawled up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. Shouldn’t have thought about that.

“Must say,” she said casually, willing the heat to subside as she looked over at an old pickup, its suspension squeaking, lumber along Graces Avenue, “I’ve never been compared to Frau Farbissina before.”

“I thought someone was punking me—didn’t know you were really here on business.”

As she turned to face him, a gust of wind blew his soapy, masculine scent toward her. She held back a shiver, not from the cold this time.

“Don’t worry about it.” She meant it. Whatever had been going on back there in the office didn’t make sense, but it was a small issue in a world of big ones.

“I don’t deserve to get off the hook so easily,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble she felt all the way down to her toes.

“No, you don’t,” she agreed, trying not to smile.

They’d only met a few minutes ago, but she felt the rhythm, the current between them, as though they’d done this dozens of times. Playing, teasing each other. Doubted any woman could resist his charm.

Braxton had what her mom would have called “matinee-idol good looks.” Illegally handsome and exuberantly male. Plus he exuded an unlabored, playful sexiness that if left unbridled could gallop into full-on killer charisma. She imagined he had to hold the reins tight, practice some self-imposed restraint, try to wheel it out on special occasions only.

She glanced at the old Volvo, the only other car in the small lot. Had to be his. Why did a charismatic, good-looking guy with a sharp sense of style drive a rusting, bald-tired car?

“Piece of junk,” he muttered, following her line of vision.

Everything within her froze.

She stared at a patch of peeling paint on the hood, a rusted dent on its side. Braxton couldn’t see her imperfections, but if he did, would they be standing here, playing mental footsie?

She doubted it.

After all, he looked like the perfect male—classic good looks, sculpted bod, designer clothes. Maybe it wasn’t fair to assume he’d seek the same perfection in life—be it a woman, car, house, whatever—but considering how he looked down on that poor Volvo, maybe he would.

“You should fix up your car,” she said quietly, “then you’ll like it better.”

Pulling the key fob from her pocket, she headed to her Benz. Breezes whipped past, chilling whatever warmth she’d felt.

“Hey, did I say something wrong?” he said, following her.

Her heels clicked across the asphalt. She punched a button and the door locks on the Benz clicked open.

“I’ll get it,” he said, bounding ahead.

He looked so gallant opening the driver’s door for her, those sparkling gray eyes seeking her approval, but she didn’t want to play this game anymore because it was destined for a happy-never-more ending. He was the matinee-idol prince and she was the frog princess.

And no way that prince would ever want to kiss this frog princess.

Deliberately avoiding his gaze, she started to get into the car when their bodies bumped and she stumbled.

He grabbed her by the elbow, steadying her.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

She could feel his eyes wanting to connect with hers, but she couldn’t go there again. They’d experienced a few frivolous moments, and now it was time to get back to reality.

“I have a meeting,” she said evenly, lowering herself into the driver’s seat.

“What’s your na—”

The rest of his question was cut off as she closed the door with a sharp clack.

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