Metsy Hingle - The Wager

“I—I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to jump to that conclusion. I had no right to assume—”

He cut off her apology with a quick, hard kiss. “You had every right to jump to conclusions and assume just what you did. Now, is eight o’clock for breakfast too early?”

“No. But I have a meeting then. Could we make it for nine instead?”

“Nine o’clock is fine. I’ll meet you in the hotel’s dining room.”

“All right,” she said.

After opening her car door for her, he waited until Laura had started the engine and strapped on her seat belt. Then he tapped on her window. Frowning, she eased down the car’s window. “Did you forget something?”

“Just this.” Leaning through the window, he gave her a long, slow kiss. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she whispered.

For a long time after the taillights of the convertible had disappeared, Josh stood in the dimly lit garage and thought about the explosive kiss they’d shared. “Dammit, Logan,” he muttered as he stalked off toward the elevator. Laura Harte was forbidden fruit—Olivia Jardine’s granddaughter and the key to his regaining the Princess. He had no business lusting after her because lust had a way of messing up a man’s mind. So what if she kissed like a dream and just thinking about her had him rock-hard and aching? He’d get over it. No way did he intend to let a few hormones stand in the way of his plans. Laura Harte was a means to an end. Nothing more.

But later, much, much later, while he tossed and turned, unable to sleep, he kept remembering ghost-blue eyes dark with desire, the feel of satin-soft lips, the scent of flowers and sunshine.

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