Nancy Warren - Too Hot to Handle

She stopped when he suddenly reached for her hand, taking it in his. “You’ve hurt yourself,” he said, pointing to a red patch on her index finger.

“Oh, that’s nothing, I burned myself on the soldering iron. I got careless.”

She tried to pull away from the intimate warmth of her hand resting in his, but with a strength that surprised her, he prevented her. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”

“Yes, but I can’t have cream or bandages on my fingers. I need them to do my work.”

His gaze rose to meet hers and she thought he had the most amazing eyes she’d ever seen. “Then I’ll use an old home remedy of my grandmother’s.” His words licked at her, soft, caressing. Intimate. “I’ll kiss it better.”

Her hand fluttered in his. She felt it, knew he must have felt the instinctive movement, too; she was completely annoyed by her reaction, but she didn’t yank her hand away, either. She watched him raise her fingers slowly to his lips. Felt the lightest whisper of a kiss land on the sore spot and then he returned her hand to the worktable.

“I—um.” She completely forgot what she was going to say.

He glanced through her magnifier at the ring. “This is exquisite.”

“Thank you. What kind of a ring are you looking for, Mr. Pendegraff?”

“It’s Charlie. And I need an engagement ring.”

She blinked. “An engagement ring?”

“Yes.” He raised his head and glanced at her. His green eyes were like cloudy emeralds, with too many occlusions to make them gemstone worthy, but it was the dark lines, the faults that made them so magnetic.

“You’re getting married?”

“Yes.”

She couldn’t believe the balls of this man. He was kissing the fingers of the woman he wanted to design his wedding rings?

But then she reminded herself of one of her mother’s favorite sayings. “The rich have different rules than the rest of us.”

That was why she stayed away from them.

“Penelope and I are getting married in September. That’s six months from now. Lots of time.”

“I see.” Ice coated her tone. “Well, if you’d like to come back out front, I’ll show you what’s in stock. All the designs are original, of course.” Lexy was a certified gemologist and she’d apprenticed with a designer in London. When she’d returned to the States, she’d been unwilling to work in one of those design factories that turn out diamond solitaires and wedding bands by the thousand. So, she’d gone out on her own, building herself a perfect little studio in SoHo, a live/work loft that meant she and her livelihood were never far apart, and her commute was less than a minute.

One of the things she loved about New York was how quickly word spread when somebody found a new designer. She’d gone from complete obscurity, to a few select jewelers selling her unique creations, to becoming the go-to designer for wealthy trendsetters in less than two years.

She was so hot that men like Charles Pendegraff III came slumming in order to get his bride the trendiest engagement ring possible.

“Or, I could have something designed, just for me?”

“And for your fiancée. Yes.”

As luck would have it, when she returned him to the storefront, her assistant, Amanda, was returning a ring tray to its display case. Her customer was walking out the door with one of their signature boxes made from recycled metal.

“Oh, good. Amanda’s free now. Amanda? Would you help Mr. Pendegraff? He’s looking for a ring. Goodbye, Mr. Pendegraff, and best of luck with the wedding.”

“Bye, Lexy.” He stuck out his hand and what could she do but return his clasp? Amusement lurked deep in his eyes as he gazed down at her. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

She mumbled something inarticulate and retreated to her work space, shaking her head.

Poor Penelope.

CHARLIE STRODE AROUND a bundle of yellow garbage bags piled on the sidewalk, dodging tourists as he checked out the entire block around Alexandra Drake Designs.

As he took careful note of his Broome Street surroundings, snapping a few discreet photos, he pondered the nature of the woman he was about to steal from.

A woman of contrasts. Contrasts that intrigued him. When he’d first walked in, casually, a customer looking for some information, delighted to find the single salesclerk busy, he’d followed the sound of some indie rock band into the workshop of Alexandra Drake. No more than an unlocked door separated the storefront from her work space. Was she really that trusting? Her back was to him and with the music pounding she couldn’t have heard his approach.

Had he taken advantage of the perfect opportunity to check out her security system? Eyeball the safe sitting in the corner? He could have taken photos and she wouldn’t have noticed.

No. He hadn’t. He hadn’t done any of the tasks a self-respecting thief would have accomplished in seconds.

His gaze had gone straight to the hips gyrating to the beat of the music, tightly clad in jeans, her legs not long, but shapely. She had small feet encased in boots. Above the swinging hips, her torso was still. She wore a navy tank top, not an ounce of extra flesh on her. Her bare arms revealed elegant swells of muscle. Her hair was black and wound into a big messy bun with what looked like chopsticks stuck through to hold it in place.

Her eyes were glued to a magnifier and he watched her hands. Those small, efficient hands. Using some kind of tool that looked like small pliers, she was twirling a strand of hot metal as though it were a piece of cooked spaghettini, draping it around a colored stone. He knew the moment she felt his presence. Those glorious hips slowed, her back stiffened.

Still, she finished the meticulous draping of the metal before setting the ring into a clamp. Then she raised her head and turned to him. Too fast for him to pretend he hadn’t been watching her.

He couldn’t have pretended anything, anyway. He was too stunned.

The woman was gorgeous. Cool gray eyes of a tilted almond shape that suggested there was Asian blood in her. Pale skin, full, sexy lips that begged to be painted red, but which she’d only touched with some kind of gloss.

He didn’t have time for lust. He had a job to do.

And yet somehow he couldn’t help himself. He’d come on to her. Enjoyed flustering her, finding an excuse to touch her.

And now, he was preparing to steal from her.

He had a bad feeling about this. A bad feeling that he was going to break every rule he lived by and get to know one of his marks. After the dust had settled, obviously, a few weeks from now when she’d have moved on and wouldn’t think to connect a missing set of jewels with a visit from Charles Pendegraff.

He called himself every kind of fool as he made his preparations, but he knew he was going to be stupid.

As crazy as it was, he was going to see Lexy Drake again.

AT SIX, AMANDA PEEKED into Lexy’s work space. “I’ve closed up. I’m heading out now.”

Lexy glanced up and rubbed her tired eyes. “Good day?”

“Three engagement rings, a few pairs of earrings and about a hundred of those bracelets that were featured on Party Girls of Manhattan.”

Lexy laughed. It was amazing how slavish people could be when they saw their favorite star wearing something distinctive on a television show. She only had a small number of mass-produced designs, but since one of the women on the newest semireality show had discovered her work, her designs—especially the ones that appeared on the show—were snapped up.

“Party Girls will do for you what Sex and the City did for Manolo Blahnik,” Amanda prophesied.

“Fine with me.”

Her assistant glanced around the crowded space. “You planning to work all night?”