Total pages in book: 178
Estimated words: 169578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 848(@200wpm)___ 678(@250wpm)___ 565(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 848(@200wpm)___ 678(@250wpm)___ 565(@300wpm)
“I live somewhere very different from this city.”
Intrigue battled with warning bells. She wasn’t sure if he was giving who’s your daddy vibes or serial killer ones. When she fully met his mercurial stare, her heart slammed into an erratic tempo that jerked her whole system out of whack.
He held her eye contact and lifted a finger at the bar. The preoccupied bartender rushed over as if he was the most important customer there.
“What can I get you?”
Whoever he was, people obeyed his command without question. “Scotch,” he said, without taking his eyes off her.
Interesting.
He was very, ‘It was the butler in the study with the wrench’ sophisticated. Indisputable eloquence wrapped him in luxury, but his clothes were rather plain. Just black slacks and a button down, yet there was something seasoned about him. Classic. Monochromatic. Timeless. People eagerly obeyed him.
Was he a celebrity? Maybe the owner of the club? Everyone noticed him but no one had the balls to look directly at him. It was like he was used to hiding in plain sight. She needed more information.
“Soooo,” she said, swiveling on her stool. “You come here often?”
His stare dropped quickly to her breasts, almost dispassionately, as if he were disappointed, but determined all the same. The mixed signals were giving her whiplash. Was he interested or not?
He lowered to the stool, never taking his stare off of her. “You’re very interesting to me.”
Well, that was something, she supposed. She preferred directness but didn’t know him well enough to determine if his words were sincere.
“I speak the truth.” He leaned closer to talk over the pounding music. The scent of his skin and clothing was the perfect combination of masculine virility and slow-aged patience. She bet he spent hundreds of dollars on one little bottle.
She cupped her beer with both hands so not to fidget.
“Your pulse is racing.”
No shit. Horny and nervous wasn’t a desirable baseline. “It’s been a long day.”
“You can relax now, little one. You never have to be nervous around me.”
She met his stare as calm washed over her. It was the strangest eye fuck she’d ever experienced. Should she be turned on or cautious? At the moment, she was both—but not nervous. Not anymore. It was like his words instantly soothed her, and she could relax even when her mind didn’t know or trust this man. Weird.
He spoke over the thrumming music. “What’s your name?”
“Delilah. Delilah Starling.”
His dark brows lifted as he studied her. “In the Old Testament, Delilah betrays Samson to his enemies.”
That was a new one. As an agnostic, she didn’t do Bibles, so she had no response. “How about you?”
“Pardon?”
“Your name…”
“I’m Christian Schrock.”
“Are you in town on business or something?”
“Yes. Business.”
“And what is it you do, Christian Schrock?” In her head, she sang The Name Game to commit his name to memory. Schrock, Schrock, bo bock, banana fana fo fock! Bet you got a big old cock, Christian Schrah-ock.
“I’m a farmer.”
She snorted. “A farmer?” That was unexpected. “Like Old McDonald?”
“Who?”
“You know… A chick, chick here, and a chick, chick there?” She pictured him on a tractor in a straw hat. Nope. He looked too much like a foreign drug lord for her to conjure a believable image of him working a farm. “You should really come up with a better cover if you expect people to buy it.”
His scowl was a mix of indignation and wounded shock. “You’re accusing me of lying, Delilah?”
Her name rolled off his tongue like distant, soothing thunder. “Come on, Chris, you and I both know you’re not a farmer.”
“My name’s Christian. Not Chris.”
Touchy much? This guy was all formality. “Sorry, Christian. You’re going to have to sell that farmer in the dell image a little harder if you expect people to buy it.” She plucked a business card out of her bra and slid it in front of him.
He frowned at the action and read the card. “What is this?”
“That’s proof that I own the tattoo shop around the corner. You got a farmer’s card, Christian?”
“I do not.”
She turned over his hands noting the soft skin and lack of callouses. The only reason anyone would make up a lie like that would be to cover something big. Her money was on mob ties.
“You really should come up with something more convincing.”
“I prefer the truth.”
“Right…” She pulled out her phone to show him her Instagram page. “Is your farm on The Gram?”
His frown deepened.
“Let me guess, you’re off the grid.”
“Our farm is very private, yes.”
He was really sticking to the lie. She turned her attention toward locking him in as a client. “Do you have any ink?” When he looked at her in confusion, she clarified, “Tattoos.”
“I do not.”
The thought of working on such a perfect canvas filled her with inspiration. Pictures of this guy’s body on her page would get serious traffic. Just the glimpse of his forearms peeking out from under his cuffed sleeves told her his body was a chiseled work of art—combined with her talent, she could make him a total masterpiece.