Shoving away from the table, I rush back to the door, and open it, gasping when I find Liam standing there, dark blue t-shirt stretched over his impressive chest, and he doesn’t look happy. “I told you not to go inside. It wasn’t safe.”
If having him, or anyone for that matter, worry about me didn’t feel so good I might have bristled at his reprimand. “Well,” I say, “as you see, I did go inside, and I’m happy to report that Godzilla is nowhere in sight.”
He does not look any more pleased than moments before. “We’ll talk about that later.”
My brows dip. I’m not sure I’m processing all content properly right now. Why wasn’t the symbol on the note? “Talk about what?”
“Later,” he repeats tightly, and hands me an iPad. “My Wikipedia page is up. Look it over. There’s a hotel directly across the street. I’ll get a room and suggestions for places to eat that will still be open.”
My eyes go wide. “You have a Wiki page?”
“Yes. I have a Wiki page, and despite the unauthorized information it contains, it’s fairly accurate. I’m going to check into my hotel. I’ll be back to get you in a few.” He starts to turn away.
“Liam, wait.” He pauses and looks at me. “You do know that I don’t have a Wiki page. I’m not a model or an actress or a celebrity of any kind. I’m not even a secret heiress to a mega-fortune.”
“You’re you. That’s what counts.” He turns away again and I don’t stop him.
You’re you, he’d said. Only that’s the whole problem. I’m not me.
Rich, sexy, and powerful no longer seems an adequate description. Liam Stone is, per Wikipedia, a reclusive billionaire and philanthropist who lost both of his parents at a young age and was taken in by one of the most famous architects who ever lived. Liam inherited his mentor’s extreme wealth and apparently, his skill. At the young age of thirty-one (apparently most architects are older when, and if, they become established) Liam is the highest-paid living architect, and is considered an architectural prodigy.
Setting the iPad aside, I press my fingers to my throbbing temples. It’s almost comical that I actually thought Liam could be my handler. He has far more to occupy himself with than little ol’ me, and I really don’t know why he’s hovering around me at this point. Well, except maybe he just wants to have sex. I’m not above admitting it’s on my mind. Heck, maybe I should just embrace a potential one-night stand and let Liam take me away for a few hours. Whatever awaits me tomorrow will still await me tomorrow. It might even stop me from melting down. So why do I feel so let down that this thing with him isn’t more? I can’t have more. There is no “more” for me. I went to the door to get rid of him. When he comes back I should pretend I’m not here.
A knock sounds and I discard the idea of not seeing Liam again, jumping to my feet and rushing past the kitchen. Afraid I might talk sense into myself, I waste no time opening the door, and then almost swallow my tongue with the impact Liam Stone has on me standing there. He might be a billionaire, able to afford the finest of fine, but the man does a pair of faded Levi’s and a t-shirt as right as they can be done. And he does it while looking at me like I’m the dinner and he’s going to lick me off the plate.
“Done with your research?” he queries.
“Yes. I read your Wiki page.”
“You’re rich, talented, and why are you at my door again?” And why am I not sending you away?
“Because you haven’t invited me in yet.”
“You sure don’t seem like a recluse to me.”
His lips quirk and he straightens, and before I can blink he’s advanced on me, his hands coming down on my shoulders, his big body crowding into the apartment. “Liam,” I object. Sort of. Actually, I’m not sure I object at all.
“Amy,” he counters.
My nerves prickle. “Don’t do that.”
He kicks the door shut, pressing me against the wall, his powerful thighs encasing mine.
“Do what, baby?”
The endearment does funny things to my stomach and so does the solid wall of his chest beneath my fingers. “Mock me when I say your name.”
“Ah, now, little Amy, I assure you I am not mocking you. I already told you how hot it makes me when you say my name.”
I am so not skilled at this flirtatious word game he is playing, so I resort to what I do well. “I didn’t invite you in.”
“No?” he asks, his eyes alight with sexy amusement.
“No,” I reply and while I am nervous, out of my league with a man this experienced, this incredibly sexy, his playfulness somehow takes the edge off.
“Yes, well,” he says, his voice holding a hint of evil mischief, “I prefer privacy when I kiss you. We recluses are like that.”
My nerves shoot to the sky. Kiss me. He wants to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. “You’re no recluse,” I accuse, wondering how the Wiki got that so very wrong.
His eyes darken, narrow. “Then how would you describe me, Amy?” he asks, his voice low, gravelly. Affected. By me. The idea is exciting and frightening all at once.
“Demanding,” I say, and I sound as breathless as I feel.
His fingers curve around my neck, tugging my mouth near his, teasing me with the promise of a kiss. “You have no idea just how demanding I can be.” And with that erotic promise, his tongue slices into my mouth, a silky, hot caress that seems to touch every inch of my now tingling body. The taste of him, of hot passion and desire, sizzles through my senses, and my fingers splay on the hard wall of his chest.