He’d never met a woman like Libby St. Clair, and he was positive he never would again.
He sure as hell hoped this plan to make her see him in a different light worked.
“Lib,” he called through the door. “How much longer are you going to be?”
“I’m not feeling well. I think I should stay in tonight. You go ahead without me.”
A momentary twinge of concern seized his stomach, but he pushed it away when he took into account that she’d protested vehemently about wearing the black dress. He had no idea what it looked like, Gram had held it in a wadded-up ball, but Libby—who was never embarrassed about anything she wore, wedding dress in a steak house aside—didn’t want him to see her wearing it.
There was no way in hell she would get away without showing him.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he answered. “Get out here. The blackjack tables are calling our names.”
She didn’t answer but the door cracked open an inch.
“Come on, Lib. How bad could it be? If you look like a clown, you can change. I promise.”
“It might make me look like I’ve made an unwise career choice, but I don’t think it’s a clown you have to worry about.” The door opened more and she stepped out into the doorway.
She stood still, shifting self-consciously. Something in his brain registered that she was acting out of character—other than the wedding dress, he’d never seen her self-conscious—but all the blood that usually went to the reasoning part of his brain had rushed to his crotch.
She grimaced. “That bad?”
He still couldn’t answer. He couldn’t do anything at all except stare at her. From Libby’s reaction to Gram’s demand, he’d suspected it was a sexy cocktail dress, but nothing could have prepared him for this—a sleeveless black dress that clung to every sexy curve, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. And the neckline . . . oh, God. The neckline. The V dipped below her breastbone, cradling the sides of her breasts like he longed to do with his hands. Something in his head signaled him to lift his eyes from her cleavage to her face, but that view was just as enthralling. She’d put on more makeup than usual and had made her eyes smoky and her lips red and shiny. Her hair was in a loose up-do, similar to the one she’d worn on her wedding day, but a few tendrils hung next to her cheeks, showing off the small diamond solitaire earrings she always wore.
A groan escaped her parted red lips. “I’ll change.”
“No!” he barked without thinking. The only way the dress was coming off was if he stripped it off her himself.
“But I look like a hooker.” She put her hand on the doorjamb and jutted her hip to the side. If anything, she looked even sexier.
Get your shit together, McMillan.
He didn’t trust himself near her, yet his feet propelled him forward anyway. “No, Lib. You definitely do not look like a hooker.”
“But—” Any further protest died on those gorgeous full lips as she stared up at him.
He stood directly in front of her now and it took every bit of self-control he possessed to keep from pulling her into his arms and kissing her. But it wasn’t time for that. He still needed to prove himself.
“You’re wearing the tux,” she murmured. Her gaze locked with his as her fingers played with his lapels. It was a delicate, fluid gesture—like they’d been together for years and placing her hands on his chest was the most natural thing in the world.
He let a slow, lazy smile spread across his face. “I might as well get my money’s worth out of it.” He winked. “Thanks for picking black instead of powder blue.”
She cringed, but then a grin lifted the corners of her mouth. “I wanted mauve.” Her shoulder lifted in a delicate motion that held him captive. “But I did let Mitch pick out everything.”
“Well, thank you, Mitch,” he murmured, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice light.
Her gaze dropped to her hands and she stiffened slightly, as though realizing what she’d done. He expected her to jerk her hands away, but she kept them in place, her palms flat and her fingers splayed. “I think I should change.” Her words were soft and uncertain.
“No, Lib. You should definitely not change.” Dammit all to hell. His body was resisting this untested concept of self-control and his voice had taken on a sultry tone.
To his surprise, she pressed herself against him—only slightly—but enough to tell him that she was ready and willing.
God help him, so was he.
Don’t fuck this up, McMillan.
He took a step back. “So now that we’ve settled that, let’s go play some blackjack.”
Confusion swept over her face, and perhaps a bit of hurt, but she gave him a wavering smile. “Okay.”
Gram hadn’t thought to pack Libby a purse to go with her dress, so she left her faded Indian print bag in the room. Noah stuck her license in his wallet in case she needed it and reached out a hand to her. “Let’s go.”
She hesitated before taking it, but then she let him thread his fingers with hers. He knew he was sending her a confusing mix of signals. Part of him needed to know that she wanted him physically as much as he wanted her, but his gut told him the time wasn’t quite right yet. Not if he wanted his plan to work.
They walked to the elevator hand in hand, and when the doors opened, he released her and followed her into the car, moving his hand to the side of her hip.
She gave him an inquisitive glance, but the seven other people in the elevator stopped her from asking questions. She was taller tonight, wearing shiny, black, fuck-me heels that spiked his lust even higher.
Libby St. Clair was the sexiest woman he had ever known and he had no idea how he was going to keep his hands to himself all night. Let alone sleep with her in the king-size bed in their room.
God help him.
The door opened and a well-dressed middle-aged man stood in the entrance. His gaze landed on Libby’s face and quickly zoomed down to her cleavage. Noah’s hand tightened on her hip and he locked eyes with the asshole as the guy made a move toward Libby. The look in Noah’s eyes made him hesitate and alter his course.
Libby’s body sank into Noah’s side, and he glanced down to see if she’d noticed the silent exchange between him the fucker who was now sneaking glances at her ass. If she had, she didn’t let on.
The top of her head hit right under his chin and the smell of her shampoo filled his nose—jasmine and a faint hint of apples. It was her scent and he realized now that he’d missed it the last couple of days. The complimentary hotel toiletries she’d been using smelled fine, but this . . . well, this was the essence of Libby St. Clair.
The elevator reached the first floor and Noah kept his arm around her as the doors opened, then ushered her into the hall and toward the gambling area. Several people from the elevator followed them, including the guy.
The fucker was still checking out her ass.
Noah tensed, about to turn around and confront the bastard, but Libby looked up at him, her mouth pursed in disapproval. “I have no idea what’s gotten into you tonight. Just ignore him.”
His eyes widened in surprise.
“Yes, I know when guys are checking me out. It’s a survival skill,” she teased. “Ignore him.”