I still didn’t get it. But I was prepared to press her about it. “So do you actually sell designer clothes or was that Savannah? Or you, being Savannah, or maybe just made up altogether?”
Her cheeks flooded with color. “I do actually sell clothes.” She dug into her giant handbag and pulled out a business card. “Here. But I fully understand if you would like me to leave right now.”
“Do you want to leave?” I asked, because I didn’t think that I wanted her to.
“I should, considering I’ve just confessed to having a crush on you and lying about my identity, but no, I don’t want to leave.”
“So you really do love Russian authors, British rock, and Australian beaches?”
She nodded. “Yes. And I do hate pickles, self-checkout, and tequila.”
I tried to mentally scroll through all of our conversations and ascribe them to the woman standing in front of me. It wasn’t hard to see that it made more sense than the woman I’d gone to dinner with. The real Savannah. Who had been sweet but not as sharp-witted.
“You, Michael, love true crime novels, British rock as well, and Belize. You hate chewing gum, buffering on the internet, and people who are cruel to animals. Like, it gets you raging.” She set her wine down on the quartz countertop. “It was me, I swear, and everything I wrote was the truth.”
I studied her. She looked sincere. I’d really enjoyed talking to her and she clearly remembered our exchanges even though it had been a month back. They’d meant something to her, like they had to me. She was beautiful. I’d be an idiot to be offended over the fact that a woman a dozen years younger than me had found me interesting enough to carry on a charade like that. I wasn’t thrilled about the deception but I was willing to see if she was a chronic liar or had just gotten carried away as she said.
“Then I guess you owe me a dinner date with the woman I was actually talking to,” I said. “Because she and I were having a great conversation.”
She tilted her head and gave me a small, but very sexy smile. “Oh, really? I owe you that?”
I nodded. “I think you do.” I came around the island so I could be closer to her. I glanced at her lips. “You told me you have a policy of always kissing on the first date, remember? Just to test chemistry. I’ll be expecting that as well.”
“I see. You drive a hard bargain, sir,” she said. “But I’m prepared to make restitution.”
“Excellent.” She really was gorgeous. She was wearing a red sweater that contrasted with her dark hair and showed off a slim build. I could definitely imagine kissing her and more. “How does Thursday sound?”
Felicia raised her eyebrows. “You don’t waste time.”
“No, I don’t. And I don’t have time for games.” I’d already wasted a decade of my life focusing on my career only.
“Ouch. Duly noted. No more deception, I swear.”
I wanted a relationship again. I wanted to be married, to wake up next to a woman who wanted to share her life with me. Over the years of being single I’d had a few hookups and a couple of women who had wanted a friends-with-benefits scenario and that had been perfect for me at the time. But now, I wanted more. I wanted to know a woman inside and out, to love every inch of her, to have the luxury of being able to touch her.
Ironic, really. I couldn’t expect any woman to be on the same page with me. I wanted everything all at once as usual. It was how I’d been successful in my career. Go for it. Grab what I wanted by the balls.
I reached behind me for my wine. I took a sip and studied her.
Felicia slowly slid her tongue across her bottom lip under the scrutiny. Her eyes darkened. She leaned almost imperceptibly toward me.
She wanted me to kiss her. Not Thursday, but now.
So I did what I always did. I went for it.
I set my glass down and reached out and took her glass from her and set it next to mine on the island. I slid my hand into her dark, straight hair. “You’re a very beautiful woman, Felicia. I’ve enjoyed talking to you, you little catfisher.”
“I’ve enjoyed it as well.”
Her voice was a low murmur, breathy, aroused.
I bent down and covered her lips with mine.
Two
Michael was kissing me. Holy shit, he was kissing me and it was brilliant.
I had thought telling him the truth would get me bounced from his flat, which would have gutted me, but instead he was kissing me. Very well, I might add.
He had soft lips and a commanding touch. His hand held my head while he brushed over my mouth over and over.
I kissed him back, but he was in charge, one hundred percent. My eyes drifted shut as he teased between my lips with his tongue and did all kinds of amazing things to my insides. I pressed my hands on his chest for balance and to feel him. It was a hard plane of muscle that only stoked the fire of my desire even further.
Curling my fingertips into the fabric of his T-shirt, I sighed, wanting to be closer to him. Wanting to feel every inch of him.
Michael broke off the kiss and stepped back from me. He gave me a slow, sexy smile.
“Let me show you that closet.”
Just like that. Let me show you that closet. Like he hadn’t just destroyed me with his mouth. Like he hadn’t made me ache for more.
I stood there for a second, struck dumb, breathing hard.
He turned and sipped his wine.
That snapped me out of it. “Right. Of course. Let’s get right on that.”
The reason I was there. To assess his dead wife’s wardrobe. Not to shatter beneath his tongue.
He didn’t look shattered. He looked as casual as his outfit. Chill. Cool as a damn cucumber.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my tablet, determined to be professional for the next thirty minutes. “I’ll just snap a few photos for reference. I can usually get you an estimate within three days of what I’ll be able to take to list and target auction prices. If you choose to use my services, I will need to remove the clothing so that photos can be taken on a model with styling. I take forty percent of the sale price and do all the shipping.”
“Sounds good to me. I’m planning to donate the money to breast cancer research.”
Of course he was. Because that wasn’t going to help my burning desire to shag him. The bastard was a nice guy on top of being attractive, intelligent, and forgiving.
I followed him down the hallway to the second door on the right. It was clearly intended to be the second bedroom but it was set up like a walk-in closet. It was all women’s clothing. Hundreds of pieces. There was a rack of shoes that even at first glance showed designer taste. The shelves filled with handbags displayed a very obvious Chanel and a Hermès courchevel Birkin with gold hardware. Becca had a Birkin. I wondered if Michael had any idea how much just that one bag alone was worth.
“There are a lot of quality pieces here,” I said, running my fingers down the sleeve of a Prada jacket. “How many are you willing to part with?”
“All of it.”
My heart almost stopped. Turning in a circle I at first guess thought there was at least fifty thousand worth of designer pieces in the room. More likely even more. The Birkin alone was worth five grand gently used. This would be quite the padding for my bank account.