She’d felt the heart palpitations when he slid his very large hand in hers and graced her with one look of his drop-dead—what color were his eyes anyway? They were gray, tinged with blue, like a sky coloring up for a storm.
Amazing. When he looked at her it was as if everyone else in the room fell away and she was the only woman on earth. Which she knew wasn’t true, because she’d studied him all night long, and there were at least twenty women focused on him as if they were a starving pack of wolves and he was meat.
He wasn’t meaty at all. He was perfect and absolutely delicious. About six foot one and 215 pounds of sex on a stick would be her guess.
If she were out scouting for a man—which she wasn’t—she’d pick him out of a crowd. With his inky black hair and gorgeous, well-toned and muscular body, he stood out, even if he did wear his hair a little long and shaggy. There was a certain presence to him. Arrogance, maybe. She’d read his file, and so she was surprised when she hadn’t found him commanding the room or involved in a brawl or wrapped around two or three women in a dark corner.
Maybe the media had blown his off-the-field antics out of proportion. Maybe his reputation was more hype than anything.
But she’d reserve judgment until she got to know him better.
“So, Savannah Brooks. Why are you sitting here all alone?”
“I’m observing.”
He cocked a brow, his defenses obviously up, as he leaned forward on the edge of the chair like he was ready to take flight. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”
She smiled at him. “No. I’m not a reporter.”
He relaxed and leaned back against the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Okay, then.”
“I take it you don’t like reporters.”
“Nope.”
“And why is that?”
“They lie.”
“About you.”
“All the damn time.”
“What kind of lies have they told about you?”
“I don’t want to talk about me. Let’s talk about you. You have a beautiful Southern accent, Savannah. Where are you from?”
Not at all what she’d read about him. That he was an egomaniac, that every conversation centered on him, his stats, his prowess in the bedroom, that he hit on women as a second career, pressuring them to go home with him.
Maybe the media did have it wrong.
“I’m originally from Atlanta.”
“But you don’t live there now.”
“No.”
He smiled when she didn’t offer any more information. He had an amazing, off-kilter smile that made her stomach flutter. She had to stop being such a girl about him. He might be flirting but she was here on business.
“Do you want me to guess?” he asked.
“Not at all. I live in St. Louis right now.”
“Right now. Are you moving soon?”
“No. My job’s keeping me here for the moment.”
“A lady of mystery. I like that. But this hardly seems the city for a Georgia peach like you.”
“Really. And what kind of city should I be living in?”
“You seem perfectly bred for the south, obviously. All Southern-refined, laid-back beauty. Not here.”
He was certainly a smooth talker. “St. Louis is charming.”
“Agreed. It definitely has its charms. Does your job move you around a lot?”
He listened. A good quality. “It does.”
“And what do you do for a living, Savannah?”
“I’m a consultant.”
“Broad concept. What kind of consultant?”
“An image consultant.”
He frowned. “What does an image consultant do?”
“I assist clients who need help either boosting their image or changing it.”
“That must be an interesting job.”
“I love my work. To have a positive impact on people’s lives is very rewarding.”
He grinned. “Good for you.”
“And what about your job, Cole?”
“I’ve played football since I was a kid. To be able to do this for a living is a dream come true. I’m very grateful.”
He was poised, confident, and polite. Why didn’t he come across like this in interviews? Why was he portrayed in such a negative light? There was more to Cole Riley than what she’d read about in his file.
“Would you like a drink, Savannah?”
“No, I’m fine with the sparkling water, thank you.”
“Okay. You still haven’t told me what you’re doing at this shindig.”
“I’m meeting a new client.”
“You work in sports?”
“I work in all fields, but lately I’ve been concentrating a lot on sports figures.”
He cocked his head to the side and studied her. “Yeah? About to redo someone’s image?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Huh. I wonder who screwed up and needs a makeover.” He looked around the room, studying all the players in attendance. “Couldn’t be our star quarterback. Cassidy eats, drinks, and pisses charm.”
She resisted the laugh. It wouldn’t be appropriate.
He looked at her, then around again, zeroing in on a group of players clustered in the middle of the room. “It’s Moose Clements, isn’t it? That guy couldn’t give a decent interview if you gave him a personality implant. Or maybe Jim Highland, the Traders’ defensive end. You want to talk attitude issues? That guy has serious problems. He’s your new client, isn’t he?”
She stood, smoothed out her dress. “Unfortunately, it’s time for me to go. It was very nice meeting you, Cole.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He grabbed her hand. “Wait.”
She paused.
“I want to see you again.”
“Oh, you will.” She smiled as she walked out of the room. This was going to be very interesting.
COLE WATCHED SAVANNAH WALK AWAY, STRUCK BY her elegant beauty.
He was wrong. Definitely no stick up her ass. She walked with a slight sway to her hips—nothing obvious or attention grabbing about her, but she was all woman.
And dammit, he’d just stood there like a tongue-tied teenager and let her get away.