looking at the door
to Alistair’s apartment. He never came out when she was around, and he wasn’t
going to—
Oh God , there he is .
The door opened, and well over six feet of dark, shaggy,
antisocial male walked out. Brie stopped short three steps from the bottom, so
startled she could do nothing but stare. She rarely got this close to
him...which was a shame, because up close, he was even more delicious than he
was from a distance.
Then again, considering the sudden pounding heart and
lightheadedness, a little distance might be the healthier thing. She just wanted
to climb him like a tree, wrap her legs around him, and bite.
Brie’s eyes widened in horror at the images that flickered,
unbidden, though her mind. Biting ? What the
hell?
Alistair froze for a moment when he realized he wasn’t alone,
and they stared at each other in the silence. Brie drank him in, unable to help
herself. He was wearing all blacks and grays, which seemed to be a habit of
his—black peacoat, gray-and-black scarf, black pants, all covering a long, lithe
form that moved with sensual, effortless grace. His hair was black as a raven’s
wing, and seemed less to be cut in an actual style than simply overlong. It
waved slightly, falling around a face that was a study in hawkish beauty. His
cheekbones were high and sharp, a perfect match for his blade of a nose.
Handsome was probably the wrong word for him, Brie thought. Compelling was
probably a better one.
Alistair’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line as he watched
her. His eyes—big, thickly lashed, and the blue of the deepest ocean—seemed to
exert a gravitational pull that she had to struggle to resist. And she would
keep struggling, Brie thought as she collected herself as best she could.
Because she was reasonably certain that Alistair was not thinking “Please, hurl
yourself at me right this instant,” no matter what his eyes looked like..
“Miss Fox,” he said, his deep, cultured voice making a formal
address sound more like a lover’s endearment.
“Mr. Locke,” she replied, her lips curving up into a small
smile despite herself. He couldn’t be much older than she was, early thirties
maybe, but he’d never addressed her by her first name. The combination of his
British accent and his old-fashioned manners fascinated her. It was like meeting
a character from a Jane Austen novel right outside her door.
She’d certainly pictured him in breeches enough times.
Alistair inclined his head and hesitated. Brie imagined he was
trying to decide whether to continue outside and risk actual conversation with
her, or simply slink back into his apartment and wait for her to leave. Her
smile faded in the face of the usual hurt and confusion. She wasn’t some troll,
and as far as she knew her conversational skills were just fine. So what was his
problem? For about the millionth time, Brie wished she could take this
ridiculous attraction, light it on fire, kick the ashes away and move on with
her Alistair-free existence. He was probably like this with everyone, she told
herself. The man never had company that she’d seen. And some people simply
didn’t like other people. But it got harder all the time not to take his
repeated snubs personally. They were neighbors. She was low-key, neat, didn’t
throw wild parties, never blocked the driveway, and had never reacted to his
presence by turning into a slobbering idiot. Despite all that, all she generally
had to do was say hello to get him to bolt.
So she found herself shocked when Alistair shut the door behind
him, locked it and continued speaking to her of his own volition.
“And where are you off to before the storm, Miss Fox? Somewhere
safer, I hope.”
TWO
Alistair had promised himself he wouldn’t get this
close to her, but surely a walk to the garage was safe enough.
Though of course, nowhere with Brienne Fox would be completely
safe, he thought. At least, not where he was concerned. The woman had no idea
how appealing
to Alistair’s apartment. He never came out when she was around, and he wasn’t
going to—
Oh God , there he is .
The door opened, and well over six feet of dark, shaggy,
antisocial male walked out. Brie stopped short three steps from the bottom, so
startled she could do nothing but stare. She rarely got this close to
him...which was a shame, because up close, he was even more delicious than he
was from a distance.
Then again, considering the sudden pounding heart and
lightheadedness, a little distance might be the healthier thing. She just wanted
to climb him like a tree, wrap her legs around him, and bite.
Brie’s eyes widened in horror at the images that flickered,
unbidden, though her mind. Biting ? What the
hell?
Alistair froze for a moment when he realized he wasn’t alone,
and they stared at each other in the silence. Brie drank him in, unable to help
herself. He was wearing all blacks and grays, which seemed to be a habit of
his—black peacoat, gray-and-black scarf, black pants, all covering a long, lithe
form that moved with sensual, effortless grace. His hair was black as a raven’s
wing, and seemed less to be cut in an actual style than simply overlong. It
waved slightly, falling around a face that was a study in hawkish beauty. His
cheekbones were high and sharp, a perfect match for his blade of a nose.
Handsome was probably the wrong word for him, Brie thought. Compelling was
probably a better one.
Alistair’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line as he watched
her. His eyes—big, thickly lashed, and the blue of the deepest ocean—seemed to
exert a gravitational pull that she had to struggle to resist. And she would
keep struggling, Brie thought as she collected herself as best she could.
Because she was reasonably certain that Alistair was not thinking “Please, hurl
yourself at me right this instant,” no matter what his eyes looked like..
“Miss Fox,” he said, his deep, cultured voice making a formal
address sound more like a lover’s endearment.
“Mr. Locke,” she replied, her lips curving up into a small
smile despite herself. He couldn’t be much older than she was, early thirties
maybe, but he’d never addressed her by her first name. The combination of his
British accent and his old-fashioned manners fascinated her. It was like meeting
a character from a Jane Austen novel right outside her door.
She’d certainly pictured him in breeches enough times.
Alistair inclined his head and hesitated. Brie imagined he was
trying to decide whether to continue outside and risk actual conversation with
her, or simply slink back into his apartment and wait for her to leave. Her
smile faded in the face of the usual hurt and confusion. She wasn’t some troll,
and as far as she knew her conversational skills were just fine. So what was his
problem? For about the millionth time, Brie wished she could take this
ridiculous attraction, light it on fire, kick the ashes away and move on with
her Alistair-free existence. He was probably like this with everyone, she told
herself. The man never had company that she’d seen. And some people simply
didn’t like other people. But it got harder all the time not to take his
repeated snubs personally. They were neighbors. She was low-key, neat, didn’t
throw wild parties, never blocked the driveway, and had never reacted to his
presence by turning into a slobbering idiot. Despite all that, all she generally
had to do was say hello to get him to bolt.
So she found herself shocked when Alistair shut the door behind
him, locked it and continued speaking to her of his own volition.
“And where are you off to before the storm, Miss Fox? Somewhere
safer, I hope.”
TWO
Alistair had promised himself he wouldn’t get this
close to her, but surely a walk to the garage was safe enough.
Though of course, nowhere with Brienne Fox would be completely
safe, he thought. At least, not where he was concerned. The woman had no idea
how appealing
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