On His List (Entangled Flirts) by Wendy Sparrow Page A

side of his mouth implied his eyes were narrowed and seeking a victim for his inner fury. His eyes would be cold and severe. Gray , she thought. Definitely gray . Or a piercing “don’t touch me” blue.
    His light gray dress shirt was meticulous and unwrinkled, which meant he’d changed after his flight landed. No one could keep a shirt that crisp on a plane. What kind of guy carried around extra shirts in his carry-on?
    Such a crime—looks that good wasted on a guy too uptight to use them. This guy had inner demons. Evil demons that drove him to wear neat clothes and put on sunglasses so brief periods of sun wouldn’t scorch his soul. He was probably a vampire.
    Mr. Crisp Shirt zeroed in on her sign and headed her way. She shouldn’t have bothered with the eye candy. She could have been naked and he wouldn’t break stride. His walk, tight and efficient in movement, screamed, “Don’t waste my time.”
    She flinched, felt the temptation to turn and run, but there was the money at stake.
    It always came down to the money.
    On the plus side, he had nice muscle tone—and good bone structure if his jaw and cheekbones were a good indicator. With how tight he held his jaw, though, she’d bet her massage table he had a problem with it.
    “Mr. Savoy?” Remy stood up straight, not quite the ramrod posture he had, but she tried to look like she knew what she was doing.
    He gestured at her sign, taking off his sunglasses. Hazel. They were hazel, not severe or even piercing. Soft like melted chocolate with green streaks in them. Even narrowed and squinty, they were beautiful. He kept staring at her sign as if something was wrong with it. She peeked down, blushed six shades of red, and then flipped it right side up. Crap. Way to be professional, Remy . Still, it was clearly his name in her loopy, happy cursive. She’d even made the capital letters extra curvy—so much wasted effort on her part.
    “You’re not Denny.” He set his bag down. “I asked for Denny.”
    Remy fought back a snarky retort. Denny had warned her she might have to call the company for a replacement, but she’d thought that was just Denny being paranoid. Her feet were starting to sweat in her shoes. This wasn’t going to work. Their landlord was going to toss them out and sell their stuff to fund his underwear fetish.
    “Denny couldn’t make it. My name is Remy. Remy Maison.” She held out her hand to shake his. He stared at it for a moment before she jerked it back and clenched her fist at her side. Oh, yeah, this was going well. Maybe she could pick up someone’s shift at work or donate plasma or something.
    “He couldn’t make it because he’s driving someone else?” Owen asked.
    “No, he’s got a migraine, and it’s not safe for him to drive while he’s on his medication.” She said it through teeth clenched so tight her jaw might have some issues by the end of the day.
    To her surprise, Owen relaxed and nodded. “You said your name was Remy?” He picked up the bag again.
    Her knees felt like rubber from relief, and she yanked the car door open with so much enthusiasm that he took a quick step back. “Yes.”
    “Does your company hire anyone named Joe or Bob or Jane?” His smile was more of a smirk, but she sensed he was trying to be nice.
    She reached for his bag and, though he pulled it toward him with a head shake, their fingers brushed. An inferno of heat and tingling awareness shot up her arm from the incidental contact—like she’d touched a live wire. She jerked her hand back. What on earth? No way. Not him. Not with so much on the line.
    “I’ll keep it with me,” he said. He was staring at her with a perplexed look on his face. Not that she could blame him. A little skin contact, and she acted like he’d lit her on fire—which was definitely how it felt.
    She nodded in quick drops of her head and shut the door after he slid in. Remy stood there, memorizing the top of the car and wishing she hadn’t just felt