Passionate Persuasion (Entangled Indulgence) by Rosemary Clement-Moore Page A

cringe-worthy note of “So don’t think I’m desperate and lonely or anything.”
    A slow smile curved his mouth. “I understand that’s what people do in bars. Meet up with other people.”
    Right there. That was the smile that had been her downfall, the smile that hinted at things he knew that the boys in her hometown didn’t, and maybe never would. Which maybe said more about Podunk, Kansas, than about Alex Drake. But she’d learned that the smile didn’t lie, and she doubted he’d regressed any in eight years.
    Geez, Kiara. Stop thinking about that. She did not need to be thinking about that mouth and the places it had gone, where no man had ever gone before. Because the more she thought about it, the more she knew it showed in her face, the more indecent humor showed in his. Which could only mean that he knew exactly what she was thinking.
    “I mean,” she said, more flustered than frosty, “I have a date.”
    “Lucky guy,” said Alex and, to her horror, sat on the barstool next to hers. “You look amazing. But you always looked great in anything. Or out of it.”
    “Oh my God.” She grappled with the cold-hot-hotter rush of shock, then outrage, then something she refused to name. “What is wrong with you? Who says that kind of thing?”
    “Well, I wouldn’t say it to just anyone,” he said, leaning an elbow on the bar. “We have history.”
    “ Ancient history,” she hissed, with a glance to assure herself that it only felt like everyone was staring. No one in the busy bar was actually paying attention.
    Alex gave an innocent shrug. “If you’re going to sit there all ice maiden, I’m going to remind you that I know you’re not.”
    She blushed even deeper, feeling gauche and young again, feeling—heaven help her—the ghost of arousals past. “By reminding me you’re a Neanderthal?”
    He laughed. Of course he did. He was Alexander Drake. It was a delighted laugh, not cruel, but charmed and surprised, the way he’d laughed the night they’d met. “That’s the girl I remember.”
    “Which one?” she asked, grabbing onto a shred of dignity. “The one that’s pissed or the one that’s appalled?”
    “The one that’s so cute when she’s angry.”
    “ Cute when I’m angry?” she echoed, incredulous, before she caught the teasing glint in his eye. She narrowed hers, then made an exaggerated search of the bar for hidden cameras. “What, are you competing for most condescending chauvinist on a reality show?”
    The glint became a grin. “Nah. All this charm is just for you.” He signaled the bartender. “Besides, you’re not really mad.”
    Kiara realized that she wasn’t. At least, not about his outrageous teasing. She was a little annoyed at herself for being so affected by him and a lot confused that he was there, flirting with her, like she’d wandered into some sort of time slip where the past and present existed at once.
    “But if I’m not angry, does that mean I’m not cute?” she asked, before she remembered that she was a twenty-six-year-old professional woman. She shouldn’t want to be cute .
    Alex Drake read her chagrin and pounced on it like a cat on a mouse. “I wouldn’t call anyone wearing those do-me heels ‘cute.’” He leaned in close to study her face. “You still have freckles, though. You’ll have to resign yourself that those will always be adorable.”
    She leaned back, but not before getting an intoxicating whiff of laundry starch, herbal soap and… spearmint? His look said “after work,” but he’d freshened up recently for somebody. Some woman.
    “Do you still drink White Russians?” Alex asked, turning to the bartender.
    “What?” she asked, because she’d been distracted wondering who she was, the woman who’d rated his very successful efforts at being effortlessly sexy.
    “White Russians,” he repeated. “If I’d just met you, I’d say you were a bourbon sort of woman, but maybe you want one for old time’s