Page 13

She had become prey since puberty.

But prey was a state of mind. And she wielded the power to run if she needed to in a civilized world. The last thing she was, was helpless.

“Ouch.” He laughed. “Tonight, I’m planning to elevate at least a few male traits on your list.”

“Only a few?”

“Probably more.”

His confidence was refreshing. It was instinctive. Not blustering or in-your-face arrogance.

“Do you like to play games?”

She couldn’t stop the blink of surprise. Damn. Her guard was down, and she hadn’t even had a drink.

“What kind of games?”

With a strong, tanned forefinger he tilted his hat back on his head just a tad. “You going to unstopper that and share?” His dark hair, longer than she realized, was thick and stylishly layered, artfully shaggy and nearly brushed his shoulders. She wondered what all those dark waves would feel like slipping through her fingers.

Her mouth dried a little. She didn’t pay attention to men—not physically. Not like this, someone she didn’t know. And yet, the hint of heat swirling in her tummy piqued her interest. He was so out of her milieu he might as well have been extraterrestrial.

Hadn’t she wanted to get away? Escape herself and her life even if just for a few weeks? She’d have to go back sometime.

But not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Nico felt like the ties that had bound her so constrictively her entire life to her family, her career, her identity, loosened just enough so she could breathe.

“Why don’t you do the honors?” She waved her hand toward the bottle.

He opened the bottle and poured.

“We’re just getting to know each other so I’ll do a finger pour,” he said. “And before we take a drink, I should probably detail my proposal.”

“Proposal?” she echoed. Suddenly, her small-town cowboy sounded like corporate shark looking to craft an after-hours deal at Bemelmans Bar in Manhattan.

He laughed. “Yes and no. But I want to be straight about this.”

She replayed his words. His expression. His tone. The social and psychological context.

“Steer straight ahead.” She waved her hand again. It was a move she’d perfected in her freshman year at Dalton. It said gracious yet queen. Bestowed power even as she hoarded it.

An honest man.

Right.

She was about to drink a finger of whiskey—was that the same as a shot?—with a unicorn in a saloon somewhere in Montana.

She’d wanted to get away.

This is about as away as I could go.

And he was beautiful. And intriguing. And since she’d been talking to him, she didn’t feel dead inside. Or frightened.

She picked up the glass of gorgeous amber liquid and sniffed it a little. She didn’t drink much. No cocktails or spirits. Just an occasional glass of Riesling when she was on her own and could relax or cabernet if she had to keep up appearances.

She waited for him to demonstrate. She hadn’t paid attention to drinking habits in bars. Mostly she’d been discussing a case, cutting a deal, or wishing she could get far, far away from the stares and speculation. Did she sip or shoot?