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She raised her hand, cutting him off. “My name is Saskia. And you’re Clay. That’s all either of us needs to know. Right?”
Something flickered in his magnetic blue eyes, as if he wanted to say they needed more. But he agreed. “That’s fine with me.” Then he asked, “What do you do for a living?”
“I don’t want to talk about work.” She gave the word a disgusted little twist, not wanting to get into any arguments about what he did. That would only piss her off, and she didn’t want to lose last night’s really great high. Or the adrenaline rush of having narrowly escaped with her life this afternoon. Or the sweet thrill of sitting across from the most gorgeous man on the planet, who smelled delectably spicy and whose deep voice strummed her nerve endings and excited all her cells.
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “Then what would you like to talk about?”
“Don’t tell me work is the only thing in your life. Are you married? Do you have kids?”
The articles she’d read hadn’t mentioned his relationship status, as if that part of his life was a closed book to the media and his hungry audience.
He answered as if she was something different. Something special? “No girlfriend. No kids. Not even an ex-wife.” He smiled, one eyebrow raised. “What about you? Single? In a relationship? Married? Divorced? It’s complicated?”
She laughed. “That sounds like a social media questionnaire.”
His eyes seemed a little hotter, a little deeper, as if a flame were lighting them from behind. “Which is it?”
Suddenly, it didn’t matter who he was. She wanted those beautifully sculpted hands all over her. She wanted to taste the yeasty beer on his tongue. She just plain wanted in a way she hadn’t for five years. She wanted him.
“Single,” she whispered, unequivocal and uncomplicated.
The atmosphere around them turned damned near steamy.
Clay let her lead, and they talked about everything, except work. About their favorite books, TV shows, movies, actors. His favorite books were mostly business or theory or art history, even things like The Art of War. Hers were all fantasy authors and fantasy series. His movies and shows were mostly spy thrillers with intricate plots. Hers were things like The Hunger Games and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, even if the latter had first aired when she wasn’t more than a toddler.
They found so much in common—not what they liked to read or watch, but that they both loved books and movies.
On his third beer—and her third Toasted Almond—Clay was nowhere near drunk. But he was nicely lubricated. He suspected she was too.
She raised her half-full snifter. “I’m not sure if I’ve thanked you enough for saving my life.”
He smiled, letting his gaze dance over her beautiful face, her cocoa eyes, her silky hair. “I couldn’t let anything happen to such a beautiful woman.”
“Or an ugly man,” she said, harking back to their earlier conversation.
What he didn’t say was that he couldn’t let anything happen to a woman he was already falling for, from the moment he’d seen her on that sidewalk. Even before he’d seen the car. It was the craziest thought. Because he didn’t do love. He didn’t even do relationships.
But there was something about her that made him want to.
She leaned close, elbows on the table, her glass near her lips. “If that car had taken us both out, what would be the three things you’d regret not having done?”
The question took him totally off guard. His first thought was that he’d regret not having fallen completely in love with her.
But talking about love or relationships or work—or even their last names—was off the table. What did that leave?
“I’d regret not having bought a sports car and driven it across Europe.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “You mean you don’t already have a sports car?” she said, tongue in cheek.
He laughed, feeling the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No. I’ve never driven across Europe either. That’s why it’s on the list of things I’d regret not doing.” Then he added more seriously, “I’d have to let someone else take the reins while I did it. I wouldn’t forget all my responsibilities.”
She ran her gaze over him. “You don’t look like a man who would ever forget his responsibilities. You look like someone who has a goal and doesn’t let anything stop him. Nothing. Ever.”
He marveled that she could see him so clearly after just a couple of hours.
“That’s why you want to let go for a little while as you drive your luxurious sports car across Europe.” She blinked, smiled. “For how long?”
The answer was immediate, as if he’d already planned the trip. “Two months. Long enough to relax, but not enough to neglect my life back home.” Then, for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, didn’t like how edgy it suddenly made him feel. “What’s number one for you?”