Page 22

Christ.

Those eyes belong beside a fireplace on a cold night, not beneath crystal chandeliers surrounded by cameras and bullshit.

My attention drops. And that’s when things get considerably worse.

Because this woman? She's exactly the kind of woman I admire.

Curvy. Not technically curvy in the way magazines describe a woman with one extra inch around her hips. Actually curvy.

Lush. Soft. Peaks and valleys. Thick with the kind of body that makes something primitive inside me sit up and take notice.

Her dress hugs generous breasts before skimming a soft waist and rounding over full hips.

My mouth goes dry.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I drag my gaze back to her face.

It doesn't help.

If anything, it's worse.

There's a softness there, too. Plump lips with a natural little bow to the top one. Full cheeks that make me wonder what she'd look like when she really smiles. A small, pert nose. Big hazel eyes framed by dark lashes, their color shifting between brown and green beneath the ballroom lights.

Warm eyes.

Expressive ones.

The kind that probably give away more than their owner wants them to.

Weaknesses, maybe? No. There isn’t anything weak about her. Nothing about the way she's surveying this room or standing there, commanding all my attention.

Alert.

Observant.

Intelligent.

Definitely not weak.

But she isn't wearing that practiced expression so many people put on around me. She isn't posing.

Isn't checking to see who's watching.

Isn't laughing too loudly at some man's joke or casually shifting three feet to the left because she's calculated that it'll put her directly in my line of sight.

She doesn't seem to give a shit whether anyone notices her.

Interesting.

In fact, the closer I look the more I believe she might be slightly uncomfortable. My brow furrows before I even realize I'm doing it.

I scan the people nearest her.

Two couples talking.

A group from one of the networks.