Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [14]
But looking at the man watching me from a few feet away—the incredibly sexy man who bore no more than a superficial resemblance to a mass murderer—I was beginning to question that. Because oh, wouldn’t I like to have it for recreation with the man who’d made me feel so incredibly aroused.
I couldn’t recall a single moment in my life when I’d felt so sensual and charged up as I had when I’d fallen into his arms. Those moments had awakened something more. Something that had lain just beneath the surface of my skin, waiting—screaming—to get out. Just the touch of his body against mine had brought every hungry, sexual urge I’d ever experienced raging up until I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to remain on my feet.
Too bad my own foolish fears had made me stagger away. Though, I ought to give myself a break. Because in the shadowy light, with my wild imagination, he really had looked a bit like Josef Zangara. But now, having had a better look at him, I knew he didn’t bear much of a resemblance to the man I’d come here to investigate. His hair and eyes were dark—more black than brown—but there the resemblance ended. His face wasn’t soft and dreamy, it was all hard angles. Jutting and strong, not curved and gentle. His deep-set eyes were made even more dramatic by the thin scar running from his hairline, down his forehead, to the corner of his right eye.
Most people’s scars looked old, hinting of past wounds—childhood traumas long forgotten. Reminders of one moment of recklessness from years ago.
This one looked fresh. Though slim, the line of white, puckered skin was made more dramatic by the newly healed pink flesh around it. That scar, and the one on his chest, both hinted at some kind of story about this stranger. One I was dying to find out.
Even if he did think I was a hooker.
Guess I’d better take care of that right off the bat. “Sorry to break it to you,” I finally said, controlling my laughter with one final chuckle, “I’m not a call girl. But, well, thanks for thinking I could be.”
He just stared, revealing nothing with that intense gaze and unsmiling expression.
I was babbling, but I couldn’t stop. “I mean, I guess you thinking I was a hooker isn’t as bad as me thinking you were a serial killer.”
The dark eyebrow came down, emphasizing his scar and the fathomless depths of his black eyes. God, the man was utterly mesmerizing. And I was jabbering like a teenager after an overdose of Mountain Dew. “Look, Mr. Denton, I’m Lottie Santori. Professor Tyler’s assistant?”
His head jerked back. I’d finally gotten some kind of response. “My name isn’t Denton,” he said, a muscle in his jaw clenching. The words came grudgingly out of his mouth like coins coming from a miser.
Confused, I tilted my head, wriggling my fanny a little more toward the fireplace, since the seat of my jeans finally felt like it was drying out. “I’m sorry, I thought you said you lived here. I assumed you were Roger Denton, the owner of the hotel. Is he here?”
He turned away, crossing his strong arms over his chest. The movement made the white fabric of his shirt hug tight against his broad shoulders and muscular back. “Seaton House is no longer a hotel. It’s been out of business since Roger Denton—my uncle—died four months ago.”
I couldn’t help gasping in surprise. “Died…oh, God, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Now, since my uncle is not here, and you’re obviously…drying…perhaps you should get on the road again before it gets too late.”
Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry. What a congenial guy he was. “Look, Mr….”
“Lebeaux.”
Mmm. Sounded French. Sounded sexy. Which made sense because the man was six feet two inches of walking yumminess.
“Mr. Lebeaux, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
He didn’t move, just stood there watching, as if silently asking what my point was.
“Arrangements were made for me to stay here.” Then, feeling pretty pathetic and knowing I’d just shoot myself if I had to drive out in this