Almost Like Love

by Abigail Strom

  He’d once sported a lot more piercings than that, but most of them had closed up over the years, leaving two in his left ear and one in his right that he could put a stud through without drawing blood.

  The kid blinked. He was probably figuring he’d still have plenty of earrings left after giving up three, and a hundred bucks would buy a lot of beer.

  “You got it,” he said. “Which ones?”

  Ian chose a black skull, a silver cross, and a fake-diamond stud. The kid took them out while Ian counted out five twenties.

  Gabe picked up the jewelry from the table before Ian could.

  “I don’t think that guy has showered in a while. Let me sterilize these.” He dropped them into a shot of vodka and pushed it towards Ian. “Okay, that should do it.”

  “Good thinking,” Ian said, fishing out the earrings and putting them in.

  All the guys at the table were staring at him now.

  “What the hell?” asked Stephen.

  “Long story,” Ian said again. “By the way, can I borrow your Harley?”

  “Hell, no, you can’t borrow my—”

  “Oh, let him have it,” Mick interrupted. “You can go home in the limo with us. I don’t know what’s going on, but Ian’s obviously on some kind of mission. Maybe he’s going undercover for the CIA.”

  Stephen grumbled but gave in, fishing the keys out of his pocket and tossing them across the table.

  “Just make sure you take care of my baby.”

  “You bet.” Ian looked at Mick. “It’s okay if I bail?”

  “As long as you’re at the church on time tomorrow. Good luck on your mission.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  On his way back to the bar, he stopped off at the men’s room and took a look in the mirror.

  He shook his head slowly. Was he really going out there like this? To help a woman who irritated him like a case of prickly heat and hated his guts into the bargain?

  Oh, well, what the hell. Call it his good deed for the year.

  Needing one more disreputable touch, he turned on the faucet and stuck his hands under the water for a second. Then he ran them through his hair, messing it up as much as he could.

  It wasn’t perfect, but at least he matched the earrings a little better now.

  He grinned suddenly at his reflection. This wasn’t the usual armor for a white knight doing his best to rescue a damsel in distress, but it would have to do.

  Kate was tossing down her third shot of the night when Simone gave a sudden gasp.

  “Sweet Mary and Joseph. If you don’t want him, will you let me have him? Please?”

  Kate spun her barstool around to look, and her brain short-circuited.

  It was Ian Hart—in the same way that Clark Kent is Superman.

  He was leaning against the bar with a half smile on his face. Kate took him in from his toes to the top of his head and gave a silent prayer of thanks that she was sitting down.

  Whatever fantasy man she’d been picturing in her head, this one looked better.

  The business suits Ian usually wore gave an impression of size and muscle while leaving something to the imagination. Kate realized now that Ian’s secret identity as Corporate Guy had been protecting the women of Manhattan from the full effect of his sheer masculine power.

  His chest and shoulders were a wall of muscle barely contained by the thin material of his tee shirt. His arms were covered in tattoos that extended to the middle of his forearms. The gleam of silver and onyx at his ears gave him the air of a pirate or a gangster, depending on your fancy. His black hair was rakishly disheveled and, along with the stubble on his jaw, presented a tactile temptation almost impossible to resist.

  She curled her fingers into the palms of her hands so they wouldn’t do anything of their own volition.

  “So what’s the verdict? Do I pass muster?”

  Pass muster? Pass muster for what?

  Oh, God—she’d completely forgotten what this was about.

  She was supposed to be finding a bad boy to go with her to Jessica’s wedding. Ian had offered to find one for her, and now he was standing there, looking like . . . that.

  Simone poked her in the ribs. “What’s the verdict, Kate?”

  Her mouth had gone dry. “I . . . um . . .”

  For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a way to finish that sentence.

  “You said your date for this wedding had to be smoking,” Ian reminded her.

  Her brain had forgotten how to form words. “Uh . . .”

  He grinned at her, and an electric rush tightened the muscles low in her belly.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said, as though she’d produced a reasoned argument instead of a wordless mumble. “You can’t be expected to make a decision without dancing with me first.”

  One of her hands was on the bar; the other was in her lap. He reached for the one on her lap.

  “Let’s go,” he said, his warm, strong fingers closing over hers.

  Before she knew what was happening, he’d pulled her off the barstool and was leading her towards the dance floor. She cast a panicked glance over her shoulder at Simone, who grinned and waved.

  No help there.

  He turned and stopped at the same time, and she bumped into that broad expanse of chest.

  With the front of her bustier.

  Heat flooded her face. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. This thing makes me more, um, convex than usual.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  She risked a glance at him. He was looking at her with a curious kind of intentness, as though she were a knot he was trying to unravel.

  “I didn’t know your eyes were hazel,” she heard herself say. “I always thought they were green. But they’re hazel, aren’t they? Did you know that hazel eyes are a combination of Rayleigh scattering, which is the same principle that makes the sky look blue, and melanin, which is the pigment that makes brown eyes brown?”

  One corner of his mouth quirked up. “I did not, in fact, know that.”

  “Oh. Did you know—”

  He put his hands on her waist and said her name. “Kate.”

  Between the bottom of her bustier and the top of her leather skirt was a strip of bare skin. It was there that Ian’s palms settled, the contact sending warmth piercing through her like shafts of sunlight.

  She forgot whatever she’d been about to say. “Yes?”

  “To everything there is a season. A time to talk, and a time to dance. Right now it’s time to give your incandescent verbal plumage a rest.”

  A well-turned phrase always got Kate’s attention. “ ‘Incandescent verbal plumage,’ ” she repeated. “That’s good.”

  “Thank you. Now shut up.”

  If she couldn’t talk, the only thing left to do was dance—and she hadn’t been out dancing since college.

  Where should she put her hands? And how much space could she leave between the two of them without looking like she was at a seventh-grade formal? She didn’t want to risk another chest bump.

  But the answers to those questions weren’t left up to her.

  Ian took her hands and lifted them to his shoulders. The action brought her flush against him, and a thousand tiny pinpricks shivered her skin.

  When he put his hands back on her body, they went a little lower—to her hips instead of her waist.

  Then he started to move.

  Until that moment, she wouldn’t have said there was anything particularly sexy about the music playing in the club, which was fast with a techno beat. But Ian picked up on the bass line underneath, and he translated that slower, sexier rhythm into the sway of their bodies.

  In her high heels she was only an inch or so shorter than he was. They fit together with unexpected perfection, his rock-hard conto
urs eliciting a subtle pliancy in her body.

  There was an unfamiliar ache in her breasts. They felt heavy and soft and voluptuous, but at the same time her nipples hardened into tight little buds.

  Could he feel that?

  If she met his eyes, she might find out. She might see a satisfied smirk or a knowing grin.

  So she didn’t look at him. Instead, she closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder.

  Mmmmmmm.

  He smelled like clean male skin with a faint undernote of musk. She’d sat next to him at a meeting once and gotten a whiff of expensive cologne, but he wasn’t wearing that tonight.

  His shoulder was so broad and strong. She was a tall woman, but next to Ian she felt fragile and feminine—another unfamiliar sensation.

  “Mmmmmmm.”

  Ian’s hands tightened on her hips, and she realized she’d voiced her pleasure out loud this time.

  Damn.

  She held her breath and was relieved when he didn’t say anything. But those big hands pulled her even closer, fitting her more securely against his body.

  Her belly seemed to hollow out as honeyed warmth spread through her.

  What was happening to her? Sure, she’d talked a good game about looking for a guy tonight . . . but she hadn’t really expected to feel attracted to someone so soon after her fiancé dumped her.

  And this was more than attraction. She was so turned on her hair might be standing on end.

  Another thought clamored for attention in her pleasure-fogged brain. But how was she supposed to think straight when Ian had found that place on her waist again and was stroking it softly, his thumbs making lazy sweeps against her bare skin?

  When rationality finally broke through, she had to force herself to lift her head from his shoulder.

  “You cancelled my show,” she blurted, hanging onto that fact as if it were a port in a storm.

  His hands stilled, but he didn’t let her go.

  “I know,” he said, the low timbre of his voice sending new darts of sensation through her.

  “I don’t like you.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “If I seem to be enjoying myself that’s only because I’m drunk and . . . and . . .”

  “Vulnerable,” he suggested.

  “Yes, vulnerable. Because you cancelled my show,” she said again.

  “Right. So that means I owe you.”

  He bent his head towards her as he spoke, and his jaw brushed against her cheek. She felt the scrape of rough stubble across her flushed skin.

  She took a deep breath. “Absolutely. You owe me big.”

  The song ended. In the quiet before the next one began, Ian stepped back to look at her, putting a little space between them.

  Kate had never been so relieved and so disappointed at the same time.

  Those hazel eyes looked into hers. “So let me be your date to the wedding. I’ll make your ex eat his heart out, and I’ll make every other woman there wish she was you.”

  The wedding. She’d almost forgotten about it again.

  For the first time, she imagined showing up at the Ritz-Carlton reception with Ian Hart on her arm. Whether he came as Corporate Guy or Tattooed Bad Boy, there was no question he’d be the smoking-hot date of her dreams.

  Which was what she’d come here looking for. Right?

  She was still having trouble thinking straight. She was also feeling a little . . . disheveled. She smoothed her hands down her leather skirt, making sure it hadn’t ridden up her thighs, and then tucked her hair behind her ears.

  Ian followed her movements with his eyes. His gaze warmed her skin as though he’d touched her.

  She swallowed. “Okay, fine. You can take me to the wedding. It’s on”—what the hell was the date?—“June twelfth.” She remembered something else: “I may need you for the rehearsal dinner, too.”

  His eyes gleamed with something—satisfaction, or maybe amusement. Not that she cared what he was feeling, of course. She needed a hot date, and Ian Hart fit the bill. And since this was partial payback for his cancelling her show, it was kind of like a business transaction.

  “I’ll keep that weekend open,” he said. “And now I have a favor to ask you.”

  She frowned. “You don’t get to ask me a favor. You could take me to ten weddings and you’d still owe me.” But then her curiosity got the better of her. “What is it?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me take you home now.”

  Her frown deepened. “Now? I only got here an hour ago. What if I’m not ready to leave yet? And how is that a favor to you, anyway?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “I’m afraid that if you stay, you’ll keep drinking. And then you might find some other bad boy you like more than me.”

  She spoke without thinking. “I wouldn’t—” She stopped herself just in time and coughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I did,” she finished primly.

  His smile turned into a grin. “So why don’t you let me take you home now? You drank, you danced, you hung out with your friend and got hit on by Arthur. That’s pretty good for a night on the town. Why don’t you cap it off with a ride on a motorcycle? That was one of your requirements for a bad boy, right?”

  She stared at him. “You have a motorcycle?”

  “I used to, a long time ago. I borrowed one tonight just for you.”

  He used to drive a motorcycle. Her gaze drifted down to the tattoos on his arms, and she wondered if they dated from the same period in his history.

  She reached out and traced one of the tattoos with the tip of a finger. It was gorgeous—a red-and-black dragon twisting sinuously around Ian’s bicep.

  “How old were you when you got these?”

  “Old enough to know better,” he said after a moment. His voice sounded husky, and she looked at him.

  Their eyes locked, and she lost track of the conversation. Then she snatched her hand away from his arm and cleared her throat.

  “You don’t have to drive me home. And you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll hang out with Simone a while longer and go home with her.”

  Ian looked over her shoulder, towards the bar. “Simone looks busy.”

  Kate turned her head and saw her friend chatting with a cute guy. “She’s just passing the time. She wouldn’t ditch me for a guy—not after the day I’ve had.”

  “If you go home with me, she won’t have to make that choice.” He paused for a second. “And by ‘go home with me,’ I mean let me drive you home and see you to your door.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I get that you’re not propositioning me, Hart. You don’t have to keep emphasizing it.”

  She glanced back at Simone again. As though he sensed that she was wavering, Ian’s voice turned persuasive. “It’s a Harley. Black leather, chrome, and more power than you’ve ever felt between your legs. A bad girl’s dream. What do you say?”

  A bad girl’s dream.

  She had no idea how he was doing it, but Ian seemed to know exactly what to say to her tonight.

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’ll tell Simone I’m leaving and meet you out front in a few minutes.”

  As she made her way through the crowd, she replayed another choice phrase in her head.

  More power than you’ve ever felt between your legs.

  If any other man said that, she’d assume it was a come-on . . . or else that he was overcompensating for something.

  But neither of those scenarios applied to Ian. He’d made it clear that he wasn’t coming on to her, and she had a feeling he didn’t have to overcompensate for anything.

  Not that she’d ever be in a position to verify that, of course.

  Did Kate have any idea how hot and bothered she’d made him?

  He doubted it.

 
; He’d always known she was clueless when it came to the practical side of life, and apparently that included dealing with men. Which was why he’d pushed her to let him take her home. She was like an angelfish swimming in shark-infested waters, and he couldn’t count on the next guy who hit on her being like Arthur . . . or him.

  Not that he was usually so noble. But Kate had had a lousy day, thanks in part to him, and she’d been drinking. That was the only reason he felt so protective of her.

  It was guilt, plain and simple. Guilt and basic human decency, not to take advantage of a vulnerable woman.

  He had a sudden, visceral memory of Kate’s body against his.

  Sweet Christ. If it weren’t for guilt and decency, he wouldn’t even wait to get her home tonight. He’d drag her into a dark corner right here in the club, slide his hands under that tight little skirt, and—

  A loud honk brought him out of his heated fantasy.

  He’d almost walked into the street. Now he took a step back and looked around, spotting Stephen’s Harley a few doors down.

  By the time Kate came out of the club, he was waiting for her at the curb. Her eyes lit up when she saw the beautiful machine, and he couldn’t help smiling at her enthusiasm.

  The air had turned cool for a May evening. When Kate came up beside him, he pulled off his leather jacket and laid it across her shoulders.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking surprised and grateful as she put her arms through the sleeves. Then he handed her a helmet.

  “This is my first time on a motorcycle,” she confessed as she put it on. “I’ve always wanted to ride one.”

  “Of course you have. All right-minded people want to ride a motorcycle.”

  She started to climb on, and then hesitated. “I’m wearing a miniskirt,” she said. “Doesn’t this have the potential to be a little indecent?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ll be facing front, so I won’t see anything—and that jacket’s long enough to hide you from the rest of the world.”

  She thought about it for a moment and then nodded, swinging a leg over the passenger seat and settling in behind him, putting her hands lightly on his shoulders.