His Brand of Beautiful by Lily Malone Read Free Book Online

fingers across the white tablecloth.
    “This is my riot act I’m reading. Get your own.”
    He ignored her. “You sent my receptionist chocolates so she’d book you that meeting with me.”
    “It always pays to be nice to secretaries. They’re the gatekeepers.” She sounded a little smug.
    “So why am I in so much trouble?” Tate opened his hands, distracting her with fingers that looked like they knew how to handle a paint brush. And a woman’s body.
    Focus, Christina .
    She tapped her index finger on the table. “I found my name in that ice bucket when I was cleaning up last Saturday. Marlene and Annabell’s names were missing.” She concentrated on the exact spot where his sky‐blue striped shirt collar finished and the tanned skin in the deep vee of his throat began. “You engineered that whole nipple‐licking stunt. It wasn’t my name you picked out at all.”
    He didn’t look as worried as she thought he should. “I was doing research.”
    “ Research ?” Lacy’s cousin threw her a sideways glance and Christina’s next words were softer. “Research into what?”
    “Stuff Google and Facebook couldn’t tell me. Like whether you’d lick like a lioness or a lamb.”
    Her mouth went dry. “Because?”
    “My brand strategies aren’t for the faint‐hearted. Any client of mine needs to be bold enough to make them play out.”
    It was a test? She was appalled. Fascinated. “So did I pass?”
    He laid his hand over hers and stopped the tap of her fingernails. The rubber ball began its bounce in her chest.
    “You damn‐near electrocuted me with your tongue. It wanted to spread your legs right there on your couch.”
    Every ounce of breath left her body. His emotion knocked her sideways and made her glad she was sitting down. Her blood raced.
    “Do you speak to all your clients like that?”
    “You’re not my client.” He traced the back of her hand with his finger. “Not yet.”

    Near the stage, the three‐piece band—shiny shoed, Beatles’ haircuts—began
    sound‐checks and strummed guitars. Waiters moved through the tables, collecting plates, pouring wine. The room hummed with conversations far more conventional than her own.
    “How did you break your nose?” It was the first thing that popped into her head that wasn’t please take me home .
    He looked away. “A horse bucked me into a fence post when I was fifteen.”
    “What did you do to piss it off?”
    “It wasn’t what I did. It was the five‐foot King Brown who didn’t like hooves.”
    She shuddered, no fan of snakes, and asked the second question that popped into her head. “Do you have children?”
    “No.”
    “But you want kids?”
    “What is this? Twenty questions?” He swished swordfish in coriander and lime sauce, but the light in his eyes softened the answer: “One day, sure. You?”
    For a simple syllable, the question stung. “I hope so, one day. Yes.”
    She waited until he brought his fork to his mouth. “So how come you’re still single?”
    He almost choked. “Jesus. Don’t we have weeks to sort all this stuff out?”
    “I’m too old for small‐talk. If you have huge spooky skeletons in your closet, I’d rather just know.”
    He reached for a bottle of Handcrafted Sauvignon Blanc and tilted it towards her.
    She put her hand over her glass. “I’m running tomorrow.”
    “Running?”
    “Don’t say it like that. Running. Jogging. Millions of people do it every day.”
    “You don’t mention running on your blog.”
    She cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve done your homework. Lacy has me on a fourteen-week training plan. She’s like a greyhound, I take about three steps to her one. There’s a breast cancer fundraiser being held with the City to Bay in August. We’re raising money for that.”
    He paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. “You get on well with your sister‐in-law, why aren’t you bridesmaid?”
    She tore her gaze from his lips. “Me? God, no. I hate weddings.”
    His eyes