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The Proposition Chapter One | page 1 | page 2 | page 3 | excerpts
Chance Mitchell had never been obsessed by a woman in his life. He sent a glance down the table to where Detective Natalie Gibbs was sipping a glass of white wine. He continued to study her as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. The two women seated next to her could be described as equally attractive, but ever since he’d joined his friends for a celebration at the Blue Pepper, his gaze had kept returning to Natalie. At nine o’clock the popular Georgetown bistro was crowded. Customers were lined up three deep at the bar, and a salsa band was playing on the patio. In some corner of his mind, Chance was aware of that, just as he was vaguely aware of the ongoing conversation at his table, but his focus remained on the fascinating detective. Her hair fell to her shoulders, and in the dim light of the bar, the red gold curls looked as if they might burst into flames at any moment. He wanted to touch those curls. He wanted to touch her – slowly and thoroughly. Chance took a long swallow of his beer, but it did little to cool the heat that burned inside of him. Oh, he was obsessing all right, and he wanted to know why. What he felt for Natalie had begun the first moment he’d seen her. They’d both been working undercover for different agencies, and she’d been disguised as a man when she’d walked into his art gallery. From the instant their eyes had met, there’d been a connection. He’d felt a curious shock of recognition that had registered like a punch in his gut. So far, he hadn’t acted on the attraction. During the three days that he and Natalie had joined forces and worked as partners, the cool, aloof redhead had kept him at arms length. And he’d let her. That’s what he couldn’t quite figure out. He was a man who knew how to get what he wanted, but Natalie Gibbs had him hesitating in a way he couldn’t recall doing since he’d been a teenager. Perhaps it was time he put a stop to that. She didn’t look quite so cool tonight. Maybe it was the clothes. When they’d worked as partners, she’d always worn a jacket and slacks – the standard uniform of a woman who worked in a man’s world. But tonight, the shirt she wore left her arms and throat bare, and the lacy, sheer fabric revealed curves as well as skin. His eyes shifted to the V-neck that ended just where he imagined the valley between her breasts began. He let his gaze lower to the tiny, pearl buttons that marched in a narrow line to her waist. He could imagine unbuttoning them one at a time – very slowly, drawing out the pleasure for them both. Even as the images filled his mind, the tightening in his gut turned raw and primitively sexual. Why in hell was he hesitating? Desire was something he was familiar with. He could handle it. Or he could walk away. Couldn’t he? He took another swallow of his beer. “You all right?” Chance tore his gaze away from Natalie to face the two men seated beside him. Tracker McBride had asked the question. But it was Lucas Wainwright who was studying him thoughtfully. Seven years ago, Tracker and Lucas had worked with him in a Special Forces unit, and in the last two weeks, they’d had the opportunity to work together again to crack a smuggling ring operating in DC. Tonight, they were supposed to be celebrating the successful closure of the case, and this was the second time he’d lost track of the conversation. Thanks to Detective Natalie Gibbs. “I think he has his eye on the fair detective,” Lucas said. Tracker’s look turned speculative. “Really?” Knowing that the best defense was a good offense, Chance said to Tracker, “Have you and Sophie set a date yet?” Tracker’s gaze went to the tall blonde sitting to Natalie’s right. “No comment.” Lucas grinned. “I hear from Mac that Sophie is talking about a fall wedding.” Chance bit back a laugh at the expression on Tracker’s face and shifted his gaze to the third woman at the other end of the table, Dr. MacKenzie Lloyd Wainwright. Mac and Lucas had been married for a year, and they were expecting a child. He’d never envisioned either of his friends marrying and settling down. “Now that Lucas and I are pretty much spoken for, it’s your turn,” Tracker said. Chance held both hands out, palms up. “Not a chance in hell.” Then he laughed as his friends winced at the pun. He just wasn’t the marrying kind. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women. He did. And you could italicize the plural. Not that he had ever involved himself with more than one woman at a time. Going down that particular path had always seemed to him to be way too complicated if not downright suicidal. He’d always made sure that his relationships were simple, uncomplicated, and a lot of fun while they lasted. Permanent wasn’t a word that existed in his vocabulary. Hell, nothing was permanent — not in this life. (continued...) |
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  You just might get lucky today!
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