Excerpt

Last spring

Talia

In a posh hotel’s bar, decorated like a high-end jungle in vibrant greens and creams, I finish my drink and pretend I’m on the hunt for the king of that jungle. Which is a great deal more exciting than what’s actually going on.

The Heart-to-Teen fundraiser’s “festivities” seem as if they’ll never end. First, there was a cocktail hour, then there were speeches while we ate off gold cutlery and sipped from crystal goblets, and now is the time for men in suits to press the flesh and conduct business.

The fundraiser is a fine one, but I’m not here to ensure I have a write-off for charitable giving for the tax year. I’m here for the king, or in this case, Archer Owen.

Since I’ve been researching Archer Owen like a private investigator, I know plenty about him. His brothers were adopted, perhaps explaining the family interest in a fundraiser focused on adoption. He’s opened bars and nightclubs, but mostly nightclubs, to lines wrapped around the block, regardless of what city he’s in. Exclusivity is his jam, and I’m here to convince him to loan some of his expertise to me. Well, not me, per se, but my boss. Ed Lambert owes me a raise, and after I talk Archer into working with us, Ed won’t be capable of denying me one.

Attending the fundraiser is a bit of a sneaky way to Archer, I admit. I live in Miami, Florida, and this hotel is in Venice, Florida. He was practically in my backyard and it seemed like a sign from the universe. I randomly overheard a conversation at my sister’s restaurant. A couple chatting about how the Heart-to-Teen fundraiser was happening at the home office this year and how the “Ohio Owens” were invited. I had heard of Archer Owen and his high-end clubs in my fair city. My interest was piqued.

Attending the fundraiser cost me a sizable donation, aka, a chunk of my precious savings. Heart-to-Teen places teenagers, who I hear are the hardest to home, with foster and adoptive families. It’s nice to know my money wasn’t wasted. Especially once I land the raise along with the title bump I’ve been chasing.

Other than asking a pair of ladies who were dating the other two Owen brothers about Archer, I’ve yet to corner him and convince him of anything. My patience is waning. I tip my glass to my lips, only to realize I’ve already emptied it. That went fast.

Then the object of my infatuation materializes over my shoulder.

“If that was bourbon, I’m going to have to ask you to marry me.” His voice is deep. Low and rocky. Commanding. Full-body chills race the length of my skin, and I know without turning around it’s him.

“Vodka soda, no ice.” Empty glass in hand, I turn to face him, excited to finally see him close up. I’m not disappointed.

He assesses me coolly, his lamplight-green eyes languidly traveling over my person. Not in a lecherous way. More like he’s logging details into a mental database. Nothing prepared me for being face-to-face with Archer. Not the photos I saw online, not the glances I’ve thrown in his direction at this fundraiser. I’m unprepared for how insultingly handsome he is now that he’s right in front of me.

“Shame,” he responds before ordering a bourbon from the bartender. “And whatever she was having.” He tosses down a few large bills like he can’t be bothered to find out how much our drinks cost. His eyes never stray from my face, even while he folds the cash into a money clip—an honest-to-God money clip—and tucks it into his front pocket.

I watch him back, incapable of looking away. I expected Archer Owen to be smarmy. Presumptuous. A touch disingenuous. His playground is nightclubs. Doesn’t that scream cheesy? Not that I’d expected him to arrive with an entourage but…why wouldn’t he? It wasn’t hard to picture a scantily clad girl hanging off each of his arms, or security guys with earpieces flanking him. Instead, I’m presented with a cool, crisp billionaire who trotted out a marriage proposal before he learned my name.

Interesting.

One tanned hand hugs his rocks glass, and he lifts it, waiting for a toast. I lift my own glass, tapping it against his. Our eyes lock while we each take a sip. He licks his lips, swallows, and turns his head toward the sound of raucous laughter coming from the other side of the room. I am suddenly distracted by his neck. I can’t recall admiring a throat before. By the time I snap my gaze north, I encounter inquisitive eyes. Definitely not a cheesy nightclub guy. This man has layers.

“You’re taking my refusal well.” I tear my own eyes away from him—color-changing hazel often mistaken for green in certain light—to study the thinning crowd. I have a few precious minutes to ask what I came here to ask him. He’s kept my attention. Can I keep his? Playing it cool is a risky strategy, but it’s the one I’m going with. “Is proposing marriage to strangers at the bar typical for you?”

“There’s nothing typical about me, Wildflower.” His mouth flinches, but he doesn’t give me a smile. Of the photos I found online, I didn’t find a single one of him smiling. I’m surprised by how much I was hoping for one, and pulling a smile out of him instantly becomes my next goal.

Focus, Talia.

Right. I’m here for a reason. And it’s not to admire Archer Owen’s tanned throat or trick him into smiling for me. Though I am curious how a grin would reshape that impeccably groomed beard of his.

Also, wildflower? The nickname came out of nowhere. He didn’t explain. I’m not going to take the bait and ask. Where’s the fun in that?

Earlier tonight, when I met Vivian Vandemark—better known as Nate Owen’s fiancée and Archer Owen’s future sister-in-law—she warned me of Archer’s “prickly” disposition. I’m not picking up “prickly” from him. His boldness is aggressive, captivating. This excites me, but not because I find him achingly attractive. Well, not only because I find him achingly attractive. I’m excited because my instincts were correct. He’s the perfect candidate for my offer.

“First time?” Flirty, forward banter is quickly becoming his signature.

“At a fundraiser, or nearly being proposed to at a bar?” I quip in return.

“Either. Both.” He rolls one shoulder like he couldn’t care less about the answer. His gaze is locked on mine, refusing to leave.

“First time on both counts.” A smile pulls my mouth. I can’t help it. This is the most fun I’ve had in the last…gosh…years.

He lifts his glass for another toast. This one includes words. “To stuffy fundraisers that lead to better things.”

Since I’ve come here to court him specifically for “better things” in my life, I tink our glasses together and sip my vodka. Aware I’m running out of time, I move past the pleasantries and go for the jugular. My eyes return to his neck, distracted by that thick column once again.

With a shake of my head, I leap in with both feet. “I happen to have a proposal for you, Mr. Owen.”

“Is that so.” His flat tone suggests he’s not surprised. I wonder if Vivian ratted me out and told him why I’ve come here. I hope not. I prefer to do my own reconnaissance.

“I’m in need of an expert. I hear you’re the best.”

“Did you?” Rather than sit on the stool next to mine, he leans one elbow on the bar, facing me. I catch a whiff of pine and leather, a hint of eucalyptus, and resist with everything I am not to admire his bitable neck. “And here I’ve tried to be so discreet.”

Sarcasm. He’s good at that too.

I’d forgotten how great it feels to be the object of someone’s attention. To soak in the shared sexual chemistry saturating the air. It’s evident in his casual lean and captivating stare. It’s in the way I hold my glass curled to my chest, my chin tilted slightly upward. Too bad I can’t take advantage of the heat sizzling between us and take him to bed. Otherwise, I’d lay my tongue on that throat the second I had him alone.

Damn.

I snap out of the fantasy beginning to form, which takes some doing as I don’t often fantasize about random men. Ever, actually.

I make a concerted effort to steer our conversation into more professional territory. “Would you like to sit?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Still no smile, but his lips twitch slightly.

So close, I think, even as I remind myself I’m not here to flirt.

He settles onto the stool sideways, so I twist in my seat to face him. Sliding one pinstriped pant leg over the other, I notice he notices and wonder if he’s wishing he could see my legs. He should be so lucky. I have fantastic legs.

I offer my hand. “Talia Richards.”

“Archer Owen.” He clasps my palm. “But I assume you already know who I am.”

“Nightlife Kingpin,” I say, watching closely for his reaction. During my research, I encountered a recent article that included the nickname. It’s not very inventive, sort of insulting, or funny, depending on your perspective. His face scrunches, the reaction brief. A nanosecond later he’s back to his cool, calm, collected self. Despite my commitment to be the same, my curiosity prompts me to ask, “Why did you call me Wildflower?”

His eyes flare with interest for the beat of a butterfly’s wing before the vivid light banks. He takes a pull from his drink and nods to the room beyond the bar. “Take a look around. What do you see?”

“Rich people.” Sadly, I’m not one of them. I never wanted to be, and honestly have no idea what I’d do if I had as much money as Owen. Doesn’t it stress him out that he might lose it someday?

“Stodgy, flashy. Cultivated.” He states each word carefully. “You stand out. You go where you please, not confining yourself to where you’ve been planted.” He nods, his conclusion complete. “Wildflower.”

I emit a low laugh. “You’re saying I don’t belong.”

“I’m saying you’re impossible not to notice,” he rumbles.

I swallow thickly, my fingers toying with the silk necktie dangling loosely from my neck. I dressed for him tonight. I didn’t want to be another woman in a sparkly dress, easy to forget. In the event I made him an offer and he shot me down, I wanted him to go home thinking about me, about how I stood out. That would leave room for a yes later. So far, my tactic is working.

“What if I told you I have an offer impossible for you to refuse?”

He dips his chin, studying me below thick eyebrows and a fan of dark eyelashes Maybelline would die to patent. “Don’t be so sure. I’ve refused many, many women.”

“Not any with an offer as lucrative as mine, Kingpin.” I nearly earn a smile, but he’s more practiced than I am at controlling his mouth muscles. “Next January, a Lotus Leaf spa is opening in Miami. I’ve noticed you attract celebrity clientele to your nightclub grand openings. I’m sure that’s not accidental.”

Those calculating eyes narrow. “It’s not.”

“I want you to teach me how to do it.”

“Sorry.” He sits back, prefacing his no by putting literal distance between us. I can sense he’s walling up. He’s slipping away. “I don’t give away my secrets.”

“I’d be paying you for them. Generously. Ed Lambert’s pockets are deep. Lotus Leaf isn’t a charity.” I smile while twirling a lock of hair around my finger. “You can keep your precious secrets if they’re so important to you. Just don’t be surprised if I ferret them out. I’m very perceptive.”

His eyes twinkle in challenge, his full attention back on me. He leans in a bit closer as a thrill of delight races down my spine.

Got ’im. If I can’t have sex, I might as well indulge in a little competition.

“Refill, miss?” the bartender asks as I drain my second drink.

I turn my attention to the billionaire next to me finishing his own drink. “Yes. And one for him too. This round’s on me.”