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Excerpt:

Given the huge size of the house, she expected the door to be opened by a uniformed butler or housekeeper. But when the door swung open, Daemon stood there.

And damned if her heart didn’t go pitter-patter.

Today that magnificent body was encased in a loose, white cotton dress shirt and snug, well-worn blue jeans. Totally appropriate for a casual evening at home ... except for the crease ironed into his jeans and the spit polish shine on his brown shoes. His sleeves were rolled up, displaying strong wrists and a simple, gold watch. She especially enjoyed the tantalizing glimpse of dark chest hair provided by the two unfastened buttons at his throat.

“Hi,” she said. Funny how a lack of oxygen to the brain will make your voice airy.

He stared at her.

“Can I come in?” She thrust the paper bag she carried into his hand. “I brought dinner.”

He blinked at the McDonald’s logo for a moment, then stood back to allow her to enter.

Zoë breezed by him and into the marble tiled foyer, relishing the whiff of potent male scent she drew off him as she passed. Hades. She had never met a man who smelled so good.

The house was clearly a guy’s domain. Oak flooring as far as the eye could see. Browns, greens, and sturdy dark woods dominated the traditional furnishings and the air had a clean, fresh smell. No vanilla or flowery stuff here.

She peered into the living room off to the left. Tidy, of course, and everything matched, from the draped curtains and leather sofa to the Oriental rug. Even the expensive paintings looked like they belonged.

“Which way to the kitchen?” She eyed the curving central staircase leading to the second floor and tried not to imagine what his bedroom would be like. Thick, plush carpeting that would feel like a spa to bare toes? A massive king-sized bed draped in heavy, sensuous velvet? Smooth as silk Egyptian cotton sheets...?

“Straight ahead.”

Almost grateful for the jolt back to reality, Zoë gulped a breath and stepped in that direction.

“Shoes, please.”

“What?” She glanced at her feet, and then up at Daemon.

He wore a pained expression. “Take off your shoes, please.”

Zoë frowned. “But you’ve got yours on.”

“These are my indoor shoes.”

“Indoor shoes?” She kicked off her scuffed sneakers, taking a sadistic pleasure from the clump of dried mud that dropped to the white marble. “That’s nuts. Ever see the movie Sleeping with the Enemy?”

“No.”

She trailed him down the hardwood hall, her gaze lingering on his ass. Some guys should never wear jeans, their butts being too flat or too fleshy. Daemon Kemp could make a second career out of modeling them. “Well, you should. This super-clean thing you’ve got going here could be the sign of a deranged killer.”

He stopped abruptly, and she plowed into him. She got a brief taste of firm, delicious heat before he spun around. “Then maybe it wasn’t such a wise idea to come to my home.”

Probably true, if she were a human.

“Well,” she said, “it’s kinda difficult to seduce a guy if you don’t get close to him.”

The intensity of his gaze altered. Less challenging, more amused. “Is that your goal? To seduce me?”

“Yup.”

He arched a brow. “If that’s the case, weren’t you supposed to arrive in a tight dress and strappy sandals? Or a trenchcoat with nothing underneath but bare skin? Jeans and a t-shirt aren’t generally a big turn-on.”

“I figured since you’re so rich and famous, nearly-naked girls must throw themselves at you all the time. My theory was, an intelligent guy like you would appreciate a change of pace.”

Daemon snorted. “Okay, that was just bad. I don’t think you can get any more smarmy than that.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?” Zoë met his gaze. Deliberately, she placed her palm on the cotton-covered muscles of his chest, over the thudding beat of his heart. “You don’t need a sexy wrapper to appreciate the package inside.”

Daemon didn’t answer. He just returned her stare for an eternity, then peeled her hand off his shirt and tugged her toward the kitchen. He led her across the cork flooring, opened a cupboard door and tossed the McDonald’s bag into a garbage bin.

“I’ll make you dinner,” he said.

Zoë grimaced. Food was just a necessity. Well, except for ice cream, which fell into a completely different category. She wanted to get right to the sex and the information she’d come for. Coming on to Daemon at the Blue Onion had seemed natural and in-the-moment. This felt ... sneaky and despicable. “I’m not hungry. At least, not for food.”

Leaning a hip against the Tuscany-inspired kitchen island, he sighed. “Let’s dispense with the games, okay? You and I will end up in bed, that’s a given.”

Zoë’s hopes soared...

“After,” Daemon said pointedly, “we share a nice dinner and a couple of glasses of wine.”

... and crashed. A nice dinner? Gode, how would she survive forty-five minutes of small talk? He’d see right through her. Mata Hari she was not. “You said no games. So why are we doing dinner when what we both want is sex?”

“Because I’m a rich, famous, intelligent man who wants something different, remember?”

“Fine.” Zoë knew she was beaten. By her own words, no less. “So hurry up and cook already.”

He pitched her look that said you’re hopeless, and opened the stainless steel fridge. Inside, neatly arranged, were heaps of fresh veggies, meat, juice, water bottles and wine.

“No beer?” she asked. Suits, pressed jeans, and a tidy refrigerator. “Are you sure you’re a guy?”

Tossing a green pepper, a garlic clove, and two steaks on the counter, Daemon shook his head. “Your seduction routine needs work.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll grow on you.” She studied him as he selected a cleaver from the knife block and began chopping the pepper. Precise cuts. Perfect posture. Hair scraped back in that same, tight queue. “You know, I have trouble seeing you as an artist.”

“Really?” He crushed the garlic with the flat of his blade. “Why?”

“You’re too controlled.”

In fact, the way he never had a hair out of place reminded her of Gabriel. And that wasn’t a compliment. Gabriel was the least creative person she’d ever met.

“Appearances can be deceiving, I guess,” he said, as he set the pan on the stove and turned up the gas flame.

That’s for sure. Daemon’s face and fantastic body said nothing but red-hot human male. But she knew he was more than that. “Plus, your paintings are so Edgar Allen Poe, while this is--” She waved her hand at the big window, the earth-toned tiles, and the cheery pale gold walls. “This is nice.”

Daemon glanced at her as he turned the sizzling steaks over. “Am I supposed to be flattered that you like my house, or suitably chastised that my paintings are dark and eerie?”

“Flattered.” Zoë grinned. “I looked you up on the internet. I don’t do that for every guy I meet, you know.”

“Okay, consider me flattered.” He selected a wine bottle from the small rack on the counter and nodded to the cupboard over her head. “Plates are there, cutlery in the drawer next to the dishwasher.”

She took two plates out, then paused to watch him maneuver the bottle under a gadget mounted on the wall. He pulled a lever, pushed it back, and the cork slid out with a faint pop. “Hey, that’s cool.”

He smiled. “Easily amused, I like that in a date. Takes the pressure off.”

“Did I mention you’re an asshole?”

“Yes. Dining room is through the swinging door to your right.”

Zoë set the table, amazed at her own agreeableness. Daemon was arrogant, but in a charming sort of way. Besides, the cooking thing racked up points in his favor, despite her fear of enduring a lengthy conversation. No guy except her dad had ever made her dinner. It was kind of sweet.

Daemon shouldered his way into the room with a wine bottle and glasses in one hand, and a platter of steak and salad in the other. His handsome face twisted when he spied the table. “Okay, genius. I know you saw what I was cooking, so where the hell are the steak knives?”

Scratch that. Not charming or sweet. Just arrogant.

Zoë bent down, hiked up her pant legs and unsheathed her two combat blades. She placed one beside his plate and one beside hers. “There. Happy now?”

She smiled at him. Not exactly the way she’d planned to reveal her inner self, but hey, the stunned expression on his face made it all worthwhile. And this was easier than trying to pretend to be something she wasn’t. Besides, might be just the ticket to crack that uber-control and get him to do a little revealing himself. Here was the perfect opportunity for Kemp to call her on her real reason for dropping in on him uninvited--bypass all the bullshit and get to the point.

But he didn’t.

He laid the platter on the table along with the wine and the glasses, then lifted the seven-inch knife she’d given him and peered at it. “Are they clean?”

“Of course.”

His lips twitched. “Then let’s eat.”

Dinner, as it turned out, wasn’t an ordeal at all. Daemon kept the conversation neutral, discussing his latest exhibit and regaling her with amusing stories of patrons who enjoyed his work. He didn’t even bat an eye at the awkwardness of using such a large knife to cut his meat.

Meat that happened to be melt-in-your-mouth tender and seasoned with an experienced hand. The salad wasn’t bad, either. “Do you really sell your paintings for a hundred grand a pop?” she asked, after she’d consumed her fill and sat back.

He nodded. “I sold one at auction once for five hundred and thirty thousand.”

“Half a million dollars for a few blobs of paint? That’s indecent.”

He smiled, gathered his napkin off his lap, and placed it on the table. “No, as my agent would say, that’s business.” Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood. He gave her a very serious look, extended his hand, and said, “Indecent is something else entirely. Come on, I’ll show you.”


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