Mean
girl. Goddess. Bitch. Supermodel Sofie Baston has earned those labels
. . . yet they don't scratch the surface of who she really is. Before
she can follow her own dreams, Sophie must do her daughterly duty and
reel in a "fish" for her father's business-a tall,
brown-eyed entrepreneur who immediately hooks her. He's
a big guy with an even bigger heart . . . but will that heart be open
to Sofie once her darkest secret is revealed?
To Trevor Bishop, Sofie is a beautiful mystery he would gladly spend his life solving. He figures her tough demeanor is armor against a world that's hurt her too many times. Then Sofie's deepest wounds are reopened by the powerful, ruthless man who made them. When she musters the courage to take him down, her world shatters. Now Trevor is determined to help Sofie pick up the pieces so they can build a future together. The challenge will be convincing his ice princess that it's safe to melt in his arms .
To Trevor Bishop, Sofie is a beautiful mystery he would gladly spend his life solving. He figures her tough demeanor is armor against a world that's hurt her too many times. Then Sofie's deepest wounds are reopened by the powerful, ruthless man who made them. When she musters the courage to take him down, her world shatters. Now Trevor is determined to help Sofie pick up the pieces so they can build a future together. The challenge will be convincing his ice princess that it's safe to melt in his arms .
“And
this is his business partner, Trevor Bishop.”
Walsh steps back, and I have my first
close up of the fish I’m baiting tonight. Only I’m the one
hooked, immediately. I’m careful not to show it, but that stunned
look I’m used to seeing on other people’s faces? All over my
inside face.
This force of flesh and bone and muscle
wrapped in heat looms
over me. Trevor Bishop’s presence burns holes in my composure. I
could tell from across the room he was attractive and built like a
mountain lion, lean and strong and broad. It’s only now with
proximity that his absolute confidence meets mine head on. He tilts
his head to the left, his chocolate-colored eyes steadily considering
me, and I swear he knows. Even though I’m sure my face doesn’t
give it away, I swear he knows that as I stand in front of him,
inhaling his clean scent and waiting for his first smile, windmills
turn in my belly.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Baston.”
His lips, wide and full, give me a smile punctuated by dimples. And
he has a southern drawl.
Fuck me now.
That’s not a figure of speech. I quite
literally want him to toss me over that hulking shoulder, find a dark
corner somewhere and screw me so deeply into a wall we leave a dent.
Or in a bathroom stall. Hell, he could drag me over to the elaborate
buffet table and take me from behind right there by the ice
sculpture.
One dark brown brow, a few shades darker
than his hair, rises. Holy crap, I haven’t responded yet.
“Um, nice to meet you, too, Mr.
Bishop.” I take my time so my tongue doesn’t betray the muddled
mess of haywire hormones I am right now.
His eyes drift over my shoulder, forcing
my mind and manners back to Rip.
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. How rude.” I
turn to Rip, who immediately claims my elbow and draws me into his
side. All of a sudden he’s territorial. I can’t blame him. If my
girlfriend was within five feet of this man, I’d handcuff her to me
for the night. “This is Michael Ripley.”
“Great game Sunday.” Trevor shakes
the hand Rip isn’t manacling me with. “I’m a Falcons fan
myself, but I can appreciate a good toss no matter the team. That’s
some arm you got there.”
Rip’s hold on me relaxes a bit. Clever
Trevor, disarming him that way. Well played. Will I be able to strip
this fish of his defenses as easily?
Once seated, Rip, Trevor, Harold and
Walsh fall into a discussion of football I don’t even try to
follow. Apparently neither does Kerris. She’s texting someone with
a small frown on her face, and mumbles something to Walsh about a
sitter. I settle into my seat beside Trevor, taking a few moments to
compose myself and strategize how I can get that hook in his mouth.
“So you were in Dubai?”
The question startles me a little, I was
so lost in my musings. I turn slightly in Trevor’s direction,
creasing my lips politely.
“For a shoot, yes.” I toy with the
clamp on my clutch resting on the table. “And my friend Ardis
married a prince over there. I like to visit her every once in a
while.”
“A real live prince, huh?” He teases
me with a quirk of those full lips.
“Don’t be too impressed.” I lean a
few inches closer to him and lower my voice. “He’s a prince in
name only.”
“If he’s a prince in name only, what
does that make him in deed?”
I
can’t hold onto the humor when I recall the bruises shackling
Ardis’ throat and wrists, or the black and blue mark on her cheek
like a brand. I refocus my eyes and sober my mouth.
“A
frog.”
“I
thought you ladies kissed all the frogs to find the prince.”
“It
happens that way in fairy tales, not in Manhattan.” I sip my
champagne. “Or in Dubai, apparently.”
“So that accounts for your tan.” His
dark eyes make a slow, thorough inspection of my features.
“Hmmm. What accounts for yours?” I
toss a skein of silvery blonde hair back so he gets an eyeful of the
bare line of my neck and shoulder. His eyes move down my neck,
warming the skin like a touch, before he looks back into my eyes.
“Haiti.” He laughs a little, lounges
back in his chair and links long fingers across a flat stomach I
imagine is corded with muscle. “Well, and my father is Lumbee, so
some of my tan’s natural.”
“Lum what?”
He laughs again, his teeth white against
his skin. I really like that it’s because of something I said.
“Lumbee Indian, a tribe found mostly in
Lumberton, North Carolina.”
“So your mother’s responsible for the
red hair?”
“She is.” He brushes a hand over his
neat hair, disrupting it into a coppery spill on his forehead. “I
was spared the freckles, though.”
“I’m sure there’s one or two.”
His eyes are suddenly hot chocolate,
heating up a little as they hold mine.
“You’re welcome to try to find them.”
About
Kennedy Ryan
I'm
a wife, a mom, a writer, an advocate for families living with autism.
That's me in a nutshell. Crack the nut, and you'll find a Southern
girl gone Southern California who loves pizza and Diet Coke, and
wishes she got to watch a lot more television. You can usually catch
me up too late, on social media too much, or FINALLY putting a dent
in my ever-growing To Be Read list!
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