Ilse forced herself to walk towards him, and although she knew she was being fanciful, the way his gaze followed her every move made her think of the way a man would look at his newest, shiniest toy.
Lazily, because he knew the toy was already his.
Possessively, also because he knew the toy was his.
A ferocious frown crinkled Ilse’s smooth forehead at the thought. She would have no problem with the way he was looking – if only she wasn’t the one he was eyeing like a toy.
By the time she reached him, Ilse had made up her mind, and she had her dialogue ready.
But then he came to his feet, and when Ilse had her first good look at him up close, she promptly forgot all about the words she had practiced in her mind.
My goodness, Ilse thought disbelievingly.
He was quite, quite taller than she expected him to be, and even if she had been in her killer heels right now, Ilse knew the top of her head still wouldn’t reach his shoulders. He was also exceedingly pretty – the way only movie stars should have a right to. He grew his hair just a little bit longer than what was usual, and the ebony-black waves looked so invitingly soft she had the strangest urge to feel it for herself. His eyes were a vivid shade of blue, his cheekbones aristocratic in its prominence. The rest of him was just as impressive, the magnificent breadth of his shoulders accentuated by his exquisitely hand-sewn suit.
But what really took her breath away was how wicked he felt.
He had BAD BOY written all over him, and Ilse frowned. He was, in a nutshell, the very opposite of her, and the urge to flee returned with a vengeance.
In the four years Ilse had been working as a tour guide, she had become a good judge of character. One look at this gentleman – if he could even be called that – and she knew he was trouble.
She crossed her arms over her chest, saying disapprovingly in Dutch, “You are bad news, mijnheer.” She was normally more tactful than this, but she had a feeling there was no need to be so with this man. He just didn’t feel like the type of man to cause Ilse her job if she rejected him.
“How can you say that,” he drawled out mildly, “when you don’t even know me?”
But he was also the type of man who wouldn’t so easily give up once he found himself a toy he wished to acquire and play until he lost interest.
Well, that toy would not be her.
“I don’t need to know you,” she informed him bluntly, “to understand the kind of man you are. And because I do not want you to waste your time, let me tell you now, mijnheer. I am not interested. You are not my type.”
“You slay me, mevrouw.” He had switched to English this time, his tone cultured, and Ilse’s frown became more pronounced. Oh, how sly! How had he figured out she had a secret thing for men who were bilingual?
“At least let me prove myself first.” He moved towards a vacant table and pulled out a seat for her.
“It will do you no good,” Ilse muttered even as she grudgingly took the seat he offered. A job was still a job, and she didn’t want to give him any reason to ask for a refund.
When he took his seat, he chose the one adjacent to her, and Ilse stiffened when their knees bumped under the table, the contact causing a spark of electricity to jolt through her body.
When her eyes flew to him in suspicion, he released a laugh. “Surely you can’t blame me for the way your body reacts?”
Oh, blast it, he wasn’t only wicked, but he was charming, too!
Lazily, because he knew the toy was already his.
Possessively, also because he knew the toy was his.
A ferocious frown crinkled Ilse’s smooth forehead at the thought. She would have no problem with the way he was looking – if only she wasn’t the one he was eyeing like a toy.
By the time she reached him, Ilse had made up her mind, and she had her dialogue ready.
But then he came to his feet, and when Ilse had her first good look at him up close, she promptly forgot all about the words she had practiced in her mind.
My goodness, Ilse thought disbelievingly.
He was quite, quite taller than she expected him to be, and even if she had been in her killer heels right now, Ilse knew the top of her head still wouldn’t reach his shoulders. He was also exceedingly pretty – the way only movie stars should have a right to. He grew his hair just a little bit longer than what was usual, and the ebony-black waves looked so invitingly soft she had the strangest urge to feel it for herself. His eyes were a vivid shade of blue, his cheekbones aristocratic in its prominence. The rest of him was just as impressive, the magnificent breadth of his shoulders accentuated by his exquisitely hand-sewn suit.
But what really took her breath away was how wicked he felt.
He had BAD BOY written all over him, and Ilse frowned. He was, in a nutshell, the very opposite of her, and the urge to flee returned with a vengeance.
In the four years Ilse had been working as a tour guide, she had become a good judge of character. One look at this gentleman – if he could even be called that – and she knew he was trouble.
She crossed her arms over her chest, saying disapprovingly in Dutch, “You are bad news, mijnheer.” She was normally more tactful than this, but she had a feeling there was no need to be so with this man. He just didn’t feel like the type of man to cause Ilse her job if she rejected him.
“How can you say that,” he drawled out mildly, “when you don’t even know me?”
But he was also the type of man who wouldn’t so easily give up once he found himself a toy he wished to acquire and play until he lost interest.
Well, that toy would not be her.
“I don’t need to know you,” she informed him bluntly, “to understand the kind of man you are. And because I do not want you to waste your time, let me tell you now, mijnheer. I am not interested. You are not my type.”
“You slay me, mevrouw.” He had switched to English this time, his tone cultured, and Ilse’s frown became more pronounced. Oh, how sly! How had he figured out she had a secret thing for men who were bilingual?
“At least let me prove myself first.” He moved towards a vacant table and pulled out a seat for her.
“It will do you no good,” Ilse muttered even as she grudgingly took the seat he offered. A job was still a job, and she didn’t want to give him any reason to ask for a refund.
When he took his seat, he chose the one adjacent to her, and Ilse stiffened when their knees bumped under the table, the contact causing a spark of electricity to jolt through her body.
When her eyes flew to him in suspicion, he released a laugh. “Surely you can’t blame me for the way your body reacts?”
Oh, blast it, he wasn’t only wicked, but he was charming, too!
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