Sun God Seeks…Surrogate? (Accidentally Yours #3)(10)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

I sucked in a deep, fortifying breath and plowed across the street, with my knees wobbling, toward the hotel. A thin man in a black suit immediately greeted me at the door. He reached for my no-frills parka, and I slid it off while reminding myself that breathing mattered.

He returned quickly with smile and a claim ticket. “Here you go, miss. Do you have a reservation?” he asked.

“I’m meeting someone.” My eyes swept the formal, candlelit room to my right filled with cozy couples sipping wine, eating, and laughing. To the left, through a large open doorway, was a dimly lit bar decorated in a Deco style—mirror-covered walls, paintings of swanky 1920s flappers, and high-polished maple floors—packed with elegantly dressed patrons.

My eyes immediately gravitated toward the far end of the room. With his size, he stood out like a hi-def, larger-than-life giant among a sea of washout gray.

I lost my breath for multiple heartbeats.

It seemed odd for such a magnificent man to be sipping wine alone. I expected to see a posse of adoring women groveling at his feet, perhaps nibbling on his ankles and kissing his toes. But a tiny part of me rejoiced. I didn’t want to share him with anyone, a realization that instantly scared the hell out of me.

Sigh. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t there to listen. I was there to gawk and fawn. Who could blame me? Double sigh. With eyes that pierced your very soul, those strong, full lips—the kind you wanted to run you tongue over and suck on or watch as they did delicious things to the most intimate parts of your body—his stratospheric height, wide shoulders, and thick caramel-colored hair hanging just past his collar…triple sigh…he was simply a specimen of divine masculinity.

I shook my head, realizing the bizarre truth. Devil crackers, I want that man. He was a complete stranger, yet I’d already had one erotic dream and played ten rounds of imaginary house with him.

I forced the breath into my lungs and willed my feet to make the journey.

Weaving through the crowd, I caught several brief glimpses of the male morsel in question as he stared into his wine glass. A prominent frown occupied his sublime face, and he clenched something in his fist. Whatever it was, he seemed troubled by it.

So there I was, facing his back and ready to wow him with my brilliant wit, when I realized I didn’t know his name. Cimil had said it once, but I couldn’t recall.

Ugh. I groaned inwardly. Well, why not make the situation extra-extra awkward?

“Hi,” I said.

Cimil’s brother continued staring at his glass.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

He was completely checked out—a family trait?—and now, several people to my side noticed I was being ignored by the delicious, brawny man sitting at the bar who everyone was desperately trying to avoid staring at.

Now I felt like an idiot.

I poked the back of his shoulder. “Hey—um…” Hell. Why couldn’t I remember his name? “You.”

With an irritated, deliberate slowness, he turned on his barstool, apparently ready to unleash a fury on whomever had disturbed his wine-templation.

His angry eyes settled on my face. “Oh. It’s…you.”

Me? It’s…me? Is that how a man greets the future mother of his child?

Whoa! Penelope! You’re here to listen. Remember?

Yes, yes.

And lucky for him, I wasn’t going to hold a little thing like sorry manners against him, because I was frightfully close to losing my cerebral skills once again—holy hell, a man has no right being that good-looking—so I was pretty sure my own manners were about to fall off a cliff.

Is groping a stranger in public considered bad manners?

“Yep. It’s…me.” I shrugged, grasping my evening bag in both hands.

He stared.

I stared.

He stared some more.

Is this the standoff at the OK-we’re-going-to-have-a-baby corral?

Penelope! Listen! Just…listen!

Oh! Yeah.

I finally decided to make the first move. A smile. Wasn’t the most original icebreaker, but it was a timeless classic.

His intense turquoise eyes examined my face for several moments before a forced smile shaped his lips. “Care to sit?” He stood and held out his hand to offer me his seat.

His large…strong…manly hand. Sigh…

“Thanks.”

“You look…nice,” he commented in slow, hypnotically deep voice.

Trying to ignore the sensuality embedded in his timbre, I flashed another polite smile and slipped past him. His gaze slid down my body, all the way to my black heels, and then swept up over my bare back as I lowered myself onto his barstool.

I lifted my chin a little higher then; he’d taken a detailed inventory.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked, wedging himself sideways in the space between me and the man next to us talking to his date.

The warmth of his touch made my insides light up and spin like disco ball, but I played it cool. “I’ll have a double, extra-dirty vodka martini.”

He raised one brow.

Well, jeez. I’m not pregnant.

Yet.

Oh stop that!

But we want him! We want him! My tiny eggs cheered in unison.

It was then that I noticed how his dark, tailored pants and gray sweater displayed every masculine bulge of his insanely ripped body. To be clear, he wasn’t overbuilt like those artificially enhanced TV wrestlers who spend every waking moment pumping iron. No. This man was all hard, lean muscle, more like a champion stallion or a jaguar. Raw power draped in fine, expensive fabric. Speaking of, where did a man of his girth and stature find clothes? Well, whoever was responsible for clothing him should be shot; he looked too perfect.

But he’d get cold if no one sold him clothes.

I’d warm him up.

Just like he was doing to me. He was so darn tall that from a sitting position, I was at eye level with his ni**les. No, I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. Did they want to meet me as much as I wanted to meet them?

I cleared my throat. “I like a good stiff nipple”—gasp!—“I mean…drink! I like a stiff drink every once in a while, but I’m not a big drinker if that worries you.”

Ignoring my mental blip, he leaned over and planted his elbows on the bar. “And why would that worry me?”

Okay. Because I’m sure you don’t want the mother of your child to be a lush.

Pen! You’re not on a job interview…

“I don’t want people getting the wrong impression, that’s all,” I clarified.