Slow Hands

hitting the clubs in Monaco or cruising the Mediterranean. Doing the types of things people in her social circle took for granted, too.
    None of which interested her.
    Except, maybe, lounging under the sun on a clear blue sea. She might not like the ennui and shallowness that often came with extreme wealth, but she wasn’t stupid. She enjoyed an occasional luxury as much as the next silver spoon girl. And a summer day spent sailing on her father’s thirty-three-foot cutter was one of her few genuine indulgences.
    “Why don’t you let me escort you?” he added, finally breaking the silence.
    “I’m afraid I was just leaving,” she admitted, knowing she needed to end this now, before he offered to lead her to the closest ladies’ room. Maybe even escort her inside…and do her in the lavish vestibule.
    Oh, God, what a fantasy.
    She cleared her throat. “It’s a work night.”
    Finally allowing herself to meet his gaze directly, all remaining words dried up in Maddy’s mouth. Because those eyes, which she hadn’t been able to see clearly from the audience, were a dark, warm brown, so friendly and approachable, open and engaging that it was impossible to imagine this man was anything but an all-American boy-next-door. Albeit the handsomest one she’d ever met.
    There was merriment in those eyes, and warmth and friendliness. Not jaded awareness, not arrogance. Just…niceness. And pure laid-back sex appeal.
    That didn’t fit what she knew about the man. Not one bit.
    “Work?” he asked, sounding as though he’d never heard the word.
    Well, maybe he hadn’t. Maddy lifted her chin, ignoring those eyes, that half smile on his sensual mouth, and forced herself to remember who this brown-eyed, kind-looking hottie really was.
    A man for sale.
    “Yes. Work,” she snapped. “I came here to support a charity. I’ve done it, and now I’m leaving.”
    He put a hand out, touching her elbow lightly, though not trying to restrain her. But all the same, the touch was binding, rooting her where she stood.
    “Look, I have the feeling we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot somehow. I’d really like to go sit down somewhere, not as part of our ‘date’ but just so I can thank you for bidding on me.” He shook his head, smiled slightly and rubbed a hand across his strong jaw, the slide of his fingers rasping the tiniest bit across his very faint five-o’clock shadow. “You saved me from being the cheapest guy of the night.”
    “As if that was going to happen.”
    “You never know. That stockbroker guy was offering a weekend getaway upstate.”
    “What were you offering?” she asked, only out of curiosity. Not out of genuine interest. Definitely not.
    Shrugging, he admitted, “A home game at Wrigley Field followed by wings and beer at a pub.”
    Maddy’s eyebrows went up.
    “You didn’t know that when you shelled out twenty-five thousand bucks?”
    She shook her head, muttering, “I don’t think it would have mattered.”
    Not one bit. Because neither Bitsy Wellington, or Maddy’s stepmother would ever have let that ball game evening happen. The date would have begun and ended tonight, right in one of the thousand lavish hotel rooms above their heads. Despite being much older than this man, Deborah had the money, the looks and the charm to make sure she got exactly what she wanted. Whether Jake Wallace had really intended a “normal” date with the winner or not.
    To Maddy, though, a Major League ball game sounded wonderful. She’d never been to a professional game, relying on ESPN and pay-per-view channels to satisfy her innate—if secret, given its less-than-spoiled-little-rich-girl image—love of sports. Especially sports that took place on a diamond and involved a bat and a ball.
    So borrow Dad’s box seats. Because you aren’t going with Mr. Expensive .
    “You see why I was expecting the worst. I mean, if somebody had gotten me for twenty bucks, my sisters would never have let me hear the end of it.”
    She couldn’t prevent a trill of amused laughter from escaping her lips at the very thought of this man getting out of here for such a paltry amount. He probably charged that much per minute.
    He watched her laugh, those soft, dreamy eyes resting on her lips, his own curling up at the edges in response. “You’ve got dimples.”
    She clamped her lips tight, silently ordering her cheeks to flatten out.
    “They’re beautiful.”
    “They’re stupid.”
    “Adorable.”
    “Made for a