I trace the edge of her ear, and she shakily inhales, her lips parting enough I could slip my tongue between them if I attempted. My blood heats to the point I might sweat, and I curse myself for putting myself in this position. Yet I can't stop. Now that I have her attention, I need to keep going. I answer, "When the sun rises over the water, and the light hits it just right, there's calm chaos."

She furrows her brows. "Calm chaos? That's an oxymoron. It doesn't make sense."

I clench my jaw, trying to contain my pleasure that she's not just a pretty face. She has a brain and uses it, which is another thing I don't often see with many beautiful women in L.A. I flip my hand and lightly graze my fingertip over her chin, enjoying how her eyes quickly shut then reopen. I answer, "When the tide's rolling away, barely giving way to any waves, and the water looks like it's full of sparkles trying to jump into the air, that's calm chaos."

She ponders my statement for a moment, her expression morphing into a soft smile I assume she'd make after I wore her out with my demands. She asserts in approval, "I suppose your oxymoron works."

It's all too much. I might as well be a reckless teenager unable to control his urges instead of a sexually experienced, normally always in control thirty-seven-year-old man. I reach behind her, grab a fistful of her hair, and firmly tug her head backward. It's nothing like what I've done to women in the past, but it's enough to make her gasp and get an idea of what I'd do to her if I had the chance.

Whatever her perfume is flares in my nostrils. It reminds me of the surf, along with something else I can't put my finger on besides the combination of sea salt and driftwood. I lick my lips, studying hers, then pin my gaze to her widened one, murmuring, "There are many things I do that perception would claim don't work but do."

Her bottom lip quivers, but she catches it and takes a deep breath. Her chest rises higher, and I give it a lewd glance, then pin my most challenging stare on her. She opens her mouth, tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

I tug her head farther back, leaning so dangerously close to her mouth her breath hits mine.

She whispers, "What kinds of things?"

I don't hesitate, taunting, "Things that would make your father despise me."

Her plump lips part again, but her mother's voice calls out, "Blakely!"

Goddamn it!

I release her and step back just as Madelyn turns the corner.

She beams. "There you are! We're about to cut the cake." Then she turns to me, bats her eyes, and puts her hand on my bicep. Vodka overpowers Blakely's sea salt and driftwood scent, and Madelyn coos, "Riggs. I didn't know you'd arrived."