“Hello, Maggie. It’s been a long time.”
He still had the same smooth voice with a hint of sensuality tossed in that made a woman cling to his words, want to hear more. It didn’t matter what he said, as long as the words spilled out like warm caramel, covering their senses, tempting, tantalizing, irresistible.
Grant Richot was more handsome than he’d been eleven years ago, if that were possible. Every woman with an ounce of estrogen in her body noticed him. How could they not, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and slow smile?
Charm poured from him like a chocolate fountain, sweet, steady, addicting. Maggie hated to admit it, but she’d been pulled in by the looks, the lean body, the gaze that said he knew what she wanted even if she didn’t. Of course he did, but anything past a physical need like an emotion or a commitment? Absolutely not. She’d learned that one stark December morning and the pain of knowing had seared itself on her soul.
“What are you doing here?”
She stepped outside, pulled the front door closed, shutting out her life so he couldn’t peer inside. People who tossed aside relationships with such nonchalance did not have the right to inquire about anything or anyone.
Grant Richot studied her, those blue eyes assessing the sudden flush on her face and neck, the uneven breathing pattern, the pinched lips. He could assess all he wanted; he’d never get inside her head or her heart again.
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