—from the journal of Violet St. Lyons
HE BURST ONTO the scene. With a crazy dog, no less.
Said dog spread its legs like an Olympic ski jumper and flung itself into my pool, barely even making a splash it was so tiny. Blond Guy knifed into the water like a pro, the roaring lion tattoo on his back getting most of my attention. Dark and dangerous, the ferocious animal took up most of his back right shoulder.
My mouth gaped. Where had he come from?
Was he even real?
Had I had a few too many shots? Yes.
He rose up from his crouch, long and muscled, beads of water racing down his neck to his broad chest, calling attention to the tightly roped muscles of his abs to the delicious V of his hips. My eyes roamed over every inch of him, my mind wondering if what was under his boxers was as majestic as the rest of him.
He pushed wet hair out of his eyes, his hand continuing its journey to the nape of his neck. Then, his eyes met mine, making my stomach flutter.
I may have squeaked; I’m not a squeaker.
I clutched my robe closed, my hands tight against my chest.
“Sorry about disturbing you. Monster has dreams of being a Doberman. She won’t hurt you, just likes to make her presence known.”
Hurt me? She nearly killed herself.
“Oh? You realize it’s late, right? Most dogs and humans are asleep.” I pointed to the towels I’d stacked up on a shelf. “Help yourself to a towel over there. Looks like you need one.”
He stalked over, moving with an easy grace of a born athlete.
Okay, play it cool. Act nonchalant. Don’t say stupid stuff … like wiener or babble on about sex metaphors.
He dried the dog first, scrubbing her hair in the opposite direction and then brushing it back down. His fierce lion head tattoo winked in and out of view, its jaws open wide, the mane stretching out over his shoulder. For some reason, perhaps because this guy seemed able to pull emotion from me, his tattoo reminded me of a favorite memory. I’d always had a thing for lions, partly because our name was Lyons and it was part of our family crest, but also because of the lion at the Central Park Zoo in New York. I’d loved to hang out at his enclosure, waiting for him to spear me with those yellow eyes or chase one of his lionesses. He was majestic. He was strong. Alpha. I shivered.
I suspected Blond Guy was as well.
Finally, after what seemed liked forever of him rubbing the towel across his skin, he tugged back on low-slung jeans and re-buckled a skull belt buckle—my eyes flared at that little tidbit. He wasn’t your everyday average guy.
“You dried your dog first,” I said, scintillating conversationalist that I am.
“Yep.”
Okay. He seemed tightlipped as well.
But then he walked closer until he stood underneath me, his eyes gleaming up at me, their pale blue color reflected in the patio lights. His gaze lingered over his necklace, and I fingered the shark tooth. I hoped he didn’t want it back.
“You know, I could have shot you when you ran onto my property like that.” I don’t even own a gun. I didn’t know what to say. My last memory of him was with Blair.
“Glad you didn’t. Maybe not you, but thousands would mourn my death.” He grinned. “Or would you?”
“You’re an incorrigible flirt, aren’t you?”
He did a snort/smirk thing. “You’re a gorgeous girl—so yeah, I was flirting, but when you call me out like that, it kinda ruins the moment.”
My lips twitched. “What’s your name?” I was dying to know.
“Romeo?” His lips curled up in a grin.
“That’s unfortunate.”
He let out a husky laugh. “No, it’s a joke, see, because the moon is out, and I’m standing here below your balcony and you’re dressed—” he waved his hand at my robe “—like that. This isn’t going well, is it?”
I shook my head.
“You do know the famous balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, right? Shakespeare wrote it? He’s kinda famous.”
“I’ve heard of it.” I kept my eye roll inside.
He took a bow. “Senior year I played Romeo in our school production to a packed house. Critics said it was the best production they’d seen in Highland Park, Texas in twenty years—although that critic may have been fourteen and wrote for the school newspaper.” He shrugged and grinned. “She also had a terrible crush on me.”
“Yeah?” I imagined him on stage, dressed in some type of gold-threaded medieval outfit. “Did you wear tights?”
“My big sword made up for the girly clothes.”
“Really?” I kept my eyes firmly in place, refusing to look where I knew he wanted me to. At his Big Man Stick. Because I’d noticed it already.
Straighten up, Violet! This guy was a Hollywood player and way out of your depth. “I’ve always wanted to see Romeo and Juliet on stage. I’m sure you and your sword were great.”
“Well, this sure isn’t Broadway, but here goes.” He bent down on one knee and lifted his right hand up theatrically. He cleared his throat. “‘But soft, what light from yonder window breaks. It is the east and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon which is already sick and pale with grief—’” He stopped, covering his eyes. “Ah hell, I can’t remember the rest of it.” He sighed. “And now the romantic moment is ruined.”
I stifled my laugh.
“Technically, I make a better singer.” He stood back up. “And I apologize for my poor flirting skills.”