A man with wavy hair like rich dark chocolate and sprinkled with golden highlights approached her. He took the strides separating them with confidence, on thighs that bulged beneath his tailored white trousers. When he stood before her, the apple resting in the gap between their feet, he smiled at her.
Winningly. Beamingly. His smile left deep grooves on either side of his mouth and flashed a set of brilliantly white teeth offset by a deep olive complexion. Yet, Quinn was able to note, even in her fear, his smile didn’t quite reach his liquid amber eyes.
No. His eyes were cold and wary. And suspicious. Very suspicious.
“Who are you?” And hey. How did he know her name?
The upward tilt of his lips grew sly, and his burnt-orange knit shirt rippled against his broad chest when he said, “That’s my apple. Excuse me, if you would.”
In a matter of seconds, Quinn not only realized once more the enormity of what had just occurred with the pillar, but that possibly the apple could be some sort of rare Greek artifact, and this beautiful man was some kind of Indiana Jones in search of his Temple of Doom.
It wasn’t every day an apple plopped from marble as if it had fallen off a tree. Which had to mean it must have some kind of value, and she’d found it.
The chiseled man eyed the apple. His expression flashed with apprehension so briefly, Quinn might not have caught it if she wasn’t looking, but he instantly relaxed his utterly gorgeous face and covered up any trace of his worry with an arrogant gaze down at her.
Huh. Yeah. Something wasn’t kosher here. Without thought, she gave him a blank look to distract him before swooping downward, using a deft hand to sweep the fruit off the ground.
“That’s my apple,” he repeated, low and easy.
“I beg to differ.” She held it up, ignoring the fact that he could be dangerous, and waved the gleaming fruit at him. Just who the hell did he think he was? “I think it’s my apple.”
He edged closer, his spicy cologne lodging in her nose, his stance not quite one of menace but most definitely one of impatience. The sheer size of him made her knees waver.
“I assure you, it’s my apple,” he cooed in a silky-rich timbre.
Quinn’s eyebrow cocked upward in haughty fashion. “By what authority?”
“My ancestors’.”
“And who are your ancestors?”
“You’d never believe it.”
“Try me. An apple—a shiny golden one I’ve never heard of in all my studies on Greek mythology—just fell out of a pillar in the Parthenon. A. Pillar. I’m game for just about anything.”
His luscious lips thinned in obvious aggravation. “It’s none of your business.”
Quinn bristled. Hold on. Maybe this was an enormous archeological find and he was some bad guy who wanted to sell it to the highest bidder. What if this was a part of Greek history and he was going to cheat the people of this fine country out of something rightfully theirs and sell it for some ridiculous amount of money?
Briefly she thought of all the movies she’d seen and the idea that maybe she was going too far with the fantastical.
But how far was fantastical? Didn’t an apple just fall out of some inanimate marble? Didn’t she have boobs reminiscent of basketballs?
Planting her free hand on her hip, she used her best I’m-in-charge-of-this-rodeo voice and said, “I guess it’s my business if you hope to prove this is really your apple. If you don’t want to share and give me a good reason for claiming ownership, I’m sure the Greek authorities would be pleased to hear all about this apple falling from a pillar, which is insane to begin with. But I bet they’d really like to hear all about how it’s yours.”
This time he didn’t just edge closer, he loomed over her, his height, in her estimation, a good ten inches taller than her five feet four. “Give me the apple, Quinn,” he demanded, his smooth jaw clenching.
When he spoke her name, it slid off his tongue like a dollop of warm caramel. And again, the romantic in her wanted to savor this moment and take the time to create a story for the piece of fruit and its connection to this walking, talking sex god. However, the big, albeit hot, goon obviously wasn’t going to let her.
No. He glowered at her. Glowered so hard, were she a tea rose in an English garden, she’d have withered under his glare.
Quinn smiled, suddenly filled with adrenalin and totally fearless. Maybe it was the way Igor had so callously treated her, or maybe it was just more than past time, but suddenly she was a take-no-shit kind of girl.
Holding the apple closer, Quinn glared back at him in defiance and brought the gleaming fruit to her mouth, taking a long lick, ignoring the bitter taste of the skin on her tongue.
Hot Stuff planted his hands on his lean hips with a sigh of exasperation and rolled his beautiful eyes. “Now why would you do that, Quinn?”
“Five-second rule. Whoever licks it owns it.”