Flynn’s gaze followed that deliciously pert behind until it disappeared into the servery.

      The thrill of the chase had always excited him, but this chase was something else. Kat Winwood was hot. Flames and flares and hissing and spitting fireworks hot.

      It was amusing to set the bait and sit back and wait for her to take it. She pretended to hate him. To loathe the ground he walked on, the space he occupied. The air he breathed.

      But behind the fiery flash of her green-grey gaze he could see something else. Something she was at great pains to conceal. That betraying flicker of attraction. The way her pupils flared like spilled ink. The way she swept the tip of her tongue over her lips. The way her eyes kept tracking to his mouth, as if drawn there by an invisible, irresistible force.

      He was a lower-case lover. The chase, the conquest, the don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you was the way he played things now.

      And he wanted to play with Kat Winwood.