Tess Roussel, architect. The nominal head of this project, though they both knew she couldn’t make a move without him.

The driver-side door swung open and one long, slim, short-skirted leg stretched toward the ground. Nice. Too bad it was attached at the hip to a harpy with an agenda.

She rose, slowly, and slammed the door behind her, pausing to glare at him across the ruins. He knew her eyes were the color of bourbon and every bit as seductive, that her scent could make his mouth water and send his system into overdrive. And the fact that he’d wanted her the moment he’d set eyes on her didn’t mean spit. He’d been controlling far more serious thirsts for years.

She strode toward him on her ridiculous shoes, risking injury to one of her shapely ankles with every wobble of those skyscraper heels. The breeze off the bay tossed her short black hair across her forehead, and she lifted an elegant, long-fingered hand to brush it back into place. She wore a no-nonsense gray suit, the kind of suit a woman wore when she wanted to look like a man. The kind of suit that clung to lush, womanly curves and accentuated the fact that she was a female.

She halted in front of him and raised one of her perfectly arched brows. “Quinn.”

“Roussel.”

She lowered her gaze to his cigarette and slowly lifted it again to meet his. “Smoking on the job site?” she asked.

He brought the cigarette to his lips just to watch those whiskey-colored eyes darken with displeasure. “Against the rules?”

“Are you asking for a clarification?”

“Figured that’s why you’re here.” He squinted at her through the smoke. “To set things straight,” he said.

“Plenty of time for that later.” She slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and turned toward the bay. “It’s a great site.”

“Best in town.”

“It will be.”

She angled her face in his direction, waiting for him to comment, but he simply met and held her stare.