“Me.” He descended two steps, which did nothing to diminish the sheer size of him. Maximillian P. Roper III was six feet four inches of unforgiving muscle and man. No doubt he made an excellent bodyguard.
But he wouldn’t be hers. Never, never, never.
“Cori, do you know this man?” Breezy closed in as though her wispy one-hundred-and-one pounds could actually keep Max Roper at bay.
“We knew each other in Chicago,” Max said.
“I knew her in Chicago,” Breezy insisted. “I never met you.”
Cori cupped Breezy’s elbow to urge her away. “I’ll talk to him alone, Breeze. Then he’ll be leaving.”
Max’s gaze never wavered from Cori, those hundred-proof eyes refusing to reveal anything as mundane as a feeling. A tailored sports jacket covered what she knew to be a Herculean chest, and in that chest pounded a heart that she’d once considered her most treasured possession.
“There must be a mistake,” she said. “I arranged for a bodyguard, not a DEA bloodhound.”
The corner of his mouth quirked—a full-fledged grin for Max Roper. He reached out a hand for a formal shake. “I’m here to provide you with unparalleled personal security.”
She backed away. Touching a charged lightning rod would be less dangerous than touching Max again. “Let me get this straight. You’re one of the Bullet Catchers?”
“Yes.”
“And Lucy Sharpe sent you to protect me?” She shook her head in disbelief.
“Lucy has her reasons and we rarely question them, Mrs. Peyton.”
The emphasis on Cori’s married name wasn’t lost on her. Did he believe what everyone else did: that she’d married an older man for his money, and won the lottery when he died in their bed, leaving her an heiress to a big, juicy estate and a seat in the Peyton Enterprises boardroom?
Surely Max, of all people, knew her better than that. Maybe not, though.
And she wouldn’t explain. She stopped caring what Max Roper thought about her a long time ago, and he’d be gone before her party ended. “I’ll call Lucy and make other arrangements,” she said simply. “Perhaps she doesn’t realize we have a—”
“Conflict of interest?”
Is that what he’d call it? The memory of soul-soaring kisses and heart-cracking tears and gut-wrenching accusations flashed in her brain. “That assumes interest, Max.”
“Still the lawyer, I see.”
She jutted her chin defiantly. “I never finished law school, but I can still argue.”
“I’ll look forward to that.” His eyes danced. Curse him.
“Don’t bother.” She tried to sidestep him. “I’ll go call your boss and tell her you’re not what I had in mind.” Now there was an understatement.
He pulled out a cell phone and held it toward her. “Just press one. It’s programmed to Lucy’s private line.”
She took the phone, regarding him closely for signs of a bluff. He was so very, very good at that.
If he’d spent the last five years chasing evil drug lords, the job hadn’t ravaged his handsome face; if anything, he looked better. Older. Wiser. Scarier. His dark hair was just as thick as it had been back in the days when Cori’s fingers explored it endlessly, but he’d grown it longer, letting it touch his collar and dip farther over his ominous-looking brow. A brow that still knotted at the sight of her, as though he could never figure her out but refused to stop trying. His strong jaw remained set and unyielding, but she knew how to slacken it. She knew every weak spot on his body.
“Or you could just stare at me.”
She narrowed her eyes, pointing the phone at him. “You still think you’re a world-class bluffer.”
“Anytime you want to play a hand…” He leaned an inch closer. “You can find out.”
She didn’t move. “The last time I bet you, I lost.”
He dipped one millimeter closer, blocking all the light behind him and sending a whiff of a familiar, musky scent right down to her toes. “The last time you bet me, I made you come using nothing but a two of diamonds and this.” He blew softly on her face, fluttering her bangs. “Wanna bet, Cori Cooper?”
She locked her knees, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “I go by Corinne Peyton now.”
“So I read in Town and Country.” At her surprised look, he added, “The clipping was in your file.”
“You knew who I was when you accepted this assignment?”
“Of course.” He angled his head. “And, by the way, my deepest sympathies on the loss of your husband.”
There was no indictment in his voice; none of the veiled resentment at her fortune. Another bluff? Or was