She honestly didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily their sunny waiter arrived with the beignets and their steaming drinks.

“Enjoy,” he said, putting the bill down on the table.

Travis nodded at the guy—Billie guessed this was the closest he got to an actual thanks—and then he pushed the plate toward her to take the first one.

“Thank you.” She picked one up, the sugar spilling down onto her sweater as she lifted it to her mouth. His gesture was almost gentlemanly. Maybe deep beneath that hard-core interior there was a softer side to Travis Sinclair, a little like the fried dough that melted in her mouth.

“What about you?” he asked, lifting his mug to his lips, not touching the beignets.

She blinked and then, realizing he was referring to her family, swallowed her mouthful before speaking. Her family was normal to the point of boring and couldn’t understand why she always had to make waves—her mother’s words when she’d finally announced she was leaving Saxon. “My family are all in Western Australia—my mum and dad, my two older brothers, their perfect wives and angelic children.”

He smirked, telling her he hadn’t missed her sarcasm. “Your parents are still married? To each other? That’s unique.”

“They’re still together because they are stubborn and don’t want to halve their assets, not because they can actually stand to be in the same room together.”

He chuckled. “And what’s this husband of yours like? Perfect like the rest of the family?”

She rubbed at the sugar she could feel dusting her upper lip. “Firstly, he’s my ex-husband, and yes, my family does think he’s perfect, but I know better. He’s selfish, materialistic and manipulative; got jealous whenever I so much as talked to another man; was controlling about what I wore, where I went and who I saw, and unsupportive of the things that mattered to me.”

“He didn’t appreciate art?”

“No.” She glared at him. “You and he have that in common.”

“I appreciate art. See?” He pushed up the sleeves of his long-sleeved T-shirt one after the other and she sucked in a breath at the sight of his tanned, sculpted forearms covered in ink.

“Do they all mean something?” she asked, her fingers twitching to touch them. She could see a dagger through a heart and a fleur-de-lis cross, which surprised her considering he hated New Orleans, and lots of other scary-looking things. He was more ink than skin, and if she’d met him in a dark alley alone at night she’d probably have been terrified. Instead, she was curious. Intrigued by this man so different from anyone she’d ever known.

“Pretty much,” he told her.

She ignored the letters that spelled TRUST NO ONE across his knuckles and reached out and touched a finger to the dollar sign on his wrist. “Has this one got something to do with ‘Cash’?” she asked, trying to ignore the warmth that shot up her arm at the connection. Whoops. She’d resolved not to let him touch her, and then she’d gone and touched him.

He took a moment, staring down at her fingers on his arm, and for some reason she couldn’t drag her hand away. He felt good, soft yet hard. Hot. Exactly like his lips had felt earlier that day. Goose bumps sprouted on her skin at the recollection and she fought the urge to run her hand even higher.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, looking down into her eyes, his expression unreadable.

“And?” she prompted him, finally removing her hand and using it to pick up another beignet. Eating was much safer than touching.

“It means I’m good with numbers, money, computers and shit like that. The brothers appreciated it and yeah, that’s how I got my road name.”

“The brothers? I thought you said you didn’t have any family.”

“I don’t. I meant the Deacons.”

“Oh right, so what? You’re the Deacons’ treasurer?” She took a bite of the beignet, thankful for television, which had given her a tiny insight into the MC world.

“Was,” he corrected. “I’ve been elsewhere for the best part of a decade. We all have.”

She didn’t care about the others. “What have you been up to?”

He raised an eyebrow as if he wasn’t used to answering to anyone. “I’m a security analyst.”

“What does that entail?”

He chuckled, as if he could tell she didn’t know whether that was a real job. “I show big companies how insecure their computer programs are, how easily they can be hacked into, and then I create a solution for them. Some people call what I do penetration testing.”

“So basically you’re a glorified computer hacker?” She didn’t know whether to be impressed or appalled. Lord knew where he’d learned the tricks of that particular trade.

He shrugged, his expression giving very little away.

“So you work for yourself?” she asked, ridiculously curious. “You contract your services out?”

He nodded.

“What kind of training did you have to do for that?”

“I’ve always been good with computers and taught myself a lot of what I know.” She guessed she knew what he meant by that, but his next words surprised her. “But I’ve got an MBA as well.”

As she digested this information, garnering the courage to ask him more and maybe question the meaning of some of his more menacing tattoos, he reached across the table and wiped his thumb slowly across her lip. Her whole body stilled, her heart feeling as if it were beating outside her body, and she completely lost her train of thought. Someone who’d practically just admitted to a past life of crime should not be so attractive to her.

“Sugar,” he said, holding his thumb up in explanation, and she saw the evidence a moment before he opened his mouth and licked it off.

She gulped and, barely able to breathe and totally incapable of taking her gaze from his mouth, forgot she’d planned on thumping him the next time he put his hands on her. Because now she wished more than anything that he’d do it again.

“Why have you suddenly started being nice?” she asked, unable to withhold any longer the question that had been weighing on her mind since he’d marched into her bedroom.

Travis frowned. “Trust me, I’m not nice at all.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Ever since we met you’ve been doing your damn best to aggravate me and now we’re suddenly playing a different game. It’s almost civilized.”

He looked at her so intently, she felt her cheeks flush. “Didn’t your mom ever tell you boys pick on girls they like?”

She swallowed. He liked her? She bit down on the grin that wanted to twist her lips. “I thought you were just an asshole.”

He laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that was perhaps the sexiest sound she’d ever heard. “Sweetheart, don’t be fooled by this pretense of civilization. I might like you, but it doesn’t mean I’m not an asshole and it doesn’t mean you should like me back.”

His words were a warning, but they did nothing to cool the fires burning within her. Until he’d waltzed into her gallery, she’d thought herself happy with her new life in New Orleans. Happy to be man- and commitment-free. But Travis’s attention had reignited long-buried needs, and she was finding it hard to concentrate on anything but the thought of satisfying them. Very soon, if her hormones had any say in the matter.

“Is anything in the gallery yours?” He leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands behind his head, seemingly unperturbed by touching her or admitting his attraction. Perhaps he was bored of her already? Perhaps the kiss that afternoon hadn’t done for him what it had done for her. Perhaps that’s why he was acting different all of a sudden. Surely if he were still interested, he’d have dragged her into bed rather than out of it to head down the road for a post-midnight snack. He didn’t seem like the type of man to waste time with formalities.

He looked at her quizzically as if he’d just asked a question and she realized she had no idea what it was. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”