night of goodbye sex, I hadn’t actually seen him in the flesh.
He looked even better than I remembered.
Wilder. Sexier. And très macho.
Long dark hair fell to his shoulders. Stubble covered his strong square jaw. His blue eyes gleamed with a neon-like intensity that made my tummy tingle and my nipples pebble. He was dressed classic-cowboy in a black leather duster, black jeans, and black boots. A Stetson sat low on his forehead, shadowing the top half of his face and obscuring the tiny scar that bisected one of his eyebrows.
But I didn’t need to see the tiny pucker of skin to know that it was there. I’d felt it with my hands. I’d even tasted it with my lips and licked it with my tongue. In fact, I’d licked my way down the smooth column of his neck, over the dip in his clavicle, around his nipples, his belly button, his—
Sheesh.
And they said men were obsessed with sex?
I gave myself a great big mental kick in the ass and summoned my most pissed-off expression. “You scared the crap out of me. Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
He gave me that odd look that said he couldn’t quite believe I was for real, and then he shrugged. “Knocking’s overrated. You lose the element of surprise.”
“And you needed to surprise me because?”
“You tell me.” He stared into my eyes, his blue gaze pushing deep, probing. “Lil?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your full name?” he asked, still not convinced.
“Are you kidding me? You know my name.”
“But do you?”
I narrowed my gaze at him. “Have you been drinking?”
“I’ve been working. Now answer the question.”
I shook my head and contemplated pinching myself. I had to be stuck smack-dab in the middle of a nightmare. Yeah, a nightmare would be good. That would mean Vinnie and the bloody fangs were all a very vivid product of my overstressed imagination. I’d been burning the proverbial candle at both ends, trying to build up my business and pay off the credit cards I’d used to get DED off the ground, and it was finally catching up to me.
Talk about the perfect excuse, except for one slight problem—other than the occasional beach fantasy, I didn’t dream. I slept the sleep of the undead—pitch-black and consuming—and so, it ain’t happenin’, sister.
Forget the nightmare. I latched onto the next explanation that jumped into my head. “Am I being punked?”
“Is that show even on anymore?”
I didn’t have a clue because I didn’t actually watch much TV. Evie (she TiVo’d everything ) usually filled me in. “Candid Camera?”
“No.”
“What Not to Wear?” I frowned. “Because if that’s the case, you can get Stacey and Clinton to take a hike back to the studio because I so don’t need their help. They can take their free shopping spree and give it to some clueless woman wearing a polyester pantsuit and beat-up clogs…”
Wait a second. What the hell was I saying ? We’re talking the words shopping and free in the same sentence.
“I have clogs,” I blurted, my mind doing a quick mental calculator of all the belts and shoes and fab bags I could afford with a complimentary 5K. “Vintage seventies. Big, bulky, white, ” I admitted. “Hideous. I should have thrown them out ages ago.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth for the space of two heartbeats before his frown deepened. “This isn’t about clogs.” His hands closed over my shoulders, his fingers strong and firm and compelling. “Stop stalling and tell me your name.”
“Countess Lilliana Arrabella Guinevere du Marchette,” I blurted.
He didn’t look relieved. (Not that I blamed him. Saying it was bad enough. Hearing it had to be just as painful.)
His eyebrows drew together. “Favorite color?”
“Pink.”
“Favorite blood type?”
“O positive.”
“Occcupation?”
“Matchmaker.”
“Favorite pastime?”
“Shopping.”
“Wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“You like to talk,” he announced with a flourish.
“True, but
He looked even better than I remembered.
Wilder. Sexier. And très macho.
Long dark hair fell to his shoulders. Stubble covered his strong square jaw. His blue eyes gleamed with a neon-like intensity that made my tummy tingle and my nipples pebble. He was dressed classic-cowboy in a black leather duster, black jeans, and black boots. A Stetson sat low on his forehead, shadowing the top half of his face and obscuring the tiny scar that bisected one of his eyebrows.
But I didn’t need to see the tiny pucker of skin to know that it was there. I’d felt it with my hands. I’d even tasted it with my lips and licked it with my tongue. In fact, I’d licked my way down the smooth column of his neck, over the dip in his clavicle, around his nipples, his belly button, his—
Sheesh.
And they said men were obsessed with sex?
I gave myself a great big mental kick in the ass and summoned my most pissed-off expression. “You scared the crap out of me. Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
He gave me that odd look that said he couldn’t quite believe I was for real, and then he shrugged. “Knocking’s overrated. You lose the element of surprise.”
“And you needed to surprise me because?”
“You tell me.” He stared into my eyes, his blue gaze pushing deep, probing. “Lil?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your full name?” he asked, still not convinced.
“Are you kidding me? You know my name.”
“But do you?”
I narrowed my gaze at him. “Have you been drinking?”
“I’ve been working. Now answer the question.”
I shook my head and contemplated pinching myself. I had to be stuck smack-dab in the middle of a nightmare. Yeah, a nightmare would be good. That would mean Vinnie and the bloody fangs were all a very vivid product of my overstressed imagination. I’d been burning the proverbial candle at both ends, trying to build up my business and pay off the credit cards I’d used to get DED off the ground, and it was finally catching up to me.
Talk about the perfect excuse, except for one slight problem—other than the occasional beach fantasy, I didn’t dream. I slept the sleep of the undead—pitch-black and consuming—and so, it ain’t happenin’, sister.
Forget the nightmare. I latched onto the next explanation that jumped into my head. “Am I being punked?”
“Is that show even on anymore?”
I didn’t have a clue because I didn’t actually watch much TV. Evie (she TiVo’d everything ) usually filled me in. “Candid Camera?”
“No.”
“What Not to Wear?” I frowned. “Because if that’s the case, you can get Stacey and Clinton to take a hike back to the studio because I so don’t need their help. They can take their free shopping spree and give it to some clueless woman wearing a polyester pantsuit and beat-up clogs…”
Wait a second. What the hell was I saying ? We’re talking the words shopping and free in the same sentence.
“I have clogs,” I blurted, my mind doing a quick mental calculator of all the belts and shoes and fab bags I could afford with a complimentary 5K. “Vintage seventies. Big, bulky, white, ” I admitted. “Hideous. I should have thrown them out ages ago.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth for the space of two heartbeats before his frown deepened. “This isn’t about clogs.” His hands closed over my shoulders, his fingers strong and firm and compelling. “Stop stalling and tell me your name.”
“Countess Lilliana Arrabella Guinevere du Marchette,” I blurted.
He didn’t look relieved. (Not that I blamed him. Saying it was bad enough. Hearing it had to be just as painful.)
His eyebrows drew together. “Favorite color?”
“Pink.”
“Favorite blood type?”
“O positive.”
“Occcupation?”
“Matchmaker.”
“Favorite pastime?”
“Shopping.”
“Wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“You like to talk,” he announced with a flourish.
“True, but
Similar Books
