cleaning woman or domestic employee or whatever the hell the politically correct term was these days—was supposed to look. And everything she did absolutely riveted his attention.
He'd been surreptitiously, obsessively studying her every gesture, every little nuance of her appearance, every time she came into his view. She'd done something different to her hair, he'd decided, styling it so that a new layer of feathery bangs called unnecessary attention to her huge gold-flecked eyes. And she was dressed differently, too—still plainly but with a little more of the laid-back style Southern California was known for. She'd replaced the starched white blouse of the other day with a soft yellow cotton T-shirt that subtly molded the curves of her breasts, instead of hiding them. It was neatly tucked into the waistband of a pair of old, faded and, he suspected—judging by the too tight fit across the hips and the neatly rolled hems— borrowed blue jeans.
When she bent over to put a clean plastic bag in the garbage can, he was captivated by the way those jeans clung to the curve of her bottom and the long smooth line of her thighs. When she leaned over to scrub the stains in the bottom of his kitchen sink, he was mesmerized by the movement of her breasts under the material of the plain yellow T-shirt and the flowered bib of her apron. The way she lifted her arm to brush at a stray wisp of hair with the back of her wrist fascinated him. The way she bit her lower lip and furrowed her brow when some spot needed an extra bit of elbow grease delighted him. The way she paused, every so often, to tug her yellow rubber gloves more firmly onto her hands entranced him. Even the way she wrung out the sponge, giving it a last emphatic little squeeze each time, charmed him.
And she wasn't even his type!
Jill Mickelson, the interior designer from 2-B, now she was his type. Sexy, sophisticated and savvy, she was just the kind of woman he'd always liked. Jill was a grown-up who'd been around the block and had no schoolgirl illusions, no unrealistic expectations, no shining innocence to be shattered by ugly truths. They'd gone out a couple of times soon after he'd moved into the Wilshire Arms. They'd shared a meal or two, a few laughs—and enough more that any fantasies he might have had about Jill Mickelson standing in his kitchen wearing nothing but an apron would be a lot more accurate than the pictures his perverted mind conjured up of Faith McCray in the same outfit.
It was sacrilege, what he was thinking.
It was depraved and twisted.
And innocent, wholesome Faith McCray would probably run out of the apartment screaming if she had any idea of what was going on in his head right now. Hell, he was about to rim out of the apartment screaming himself. From sheer, unadulterated frustration. And guilt.
He had no right, thinking what he was thinking about her. He hardly knew the girl. And girl she was, he thought stubbornly, despite her twenty-four years. He'd never met a woman more unawakened, more truly innocent than she appeared to be. That much innocence was almost a liability, especially in a snake pit like Los Angeles. There were sleazebags and con artists on every street corner. She could be taken in and taken over before she even knew what had happened to her.
Look at the way she had come into his apartment, completely open, completely trusting, without giving so much as a thought to the harm he could do her. Then, no, he thought, smiling to himself as he remembered, she'd hesitated for a moment before accepting his invitation. But only a moment.
She shouldn't have come in at all.
She shouldn't have looked at him the way she had.
She shouldn't be here now.
The girl, he decided abruptly, needed a good talking to about the facts of life in the big city. She needed a few lessons in survival. She needed a keeper.
Jack swore, the word coming out as a strangled sound somewhere between a snort of cynical amusement and a low growl.
He'd been surreptitiously, obsessively studying her every gesture, every little nuance of her appearance, every time she came into his view. She'd done something different to her hair, he'd decided, styling it so that a new layer of feathery bangs called unnecessary attention to her huge gold-flecked eyes. And she was dressed differently, too—still plainly but with a little more of the laid-back style Southern California was known for. She'd replaced the starched white blouse of the other day with a soft yellow cotton T-shirt that subtly molded the curves of her breasts, instead of hiding them. It was neatly tucked into the waistband of a pair of old, faded and, he suspected—judging by the too tight fit across the hips and the neatly rolled hems— borrowed blue jeans.
When she bent over to put a clean plastic bag in the garbage can, he was captivated by the way those jeans clung to the curve of her bottom and the long smooth line of her thighs. When she leaned over to scrub the stains in the bottom of his kitchen sink, he was mesmerized by the movement of her breasts under the material of the plain yellow T-shirt and the flowered bib of her apron. The way she lifted her arm to brush at a stray wisp of hair with the back of her wrist fascinated him. The way she bit her lower lip and furrowed her brow when some spot needed an extra bit of elbow grease delighted him. The way she paused, every so often, to tug her yellow rubber gloves more firmly onto her hands entranced him. Even the way she wrung out the sponge, giving it a last emphatic little squeeze each time, charmed him.
And she wasn't even his type!
Jill Mickelson, the interior designer from 2-B, now she was his type. Sexy, sophisticated and savvy, she was just the kind of woman he'd always liked. Jill was a grown-up who'd been around the block and had no schoolgirl illusions, no unrealistic expectations, no shining innocence to be shattered by ugly truths. They'd gone out a couple of times soon after he'd moved into the Wilshire Arms. They'd shared a meal or two, a few laughs—and enough more that any fantasies he might have had about Jill Mickelson standing in his kitchen wearing nothing but an apron would be a lot more accurate than the pictures his perverted mind conjured up of Faith McCray in the same outfit.
It was sacrilege, what he was thinking.
It was depraved and twisted.
And innocent, wholesome Faith McCray would probably run out of the apartment screaming if she had any idea of what was going on in his head right now. Hell, he was about to rim out of the apartment screaming himself. From sheer, unadulterated frustration. And guilt.
He had no right, thinking what he was thinking about her. He hardly knew the girl. And girl she was, he thought stubbornly, despite her twenty-four years. He'd never met a woman more unawakened, more truly innocent than she appeared to be. That much innocence was almost a liability, especially in a snake pit like Los Angeles. There were sleazebags and con artists on every street corner. She could be taken in and taken over before she even knew what had happened to her.
Look at the way she had come into his apartment, completely open, completely trusting, without giving so much as a thought to the harm he could do her. Then, no, he thought, smiling to himself as he remembered, she'd hesitated for a moment before accepting his invitation. But only a moment.
She shouldn't have come in at all.
She shouldn't have looked at him the way she had.
She shouldn't be here now.
The girl, he decided abruptly, needed a good talking to about the facts of life in the big city. She needed a few lessons in survival. She needed a keeper.
Jack swore, the word coming out as a strangled sound somewhere between a snort of cynical amusement and a low growl.
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