plainly visible. I’m not what you’d call modest, but I figured it would enhance my disguise as a helpless damsel in distress if I pretended to be, so I crossed my arms over my chest as footsteps approached. I even hunched my shoulders a bit as if I were cold.
The door swung open, and I caught my first sight of Ross
Blackburn.
54
My immediate impression was that he was far too young to have been married to a woman old enough to be Jeffrey’smother. I wouldn’t have put him as a day over 30. My second impression was . . . hubba hubba! If I were in the market for a toy boy, I’d have been wiping the drool from my chin. The look he gave me – a long, slow, up and down, followed by a frown and a disdainful sniff – suggested I was not making a similar
impression. I unfolded my arms, ostensibly to free my hand to brush my hair out of my eyes. I have to admit, though, I was a little miffed when he didn’t even glance at my chest.
“Yes?” he prompted, because I’d apparently stood there
gaping too long.
“My car broke down,” I told him while batting my eyelashes. “May I use your phone to call a tow truck?” The batting eyelashes didn’t seem to make any more impression than my boobs. I must have been losing my touch.
“No cell phone?” Blackburn asked with a raised eyebrow.
What an asshole! Here was this helpless, drenched, sexy woman standing on his doorstep at an ungodly hour and he’d so far shown no inclination to invite me in out of the cold. OK, so it wasn’t actually cold, but it’s the principle of the thing.
“I left it at home,” I said and I let him hear the edge of annoyance in my voice. “Look, yours is the only house with lights on. Sorry to bother you, but if you’ll just let me make a quick call, I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
The corners of his mouth tightened in displeasure, but he stepped aside and opened the door wide enough to let me in. A spoken invitation would have been much nicer, but it seemed I wasn’t getting one. I gritted my teeth against the painful resistance as I crossed the threshold. His non-verbal invite was
enough to get me through, but not enough to make it a pleasant
55
experience. Luckily, either I was a good enough actress to hide my discomfort, or he was sulking over my unwanted intrusion, since he didn’t seem to notice the effort it took me to come
inside.
“Wait here,” he ordered me, and I wanted to smack him. Where did he get off giving me orders? It wasn’t like I was the hired help! I thought about dear little Jeffrey and let a small smile curl my lips. In a manner of speaking, I was hired help after all.
Blackburn wasn’t gone long. Before I’d even had a chance to look around, he emerged from what I presumed to be a powder room, carrying a fluffy white hand towel. For the first time, I realized the foyer was made of beautiful, shiny hardwood, and that I was so wet I was dripping on the small rug that fronted the door.
I took the towel from him almost gratefully. I supposed I couldn’t blame him for not wanting me to drip all over his hardwood.
“Thanks,” I said as I began to blot water from my hair.
“No cell phone and no umbrella,” he mused. “It appears you
were ill-prepared for this evening’s outing.”
I glanced up at him from under my fringe. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was being a jerk or if that was supposed to be friendly banter. I’m usually better than that at reading people.
“I also didn’t bring a spare car, a hairdryer or condoms,” I quipped. “I’m ill-prepared for just about anything except a quiet evening at home.”
56
For the first time, a hint of humour glinted in his eyes. Eyes, I might add, that were the kind of smoky grey hue that would look blue if he were wearing a blue shirt. Yum.
“I can’t help you with the car or the hairdryer, but if you need condoms, feel free to ask.” The humour had
The door swung open, and I caught my first sight of Ross
Blackburn.
54
My immediate impression was that he was far too young to have been married to a woman old enough to be Jeffrey’smother. I wouldn’t have put him as a day over 30. My second impression was . . . hubba hubba! If I were in the market for a toy boy, I’d have been wiping the drool from my chin. The look he gave me – a long, slow, up and down, followed by a frown and a disdainful sniff – suggested I was not making a similar
impression. I unfolded my arms, ostensibly to free my hand to brush my hair out of my eyes. I have to admit, though, I was a little miffed when he didn’t even glance at my chest.
“Yes?” he prompted, because I’d apparently stood there
gaping too long.
“My car broke down,” I told him while batting my eyelashes. “May I use your phone to call a tow truck?” The batting eyelashes didn’t seem to make any more impression than my boobs. I must have been losing my touch.
“No cell phone?” Blackburn asked with a raised eyebrow.
What an asshole! Here was this helpless, drenched, sexy woman standing on his doorstep at an ungodly hour and he’d so far shown no inclination to invite me in out of the cold. OK, so it wasn’t actually cold, but it’s the principle of the thing.
“I left it at home,” I said and I let him hear the edge of annoyance in my voice. “Look, yours is the only house with lights on. Sorry to bother you, but if you’ll just let me make a quick call, I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
The corners of his mouth tightened in displeasure, but he stepped aside and opened the door wide enough to let me in. A spoken invitation would have been much nicer, but it seemed I wasn’t getting one. I gritted my teeth against the painful resistance as I crossed the threshold. His non-verbal invite was
enough to get me through, but not enough to make it a pleasant
55
experience. Luckily, either I was a good enough actress to hide my discomfort, or he was sulking over my unwanted intrusion, since he didn’t seem to notice the effort it took me to come
inside.
“Wait here,” he ordered me, and I wanted to smack him. Where did he get off giving me orders? It wasn’t like I was the hired help! I thought about dear little Jeffrey and let a small smile curl my lips. In a manner of speaking, I was hired help after all.
Blackburn wasn’t gone long. Before I’d even had a chance to look around, he emerged from what I presumed to be a powder room, carrying a fluffy white hand towel. For the first time, I realized the foyer was made of beautiful, shiny hardwood, and that I was so wet I was dripping on the small rug that fronted the door.
I took the towel from him almost gratefully. I supposed I couldn’t blame him for not wanting me to drip all over his hardwood.
“Thanks,” I said as I began to blot water from my hair.
“No cell phone and no umbrella,” he mused. “It appears you
were ill-prepared for this evening’s outing.”
I glanced up at him from under my fringe. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was being a jerk or if that was supposed to be friendly banter. I’m usually better than that at reading people.
“I also didn’t bring a spare car, a hairdryer or condoms,” I quipped. “I’m ill-prepared for just about anything except a quiet evening at home.”
56
For the first time, a hint of humour glinted in his eyes. Eyes, I might add, that were the kind of smoky grey hue that would look blue if he were wearing a blue shirt. Yum.
“I can’t help you with the car or the hairdryer, but if you need condoms, feel free to ask.” The humour had
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