Read Online An Offer He Can't Refuse by Christie Ridgway - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christie Ridgway
Ads: Link
slowly settling back against his seat. Suddenly he didn't sound the least bit businesslike either. There was amusement and something else, something deeper, in his voice.
She gave a tiny shrug. "What if I told you I
can
read your mind?"
'Then I'd dare you to prove it." He folded his arms over his chest. "What am I thinking right this moment?"
"How much the tabloids would pay for an 'I'm Melissa Banyon's Boy Toy' exclusive?"
"Not even close."
She pretended to mull it over. "It was a surprising, yet pleasant evening and you'll call me in the morning?"
"Nothing nearly that mundane."
"You hope to find a pizza joint between here and home."
"Now you're just guessing."
She made a face at him, knowing he wouldn't see it clearly in the dim shine of the streetlight half a block away. "What then?"
His hand reached out, and that's when it happened. That's when she lost all hope that tonight he'd see her as a cool, consummate professional. Because surely he had to sense the way that giddiness had turned to mischief had turned to flirtation and now had turned to… to awareness. Sexual awareness of him. It was a sizzling, sparkling kind of heat that overtook her body, making her pulse thrum and her heart pound. She didn't move, she couldn't move, as he touched her cheek.
The pads of his four fingers trailed along her skin until the tip of his ring finger caught in the corner of her mouth. Her pulse jittered, her skin burned, and beneath her business suit her body went all-woman.
"You want to know what I'm really thinking?"
"Yes." His hand didn't move as she whispered the word. She tasted the salty flavor of his skin.
"I'm wondering how someone who had her first kiss from Smelly Kelly O'Hara could judge a man like me lousy in bed."
Because I'm not
, she heard him continue in her head. She figured it was more like wishful thinking than real mind reading, however, because then that inner voice added,
though it seems like a sure bet that sooner or later I'll end up proving it to you
.
He opened the door and climbed out of the car, then paused. "And I'm wondering," he said, looking at her with an unreadable expression in his eyes, "if what's happening here is going to hamper the game or sweeten the pot."
----
Seven
"Mack the Knife"
Bobby Darin
That's All
(1959)
Johnny didn't call Téa the next morning because he had an
early, important appointment with someone else. Stanley Thompson had retired as managing editor of the
Desert Bugle
ten years before, at the same time the
Desert Bugle
had retired from existence.
"The newspaper business was booming here after the war," the elderly man said, as Johnny forked over four twenties for two buckets of balls and the privilege to use the practice range at the prestigious Moonridge Country Club. "That's when air-conditioning and the leisure class came to Palm Springs."
They chose two open positions at the near end of the range. Beyond it were acres of carpet-quality grass and sparkling water that made up the playing field of a rich man's most frustrating sport. Johnny acted as caddy for both bags, because Stan Thompson looked as if a sneeze would blow him over, not to mention a full set of furry-headed golf clubs. "Is that when the Carusos came to the area as well?" he asked, placing Stan's bag on a stand.
The old man removed his pale blue fishing hat and squinted in Johnny's direction. "You want to talk about the
Carusos
?"
Johnny had been given Stan's name by the county librarian. She'd assured him that no one knew more about local history, including local mob history, than the old newspaperman. "I thought I mentioned it in the phone call when we set up the meeting."
Stan scratched the liver spots on his bald head, then pulled his hat back on. "You mentioned the Mafia. I assumed you wanted to write another story about Al Capone hiding out in these parts."
Johnny turned his back to set down his own bag. During the phone call, he'd picked up on Stan's assumption that he was a
She gave a tiny shrug. "What if I told you I
can
read your mind?"
'Then I'd dare you to prove it." He folded his arms over his chest. "What am I thinking right this moment?"
"How much the tabloids would pay for an 'I'm Melissa Banyon's Boy Toy' exclusive?"
"Not even close."
She pretended to mull it over. "It was a surprising, yet pleasant evening and you'll call me in the morning?"
"Nothing nearly that mundane."
"You hope to find a pizza joint between here and home."
"Now you're just guessing."
She made a face at him, knowing he wouldn't see it clearly in the dim shine of the streetlight half a block away. "What then?"
His hand reached out, and that's when it happened. That's when she lost all hope that tonight he'd see her as a cool, consummate professional. Because surely he had to sense the way that giddiness had turned to mischief had turned to flirtation and now had turned to… to awareness. Sexual awareness of him. It was a sizzling, sparkling kind of heat that overtook her body, making her pulse thrum and her heart pound. She didn't move, she couldn't move, as he touched her cheek.
The pads of his four fingers trailed along her skin until the tip of his ring finger caught in the corner of her mouth. Her pulse jittered, her skin burned, and beneath her business suit her body went all-woman.
"You want to know what I'm really thinking?"
"Yes." His hand didn't move as she whispered the word. She tasted the salty flavor of his skin.
"I'm wondering how someone who had her first kiss from Smelly Kelly O'Hara could judge a man like me lousy in bed."
Because I'm not
, she heard him continue in her head. She figured it was more like wishful thinking than real mind reading, however, because then that inner voice added,
though it seems like a sure bet that sooner or later I'll end up proving it to you
.
He opened the door and climbed out of the car, then paused. "And I'm wondering," he said, looking at her with an unreadable expression in his eyes, "if what's happening here is going to hamper the game or sweeten the pot."
----
Seven
"Mack the Knife"
Bobby Darin
That's All
(1959)
Johnny didn't call Téa the next morning because he had an
early, important appointment with someone else. Stanley Thompson had retired as managing editor of the
Desert Bugle
ten years before, at the same time the
Desert Bugle
had retired from existence.
"The newspaper business was booming here after the war," the elderly man said, as Johnny forked over four twenties for two buckets of balls and the privilege to use the practice range at the prestigious Moonridge Country Club. "That's when air-conditioning and the leisure class came to Palm Springs."
They chose two open positions at the near end of the range. Beyond it were acres of carpet-quality grass and sparkling water that made up the playing field of a rich man's most frustrating sport. Johnny acted as caddy for both bags, because Stan Thompson looked as if a sneeze would blow him over, not to mention a full set of furry-headed golf clubs. "Is that when the Carusos came to the area as well?" he asked, placing Stan's bag on a stand.
The old man removed his pale blue fishing hat and squinted in Johnny's direction. "You want to talk about the
Carusos
?"
Johnny had been given Stan's name by the county librarian. She'd assured him that no one knew more about local history, including local mob history, than the old newspaperman. "I thought I mentioned it in the phone call when we set up the meeting."
Stan scratched the liver spots on his bald head, then pulled his hat back on. "You mentioned the Mafia. I assumed you wanted to write another story about Al Capone hiding out in these parts."
Johnny turned his back to set down his own bag. During the phone call, he'd picked up on Stan's assumption that he was a
Similar Books
