face. "No, wait until we get there. Smitty can take them-no, I don't see why... Hell no, we can't wait that long!" He cursed under his breath. "All right, okay. Hold on." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked over at Angelina. The harsh lines in his face told her he wasn't happy about whatever he was going to say. "Do you have a tape measure?"
She blinked "A what?"
He visibly reined in his temper, lips crimped together in a thin, cruel line. "A tape measure. I need to... to measure you. Bust, waist, hips, back."
She quirked her eyebrows in amusement This was good. "You're going to put your hands on me, Sharkman? Is this some kind of new TCF con?"
"If I wanted to put my hands on you, believe me, I wouldn't need an excuse to do it. Not with the way you've been shoving yourself at me."
Stung, she raised her chin. "You're a real class act."
"Takes one to know one." He sucked in a deep breath, then spoke into the phone. "Let me call you back." He disconnected, then turned to her. "We're having clothes made to match the pictures of your mother." His words were overly calm and distinct as though he were barely able to say them without shouting. "Seems it takes a while to get them tailored. If I can get the measurements now they can start tonight and might have something ready in the next couple of days. So, do you or don't you have a tape measure?"
"Maybe. Somewhere..." She left to look for one, returning a few moments later with a crumpled yellow strip. Finn removed a small notepad from his inside suit pocket and a pen. "I need chest, waist-"
She thrust the tape into his hands, dying to see him squirm. "Go to it."
"You can do it yourself."
She smiled lazily at him. "More accurate if someone else does it for you. You want those clothes to fit, don't you?"
I dare you, Sharkman.
"Jesus Christ." He yanked her arqund to face him squarely, then placed the tape around her shoulders, sliding it down so it fit just above her breasts.
"Right through the center, please." She lowered his hands so the tape went over her breasts. His knuckles grazed her nipples, and she met his eyes as the nipples rose to meet his hands. And now the joke was on her, because something blazed hot and wild between them, a feeling that raked through her like Texas brushfire. Her heart hammered, setting off a pulse between her legs, liquid and quivery as fear. She clamped down on it, pushing it away so she couid control it, but the heat shimmered inside her, even after she told it to go away.
She grabbed the tape out of Finn's hands. "Thirty-eight, right?"
She refitted the tape around herself, glanced down at the number. 'Thirty-eight. I don't need the damn tape. Thirty-eight, twenty-four, thirty-six."
He nodded, mute. Then he gathered himself and a moment later wrote the numbers down in the little book. She thought his hand was shaking but she couldn't be sure.
He cleared his throat. "Two more." She jumped when he touched her shoulders, turned her around, then stood stiff as a spiked heel while he measured the width of her shoulders and the length of her back from neck to waist. By the time he was finished, her own hands were trembling.
"That it?" she said through clenched teeth.
"That's it."
"Good. Get out."
For once, he didn't have a snappy comeback. He left without another word.
Angelina sank into the couch and closed her eyes. No man had ever affected her that way before. And no man ever would. Especially Sharkman.
Forget about him, party girl. Your date is with Uncle Sam.
Her brandy was still on an end table where she'd left it to let Finn in. Now she swallowed the rest in one gulp. She breathed deep and poured herself another. Carrying it with her, she retreated to the bathroom and slid onto the padded bench at the vanity.
Opening a drawer set into the marble, she fished out a bottle of nail polish remover, some cotton balls, an emery board, and a sturdy nail clipper. She swallowed more brandy, then extended her hands in
She blinked "A what?"
He visibly reined in his temper, lips crimped together in a thin, cruel line. "A tape measure. I need to... to measure you. Bust, waist, hips, back."
She quirked her eyebrows in amusement This was good. "You're going to put your hands on me, Sharkman? Is this some kind of new TCF con?"
"If I wanted to put my hands on you, believe me, I wouldn't need an excuse to do it. Not with the way you've been shoving yourself at me."
Stung, she raised her chin. "You're a real class act."
"Takes one to know one." He sucked in a deep breath, then spoke into the phone. "Let me call you back." He disconnected, then turned to her. "We're having clothes made to match the pictures of your mother." His words were overly calm and distinct as though he were barely able to say them without shouting. "Seems it takes a while to get them tailored. If I can get the measurements now they can start tonight and might have something ready in the next couple of days. So, do you or don't you have a tape measure?"
"Maybe. Somewhere..." She left to look for one, returning a few moments later with a crumpled yellow strip. Finn removed a small notepad from his inside suit pocket and a pen. "I need chest, waist-"
She thrust the tape into his hands, dying to see him squirm. "Go to it."
"You can do it yourself."
She smiled lazily at him. "More accurate if someone else does it for you. You want those clothes to fit, don't you?"
I dare you, Sharkman.
"Jesus Christ." He yanked her arqund to face him squarely, then placed the tape around her shoulders, sliding it down so it fit just above her breasts.
"Right through the center, please." She lowered his hands so the tape went over her breasts. His knuckles grazed her nipples, and she met his eyes as the nipples rose to meet his hands. And now the joke was on her, because something blazed hot and wild between them, a feeling that raked through her like Texas brushfire. Her heart hammered, setting off a pulse between her legs, liquid and quivery as fear. She clamped down on it, pushing it away so she couid control it, but the heat shimmered inside her, even after she told it to go away.
She grabbed the tape out of Finn's hands. "Thirty-eight, right?"
She refitted the tape around herself, glanced down at the number. 'Thirty-eight. I don't need the damn tape. Thirty-eight, twenty-four, thirty-six."
He nodded, mute. Then he gathered himself and a moment later wrote the numbers down in the little book. She thought his hand was shaking but she couldn't be sure.
He cleared his throat. "Two more." She jumped when he touched her shoulders, turned her around, then stood stiff as a spiked heel while he measured the width of her shoulders and the length of her back from neck to waist. By the time he was finished, her own hands were trembling.
"That it?" she said through clenched teeth.
"That's it."
"Good. Get out."
For once, he didn't have a snappy comeback. He left without another word.
Angelina sank into the couch and closed her eyes. No man had ever affected her that way before. And no man ever would. Especially Sharkman.
Forget about him, party girl. Your date is with Uncle Sam.
Her brandy was still on an end table where she'd left it to let Finn in. Now she swallowed the rest in one gulp. She breathed deep and poured herself another. Carrying it with her, she retreated to the bathroom and slid onto the padded bench at the vanity.
Opening a drawer set into the marble, she fished out a bottle of nail polish remover, some cotton balls, an emery board, and a sturdy nail clipper. She swallowed more brandy, then extended her hands in
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