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Authors: Ann Christopher
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and hauled her up. The soft slide of her nightgown back into place covered her up, but she tugged at the ruffled bottom around her knees, just in case, and then squared her shoulders, gripped the counter for support and tried to look like she was a woman to be reckoned with even though she was scared out of her freaking mind.
They eyed each other warily, both panting. Somethingobscured her vision and she belatedly realized it was her wild hair, which was in her face and down around her shoulders. She shoved it back, aware of him watching her, marking her every movement.
Tired of the darkness, she reached behind, not daring to break eye contact, even for a second, fumbled for the over-the-sink switch, and flipped it.
This was a mistake.
He’d looked scary enough in the dark, when she’d seen only flashes of the wild light in his eyes, but now he was downright terrifying for a variety of reasons. First was the gash on his forehead that would eventually turn into a Harry Potter scar. Second was the bloody nose, for which she claimed full responsibility. Third was the full-body makeover he seemed to have undergone since she last saw him.
The overgrown face scruff was gone and so were the sandy curls she’d imagined fisted in her hands. No sign of the white apron. What was left? A clean-shaven man with hard-edged granite cheekbones, a skull trim and a
don’t fuck with me or you might not live to tell the story
bad-ass expression she didn’t want to test unless she had to.
This was not the laid-back fry cook whose biggest issue was whether the day’s order of eggs had arrived safely from the dairy. This was a focused and fearsome warrior. She’d caught a flicker of him last night when he rescued her from her attacker; now she was staring at a raging inferno.
Though he wore the usual baggy jeans, a sweater and a puffy jacket, nothing special or remarkable, her instincts screamed that this man was a soldier or mercenary. If someone needed rescuing from a South American jungle, this was the guy you’d send for. Itwas all in his eyes and the way he carried himself, the absolute stillness and relentless focus with which he watched her, analyzing and strategizing.
And then he blinked once, twice—she had the feeling he was struggling with himself, trying not to do something he desperately wanted to do—and his unreadable gaze traveled lower.
To her body in its filmy cotton nightgown, backlit now by the light she’d flipped on in her foolish haste. One sweeping glance left her feeling naked and vulnerable, as though he’d arranged her on satin sheets for his slow inspection and ultimate enjoyment.
It was all over in less than a second, but her flesh responded on a primal level she was helpless to control. Her breasts grew heavy and ached and her dark nipples peaked until the harsh rise and fall of her chest against the cotton tormented her. The curve of her hips, her thighs and the deep cleft between them all felt a touch of that intense gaze and responded.
Sheer defiance kept her from crossing her arms and covering herself.
Or maybe it was idiocy.
After three or four of the longest beats of her life, he caught his breath and became aware of the blood trickling from his nostrils. “Jesus.” Looking her up and down once more, this time with clear irritation, he swiped the back of his hand under his nose. “I knew you were nothing but trouble.”
Incensed, she sprang into motion before she knew what she was doing. This SOB broke into
her
house, tackled her in her own kitchen, scared her half to death when she was minding her own business, not bothering anybody, and now he had the unmitigated gall to call
her
trouble?
Oh,
hell
no.
Her hand had just closed around the well-balanced and satisfying hilt of her favorite piece of cutlery, a two-hundred-dollar chef’s knife from Williams-Sonoma, yanked it down from the magnetized strip on the wall, and raised it toward his face—if he thought he was going to have a
They eyed each other warily, both panting. Somethingobscured her vision and she belatedly realized it was her wild hair, which was in her face and down around her shoulders. She shoved it back, aware of him watching her, marking her every movement.
Tired of the darkness, she reached behind, not daring to break eye contact, even for a second, fumbled for the over-the-sink switch, and flipped it.
This was a mistake.
He’d looked scary enough in the dark, when she’d seen only flashes of the wild light in his eyes, but now he was downright terrifying for a variety of reasons. First was the gash on his forehead that would eventually turn into a Harry Potter scar. Second was the bloody nose, for which she claimed full responsibility. Third was the full-body makeover he seemed to have undergone since she last saw him.
The overgrown face scruff was gone and so were the sandy curls she’d imagined fisted in her hands. No sign of the white apron. What was left? A clean-shaven man with hard-edged granite cheekbones, a skull trim and a
don’t fuck with me or you might not live to tell the story
bad-ass expression she didn’t want to test unless she had to.
This was not the laid-back fry cook whose biggest issue was whether the day’s order of eggs had arrived safely from the dairy. This was a focused and fearsome warrior. She’d caught a flicker of him last night when he rescued her from her attacker; now she was staring at a raging inferno.
Though he wore the usual baggy jeans, a sweater and a puffy jacket, nothing special or remarkable, her instincts screamed that this man was a soldier or mercenary. If someone needed rescuing from a South American jungle, this was the guy you’d send for. Itwas all in his eyes and the way he carried himself, the absolute stillness and relentless focus with which he watched her, analyzing and strategizing.
And then he blinked once, twice—she had the feeling he was struggling with himself, trying not to do something he desperately wanted to do—and his unreadable gaze traveled lower.
To her body in its filmy cotton nightgown, backlit now by the light she’d flipped on in her foolish haste. One sweeping glance left her feeling naked and vulnerable, as though he’d arranged her on satin sheets for his slow inspection and ultimate enjoyment.
It was all over in less than a second, but her flesh responded on a primal level she was helpless to control. Her breasts grew heavy and ached and her dark nipples peaked until the harsh rise and fall of her chest against the cotton tormented her. The curve of her hips, her thighs and the deep cleft between them all felt a touch of that intense gaze and responded.
Sheer defiance kept her from crossing her arms and covering herself.
Or maybe it was idiocy.
After three or four of the longest beats of her life, he caught his breath and became aware of the blood trickling from his nostrils. “Jesus.” Looking her up and down once more, this time with clear irritation, he swiped the back of his hand under his nose. “I knew you were nothing but trouble.”
Incensed, she sprang into motion before she knew what she was doing. This SOB broke into
her
house, tackled her in her own kitchen, scared her half to death when she was minding her own business, not bothering anybody, and now he had the unmitigated gall to call
her
trouble?
Oh,
hell
no.
Her hand had just closed around the well-balanced and satisfying hilt of her favorite piece of cutlery, a two-hundred-dollar chef’s knife from Williams-Sonoma, yanked it down from the magnetized strip on the wall, and raised it toward his face—if he thought he was going to have a
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