belt in purse attack, that's for damn sure. And here I've been worried about taking care of you, when it looks like I'm the one who needs protecting."
Jillian didn't find his remarks amusing. She put both hands against his chest and shoved, hard. He didn't budge. The wall of muscles beneath her hands was rock hard. "Let go of me," she growled.
Instead of doing as she said, he actually chuckled, his warm breath stirring the hair at her temple. "Now, now," he chided.
"Don't 'now, now' me!"
"What do you want me to do to you?"
Jillian took a deep breath and grimly regained control of her temper. She seldom lost it, but that didn't mean she didn't have one. She said very clearly, "If you don't turn me loose right now, I'm going to bite you, hard ."
The arm around her waist loosened and he grinned down at her, totally unabashed. "Mind you, if we were both naked I probably wouldn't mind if you bit me, but under these circumstances I'll pass."
She stepped back and straightened her clothing, then ran a hand over her hair, searching for unruly strands. To her surprise, everything felt as neat as when she had walked in the door.
"You look just fine," he said, still grinning. "All prim and buttoned up. You sure had me fooled!" He began laughing.
She turned and wrenched the door open. "Get out."
He reached past her and flattened his hand on the door, closing it with a thud. "Not yet, sweetcakes. We need to talk."
"I can't imagine why."
His eyes sparkled at her acid tone, and he leaned closer to her. His breath was warm and smelled, not unpleasantly, of fresh whiskey. "Come away from the door," he murmured. "Kates or your brother might come up, and I don't want either of them to hear what we're saying. Are their rooms next door to yours?"
Jillian silently studied him, noting for the first time the shrewdness in those blue eyes. Despite the whiskey on his breath, he was sober and in perfect control of himself. Not only that, his comment had made it plain that he didn't trust the other two men, which was very perceptive of him. Instantly she saw that she had underestimated him, but that didn't mean she trusted him now.
Still, she answered his question. "No. Rick is two doors down; Steven is across the hall."
"Good. But just to be on the safe side, let's turn on the television and get away from the door."
He suited actions to words, moving to the television and turning it on. Rapid Portuguese filled the room. Then he settled comfortably into the room's one chair, lifting his booted feet to the bed and crossing them.
She shoved them off. "Keep your feet off my bed."
She had the impression that he wanted to laugh again, but instead he said, "Yes, ma'am," in a suspiciously meek tone.
She sat down on the bed. "All right, what did you want to talk about?"
He didn't answer for a moment, and she read the lazy interest in his eyes as he looked at her and at the bed. He made no effort to hide it, as if he didn't care that she knew what he was thinking. Jillian took her own satisfaction by refusing to give him any sort of reaction.
His mouth twitched a bit in amusement as he hooked his hands behind his head. She couldn't help noticing what a well-shaped mouth it was, wide and clearly outlined, with blatant sensuality in the curve of his upper lip. He was a raffish-looking scoundrel, with his hair tousled and his jaw already showing the need for a razor. His clothes looked as if they had never seen an iron, and maybe they hadn't. His lightweight khaki pants were stuffed into scarred brown boots, while his sweat-stained white shirt hung loose outside his pants. An even worse-stained khaki hat lay on the small table.
But she remembered that cool assessment in his eyes, and knew how alert he was behind the image he projected. This man knew exactly what he was doing.
That didn't mean she was going to trust him, or start this talk. He wasn't going to sucker her into telling him everything she knew without revealing anything
Jillian didn't find his remarks amusing. She put both hands against his chest and shoved, hard. He didn't budge. The wall of muscles beneath her hands was rock hard. "Let go of me," she growled.
Instead of doing as she said, he actually chuckled, his warm breath stirring the hair at her temple. "Now, now," he chided.
"Don't 'now, now' me!"
"What do you want me to do to you?"
Jillian took a deep breath and grimly regained control of her temper. She seldom lost it, but that didn't mean she didn't have one. She said very clearly, "If you don't turn me loose right now, I'm going to bite you, hard ."
The arm around her waist loosened and he grinned down at her, totally unabashed. "Mind you, if we were both naked I probably wouldn't mind if you bit me, but under these circumstances I'll pass."
She stepped back and straightened her clothing, then ran a hand over her hair, searching for unruly strands. To her surprise, everything felt as neat as when she had walked in the door.
"You look just fine," he said, still grinning. "All prim and buttoned up. You sure had me fooled!" He began laughing.
She turned and wrenched the door open. "Get out."
He reached past her and flattened his hand on the door, closing it with a thud. "Not yet, sweetcakes. We need to talk."
"I can't imagine why."
His eyes sparkled at her acid tone, and he leaned closer to her. His breath was warm and smelled, not unpleasantly, of fresh whiskey. "Come away from the door," he murmured. "Kates or your brother might come up, and I don't want either of them to hear what we're saying. Are their rooms next door to yours?"
Jillian silently studied him, noting for the first time the shrewdness in those blue eyes. Despite the whiskey on his breath, he was sober and in perfect control of himself. Not only that, his comment had made it plain that he didn't trust the other two men, which was very perceptive of him. Instantly she saw that she had underestimated him, but that didn't mean she trusted him now.
Still, she answered his question. "No. Rick is two doors down; Steven is across the hall."
"Good. But just to be on the safe side, let's turn on the television and get away from the door."
He suited actions to words, moving to the television and turning it on. Rapid Portuguese filled the room. Then he settled comfortably into the room's one chair, lifting his booted feet to the bed and crossing them.
She shoved them off. "Keep your feet off my bed."
She had the impression that he wanted to laugh again, but instead he said, "Yes, ma'am," in a suspiciously meek tone.
She sat down on the bed. "All right, what did you want to talk about?"
He didn't answer for a moment, and she read the lazy interest in his eyes as he looked at her and at the bed. He made no effort to hide it, as if he didn't care that she knew what he was thinking. Jillian took her own satisfaction by refusing to give him any sort of reaction.
His mouth twitched a bit in amusement as he hooked his hands behind his head. She couldn't help noticing what a well-shaped mouth it was, wide and clearly outlined, with blatant sensuality in the curve of his upper lip. He was a raffish-looking scoundrel, with his hair tousled and his jaw already showing the need for a razor. His clothes looked as if they had never seen an iron, and maybe they hadn't. His lightweight khaki pants were stuffed into scarred brown boots, while his sweat-stained white shirt hung loose outside his pants. An even worse-stained khaki hat lay on the small table.
But she remembered that cool assessment in his eyes, and knew how alert he was behind the image he projected. This man knew exactly what he was doing.
That didn't mean she was going to trust him, or start this talk. He wasn't going to sucker her into telling him everything she knew without revealing anything
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