chose a tiny spinach quiche. âI just donât like you, De Witt.â
âFair enough.â He dipped into some crab soufflé. âI donât like you either, but I was taught to be polite to a lady.â
Â
Yet he thought of her. Odder still, he dreamed of her, a fog-drenched, erotic dream he couldnât quite remember in the morning. Something about the cliffs and the crash of waves, the feel of soft skin and a slim body under his hands, those big, dark, Italian eyes staring into his.
It left him uncomfortably amused with himself.
Byron De Witt was sure of many things. The national debt would never be paid, women in thin cotton dresses were the best reason for summer, rock and roll was here to stay, and Katherine Powell was not his type.
Skinny, abrasive women with more attitude than charm didnât appeal to him. He liked them soft, and smart, and sexy. He admired them simply for being women and delighted inthe bonuses of quiet conversation, hardheaded debate, outrageous laughter, and hot, mindless sex.
He considered himself as much of an expert on the female mystique as any man could be. After all, heâd grown up surrounded by them, the lone son in a household with three daughters. Byron knew women, and knew them well. And he knew what he liked.
No, he wasnât remotely attracted to Kate.
Â
Still, the dream nagged at him as he prepared for the day. It followed him into the executive weight room, tugged at the back of his mind as he pushed himself through reps and sets and pyramids. It lingered while he finished off his routine with twenty minutes of the Wall Street Journal and the treadmill.
He struggled to think of something else. The house he intended to buy. Something close to the beach so that he could run on the sand, in the sun instead of on a mechanical loop. Rooms of his own, he mused, done to his own taste. A place where he could mow his grass, turn his music up to earsplitting levels, entertain company, or enjoy a quiet, private evening.
There had been few quiet, private evenings in his childhood. Not that he regretted the noise, the crowds he had grown up with. He adored his sisters, had tolerated their ever-increasing hordes of friends. He loved his parents and had always considered their busy social and family life normal.
Indeed, it had been the uncertainty as to whether he could bear to be so far away from his childhood home and family that had made him put the six-month-trial-period clause into his agreement with Josh.
Though he did miss them, heâd realized he could be happy in California. He was nearly thirty-five, and he wanted his own place. He was the first De Witt to move out of Georgia in two generations. He was determined to make it the right move.
If nothing else, it would stop the not-so-subtle family pressure for him to settle down, marry, start a family. The distance would certainly make it difficult for his sisters to continually shove women they considered perfect for him under his nose.
He had yet to meet a woman who was perfect for him.
As he stepped into the shower back in his penthouse office suite, he thought of Kate again. She was definitely wrong.
If heâd dreamed about her, it was only because sheâd been on his mind. Annoyed that she continued to be, Byron turned up the radio affixed to the tiles until Bonnie Raitt bellowed out the challenge to give them something to talk about.
He was merely concerned about her, he decided. Sheâd gone so pale, become so quickly and unexpectedly vulnerable. Heâd always been a sucker for a damsel in distress.
Of course, she was an idiot for not taking care of herself. Health and fitness werenât an option in Byronâs mind but a duty. The woman needed to learn to eat properly, cut back on the caffeine, exercise, build up some flesh, and jettison some of those jangling nerves.
She wasnât half bad when she lost the attitude, he decided, stepping out of the shower with
âFair enough.â He dipped into some crab soufflé. âI donât like you either, but I was taught to be polite to a lady.â
Â
Yet he thought of her. Odder still, he dreamed of her, a fog-drenched, erotic dream he couldnât quite remember in the morning. Something about the cliffs and the crash of waves, the feel of soft skin and a slim body under his hands, those big, dark, Italian eyes staring into his.
It left him uncomfortably amused with himself.
Byron De Witt was sure of many things. The national debt would never be paid, women in thin cotton dresses were the best reason for summer, rock and roll was here to stay, and Katherine Powell was not his type.
Skinny, abrasive women with more attitude than charm didnât appeal to him. He liked them soft, and smart, and sexy. He admired them simply for being women and delighted inthe bonuses of quiet conversation, hardheaded debate, outrageous laughter, and hot, mindless sex.
He considered himself as much of an expert on the female mystique as any man could be. After all, heâd grown up surrounded by them, the lone son in a household with three daughters. Byron knew women, and knew them well. And he knew what he liked.
No, he wasnât remotely attracted to Kate.
Â
Still, the dream nagged at him as he prepared for the day. It followed him into the executive weight room, tugged at the back of his mind as he pushed himself through reps and sets and pyramids. It lingered while he finished off his routine with twenty minutes of the Wall Street Journal and the treadmill.
He struggled to think of something else. The house he intended to buy. Something close to the beach so that he could run on the sand, in the sun instead of on a mechanical loop. Rooms of his own, he mused, done to his own taste. A place where he could mow his grass, turn his music up to earsplitting levels, entertain company, or enjoy a quiet, private evening.
There had been few quiet, private evenings in his childhood. Not that he regretted the noise, the crowds he had grown up with. He adored his sisters, had tolerated their ever-increasing hordes of friends. He loved his parents and had always considered their busy social and family life normal.
Indeed, it had been the uncertainty as to whether he could bear to be so far away from his childhood home and family that had made him put the six-month-trial-period clause into his agreement with Josh.
Though he did miss them, heâd realized he could be happy in California. He was nearly thirty-five, and he wanted his own place. He was the first De Witt to move out of Georgia in two generations. He was determined to make it the right move.
If nothing else, it would stop the not-so-subtle family pressure for him to settle down, marry, start a family. The distance would certainly make it difficult for his sisters to continually shove women they considered perfect for him under his nose.
He had yet to meet a woman who was perfect for him.
As he stepped into the shower back in his penthouse office suite, he thought of Kate again. She was definitely wrong.
If heâd dreamed about her, it was only because sheâd been on his mind. Annoyed that she continued to be, Byron turned up the radio affixed to the tiles until Bonnie Raitt bellowed out the challenge to give them something to talk about.
He was merely concerned about her, he decided. Sheâd gone so pale, become so quickly and unexpectedly vulnerable. Heâd always been a sucker for a damsel in distress.
Of course, she was an idiot for not taking care of herself. Health and fitness werenât an option in Byronâs mind but a duty. The woman needed to learn to eat properly, cut back on the caffeine, exercise, build up some flesh, and jettison some of those jangling nerves.
She wasnât half bad when she lost the attitude, he decided, stepping out of the shower with
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