to see her. Which made her gladder still, considering Kirsty was doing her usual up-close-and-personal style of conversation with him.
She saw him dip his head and say something to Kirsty, then turn and walk toward the screen door that faced the house.
He met her halfway—by a flowering jasmine plant in a oversized pottery urn that hadn't come from Wal-Mart. Sicily probably, or Tuscany.
She was beginning to think "drug dealer" again when he leaned in close, kissed her cheek, and whispered, "Come and make nice for ten minutes and then I'll show you my bedroom."
Really—with an invitation like that, little discrepancies of occupation could be overlooked. Didn't heads of state make agreements with people of less-than-stellar reputation for reasons of expediency—like trade or politics or the greater good of mankind?
In this case, it would be
her
greater good.
And it wasn't as though she was bringing him home for dinner to meet the folks.
"I'll be nice as can be for a reward like that," she whispered back.
His grin was wolfish. "We'll be nice to each other. And
my
bedroom has a lock on the door so these yahoos can stay out."
She wanted to ask why he had a lock on his bedroom door, but under the circumstances, his assurance of security overcame curiosity or scruple. "I should be able to last ten minutes." She held his gaze. "Although, I can't guarantee it."
"With incentive like that, I might drag you away in five minutes."
"Hopefully before my eardrums burst."
"Stay here. I'll turn it down."
And like a chivalrous knight, he sprinted away to serve his damsel in distress. It was charming really, modern-day gallantry so rarely in evidence. She experienced a warm little glow—a nonsexual one… almost a sentimental one.
Regaining her wits a second later, she reminded herself that 1, she'd known him for twelve hours tops; 2, sentiment had nothing to do with sex; 3, he wasn't the boy next door despite his looks— not with a spread like this and no apparent source of income; and 4, one-night stands were by definition not based on tender feeling.
When he returned, she was perfectly composed and once again capable of acting like a mature adult. She'd even reconciled herself to being civil to Kirsty, who had taken off her jacket to expose a little white tank top and her huge breasts. Even from a distance, that improbable combination looked like a catastrophe in the making—the white Lycra stretched to the limit.
"The volume's down now. Your eardrums are safe. Come, have a drink."
"Maybe just a Coke. I have to drive home."
"You don't
have
to go home."
"The store doesn't open till eleven on Sunday, but even that seems early after a late night."
"Can't you call someone to cover for you?"
"At one o'clock?"
"Right. Okay. We do this hello and good-bye in record time. And ignore Kirsty if she says anything rude. She can run off at the mouth."
"I noticed."
Sarcasm like that. He'd better cover his ass. "We're just friends."
"I'm guessing maybe you haven't always been just friends."
"Like those guys under your bed." Some had been nude sketches.
"Not really. I just have a good imagination."
Back up a minute. Had he heard that right? "I'm the exception?"
"You're exceptional in every way," she murmured.
"That sounds like one smooth-talkin' line."
"Word of God."
He laughed. "Back at you, babe." Line or no line, no way was he going to piss her off by pushing the point. Her sex life was none of his business. "Do you want lime with your Coke? Or a twist of lemon? Cherries?"
"I
want you
with my Coke." There was no point in being coy on a one-night stand.
He shot a glance at his guests, took a deep breath, and said, "Hold that thought. We'll make this fast." Taking her hand, he walked to the screen door, opened it, and drew her into the pool area. "She made it," he said to the group standing at a granite topped bar. "Who needs a refill?"
Buddy came over to give her a hug, she was introduced to Brian Larson, and Kirsty
She saw him dip his head and say something to Kirsty, then turn and walk toward the screen door that faced the house.
He met her halfway—by a flowering jasmine plant in a oversized pottery urn that hadn't come from Wal-Mart. Sicily probably, or Tuscany.
She was beginning to think "drug dealer" again when he leaned in close, kissed her cheek, and whispered, "Come and make nice for ten minutes and then I'll show you my bedroom."
Really—with an invitation like that, little discrepancies of occupation could be overlooked. Didn't heads of state make agreements with people of less-than-stellar reputation for reasons of expediency—like trade or politics or the greater good of mankind?
In this case, it would be
her
greater good.
And it wasn't as though she was bringing him home for dinner to meet the folks.
"I'll be nice as can be for a reward like that," she whispered back.
His grin was wolfish. "We'll be nice to each other. And
my
bedroom has a lock on the door so these yahoos can stay out."
She wanted to ask why he had a lock on his bedroom door, but under the circumstances, his assurance of security overcame curiosity or scruple. "I should be able to last ten minutes." She held his gaze. "Although, I can't guarantee it."
"With incentive like that, I might drag you away in five minutes."
"Hopefully before my eardrums burst."
"Stay here. I'll turn it down."
And like a chivalrous knight, he sprinted away to serve his damsel in distress. It was charming really, modern-day gallantry so rarely in evidence. She experienced a warm little glow—a nonsexual one… almost a sentimental one.
Regaining her wits a second later, she reminded herself that 1, she'd known him for twelve hours tops; 2, sentiment had nothing to do with sex; 3, he wasn't the boy next door despite his looks— not with a spread like this and no apparent source of income; and 4, one-night stands were by definition not based on tender feeling.
When he returned, she was perfectly composed and once again capable of acting like a mature adult. She'd even reconciled herself to being civil to Kirsty, who had taken off her jacket to expose a little white tank top and her huge breasts. Even from a distance, that improbable combination looked like a catastrophe in the making—the white Lycra stretched to the limit.
"The volume's down now. Your eardrums are safe. Come, have a drink."
"Maybe just a Coke. I have to drive home."
"You don't
have
to go home."
"The store doesn't open till eleven on Sunday, but even that seems early after a late night."
"Can't you call someone to cover for you?"
"At one o'clock?"
"Right. Okay. We do this hello and good-bye in record time. And ignore Kirsty if she says anything rude. She can run off at the mouth."
"I noticed."
Sarcasm like that. He'd better cover his ass. "We're just friends."
"I'm guessing maybe you haven't always been just friends."
"Like those guys under your bed." Some had been nude sketches.
"Not really. I just have a good imagination."
Back up a minute. Had he heard that right? "I'm the exception?"
"You're exceptional in every way," she murmured.
"That sounds like one smooth-talkin' line."
"Word of God."
He laughed. "Back at you, babe." Line or no line, no way was he going to piss her off by pushing the point. Her sex life was none of his business. "Do you want lime with your Coke? Or a twist of lemon? Cherries?"
"I
want you
with my Coke." There was no point in being coy on a one-night stand.
He shot a glance at his guests, took a deep breath, and said, "Hold that thought. We'll make this fast." Taking her hand, he walked to the screen door, opened it, and drew her into the pool area. "She made it," he said to the group standing at a granite topped bar. "Who needs a refill?"
Buddy came over to give her a hug, she was introduced to Brian Larson, and Kirsty
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