suppose I can do without dinner,” he murmured, glancing at her.
As if he knew, she thought, turning back from the door, that her soft heart couldn’t let him go without eating.
“I can fix you something,” she said.
“What about the phone call you’re expecting?” he asked with narrowed eyes and a faint smile.
Her eyes lowered to his chest. “I didn’t want to impose.”
“You won’t be. I hate eating alone.”
He turned and she followed him into the spacious kitchen, which was done in white and pale yellow with old-fashioned overhead fans. She opened the refrigerator and took out cold cuts, quickly fashioning a meal from salad and ham and sliced bread.
She made coffee and had a ham sandwich of her own while it perked. She poured the steaming coffee into delicate rose-patterned china and watched his big fingers try to manage the dainty thing.
“You need a huge mug,” she murmured on a smile. “To fit your hands.”
“They aren’t that big,” he said, chuckling. He reached one out and caught hers in it, studying the difference in size. Her slender fingers seemed small in his, and she could feel the strength in that callused warmth. He had beautifully masculine hands, olive tan with flat, immaculate nails and wrists that were darkly sprinkled with hair.
“You’re very hairy,” she remarked without thinking as her eyes lifted to his chest, where the shirt had come open when he leaned toward her.
“All over,” he returned, watching her flush. “Don’t you like hairy men, Miss Glenn?”
She tried to draw her hand back, but his locked into it, fingers between fingers in a lazy, sensuous movement.
“I don’t know,” she faltered.
He leaned back in the chair, tugging at her hand. “Then why don’t you come here and we’ll find out together.”
Lord, he was strong! She found herself pulled out of the chair before she could protest, and drawn toward him. Arrogant beast, sitting there like Caesar, smiling confidently, muscles rippling as he overcame her resistance.
“Mr. Carson…” she began.
He tugged at her hand, landing her squarely on his lap. Under her, his powerfully muscled thighs rippled as he shifted her so that her cheek was against his upper arm, so that her view of the world ended at his face. He smelled of cologne, something musky and oriental, and he laughed like a predator at her blank stare.
“Now, feel,” he said, sliding her hand inside his shirt. He pressed it palm down into the thick tangle of hair. “Hairy as hell.”
It wasn’t fair, she thought, staring up at him. She was melting, and no amount of willpower was going to spare her. Her lips parted as she experienced for the first time in her life the powerful sensuality of touch. He moved her hand, watching her as he taught her how to stroke him.
“Yes, that’s it,” he said on a soft laugh, “I like being touched. Especially like this,” he added, his voice like velvet, and he guided her hand down toward the flat plane of his stomach.
“No!” she whispered, tugging back her hand as it touched his belt.
“How you do bristle with inhibitions, Miss Glenn,” he observed calculatingly.
“I haven’t asked for private tutoring,” she said, flustered.
“No, you haven’t, big eyes,” he admitted, searching her face with oddly patient eyes. “But I think you could use a bit, all the same.”
“I’ll hire a gigolo,” she promised. “Please let me go.”
“Why?” He drew her hand back to his chest and held it there. “I’m not asking you for anything. Yet.”
“Ever,” she corrected. “I work for your grandmother, and only temporarily. My duties don’t include satisfying your appetite.”
“I don’t think you could, Amy,” he said shockingly. “You wouldn’t have the slightest idea how, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said irritably. “For which you should thank God. At least, I won’t be chasing after you!”
His thumb brushed across her lips and he studied them
As if he knew, she thought, turning back from the door, that her soft heart couldn’t let him go without eating.
“I can fix you something,” she said.
“What about the phone call you’re expecting?” he asked with narrowed eyes and a faint smile.
Her eyes lowered to his chest. “I didn’t want to impose.”
“You won’t be. I hate eating alone.”
He turned and she followed him into the spacious kitchen, which was done in white and pale yellow with old-fashioned overhead fans. She opened the refrigerator and took out cold cuts, quickly fashioning a meal from salad and ham and sliced bread.
She made coffee and had a ham sandwich of her own while it perked. She poured the steaming coffee into delicate rose-patterned china and watched his big fingers try to manage the dainty thing.
“You need a huge mug,” she murmured on a smile. “To fit your hands.”
“They aren’t that big,” he said, chuckling. He reached one out and caught hers in it, studying the difference in size. Her slender fingers seemed small in his, and she could feel the strength in that callused warmth. He had beautifully masculine hands, olive tan with flat, immaculate nails and wrists that were darkly sprinkled with hair.
“You’re very hairy,” she remarked without thinking as her eyes lifted to his chest, where the shirt had come open when he leaned toward her.
“All over,” he returned, watching her flush. “Don’t you like hairy men, Miss Glenn?”
She tried to draw her hand back, but his locked into it, fingers between fingers in a lazy, sensuous movement.
“I don’t know,” she faltered.
He leaned back in the chair, tugging at her hand. “Then why don’t you come here and we’ll find out together.”
Lord, he was strong! She found herself pulled out of the chair before she could protest, and drawn toward him. Arrogant beast, sitting there like Caesar, smiling confidently, muscles rippling as he overcame her resistance.
“Mr. Carson…” she began.
He tugged at her hand, landing her squarely on his lap. Under her, his powerfully muscled thighs rippled as he shifted her so that her cheek was against his upper arm, so that her view of the world ended at his face. He smelled of cologne, something musky and oriental, and he laughed like a predator at her blank stare.
“Now, feel,” he said, sliding her hand inside his shirt. He pressed it palm down into the thick tangle of hair. “Hairy as hell.”
It wasn’t fair, she thought, staring up at him. She was melting, and no amount of willpower was going to spare her. Her lips parted as she experienced for the first time in her life the powerful sensuality of touch. He moved her hand, watching her as he taught her how to stroke him.
“Yes, that’s it,” he said on a soft laugh, “I like being touched. Especially like this,” he added, his voice like velvet, and he guided her hand down toward the flat plane of his stomach.
“No!” she whispered, tugging back her hand as it touched his belt.
“How you do bristle with inhibitions, Miss Glenn,” he observed calculatingly.
“I haven’t asked for private tutoring,” she said, flustered.
“No, you haven’t, big eyes,” he admitted, searching her face with oddly patient eyes. “But I think you could use a bit, all the same.”
“I’ll hire a gigolo,” she promised. “Please let me go.”
“Why?” He drew her hand back to his chest and held it there. “I’m not asking you for anything. Yet.”
“Ever,” she corrected. “I work for your grandmother, and only temporarily. My duties don’t include satisfying your appetite.”
“I don’t think you could, Amy,” he said shockingly. “You wouldn’t have the slightest idea how, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said irritably. “For which you should thank God. At least, I won’t be chasing after you!”
His thumb brushed across her lips and he studied them
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