too good to last. She'd been way too willing, way too docile, in the fifteen minutes since he'd woken her up, hustled her out of the penthouse, and sped across town. He'd known the elements of surprise and confusion had been the only things he'd had going for him, and she'd just maxed out on both.
Too bad. He didn't have the time or the inclination to make nice. Or to wish there'd been a way to avoid dragging her out here. Or to wonder why a woman who drank hundred-dollar bottles of imported chardonnay knew about Ripple wine and fifty-cent draws and why the fact that she did had him fighting a smile.
He didn't have time to analyze that lapse into stag rut on the elevator, either. Sob of a bitch did the woman have a body. Dressed, undressed, didn't seem to matter. She played hell with his libido, which had seen a little too much downtime in the past three months if a shrew like her was flipping his switch.
He didn't even like the woman.
We don't have to like her to fuck her —this from Skippy, his one-eyed wonder snake, who in Nolan's misspent youth had done a lot of his thinking for him and still felt entitled to express an opinion from time to time.
Now was not the time.
"You owe me, Ethan," he swore under his breath. Since his brother had pumped him full of caffeine and shamed him into taking this assignment, not one thing had happened to make him think sobriety didn't suck.
''Come on." He pried her fingers off the belt buckle and latched onto her upper arm. "Watch your peach." He covered her head with his hand to protect her from bumping it and dragged her out of the car. Then he ordered himself to ignore the way she smelled and the heat of her skin beneath his hand and the way her breast felt—soft and warm and lush—snuggled up against the back of his knuckles.
"Shut... up," he snapped, more harshly than he'd intended, when she started in again. He forced himself to settle down, dropped his tone a notch, and made an attempt to make her understand.
"This isn't about you, OK? I've got a little something I need to take care of. I didn't plan on it and I don't like it any more than you do, and if it'll make you move, I promise to explain later.
"In the meantime, you cannot stay out here alone and I couldn't leave you in the penthouse. So just cut me a little slack here. Keep your mouth shut, stay where I put you, and I'll have you back in the lap of luxury in no time."
So much for an attempt at diplomacy.
Her green eyes flared fire. And he picked a helluva time to notice—again—that she wasn't wearing a bra beneath that tight little red crop top T-shirt he'd had the bad luck to pull out of her drawer. Christ. Nirvana may be way off the lady's flight path, but the way she was packed into those short shorts with her midriff bare and her nipples poking against that stretchy cotton, she looked like fair game for any knuckle-dragging asshole with a notion that she came with a guarantee to put out. And he was about to haul her into a bar full of them.
Perfect.
It wasn't enough he had to save Plowboy's ass—he had to watch hers as well. And a fine ass it was, he thought, grim faced, as he guided her along ahead of him toward the door. In fact, it was a premium ass. Looked as good in those shorts as it did out of them. No time soon was he going to be able to ditch the picture burned into his brain of her stepping in and out of that shower.
"Will you quit pushing me around?"
He stopped short of going inside, turned her around to face him, and one last time put in a bid for her cooperation. "If there was any way to avoid this, believe me, I would. For the last time, put on the shades, do not open your mouth, and do exactly as I say. Now is there anything about that that isn't clear?"
Apparently not. Despite the venomous look she shot him, she finally slapped on the dark glasses and let him lead her into the bar toward what, he had a pretty good idea, was certain disaster.
6
It took a moment for Nolan
Too bad. He didn't have the time or the inclination to make nice. Or to wish there'd been a way to avoid dragging her out here. Or to wonder why a woman who drank hundred-dollar bottles of imported chardonnay knew about Ripple wine and fifty-cent draws and why the fact that she did had him fighting a smile.
He didn't have time to analyze that lapse into stag rut on the elevator, either. Sob of a bitch did the woman have a body. Dressed, undressed, didn't seem to matter. She played hell with his libido, which had seen a little too much downtime in the past three months if a shrew like her was flipping his switch.
He didn't even like the woman.
We don't have to like her to fuck her —this from Skippy, his one-eyed wonder snake, who in Nolan's misspent youth had done a lot of his thinking for him and still felt entitled to express an opinion from time to time.
Now was not the time.
"You owe me, Ethan," he swore under his breath. Since his brother had pumped him full of caffeine and shamed him into taking this assignment, not one thing had happened to make him think sobriety didn't suck.
''Come on." He pried her fingers off the belt buckle and latched onto her upper arm. "Watch your peach." He covered her head with his hand to protect her from bumping it and dragged her out of the car. Then he ordered himself to ignore the way she smelled and the heat of her skin beneath his hand and the way her breast felt—soft and warm and lush—snuggled up against the back of his knuckles.
"Shut... up," he snapped, more harshly than he'd intended, when she started in again. He forced himself to settle down, dropped his tone a notch, and made an attempt to make her understand.
"This isn't about you, OK? I've got a little something I need to take care of. I didn't plan on it and I don't like it any more than you do, and if it'll make you move, I promise to explain later.
"In the meantime, you cannot stay out here alone and I couldn't leave you in the penthouse. So just cut me a little slack here. Keep your mouth shut, stay where I put you, and I'll have you back in the lap of luxury in no time."
So much for an attempt at diplomacy.
Her green eyes flared fire. And he picked a helluva time to notice—again—that she wasn't wearing a bra beneath that tight little red crop top T-shirt he'd had the bad luck to pull out of her drawer. Christ. Nirvana may be way off the lady's flight path, but the way she was packed into those short shorts with her midriff bare and her nipples poking against that stretchy cotton, she looked like fair game for any knuckle-dragging asshole with a notion that she came with a guarantee to put out. And he was about to haul her into a bar full of them.
Perfect.
It wasn't enough he had to save Plowboy's ass—he had to watch hers as well. And a fine ass it was, he thought, grim faced, as he guided her along ahead of him toward the door. In fact, it was a premium ass. Looked as good in those shorts as it did out of them. No time soon was he going to be able to ditch the picture burned into his brain of her stepping in and out of that shower.
"Will you quit pushing me around?"
He stopped short of going inside, turned her around to face him, and one last time put in a bid for her cooperation. "If there was any way to avoid this, believe me, I would. For the last time, put on the shades, do not open your mouth, and do exactly as I say. Now is there anything about that that isn't clear?"
Apparently not. Despite the venomous look she shot him, she finally slapped on the dark glasses and let him lead her into the bar toward what, he had a pretty good idea, was certain disaster.
6
It took a moment for Nolan
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