Read Online Too Hot to Handle: A Loveswept Classic Romance by Sandra Chastain - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Chastain
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croissants, and eggs benedict.”
She took a bite of egg, and Matt lost his train of thought for a moment as he watched the motion of her lips. “No, I usually eat shredded wheat and milk, the same thing I’ve been eating all my adult life.”
“Ah, continuity and regimentation, of course. And I’ll bet while you eat you watch the gardener as he tends your roses and flower beds. And I’ll bet you have a housekeeper and at least one maid. And a Jacuzzi. You shop at the best places, only Lenox Square or the Galleria. You never, ever ride public transportation. You order all your Christmas presents from the Neiman-Marcus catalogue, or from some upscale mail order outfit like the Banana Republic.”
The sharp scrutiny in her blue eyes was softened by an impish smile. Matt was annoyed that she understood his life-style so well.
“Go on,” he told her. “You’re accurate—I’ll admitit. I feel like I’m from a family of insects you’ve studied all your life.”
“Ah, the ‘Furry-Legged Up-and-Coming Money-Maker,’ ” she said without malice, nodding. “I come from the same family. That’s why I understand the habitat so well.”
“But you don’t have furry legs,” Matt pointed out drolly. No, she had incredibly smooth-looking legs, he added in silent appreciation. They begged for a man’s touch.
“Ah, but I mutated from the family, you see,” she explained, smiling. “I lost the characteristics.”
“What are the sexual habits of my breed?” Matt asked, leaning toward her and smiling coyly. “Can I make whoopee with members of the mutant order?”
Callie’s eyes turned darker. “That remains to be seen.” After a potent moment of silence, she looked away and began slicing the ham on her plate.
“So,” she murmured. “After breakfast you take a swim in your Olympic-sized pool, then you put on your silk suit and have your chauffeur drive you into town, where you have an office on an upper floor of some huge glass tower that reflects the sun like a mirror.”
Matt finished the last bite of his ham and shook his head. “Wrong. I drive myself, and my office is in the paint plant, over in the industrial section of west Atlanta. Hardly anybody ever sees it. And many times I find myself wearing coveralls. My big lunch-time hobby is scraping paint from under my fingernails.”
He playfully whirled a piece of toast at her, and she caught it. “When I do have a visitor,” Matt continued, “he or she is taken to a special receptionarea to wait while I put on my silk suit and pointy-toed shoes. I work, Callie Carmichael, and I work damned hard, right alongside my employees. My father left me money, so I can’t claim to be a self-made millionaire. But he didn’t leave me success or a good reputation. I made those things myself.”
Callie lowered her eyes to escape the tense, defiant look he gave her. “I see,” she murmured, and cleared her throat. “Now. About your girlfriends. Shall I tell you what I suspect about the social life you lead, Mr. Holland?”
“I wouldn’t miss your wild theories for the world. Go ahead.”
She indicated his tight shorts with a slight nod in their direction. “Dressed in alluring and highly masculine jogging clothes, you trot along the quaint suburban roads of your native Roswell. Fashionable women, some mere college girls and others of full maturity, get cricks in their necks and nearly cause traffic accidents as they drive past you, craning to stare. Some do more than stare. They stop; they flirt.”
She paused, leaned her chin on one hand, and looked him steadily in the eye. “You meet them later, at chic contemporary bars and intimate restaurants. After one or two respectable dinners, perhaps a night at the Academy Theater or a concert at the Fox, you invite them home. The gardener, the housekeeper, and the maid are discreet. They’re accustomed to seeing you and your lady friend of the day at breakfast. It’s no big deal. None at all.”
Matt
She took a bite of egg, and Matt lost his train of thought for a moment as he watched the motion of her lips. “No, I usually eat shredded wheat and milk, the same thing I’ve been eating all my adult life.”
“Ah, continuity and regimentation, of course. And I’ll bet while you eat you watch the gardener as he tends your roses and flower beds. And I’ll bet you have a housekeeper and at least one maid. And a Jacuzzi. You shop at the best places, only Lenox Square or the Galleria. You never, ever ride public transportation. You order all your Christmas presents from the Neiman-Marcus catalogue, or from some upscale mail order outfit like the Banana Republic.”
The sharp scrutiny in her blue eyes was softened by an impish smile. Matt was annoyed that she understood his life-style so well.
“Go on,” he told her. “You’re accurate—I’ll admitit. I feel like I’m from a family of insects you’ve studied all your life.”
“Ah, the ‘Furry-Legged Up-and-Coming Money-Maker,’ ” she said without malice, nodding. “I come from the same family. That’s why I understand the habitat so well.”
“But you don’t have furry legs,” Matt pointed out drolly. No, she had incredibly smooth-looking legs, he added in silent appreciation. They begged for a man’s touch.
“Ah, but I mutated from the family, you see,” she explained, smiling. “I lost the characteristics.”
“What are the sexual habits of my breed?” Matt asked, leaning toward her and smiling coyly. “Can I make whoopee with members of the mutant order?”
Callie’s eyes turned darker. “That remains to be seen.” After a potent moment of silence, she looked away and began slicing the ham on her plate.
“So,” she murmured. “After breakfast you take a swim in your Olympic-sized pool, then you put on your silk suit and have your chauffeur drive you into town, where you have an office on an upper floor of some huge glass tower that reflects the sun like a mirror.”
Matt finished the last bite of his ham and shook his head. “Wrong. I drive myself, and my office is in the paint plant, over in the industrial section of west Atlanta. Hardly anybody ever sees it. And many times I find myself wearing coveralls. My big lunch-time hobby is scraping paint from under my fingernails.”
He playfully whirled a piece of toast at her, and she caught it. “When I do have a visitor,” Matt continued, “he or she is taken to a special receptionarea to wait while I put on my silk suit and pointy-toed shoes. I work, Callie Carmichael, and I work damned hard, right alongside my employees. My father left me money, so I can’t claim to be a self-made millionaire. But he didn’t leave me success or a good reputation. I made those things myself.”
Callie lowered her eyes to escape the tense, defiant look he gave her. “I see,” she murmured, and cleared her throat. “Now. About your girlfriends. Shall I tell you what I suspect about the social life you lead, Mr. Holland?”
“I wouldn’t miss your wild theories for the world. Go ahead.”
She indicated his tight shorts with a slight nod in their direction. “Dressed in alluring and highly masculine jogging clothes, you trot along the quaint suburban roads of your native Roswell. Fashionable women, some mere college girls and others of full maturity, get cricks in their necks and nearly cause traffic accidents as they drive past you, craning to stare. Some do more than stare. They stop; they flirt.”
She paused, leaned her chin on one hand, and looked him steadily in the eye. “You meet them later, at chic contemporary bars and intimate restaurants. After one or two respectable dinners, perhaps a night at the Academy Theater or a concert at the Fox, you invite them home. The gardener, the housekeeper, and the maid are discreet. They’re accustomed to seeing you and your lady friend of the day at breakfast. It’s no big deal. None at all.”
Matt
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