Burning Up by Anne Marsh Page A

tightening her nipples until they were pebble-hard beneath her bikini top. His eyes dipped just once and then headed right back to her face. He didn’t want to look. But he had. The swell of feminine power was new. Delicious.
    Maybe she could make Jack Donovan look twice.
    â€œI’d have a thing or two to say,” he growled, starting toward her. “About you being out here, all alone. Bad things can happen, even right here in Strong, Lily.”
    â€œNothing ever happens here,” she countered, watching that predatory stride head right for her. Tilting her head back to look up at him, she was playing with fire, and she knew it.
    â€œBut they can, Lily.” He dropped the towel around her shoulders, holding out a hand to help her up.
    That hand was hard and large and callused. That hand was years older than he was. He wasn’t a boy, hadn’t been for years. Whatever else the town said about Jack Donovan, no one had ever said he was afraid of hard work. He’d spent the summer working alongside her uncle, cutting fire lines and knocking down the brush that threatened to turn Strong into a pile of kindling.
    â€œI don’t bite.” The hand didn’t move.
    â€œThat’s not what I’ve heard,” she said throatily.
    â€œLily,” he warned. “You’re playing with fire.”
    â€œAm I?” But she took his hand. Because she was playing, and they both knew it. She was pretty sure the sensation of his warm fingers wrapping around hers, tugging her to her feet, had branded itself into both her memories and nerve endings. She’d dated. But none of those dates had prepared her for the hot rush of sensation as those long fingers stroked the soft skin of her wrist.
    People talked. Girls talked. About the Donovan brothers and the wicked things they got up to. Sensual. Pleasure-loving. Hell-bent on tasting every sexual treat Strong had to offer. Those were the Donovan brothers. Now she had her first clue that—just maybe—all of that gossip had been nothing less than whispered fact.
    Jack Donovan knew just how to touch her.
    Â 
    Memories were starting to intrude on her work. Shaking them off, she swore she wouldn’t let that happen.
    If she didn’t ship two hundred grower’s bunches this afternoon, she could kiss a much-needed check good-bye. A bridal show in Sacramento wanted lavender, so here she was, ensconced in the local flower shop where she rented fridge space when she had a big order to send out. It didn’t hurt that the little flower mart, with its flotilla of plastic lawn chairs lined up in the small side alley, was where the women of the town gathered. Those chairs guaranteed she had company while she worked. Sure, the alley wasn’t as pretty as the rest of the town, but Miriam had potted geraniums in old planters to spruce things up some. The real business of the town got done here.
    She shouldered open the door of the shop and carted in the first load of buckets. She couldn’t help stopping by the counter, where Miriam had arranged a pretty display of gift soaps. She got a little thrill of pride every time she passed that display. That was her soap. Those delicious squares in heavy cream paper tied up with violet ribbons were unabashedly feminine. Pretty. Sweet-smelling.
    Strong and small-town life meant safety. That was what she’d decided when she’d pointed her car away from the mayhem of San Francisco a year ago. Life in Strong was dreamy slow—and she’d wanted that dream then and not the nightmare her life had become. She’d graduated from college and then spent years working in advertising in the city, and she’d been damned good at spinning fantasies, figuring out what magazine readers wanted—and then selling them those hopes and dreams. Finding the one perfect image that flawlessly captured the magic of those dreams, making the possibility of achieving those dreams seem as if it