Catching Claire by Cindy Procter-King Page A

second-year med school
occurred in a week.
    Nobody messed with his tuition money.
    He stepped within an inch of her. “Excuse me?” Voice
hard, he tapped her shoulder.
    Shrieking, she jumped. Her drink winged out of the
cup, drenching the flyer. One of her ear buds popped out, the white
cord swaying.
    Ridge, you idiot. What on earth was he
thinking, scaring the pants off her?
    “Sorry.” Grasping her shoulders, he turned her
around. “I hit the washers to catch your attention—”
    “It’s you!” Green eyes wide, she thumped the empty
cup onto the droning dryer. “My cop-a-feel!” She threw her arms
around his neck. Her full breasts crushed the loose T-shirt
covering his chest, and the sweet aroma of Irish Cream drifted from
her lips.
    Ridge pushed her away and held her there. Not that
he didn’t appreciate her enthusiasm. In fact, certain parts of his
body appreciated it too much.
    “You were at the party tonight,” he reminded her in
case her neurons had misfired. “You hired me for your friend,
Tanya. I danced with her. In Alicia Maxwell’s apartment.
Remember?”
    A loopy grin plastered Claire Merriweather’s face.
“I wouldn’t exactly say I hired you for Tanya.” The papers
advertising his cell number fluttered in her top. The purple
nightie—babydolls, that was it—had wide shoulder straps and lacy
stuff that nipped at her waist and flared at her hips. He liked the
tiny white bows along the hem. He liked the large bow centered on
her cleavage even better. But…
    Up close, on a wildness scale of one to ten,
Claire’s outfit rated a three. The neckline didn’t plunge, and the
skirt concealed her butt—when she wasn’t bouncing around. The
papers jutting from her top and the dangling music cord lent her
the appearance of a disorganized cat burglar on a midnight
heist.
    “Oh yeah, you hired me for Tanya,” Ridge stated.
“She’s the bride.”
    Claire’s dimples flashed. “You look like Demi
Moore’s ex.”
    Ridge squinted. “Bruce Willis?”
    “No, silly. The young one. Don’t
you— hic —twit?”
    “What? Oh, you mean tweet.”
    “Uh-huh. Twit.” She lifted a finger, and his grip on
her slackened. “Soshul networking. Ash- hic has an account.”
She nodded sagely. “You should sign up. You’d get a ton more
calls.”
    Ridge grunted. “If you hadn’t destroyed my ad, I’d
get calls the conventional way.”
    Her eyebrows wiggled. “You pack quite a package,
Ridge.” Her gaze traveled to his pajama pants, which he wore
commando.
    His jaw firmed. May lightning strike me dead. Now. I’ll donate my
body to science.
    Two weeks ago, when Claire had hired him over the
phone, her voice had sounded professional. Sensible. They’d
discussed his rates and arrival time at Alicia Maxwell’s apartment,
the duration and heat level of his performance. He had no problem
flirting and stripping to a leather G-string, but drew the line at
mimicking sex with the guest of honor.
    In tonight’s case, Tanya, Claire’s friend.
    He released her shoulders.
    Her hands whipped under his T-shirt. Jesus! Her palms skated over his pecs and abs. His pajama pants ran the
risk of tenting in an energetic salute.
    “Make love with me,” she murmured.
    “Stop.” Grabbing her wrists, Ridge flipped her hands
back out. “ Claire . I don’t know what you think I’m
advertising—” other than the party dances “—but I will not sleep
with you.”
    “Aw.” She pouted. “Not even if I tip you?”
    “Especially not then.”
    She blinked. “What’s wrong with me?”
    “I don’t pick up drunk women.” Actually, between the
med school grind and grabbing whatever work fit his busy schedule,
he hadn’t gotten laid in longer than he cared to consider.
    “I’m not drunk,” Claire enunciated very clearly. Her
bleary eyes signified otherwise.
    “It doesn’t matter.” Ridge released her wrists.
    “You won’t take me home?” She wobbled on her
sandals. “No one ever takes me home. No one says