insisted on a hard copy fax for instructions.
When nothing appeared, he walked over, glanced through the peep. And came within a breath of swallowing his own tongue.
What the hell was she doing at his door? And what was she wearing?
Jesus Christ.
He backed up, rubbed a hand over his face, his heart. Professional instinct kicked in enough to have him hurrying back to the desk, shutting down his files, burying any hard paperwork, then doing a quick visual sweep for anything that might blow his cover.
He’d get her downstairs to the lounge, that’s what he’d do. Get her down, in a public place, tell her he’d been called back, have a quick drink with her.
And move out. Move along. Move away.
He dragged a hand through his hair a couple of times, shook off the nerves. He worked up what he considered an easy, mildly surprised, mildly pleased expression and opened the door.
The full impact of her hadn’t come through the peep-hole. Now the tongue he’d nearly swallowed rolled out again and all but plopped at his feet.
He couldn’t quite focus on what she was wearing other than noticing it was black, it was short, and it displayed more curves than a Formula One race. Her legs were longer than he’d imagined, and ended in very high, very thin black heels.
All that fiery hair was scooped up somehow or other, and her eyes seemed bluer, brighter than ever. She’d slicked something dark and glossy and tantalizingly wet over her lips.
God help him.
“I woke up.”
“You did. You certainly did.”
“Can I come in?”
“Ah. Um.” It was as coherent as he could manage, so he just stepped back. And when she walked by him, the scent of her wrapped around his glands, and squeezed.
“I didn’t get a chance to thank you, so I thought I would.”
“Thank you. Thank me,” he corrected, and felt like an imbecile.
She smiled and, holding up the bottle of wine, wagged it slowly side to side. “How do you feel about Merlot?”
“I feel pretty good about it.”
It took all her willpower not to laugh. Was there anything that made a woman feel more of a woman than having a man stare at her as if he’d been bewitched? She took a step toward him and was wonderfully flattered when he took one in retreat. “Good enough to share?” she asked him.
“Share?”
“The wine.”
“Oh.” He’d had a couple of concussions in his day. They often gave the victim the same fuzzy, out-of-body sensation he was experiencing now. “Sure.” He took the bottle she held out. “Sure. Sure.”
“Well then.”
“Well?” There seemed to be some sort of time lag between his brain and his mouth. “Oh, right. Ah, corkscrew.” He glanced toward the minibar, but she reached in her purse.
“Try this.” She offered him a corkscrew. One half of the handle was a naked woman, head to torso. The other was all leg.
“Cute,” he managed.
“Kitschy,” she corrected. “I have a small collection. Nice room,” she added. “A lot of bed.” She wandered to the window, eased the drapes apart a few inches. “I bet the view’s wonderful.”
“Oh yeah.”
Perfectly aware his gaze was on her, she continued to look out the window and slowly peeled off the thin sweater. She heard the abrupt clunk of the wine bottle against wood and was satisfied the dress had done its job. From his viewpoint, there wasn’t much of it, just a lot of her naked back framed by a bit of snug black.
She wandered away, toward the bed, and plucked one of the mints from the pillow. “Mmm, chocolate. Do you mind?”
The best he could do was a slow shake of his head. The cork came out of the bottle with a surprised pop and the words “Oh my God” rushed into his mind as she unwrapped the little mint, bit slowly into it.
She gave a sexy little moan, licked her lips. “I heard somewhere that money talks but chocolate sings. I like that.” She walked to him, held the second half of the mint to his lips. “I’ll share, too.”
“You’re killing
When nothing appeared, he walked over, glanced through the peep. And came within a breath of swallowing his own tongue.
What the hell was she doing at his door? And what was she wearing?
Jesus Christ.
He backed up, rubbed a hand over his face, his heart. Professional instinct kicked in enough to have him hurrying back to the desk, shutting down his files, burying any hard paperwork, then doing a quick visual sweep for anything that might blow his cover.
He’d get her downstairs to the lounge, that’s what he’d do. Get her down, in a public place, tell her he’d been called back, have a quick drink with her.
And move out. Move along. Move away.
He dragged a hand through his hair a couple of times, shook off the nerves. He worked up what he considered an easy, mildly surprised, mildly pleased expression and opened the door.
The full impact of her hadn’t come through the peep-hole. Now the tongue he’d nearly swallowed rolled out again and all but plopped at his feet.
He couldn’t quite focus on what she was wearing other than noticing it was black, it was short, and it displayed more curves than a Formula One race. Her legs were longer than he’d imagined, and ended in very high, very thin black heels.
All that fiery hair was scooped up somehow or other, and her eyes seemed bluer, brighter than ever. She’d slicked something dark and glossy and tantalizingly wet over her lips.
God help him.
“I woke up.”
“You did. You certainly did.”
“Can I come in?”
“Ah. Um.” It was as coherent as he could manage, so he just stepped back. And when she walked by him, the scent of her wrapped around his glands, and squeezed.
“I didn’t get a chance to thank you, so I thought I would.”
“Thank you. Thank me,” he corrected, and felt like an imbecile.
She smiled and, holding up the bottle of wine, wagged it slowly side to side. “How do you feel about Merlot?”
“I feel pretty good about it.”
It took all her willpower not to laugh. Was there anything that made a woman feel more of a woman than having a man stare at her as if he’d been bewitched? She took a step toward him and was wonderfully flattered when he took one in retreat. “Good enough to share?” she asked him.
“Share?”
“The wine.”
“Oh.” He’d had a couple of concussions in his day. They often gave the victim the same fuzzy, out-of-body sensation he was experiencing now. “Sure.” He took the bottle she held out. “Sure. Sure.”
“Well then.”
“Well?” There seemed to be some sort of time lag between his brain and his mouth. “Oh, right. Ah, corkscrew.” He glanced toward the minibar, but she reached in her purse.
“Try this.” She offered him a corkscrew. One half of the handle was a naked woman, head to torso. The other was all leg.
“Cute,” he managed.
“Kitschy,” she corrected. “I have a small collection. Nice room,” she added. “A lot of bed.” She wandered to the window, eased the drapes apart a few inches. “I bet the view’s wonderful.”
“Oh yeah.”
Perfectly aware his gaze was on her, she continued to look out the window and slowly peeled off the thin sweater. She heard the abrupt clunk of the wine bottle against wood and was satisfied the dress had done its job. From his viewpoint, there wasn’t much of it, just a lot of her naked back framed by a bit of snug black.
She wandered away, toward the bed, and plucked one of the mints from the pillow. “Mmm, chocolate. Do you mind?”
The best he could do was a slow shake of his head. The cork came out of the bottle with a surprised pop and the words “Oh my God” rushed into his mind as she unwrapped the little mint, bit slowly into it.
She gave a sexy little moan, licked her lips. “I heard somewhere that money talks but chocolate sings. I like that.” She walked to him, held the second half of the mint to his lips. “I’ll share, too.”
“You’re killing
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