Slow Hands by Leslie Kelly Page A

opened, and he felt as though he’d stepped into a designer furniture store where Oprah shopped up on the Magnificent Mile.
    The entryway was tiled with what he’d speculate was Italian marble, not that he’d ever seen it. But he doubted they’d allow the fake stuff in this building.
    Tall, graceful vases with a profusion of perfectly placed, enormous white flowers stood on either side of the foyer, providing an almost snowy, winter welcome. Right in the middle of June.
    Beyond lay a plushly carpeted, sunken living area. More vases and flowers stood sentry throughout. Big, gold-leaf framed mirrors sent his own reflection back to him a dozen times. Several pieces of expensive-looking, froufrou art were on display, discreetly placed fixtures flooding them with light from just the right angle.
    A huge white leather sofa looked too pristine to sit on, and he’d probably have to sell his truck to replace the marble-topped coffee table if he dared leave a drink ring on it.
    The place was unbelievably elegant. Dripping with expensive furnishings. Beautiful. Rich-looking.
    And about as cold a room as he’d ever seen.
    Entirely suitable for the ice princess of the financial district. But not for the woman who’d grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him up against the wall outside that pub to kiss the lips right off his face.
    Maddy was watching him, having stepped inside ahead of him to punch a few buttons on a security alarm panel. There was a glimmer of hesitation in her expression, as if she really cared what he thought about her home. Why she’d care about the opinion of a blue-collar rescue worker, whose single piece of art in his apartment was an eight-by-ten framed picture of a Dalmatian on a fire truck, he had no idea.
    “Well?”
    “Wow.”
    She wrapped her arms around her waist and stared at the room, obviously noting his unenthusiastic response. “My sister decorated it for me,” she whispered. “I just don’t have the knack for that sort of thing. Or the vision.”
    That figured. From what he’d heard so far, he had absolutely no interest in ever meeting the sister. Especially not if she envisioned this when she looked at Maddy, whom she obviously did not really know at all.
    “Great view,” he mumbled, meaning that. She did have an amazing view of the magnificently lit Chicago skyline. One entire wall of windows ran the width of the living room, laying out the city below as if he was looking at a galaxy of stars from above.
    She perked up, smiling broadly. “Isn’t it? That’s why I bought it. Well, that and the bathroom.”
    Bought it. She owned this icy masterpiece. Not her father, not her family. She didn’t just rent it. The woman he’d taken out for wings and beer had enough money to actually purchase a place like this.
    He’d known that. Logically, he’d known. Still, the meaning of it had at last completely sunk in.
    His feet suddenly felt leaden. For the first time since the moment they’d met, Jake felt the slightest bit intimidated. Uneasy at the stark, irrefutable evidence of how different they were.
    There was no way he could keep up with this. Nor would he ever even want to try.
    “What’s wrong?”
    He threw off the momentary uneasiness. Tomorrow, maybe he’d think about how unsuited they were for one another. Tonight, well, they were perfectly suited in the only way that really mattered. He’d could definitely keep up with her in other ways.
    Starting in her bedroom.
    “Nothing.” He gave her a wolfish smile. “So where is this three-man bathtub?”
    “Hey, none of that kinky stuff,” she reminded him with a saucy wink. Then she turned and sashayed down the hall, kicking her cute, strappy sandals off her feet midstride, as if not wanting to waste time once they reached the bed.
    He followed, not in any hurry, because they had all night, but still unable to stop himself from lifting his shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor with her shoes.
    She led him into a