Still Lake by Anne Stuart Page A

closer? Would she turn and run?
    Of course she would. And he wasn’t about to move any closer, to put his hands on her skin and see if it was as soft and cool as he thought it would be. He wasn’t going to see if she tasted of honey and fresh bread and wild clover. Even if he wanted to. He’d lost his innocence long, long ago and he’d never had a taste for it in bed. And as illogical as it was, he sensed that hardheaded Sophie Davis was, at heart, as innocent as a lamb.
    He wasn’t in the mood to play hungry wolf, no matter how tempting.
    â€œI should let you get some sleep,” he said, turning to go.
    â€œI can’t.”
    The quiet tone of desperation in her voice stopped him. He turned back. “Can’t what?”
    â€œCan’t sleep,” she said with a rueful shrug. “For some reason I can’t sleep. Too worried, I guess. I’ve just been lying in bed, tossing and turning.”
    Innocent, indeed. In another woman, in Annelise, for example, that would have been a come-on, pure and simple. Sure, darling, I’ll take care of you, wear you out so you can fall asleep. You just need a good man and a good fuck .
    â€œThey say worry is a waste of the imagination.” Go away , he told himself. Don’t stand here talking in the moonlight .
    â€œThen I’ve definitely got too strong an imagination. Do you want a cup of coffee or something?”
    He closed his eyes in exasperation for a moment. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he’d misread her, let that virginal nightgown convince him she was something she wasn’t. And maybe he wasn’t interested in fighting temptation, after all.
    â€œIf you drink coffee at this hour it’s no wonder you can’t sleep,” he said. “Or was that your subtle way of asking me to go to bed with you?”
    Victorian virgin, all right. She reacted as if he’d slapped her, with shock and outrage. “You really do have delusions, don’t you, Mr. Smith?” she said, her voice icy. “I’m not interested in sex.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she stumbled. “Not with you, I mean. Someone else, maybe, at another time. I’m perfectly healthy, but I’m not the slightest bit interested…”
    â€œDon’t tie yourself in knots, Sophie. I figured as much, but by the way you were acting I thought I might have been mistaken. Let me give you a little hint. Don’t stand on the porch in the middle of the night wearing only your nightgown, especially when the light behind makes the damned thing just about transparent, and don’t invite strange men in for coffee at two in the morning unless you’re wanting something else. People might get the wrong idea.”
    Her mouth opened to say something, but she bitthe words back. Nice mouth, he realized with belated regret. Very nice mouth, indeed.
    â€œGo ahead and say it, Sophie,” he said. “You know you want to, and you’re not going to shock me.”
    â€œFuck you.” No hesitation this time. She was furious, and he told himself he should be sorry he’d goaded her. He knew he wasn’t.
    â€œI’ll come back when you mean it,” he said. If he’d been closer he would have kissed her, just to see how she reacted. Just to taste her mouth.
    But she was too far away, up on the porch, and by the time he reached her she would have locked herself back in her inn, well out of reach, and he’d feel frustrated and foolish.
    He hadn’t come here to waste his time with an uptight Victorian throwback. So he simply turned and walked back toward the lake path, half expecting her to hurl something at his departing head.
    All he heard was the slam of the door behind him. And he had no choice but to admit he was damned sorry he wasn’t on the other side of that door, drinking her coffee, drinking her mouth.
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    He gathered his tools with the care and deliberation of a master