coffee on by then, and he nodded when she lifted the blackened aluminum pot and offered him some.
He’d dragged himself out of the sleeping bag by the time she’d poured the coffee. As she walked toward him, he raised his head and absently raked a hand through the dark hair dusting his chest. He was still half asleep, drowsy and tousled, wearing only jeans. He looked sexy and adorable, dammit, she thought, handing him the coffee. An errant nerve ending ticked in the cleft between her breasts.
“Saved my life,” he said, taking the cup. His voice was husky, hoarsened by residues of sleep.
Their fingers brushed briefly, and Edwina felt a thrill that was sharp and galvanizing, nearly as intense as those the night before. She stepped back, fully aware that to be anywhere near him was to risk a sexual response. Since last night her body had become a barometer where he was concerned, exquisitely calibrated, sensitive to every hairbreadth change in his mood.
“I’m going to wash up.” She turned away from his curious gaze and headed for the river, aware of his eyes on her. She hoped the sight of her departing backside was giving him half as much grief as he’d been giving her.
She needn’t have worried. Diablo felt as though someone had kneed him viciously in the groin as he watched her walk away. A reaction that was the legacy of last night’s encounter, he knew. Another bout with her like that one, and he’d be in the emergency room.
“Not a chance,” he said aloud. He damn well wasn’t going to make love to her, no matter how incredible it promised to be. He wasn’t in the business of providing stud service for repressed females. He finished off his coffee in two gulps, conveniently ignoring the complexity of the woman he was dealing with. Frustration had a way of driving a man to simplistic answers, but somewhere in the back of Diablo’s mind he knew that if Edwina Moody was repressed, she was also an erotic time bomb, and things were going to get a lot more complicated before they got simple.
“How about some breakfast?” she said, coming up behind him.
He turned and stared hard at her curly blond hair, sweet face, and lithe figure. Why the hell had he ever told her to cut those jeans so short? And that top? She was half naked, for chrissake. “That’s your job, woman,” he said brusquely. “Get cooking. Make me some bacon and eggs.”
“Yes, sir. ” Edwina felt a crackle of anger, and at the same time a flush of something hot and forbidden. For one crazy second she wanted to walk straight over to the arrogant SOB, unsnap his pants, and arouse him in all the ways a woman can arouse a man. She wanted to make him tremble and lose control the way she had ...
The flush spread like wildfire, stinging her throat. She couldn’t believe the things she was thinking! She had sex on the brain, even when she was angry. She had to get herself under control. Had to. It was a matter of survival.
Something told her that if she ever succumbed and made love with him, she would simply melt to his will from that day forward. She would lose every shred of autonomy and dissolve into a puddle of desire whenever he crooked his finger. Edwina Jean Moody couldn’t imagine herself a slave to anything ... except him.
“Got a stock tip for me?” Edwina spoke to the back pockets of Killer’s jeans. He was bent over his motorcycle, a wrench clutched in his greasy hand, and he looked every inch a grungy gung ho biker. So much so that she wondered if she had imagined him with the Wall Street Journal yesterday.
“That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?” she said. “Playing the stock market?”
Killer craned his neck around and frowned at her. “Nope. I’m wrenching on my scooter.”
“Oh, of course.” Edwina shrugged carelessly. “I didn’t mean now. I meant in general. You do play the market?”
He rose and tipped his L.A. Raiders hat back on his forehead. “I don’t play the market—I murder it,” he
He’d dragged himself out of the sleeping bag by the time she’d poured the coffee. As she walked toward him, he raised his head and absently raked a hand through the dark hair dusting his chest. He was still half asleep, drowsy and tousled, wearing only jeans. He looked sexy and adorable, dammit, she thought, handing him the coffee. An errant nerve ending ticked in the cleft between her breasts.
“Saved my life,” he said, taking the cup. His voice was husky, hoarsened by residues of sleep.
Their fingers brushed briefly, and Edwina felt a thrill that was sharp and galvanizing, nearly as intense as those the night before. She stepped back, fully aware that to be anywhere near him was to risk a sexual response. Since last night her body had become a barometer where he was concerned, exquisitely calibrated, sensitive to every hairbreadth change in his mood.
“I’m going to wash up.” She turned away from his curious gaze and headed for the river, aware of his eyes on her. She hoped the sight of her departing backside was giving him half as much grief as he’d been giving her.
She needn’t have worried. Diablo felt as though someone had kneed him viciously in the groin as he watched her walk away. A reaction that was the legacy of last night’s encounter, he knew. Another bout with her like that one, and he’d be in the emergency room.
“Not a chance,” he said aloud. He damn well wasn’t going to make love to her, no matter how incredible it promised to be. He wasn’t in the business of providing stud service for repressed females. He finished off his coffee in two gulps, conveniently ignoring the complexity of the woman he was dealing with. Frustration had a way of driving a man to simplistic answers, but somewhere in the back of Diablo’s mind he knew that if Edwina Moody was repressed, she was also an erotic time bomb, and things were going to get a lot more complicated before they got simple.
“How about some breakfast?” she said, coming up behind him.
He turned and stared hard at her curly blond hair, sweet face, and lithe figure. Why the hell had he ever told her to cut those jeans so short? And that top? She was half naked, for chrissake. “That’s your job, woman,” he said brusquely. “Get cooking. Make me some bacon and eggs.”
“Yes, sir. ” Edwina felt a crackle of anger, and at the same time a flush of something hot and forbidden. For one crazy second she wanted to walk straight over to the arrogant SOB, unsnap his pants, and arouse him in all the ways a woman can arouse a man. She wanted to make him tremble and lose control the way she had ...
The flush spread like wildfire, stinging her throat. She couldn’t believe the things she was thinking! She had sex on the brain, even when she was angry. She had to get herself under control. Had to. It was a matter of survival.
Something told her that if she ever succumbed and made love with him, she would simply melt to his will from that day forward. She would lose every shred of autonomy and dissolve into a puddle of desire whenever he crooked his finger. Edwina Jean Moody couldn’t imagine herself a slave to anything ... except him.
“Got a stock tip for me?” Edwina spoke to the back pockets of Killer’s jeans. He was bent over his motorcycle, a wrench clutched in his greasy hand, and he looked every inch a grungy gung ho biker. So much so that she wondered if she had imagined him with the Wall Street Journal yesterday.
“That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?” she said. “Playing the stock market?”
Killer craned his neck around and frowned at her. “Nope. I’m wrenching on my scooter.”
“Oh, of course.” Edwina shrugged carelessly. “I didn’t mean now. I meant in general. You do play the market?”
He rose and tipped his L.A. Raiders hat back on his forehead. “I don’t play the market—I murder it,” he
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