The Name of the Game by Jennifer Dawson Page A

moment later she pushed it away and squared her shoulders. “I think we need to hit the sheets. Like a Band-Aid, rip it right off.”
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    He just stood there, staring at her like a big dope.
    This whole mess made Gracie twitchy.
    Still, he said nothing.
    Feeling defensive, she planted her hands on her hips and demanded, “Well?”
    Adam’s apple bobbing, James swallowed hard. The muscles in his forearms flexed, and the veins running up his wrists momentarily distracted her, before she managed to refocus.
    He shook his head, as though waking himself from a stupor. He stepped back, gesturing toward the open expanse of his house. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”
    From the foyer she craned her neck to peer into the place he called home. The loft had timber rafters, rich, wide-planked hardwood floors, and fifteen-foot ceilings. It was decorated with warm browns, reds, and greens. The professor was cold and controlled; everything should be gunmetal gray and industrial. It should not be warm, lush, and inviting.
    The disparity between her expectations and reality made her uneasy. Heart rate kicking up a notch, she resisted taking a step back and escaping through the front door. “For what?”
    Behind those black wire frames, his cool, evergreen eyes narrowed. “Should I just take you against the wall and send you on your way?”
    A flash of heat, followed by a trickle of ice, slid down her spine. Well, fine, if he wanted to be all calm and collected about this transaction, so be it. She squared her shoulders and held her chin high. “I apologize. Lead the way.”
    He frowned but said nothing, leading her into the big open space.
    The room was even better than it had looked from the foyer, and his view from his great room was breathtaking, with large bay windows overlooking the Chicago skyline. And his kitchen. She shivered. Open and connected to the main living area, it was a cook’s dream, and she couldn’t resist running her fingers over the cool marble. “This isn’t what I expected.”
    â€œWhat did you expect?” His voice was as smooth as the river that ran behind her house on a day with no breeze.
    Someone had gotten his composure back.
    Unfortunately, it wasn’t her. She wanted to put on her normal facade, or at least say something to throw him off-balance, but the truth was, nerves got the better of her. Which irritated her. Sex didn’t make her nervous. She put her hand on her belly. “I expected more industrial and sleek.”
    â€œI don’t like closed-in spaces or cold metal.” He walked over to the fridge, stained to match the dark wood cabinets. “Would you like something to drink?”
    She fought an urge to snap at him, for no other reason than he acted like she’d suggested a walk by the lake instead of a night of hot sex. Bound and determined to rectify this situation, she refused to give in to temptation. The professor wasn’t the only one with discipline. She cleared her throat. “Water is fine, thank you.”
    He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth. “Don’t go getting all civil on me now, Gracie. I’m not sure I can take it.”
    She snatched the bottle from his hands. “You get irritated at me for being irrational, but when I’m polite you criticize. There’s no pleasing you.”
    A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I was teasing.”
    â€œHa!” She flounced over to the chocolate couch and plopped down onto it, biting back a moan. It was even more comfortable than it looked, the suede butter soft against her bare skin. Pure heaven. She could roll around on this couch for days, but she stayed upright, crossing her legs. “We both know you don’t have a sense of humor.”
    He shook his head, walked to the camel-colored club chair, and sat down. He crossed his legs at the ankles and