Evie Ever After. Beth Ciotta

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      “Are you talking about their age difference? That would be pretty hypocritical, considering, you know…us.”

      “Age is moot when there’s chemistry, yeah?”

      I perked up. “You think we have chemistry? Like Bogie and Bacall? Gable and Lombard?” Lucy and Ricky?

      “You know we do.”

      The connection. I’d mentioned before how we didn’t make sense, but we connected. We just need to find our rhythm.

      “Hard to dance with a door between us, you know?”

      I sighed. “I know.” I rested my forehead against the painted wood and imagined him doing the same. We’d had numerous conversations on the threshold of one or another bathroom, only the door had always been open and Arch had usually been wearing a towel, his upper body gloriously exposed. I imagined his broad shoulders and chiseled abdomen. His strong arms and that sexy tattoo. I let out a pathetic sigh.

      “What’s wrong, lass?”

      Aside from being worried about Beckett and Jayne? Selfishly, I was lamenting my own crappy luck. “We were supposed to get naked tonight,” I said with a hitch in my voice.

      “Aye. And?”

      “Now we can’t.”

      “Why not?”

      “For one, I’m too distracted.”

      “You mean worried,” he said. “No need, yeah? Pops called a few minutes ago. Beckett phoned and he’s fine. Said he’d fill us in tomorrow at a team meeting.”

      “He’s not under arrest?”

      “No.”

      Which implied he was innocent in the death of Mad Dog. I pumped a fist in the air. Yes.

      “What else?” Arch asked.

      “I’m worried about Jayne. I wish we had something on Madame Helene.”

      “Tabasco’s working on it. He’ll have something by tomorrow.”

      More good news.

      “What else?” His patience was amazing.

      “Well,” I said touching a hand to my face. “Remember that scene in That Touch of Mink when Cathy broke out in hives because she was nervous about sleeping with Mr. Shayne?”

      “You’re getting cold feet aboot us? Shagging in your apartment is too intimate? What?”

      He didn’t sound mad, but I knew him well enough to know I’d tripped a live wire. Uh-oh. “It’s not that. It’s…”

      The lock clicked and I hopped back just as the door swung open.

      He took one look at me and smiled.

      “Are you happy now?” I didn’t know whether to cry or punch him.

      “It’s not so bad.”

      “It’s awful.” The topical lotion I’d slathered on my hives had dried in pink pasty splotches all over my arms, chest, neck and—ack!—face. I wasn’t exactly confident about my looks as is. I’m sure there are some perks to being over forty, but random gray hairs, crow’s-feet, and less taut skin aren’t included. At least I have perky boobs. That’s something. And I’m limber. A definite bonus.

      Until recently I’d refused to let Arch shag me missionary-style. Too intimate. All I wanted was a fling. Sex, just sex. Falling in love with a man I didn’t trust, a man who didn’t do relationships wouldn’t be smart. I knew it wouldn’t take much for me to lose my heart to the sexiest, most dangerous, most caring man I’d ever known, so I’d avoided the ultimate intimacy.

      Talk about a losing battle. I’d crumbled three weeks into our hot and heavy fling.

      Though Arch appreciated my agility (call me Gumby), he surprisingly enjoyed the missionary-style most. He said he liked to look at my face and into my eyes when he, well, sent me over the moon to the Big O.

      I didn’t want him looking at my face tonight.

      “You know what your problem is?” he asked as he nabbed my robe’s sash and tugged me into the bedroom.

      “Aside from the obvious?”

      “You focus too much on the physical. The external, yeah?”

      “Yeah? Well, my roots are in entertainment. Call me shallow.” Or realistic. Granted, it had probably been this way for decades. Youth and sexuality taking precedence over talent. Not all the time, of course, but more often than it should. Not that I’m bitter. Okay. Maybe a little.

      He angled his head. “So you’re only hot for me because of what you see?”

      “What? No. I mean I like what I see.” A lot. “But that’s just, I don’t know, cake.”

      “Icing.”

      “Right. The frosting on the top.”

      “Cherry on the top.”

      “Whatever. I can name a hundred reasons why I’m attracted to you that have nothing to do with your movie-star looks.”

      His mouth quirked. “Name one.”

      “You make me feel sexy.”

      “You are sexy.”

      I snorted. “Nic is sexy. Gina is sexy.”

      “There are all kinds of sexy, yeah?”

      Kind of like there are all kinds of lies? “Also, you always say the right thing. I don’t know why I find that appealing since I know it’s a honed skill. Con artists always say the right thing. It’s part of your toolbox. Squeezed up against confidence, sincerity, and calm. Qualities that allow you to manipulate—” I squealed as he yanked off my sash and wrapped it around my head, covering my eyes. “What are you doing?”

      “Helping you to focus less on the external.”

      Not only had he blindfolded me, but without the sash my robe gaped open. I felt violated and exposed and, hello, aroused. “But I look—”

      He kissed away my protest. I wondered if he had anti-itch cream on his face now, but only fleetingly. Hard to think coherent thoughts with a sizzling Scot’s tongue in my mouth. Not that I could see the man. But I could taste and smell and…Zing. Zap!

      Desire snaked through my body as he palmed my bare butt and ground his erection into my belly. Erotic thoughts boogied through my head as he maneuvered me…somewhere. Or maybe that was the world shifting beneath my feet. Could this man kiss!

      Delirious with desire, I think I actually whimpered when he eased away. I figured his little experiment was over and I was feeling a little ridiculous СКАЧАТЬ