Her Montana Millionaire. Crystal Green

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      She hated her age. It made her want to sit on a park bench, pretending to feed the pigeons like a nice old maid should, and trip all the premenopausal women as they walked by.

      “That’s right,” she continued. “Forty’s just a number.”

      “You don’t look your age at all. I thought you were maybe thirty-five, thirty-six.”

      She gasped, trying to ignore the pain of reality. Even her fake, delusional age was over the hill.

      So, now that he probably thought her skin was crumbling to dust right before his eyes, what were the chances of him rolling over and planting a kiss on her? Probably nil.

      Joy. Now she knew what all the average girls in school felt like. You know, the ones who were always the guys’ best friends, the ones who listened to the boys’ dating problems while slowly wilting away inside?

      Bother with this. Jinni turned on her side, propping her head up with one hand while resting the other on her hip. Very come-hither. It had to work.

      Make your move, honey.

      Max just grinned at her. “You’ve turned out to be a good listener. I’m glad we met up tonight.”

      Oh, brother. “Glad to help. Is there anything else you’d like to do?”

      “You mean chat about? Nah. I’m all talked out.”

      Okay. He wasn’t getting it, and as a result, she sure wasn’t getting it.

      She decided to change tack, lowering her voice to hit-him-over-the-head-with-passion mode. Used only in emergency situations.

      “Isn’t it romantic out here? The stars, the moon, the fact that we’re all alone?”

      He made an uh-uh sound. Perfect. He’d bared his soul to her, but he couldn’t bare anything else?

      Jinni flopped to her back again, losing hope. She didn’t have it anymore. Forty had sucked all the attractiveness out of her. Rumor had already shaped her into Granny Ankle-High-Nylons.

      She was done for.

      Once again, her gaze lingered over his length. The wingtip shoes, the crisp slacks, the stylish tie. Sigh.

      Wait a second.

      “Max?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Wouldn’t a Barbra Streisand song make the moment?”

      She held her breath, hoping, praying….

      “Bently likes her. Sometimes he’ll throw on one of her CDs, so I’ve got no choice but to listen.”

      Bently? Who was Bently?

      Ahh. Maybe this was the problem. Maybe Max wasn’t touching her because he was…confused. That would explain it.

      Midlife crisis, indeed.

      He jerked to a sitting position. “No.”

      “No, what?”

      “No, I’m not a Barbra Streisand fan. Because I think I know what you’re asking and… God, is that what you were asking?”

      “Just wondering.”

      He cursed.

      “Hey, don’t revert to sailor speak just to prove your manhood.”

      “I can’t believe you thought…”

      Jinni sat upright, too. “And I can’t believe you think I look thirty-six!”

      “You said you didn’t care about age.”

      “I don’t.” She smoothed her hair, trying to seem glacial. “Age is immaterial.”

      He cursed again, this time with a slight amount of mirth.

      She was about to chide him for his course language, but the whole alpha talk bit was lighting her fire. She liked it when he showed some raw emotion.

      Too bad he couldn’t extend some of that passion in her direction.

      Once again she felt inadequate. So she did the only thing that could cheer her up—reminding herself that she was wanted.

      “You remind me of Jordan Clifton,” she said.

      “Who?”

      Jinni smiled tolerantly at him. “The movie star with five films in the top ten list of worldwide grosses?”

      Max shrugged, probably still smarting from the whole “gay” misunderstanding.

      “Well, you’ve got the same dimpled chin. When we were engaged—”

      “You were engaged to a movie star?”

      “Three, actually. But when we were engaged…”

      He wiped a hand over his face and slumped back down to his reclining position. “Incredible.”

      Good, she’d gotten a rise out of him. Could she hope that his frustration stemmed from the slightest bit of male jealousy?

      Jinni followed his lead, leaning over him. “You don’t want to hear about other men, do you?”

      Her heart jumped when he took her chin between his index finger and thumb, pulling her toward him. Right next to his mouth.

      “Quiet, Jinni. Why don’t you just be quiet.”

      Now this was more like it.

      Chapter Four

      He had her now.

      She hovered over him, pouty lips inches from his own, her breath warming his skin as his fingers framed her chin.

      Her exotic scent washed over him, a blend of kiwi and citrus, colorful and wild.

      “What perfume are you wearing?” he murmured, his mind muddled by the rounded weight of her breasts pressing into his chest.

      “An original bouquet named after me by the perfumer.”

      Well, la-de-dah. Since he was still smarting from her engagement confession as well as her inquiry into his sexual preferences—Barbra Streisand, his foot—he used a dash of sarcasm to respond. “Were you engaged to him, too?”

      She arched over him, almost making Max groan with longing. “No. He keeps asking, but he’s not my type.”

      It was enough to take away his steam. Max let go of Jinni, causing her to creep back to his coat blanket, tucking her knees under her with an unreadable expression on her face.

      Why had he even entertained the СКАЧАТЬ