Killing Time. Leslie Kelly

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      Then the man shifted, as if he planned to turn around. She hissed. Weak, nothing. At the thought of seeing the full-frontal onslaught, Caro’s legs turned to jelly. If not for her arms holding up the front part of her body, she probably would have fallen face-first on the carpet.

      “Don’t turn around,” the woman said matter-of-factly, apparently noticing her victim making a move. “Please stand there and look away while I get myself mussed before Daddy gets here.”

      Daddy. Mussed. Caro began to understand. This was strictly TV Writing 101 stuff. Tons of shows, from soaps to sitcoms, had explored this scenario in every conceivable way. This woman wanted to be caught in a compromising situation with Mr. Studly. Enter the enraged, armed papa. Fade to commercial.

      “Please don’t take off your clothes.” He sounded more nervous than he had when she’d threatened to shoot him.

      No commercial, Caro, this is real life.

      “Fair’s fair.” Then the woman chuckled. “At least now I know what all the women in town are dying for a glimpse of.”

      His thighs? His flexing calves? His arms, which looked strong enough to carry a woman to the nearest flat surface and make love to her from here to Sunday? All of the above?

      Most especially that hard, sweetly curved rear that cried out to be caressed, held, stroked and clenched in mind-numbing passion? Caro gulped as her nervous habit kicked in: she started to hum the theme song from Sex in the City.

      “Who would’ve thought those little black points were the tips of his ears?”

      It took a second for Caro to understand what the woman meant. Then she leaned in farther, blinking off the haze of lust to take a really good look at the man. That was when Caro noticed what was above his perfect, hard, finger-licking-good backside.

      A tattoo. A sexy, wicked, playful tattoo. It told a story that revealed quite a lot about the man it adorned.

      Part of it, the little creature in the small of his back, riding just above his right cheek, made her pause. Because it looked familiar. Very familiar.

      “Impossible,” she whispered, not believing her own eyes. She studied it, blinking a few times, wondering if she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing.

      It was a lamb. A cute little furry white lamb, as incongruous as it was adorable when decorating this hunky man’s body. “Crazy,” she called herself, knowing there were millions of men in the world who had millions of tattoos.

      Maybe some other hunk had decided to put a cute little lamb on his backside in honor of some other woman whose last name was the same as hers. Maybe that other hunk had called that other girl a sweet little lamb the first time they’d been introduced.

      Or maybe she’d wronged someone in another life and karma was getting even. That was the only explanation about how fate could be cruel enough to bring him back into her world.

      “Please, no,” she whispered. But even as she did so, she knew it was futile. Somehow, Caroline knew this particular tattoo belonged to only one particular man. “Lord help me.”

      “Okay, Louise, this is getting ridiculous. And I’m getting cold,” the man drawled.

      This time, because she was listening for it, she did, indeed, recognize the voice.

      Mick Winchester. Good God, it was him. She hadn’t seen the man for eight years and already he had her down on her hands and knees, playing Peeping Tom. In two minutes flat, he’d turned her into a mindless, brainless female. Just like she’d been during the crazy, passionate year of their relationship.

      She couldn’t help staring at him again, gobbling him up with her eyes, knowing that once his face was turned to hers, she wouldn’t be able to look her fill. Because he’d be watching her, laughing at her, knowing how she reacted to him.

      Always had. Probably always would. Dammit all to hell.

      In the office, Louise said, “It’s good you keep your tattoo covered.”

      Remembering the tattoo, Caroline stared at it again, studying the whole image. The old tattoo was now part of a bigger picture. The glimpse of the lamb had made her cringe at the thought of facing Mick again. But studying the whole thing and assessing its meaning made her want to punch his lights out.

      Because the louse had gone and ruined it.

      “That’d just feed the gossip mill, wouldn’t it?” Louise said. “They already think you’re a horny, hungry devil.”

      A horny, hungry devil. How appropriate for this horny, hungry, insatiable, exasperating man.

      Her teeth clenched and her eyes narrowed as she stared at what the creep had done to the poor little lamb on his hip. Directly across from it, extending from the base of his spine and down over part of his taut left cheek, was a cartoon character. With gaping jaws, a wicked twinkle in its eye and very sharp teeth.

      She recognized the character instantly. From the spiky black fur, and the two pointed ears that might, indeed, peek out from a pair of low-riding jeans, to the glistening, salacious smile, the Big Bad Wolf sat silently on this man’s body like a predator watching for some tempting prey.

      And he had some. Lamb chops en brochette.

      It was funny. Comical. But intensely sexual. A literal warning to any lamb to be wary of wolves with big smiles and knowing eyes. She didn’t know whether to drool or kick him.

      But what really made her react with gut fury was the realization that her little lamb—the one Mick had gotten during his junior year of college in honor of their first anniversary—was no longer alone. A miniature herd of the furry little beasts marched across his back, waiting for their turn to run willingly into the Big Bad Wolf’s waiting mouth.

      And Caroline Lamb had led the way.

      She simply couldn’t help herself. With a strangled cry of fury, she half stood and launched herself into the room.

      “Do the women of the world a favor and shoot the bastard,” she snarled at Louise.

      Then she promptly ruined her grand entrance by losing her battle with gravity and falling flat on her face.

      

      MICK DIDN’T KNOW who the woman lying on the floor was, or why she’d stumbled in just in time to prevent him from trying to physically wrest the gun from Louise Flanagan.

      He did know, however, that she looked damned sexy, face-down, with her short white skirt riding up high enough to show him the hem of her filmy white panties.

      As for why she’d want to shoot him, well, there could be any number of reasons. The first one that came to mind was that he did know her. The legs certainly looked familiar. Then again, any gorgeous legs looked familiar to a leg man.

      “Louise, I think you’ve done enough for this morning,” he said, reluctantly, but necessarily, focused on the woman with the gun, not the woman with the silky underwear. Because as much as he’d prefer not to be the only naked one in the room, he had the feeling the likelihood of the gun going off was better СКАЧАТЬ