Pillow Talk. Kathleen O'Reilly

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      “How far do you usually go?” he asked, not even winded.

      “Five,” she answered, sneaking an extra gasp. “You?”

      “Five.”

      “What’s your time?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.

      His gaze flicked in her direction. “Fifty-five is the usual. I can shave off eight minutes when I’m concentrating. You?”

      He had stepped right into her trap. “I can beat that.”

      “I don’t know. I’ve got a report that I need to turn in before morning.”

      “Chicken?” She pulled ahead.

      “Now you’re just talking trash.”

      She didn’t reply except with vaguely unprofessional, yet extremely satisfying, clucking noises.

      He pulled alongside her. “That is such a pretty ass. Seems a shame to watch you lose it.”

      “You think so, farm boy?”

      “Oh, yeah.”

      “Care to bet on that?”

      He laughed. “What are we playing for now? I would love to see you in a little, black—”

      “No.”

      “Spoilsport,” he said with a heated look that indicated he was still off in fantasyland.

      Jessica almost lost her stride. “It’s got to be something more meaningful.”

      “Sex can be meaningful. Great sex can be life-altering.”

      She snorted in a completely unfeminine manner. “You are such a man. Loser buys dinner.”

      “Cooks, not buys.”

      “And a chauvinist, too. I bet you can’t cook.”

      “You can’t even begin to imagine.”

      “You’re just trying to get me alone.”

      He clutched a hand to his extremely well-formed, sweat-glistened chest. “Gee, she sees right through me.”

      “Buys dinner. Public place. Ready?” She shot forward before he could reply. “See you at the finish line.”

      They kept even for three miles, but the fast pace started to get to Jessica. He didn’t look winded at all, chest pumping in even rhythm. Was he slowing his pace just to let her win?

      That demeaning thought got her through another one and a half miles. By the time they reached the last half-mile marker, Jessica thought her heart was going to explode. Still she ran, concentrating on putting one foot forward. Finding the zone.

      Adam started to pull ahead. Two lengths, then three.

      No way.

      She blocked out everything. This was the man who thought he could beat her. Had already beaten her once. Not again in this lifetime. She focused on nothing but his black silk running shorts covering his mighty fine—

      Stop it, Jessica. Her pace picked up.

      The final marker loomed ahead, the shadowy clump of trees and the water fountain that sparkled like a desert oasis. Almost there.

      She fell in beside him.

      He pulled ahead.

      No.

      Not just no, but hell no.

      Adam took the lead.

      He smiled at her, slow and sure. A victory smile.

      Calling on every ounce of her reserves, she shot forward, leaving him behind.

      He almost caught her, but she was determined.

      There it was.

      One more length.

      She felt his breath hot on her back. Still she ran.

      There.

      There.

      She zoomed past the marker, two strides ahead of Mr. Hotshot. “There.”

      He came to a stop next to her, and she was grateful to see his bare chest pumping wildly, the sweat dribbling down between sharply-defined pecs. “You are good,” he murmured, almost to himself.

      Jessica forced herself to look away.

      “In all things, Taylor.” She leaned against the tree, sucking much-needed air into her starving lungs. The world spun four times before it righted itself once more. She swept a hand through her hair, wiping the sweat off her forehead.

      His thumb brushed against her lower lip. “You missed a spot.”

      Her lashes drifted down, and she fought the urge to taste him. A frightening thought. Instantly the warm touch was gone and she stepped back into reality. “You owe me dinner.”

      “You beat me, Barnes. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at eight.”

      For a second he sounded pleased, as if he had planned the whole thing. Suspicion tainted the moment. She stood, hands on hips, and studied his face. He looked exhausted and tousled, in a “hey baby, come jump me” kind of way. Once again, she felt the taste of victory. And it was sweet. The suspicion was gone. “717 West Patterson, apartment 2285. Think you can remember that, Taylor?”

      “Don’t underestimate me, Barnes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      JESSICA PUT her key in the lock to 87 Spruce Avenue, turned the latch and pushed inside. Home. Her mom shouted a greeting from the kitchen, followed by the familiar rapid-fire barrage of requests. Set the table, chase the cat from the back bedroom and bring the clean laundry up from the basement. Jessica breathed in the ever-present aroma of fabric softener and cinnamon. Yup. Definitely home.

      The family homestead in the southwest side of the city had been built proudly in 1937 by her grandfather, Elijah Barnes. An extra bathroom had been added on when Jessica was born, the attic had been finished when her brother Patrick turned seven, and four years ago her father had added a one-car garage to keep the snow off the 1987 Buick. For Jessica, it was the only home she’d ever known.

      After carrying out her orders, Jessica made her way into the kitchen where her mother whisked from stove to sink to counter and back, faster than the eye could follow. There was never a wasted movement; she never stopped the way Jessica did, wondering what it was she intended to do.

      Diane Barnes was a woman who kept a spotless house, was happiest when her children were nearby and had never met a casserole she didn’t like. From an early age, Jessica had known she was not her mother’s СКАЧАТЬ