More Naughty Than Nice. Julie Kistler

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      Damn him, anyway. At first glance, he looked perfect. Or maybe that was his flaw. Who wanted perfection?

      As she strolled over, his green eyes took her measure one more time. She did her best to look careless and at ease as she slipped into the other seat at his small wooden table. For the first time in a long time, she was intensely aware that the curves of her breasts were right there on display, inches from his eyes, that her skirt was very short and tight and… And that she wasn’t wearing any panties.

      Was she sweating everywhere all at once? Or did it just feel like it?

      Hello, Owen Dasher. Hello, Nightmare City.

      Oh, come on. He probably hadn’t read the book and didn’t have a clue about the stupid no-underwear thing. Sure he was getting a good gander at her cleavage, but so what? Lots of women wore low necklines. And he was much too close to look under her skirt.

      No squirming, she told herself curtly. No panicking. And no squirming!

      “Hello,” she began, meeting his cool gaze. With her skirt firmly in place, she pressed her legs together, leaned forward, and extended a hand. “You must be Owen Dasher.”

      He ignored her hand, preferring to glance down at his notebook. Then he slapped a small tape recorder down on the table between them. “Right. I already know who you are.”

      Ooooh. Nice voice. Husky, a shade gruff, yet with a certain note of sweetness. It made her feel all melty. Of course, she was already overly warm, so it wasn’t that big a leap. But the voice could almost make her forgive the fact that he didn’t want to take her hand. Almost.

      She pulled herself away from dangerous thoughts and concentrated on How to Manipulate a Conversation 101.

      “I certainly hope you know who I am,” she returned smoothly. “You were staring a hole in me all the time I was speaking. So, did you like what you saw?”

      That got him to look up. Bad move. She found herself momentarily distracted by his eyes. Chilly, yes. But that particular deep shade of green was amazing, particularly accented by his thick, dark lashes. Like a cool dip in a forest glade.

      Snap out of it, she ordered herself. Probably colored contacts. Didn’t she know herself how easy it was to change your eye color? He probably did it just to bamboozle impressionable interviewees like her.

      When he responded, his tone was as cynical as his eyes. “I’m trying to figure out if this Blissfully Single stuff is a scam or a joke.”

      Rule 1: If you don’t like the question you’re asked, respond with one of your own. “Are those the only two choices?”

      “I don’t know yet.”

      “You listened to my speech,” she noted. “Or at least you stared at me during my speech. Did that provide any clues?”

      “Not really.”

      “Why? Not paying attention, were we?”

      “Oh, I paid attention.”

      “I thought so.” She was kind of enjoying this verbal thrust and parry. As long as she fenced with him, word for word, it kept her mind off her lack of lingerie, the tiny thread of perspiration sliding down between her breasts and the hypnotic look in his beautiful eyes.

      He said, “I found out one thing. You’re very good at what you do.”

      Then he edged his heavy wooden chair forward, far enough that if she kicked out her boot an inch or two, she’d get him right in the shin. Which might not be a bad idea. But he’d made his point. His physical presence was strong and intimidating, generating enough body heat to knock her whole chair over. She dug in. She wasn’t going anywhere. Although some cold water thrown on her head might’ve been nice. Better yet, cold water thrown on his head.

      Instead, she simply said, “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

      His jaw clenched. He sounded frustrated when he shot back, “Take it any way you want. I meant that you’ve obviously practiced delivering your spiel, you make a slick presentation, you sell what you’ve got to sell and the morons who buy your book get what they deserve.”

      Stevie lifted an eyebrow. “And you’ve decided they’re morons because you don’t like my message, you don’t like my fans or because you’re threatened by me?”

      “None of the above.”

      “Then what? What is your problem, Mr. Dasher?”

      “Who said I had a problem?”

      She was losing control of this interview, letting him ruffle her feathers. And she had no intention of letting that continue. She was supposed to be getting under his skin, not vice versa.

      Rule 2: Be calm, but establish who’s boss. Draw a line in the sand. Keeping her voice cool and collected, she mused, “I think you should quit playing footsie with me, Mr. Dasher. This is supposed to be an interview, remember? So far you haven’t asked any real questions, have you?”

      She bent nearer, giving him a steady gaze that she hoped disguised her real feelings. I am going to smoke you, Mr. Big Shot. You think you can confuse me with how hot you are? You think I don’t know you just called my readers morons? You are going down!

      He stared back, enigmatic and annoying.

      Rule 3: Put him on the defensive. She struck. “Are you having problems getting your questions together? Don’t be afraid. Why, you can ask me anything, and find out every little thing you ever wanted to know about the Blissfully Single life, or…” Tipping her head to one side, she offered a superior smile. “Let me guess. You’d rather talk about you, right? ’Cause, after all, you’re the guy here. You’re used to everything revolving around you. Poor little dear. This must be confusing, when you’re not the center of attention.”

      But he didn’t take the bait. “I’ve got questions.”

      “Fire when ready.” Get that revolver out of the holster, big boy.

      Fast and snappy, he asked, “Where did you get the idea for the book? Bad marriage? Some guy dump you? No date for the prom?”

      “Do I look like a woman scorned?”

      “I don’t know. Do you?”

      “No.” She leaned in even closer, so that they were knee to knee, eye to eye. And if he wanted to stare right down the front of her camisole, well, that view was available. But he didn’t. His eyes stayed on hers. Darn him. She’d been sure she could distract him with some cleavage. Charging ahead, she finished, “I’m perfectly happy in my relationships. Plural. Always have been.”

      “Ever been married?”

      “No.”

      “Left at the altar?”

      “No. How about you?”

      He grinned, and it was so swift and СКАЧАТЬ