Surrender To A Playboy. Renee Roszel

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СКАЧАТЬ struggled with her unwanted attraction for such an unworthy, self-centered jerk. This morning, she was adamant the sleepless hours had been well spent, exorcising the lewd demons from her body. She had trampled the worrisome delusion to dust. She might be exhausted, but she was back to loathing him with every sizzling, throbbing corpuscle of her being. She only hoped she would be able to avoid him for much of his stay. The idea of the need to smile at him and call him “Bonn” in any tone less than out-and-out revulsion was too painful to contemplate.

      Her mind roved unaccountably to his eyes, the color of rich earth, framed by thick, dark lashes. They had been amazingly clear and candid, for a greedy, womanizing pig. But she supposed that’s how greedy, womanizing pigs were able to womanize. They could look like nice guys with nothing but the most honorable intentions. That’s what made them so dangerous!

      She shoved open the bathroom door and froze, her body reacting before her mind grasped the truth. Standing there not two feet away, was the greedy, womanizing pig, himself—wearing nothing but a towel. Or maybe she should say, thank heaven he wore a towel!

      Shaving cream covered one cheek and part of his jaw. As she stood there gripped by a bizarre paralysis, he stopped shaving and glanced her way. He didn’t appear shocked. Possibly a little surprised. But then womanizing pigs were no doubt accustomed to having women burst into their bathrooms.

      Lowering the razor to water running in the sink, he returned his attention to what he was doing. “Good morning, Miss O’Mara.”

      Lord, she’d forgotten both their bedrooms connected to the adjoining bath. Evidently she wasn’t as alert this morning as she should be. Unfortunately, it was all his fault! “Oh—I’m…” She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. For an out-and-out rat, he had a disturbingly masculine chest. So disturbing it could apparently rob women of the ability to think straight or even move. “I thought—I didn’t think…” Well, did you or didn’t you, nitwit? Get hold of yourself! She swallowed. “It’s six o’clock. I didn’t think you’d be up.” Get out. Close the door! What are you doing, planted in the doorway like a stupid pine tree?

      He lifted his chin and shaved upward along his jaw. “Actually, I slept late.” He glanced her way as he rinsed the razor. “It’s eight o’clock in Boston.”

      That surprised her. “I thought playboys slept till noon.”

      “And you’re an expert on playboy behavior?”

      Though she was having trouble getting her body to obey her, she worked on her stern expression. “Actually, my experience with playboys is limited to you,” she said. “Naturally, I’ve heard of your…” She groped for a single word that would encompass the disreputable rumors over the years, about his sexual delinquency and general wild living. “…exploits,” she said finally. “You must know the topic of Bonner Wittering would be popular gossip in a town bearing his name.” She paused, giving him a chance to respond. He merely carried on with his shaving. Annoyed by his disinclination to explain himself or at the very least express regret for his disgraceful behavior, she added, “However, it’s been these past two years, getting to know you through your letters, that my low opinion of playboys has been set in stone.”

      “So, you judge all playboys by your estimation of me?” he asked, glancing her way.

      She managed a shrug, gratified she could move her shoulders. She hoped the performance looked like utter indifference to his nearness. “Let’s just say getting to know you has ruined me for all other playboys.”

      His lips twitched. “Why Miss O’Mara, are you flirting with me?”

      She gasped. He was an incorrigible tease. “I’d rather cut off an arm!”

      He broke eye contact and returned his attention to the mirror. “So, it’s not really playboys you hate,” he murmured. “It’s me.”

      “If you’re an example of what constitutes a playboy, then it’s safe to say I’m not a fan of you—or any of your breed! Is that clear enough?”

      “It seems fairly clear,” he said. After a pause, he added, “I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

      Somehow, she regained the use of her arms and jerkily indicated the sink. “I—was just going to brush my teeth.” Why did you tell him that? What does he care? Get—out—of—the—room!

      He shifted his attention back to her. She wondered what was going through his mind. Nothing in his expression gave away his thoughts. He took a step back and indicated the sink with his razor. “Go ahead. I can see over your head.”

      She stared, realizing after a half dozen precariously rapid heartbeats her jaw had dropped and her mouth was open. Did he really think she’d get in front of him and bend over the sink—with him wearing nothing but a towel?

      He lifted his chin and began to shave again. “Go ahead, Miss O’Mara.” His lids slid to half mast, a clear indication he’d taken his eyes off the mirror and was watching her. “In case you’re worried, the Playboy Handbook expressly prohibits attacking women in the act of brushing their teeth.”

      She winced slightly as if her flesh had been nipped. Did this guy read minds?

      “Pretend I’m not even here.” As he dragged his razor across his cheek she thought she saw a muscle bulge there. Did it annoy him that she’d think he might attack her? Or did it bother him that she was probably not going to be a conquest.

      Probably not? That didn’t sound like she was sure about it! She shook herself. Get with the program, Mary. You hate this man. She saw him standing there, heard him when he spoke, yet she didn’t see him, didn’t hear him. Her thoughts ebbed and flowed as though she were slipping in and out of consciousness.

      Before she grasped what was happening, he doused his razor under running water, replaced it on the glass shelf below the mirror and rinsed his face. He took a bottle of aftershave off the shelf, spattered it into his palm, rubbed his hands together and splashed the aromatic liquid on his cheeks and square jaw. She watched, transfixed, experiencing the kindling of an odd yearning deep inside her. For what? Certainly not this—this sexy—No! No! I didn’t mean sexy, I meant selfish! This selfish reptile.

      He replaced the cap on the bottle and set it aside then snagged her gaze. “It’s all yours, Miss O’Mara.” She stood there motionless, torn between wanting to look deeply into those hypnotic eyes and scratching them out. “I’ll just slither quietly away,” he said, with the vaguest hint of a bow.

      After he left, Mary didn’t know how long she stood there, stock-still, trying to gather her fragmented thoughts. The bracing, woodsy scent of his aftershave lingered, turning her malfunctioning mind to slush.

      After what seemed like an eternity she found herself able to move, and leaned heavily against the doorjamb. She ran her hands through her hair and grasped wads in her fists, furious for allowing herself to get—flustered. Yes, that was all it was. She’d been flustered. She hadn’t expected to see him, especially nearly naked. The situation had been embarrassing and—and flustering.

      She inhaled several deep breaths for strength, reminding herself of what she knew better than her own name. The man was a human slug. “I hate you Bonner Wittering,” she whispered in a guttural snarl. “I will hate you until the end of time!”

      CHAPTER THREE

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