Matchless Millionaires. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      He looked from her to the bed, his eyes narrowing.

      She almost smiled, feeling a touch reckless—and strangely empowered.

      “No, thanks,” he said roughly. “Let’s get a move on.”

      She arched a brow. “Does it bother you if I lie here?”

      “In a word, yes.”

      His hand closed around her ankle, and he pulled her toward him.

      She gasped and sat up, lowering her feet to the floor as she reached the edge of the bed.

      “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

      She stood up and watched as his gaze went to the cleavage revealed by her V-neck blouse.

      When his gaze finally came back to hers, time seemed to slow.

      She searched his face. His expression was forbidding, but desire was nevertheless stamped on every feature. He wanted to kiss her.

      Her lips parted and she felt a tingling awareness all over.

      “You don’t even like me,” she said.

      “Yeah, but right now, it’s hard to care,” he responded.

      “This is a bad idea.”

      “I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

      “You’re going to kiss me.”

      “Are you going to object?” he asked, bending toward her.

      Her eyes fluttered closed and she sighed as his lips touched hers. His mouth was warm and soft as it moved over hers, shaping and stroking.

      Her arms stole up to his neck and his came around her, so that they fit together snugly.

      This, she thought, was what she’d wondered about ever since he’d walked into her shop, but the real thing was even better than she’d imagined.

      She opened to him, allowing him to take the kiss deeper.

      Within moments, liquid desire pooled between her legs and her breasts grew heavy and sensitive.

      Her hand ran through his hair, anchoring him, as the heat they generated took them ever higher.

      She moaned and shifted, and it seemed to fuel his response and need.

      Abruptly, however, he lifted his head and he pushed her away.

      “Damn it,” he said harshly, his eyes glittering.

      She felt off balance, but his reaction soon sunk in.

      “Damn it,” he repeated, running a hand through his hair, as if unable to believe his own stupidity. “You’re the daughter of my father’s former mistress. My father was sleeping with your mother while mine was dying!”

      His words stung, dredging up feelings of being cheap and unclean—guilt by association with Brenda Hartley.

      Her chin came up. “And that sums it up, doesn’t it?”

      “Those are the facts that you and I can’t change,” he countered.

      “Except you’re attracted despite yourself, aren’t you, Ryan?” she tossed out. “And you hate yourself for feeling that way.”

      She turned then, grabbed her purse and bolted from the room.

      When she made it down to the lower level of the house, she could hear Ryan’s footsteps upstairs.

      “Kelly!”

      Without heeding his attempt to catch up with her, she yanked open the lodge’s front door and walked rapidly to her car.

      Moments later, as she pulled out of the drive with a spray of gravel, she let the humiliation sink in.

      She would not be that vulnerable to Ryan Sperling again, she vowed.

      She, of all people, should have known better.

      Five

      That night, Ryan nursed a beer at the bar of the White Fir Tavern. As he took a swig of his drink, he looked around him morosely.

      The White Fir was your typical rustic roadside bar, except it claimed to have been in existence since 1930. A steady trickle of upscale tourists through its doors lent it some pretension. The wood surface of the bar was so dark and beer stained, it was practically black. An unused pool table stood to one side, along with a fifties-style jukebox.

      The place was about half-full, and between the steady drone of conversation and the wail of Chuck Berry, the waitstaff could be heard calling out orders to the short-order cook.

      Ryan glanced behind him. The short blonde at the middle table looked familiar from the day he’d stomped out of Distressed Success. What had Kelly called her—Erica?

      She sat now with a big, equally blond guy. A husband or boyfriend, he figured.

      Given the way things had gone with Kelly earlier in the day, he wasn’t inclined to introduce himself to one of her friends.

      In any case, Erica didn’t appear to recognize him. Or if she did, she preferred to keep her distance. Maybe Kelly had already confided in her and Erica was calling him ten kinds of rat under her breath.

      He shook his head. If women just got over the loyalty thing, he thought wryly, they could rule the world.

      On the other hand, his major problem appeared to be a lack of self-discipline. He couldn’t believe he’d let loose and kissed her.

      He needed to have his head examined—or get laid. The second approach had its appeal, but the only woman he was interested in at the moment was Kelly and going to bed with her would only worsen the problem, not lessen it.

      He wished to hell his month at the lodge were over. Of all the places in the world, Hunter would have to have chosen Kelly’s backyard to build his damn house, and he’d have to have chosen the month when she’d be working there, parading her tempting butt in his face.

      He took another swig of his beer. He needed to stay away from her.

      No more helping out with her decorating. It had been a mistake from the beginning to offer his assistance. He could see that now.

      Too bad the only thing he could still see was the memory of Kelly lying across a bed like the greatest temptation.

      “So how’s it going over there at the lodge?” Erica asked.

      “Fine,” Kelly said curtly, setting down a lamp with more force than necessary.

      It was Friday morning and they were straightening up inside Distressed Success in anticipation СКАЧАТЬ