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“Oh, I remember you now,” Chay said in a high, mincing voice. “You were the gofer who brought us sandwiches.”
The color in her face deepened. “I never called you a gofer.”
“And the waitress… I’m only surprised you didn’t get up and show her how to serve our drinks.”
“Unbelievable! This is what I get for trying to pour salt on troubled waters.”
“It’s oil. Oil on troubled waters. The salt thing is about what you never want to pour on open wounds.”
Bianca threw out her hands. “Chi se ne frega! Who cares? I am trying to make a point here.”
“Which is?”
She drew another deep breath. The action drew her breasts up tight against the shirt she was wearing.
He hadn’t really noticed what she was wearing before.
He did now.
The shirt was an indeterminate shade of brown, somewhere between what he figured women called beige and tan. The short sleeves did justice to her arms, which were trim.
Everything about her was trim.
Nice brea
sts. Slender waist. Gently rounded hips.
He couldn’t see her legs, because she had on pants the same color as the top. There was no way to judge whether her legs were as trim as the rest of her, but though the gown she’d worn at the wedding had been floor length, she’d lifted the skirt when she’d stalked back into the house and the glimpse he’d had of her ankles had been okay.
Better than okay.
It had made him want to see more.
He remembered the color of that gown, too. Purple. No. Pink. Not pink either. He had no idea what the color was, but it had been great for her, the perfect foil for her golden hair…
Jesus.
Who gave a damn about her looks? Okay. She was easy on the eyes despite the way she dressed. Even the shoes. If the brunette who’d been hitting on him had on spike heels, what would you call these? Not flats. They were kind of wedged. From head to toe, she was dressed the way she probably dressed for the office. Nothing that would draw a man’s eye. Even her hair. She wore it drawn back into a low ponytail, something a woman with silky-looking, soft-looking long waves of golden hair should never do.
None of those things changed the fact that the lady was what you’d get if you crossed Marie Antoinette with a wolverine.
The thought made him laugh.
Her chin lifted.
“What,” she said coldly, “do you find so amusing, Lieutenant?”
“Nothing. Everything.” He sighed. “Actually, I was thinking that you’re right.”
She blinked. “I am?”
“Yes.”
“Right about what?”
“About us making Tanner and his wife uncomfortable.”
He could almost see a little of her defiance slipping away.
