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“I see. What
all did Fran say?”
“That you are a real bastard where women are concerned.”
He wasn’t the least bit insulted. In fact, he laughed. “That doesn’t sound like something Fran would say.”
“You’re right. I drew that conclusion myself.”
“So, you and Fran discussed my love life.”
“I wouldn’t call it love life.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t consider sleeping around love.”
“What do you consider love? Jilting a poor schmuck at the altar?”
Sunny reacted as though he had struck her. For a moment she didn’t move, but only stared at him. When she did move, it was with a swish of cotton skirt and a swirl of golden hair that almost slapped him in the face as it came around.
“Wait! Sunny!” She didn’t stop. She didn’t slow down. In fact, she speeded up. He blocked her path by stepping around her and bracing himself against the doorjamb. “That was unforgivably rude.”
“Damn right it was. Now get out of my way.”
“I’m sorry. Truly. And you’re absolutely right, sometimes I am a bastard. It comes from practice.”
“You admit that you are?”
“No, I admit that I was. Brusque. Rude. Insensitive. I’ve changed in the few years I’ve been here, but sometimes I have a relapse.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to say that to you. It just came out.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Beaumont. Not even courtesy. I’m not one of your lovesick ladies.”
His mouth twitched with the need to smile. “Fran did some fancy talking, I see.”
“Apparently so do you. It gets you into a lot of bedrooms.”
The teasing glint faded from his eyes. “I’m not a monk, and I require more than the clinical detachment of a prostitute, so, yes, I’ve cultivated sleeping arrangements with a few women in town. But I’m always honest. I’ve never taken advantage of a woman by making promises I know I won’t keep.”
Sunny lowered her head. So Fran had said. He let a woman know beforehand exactly what she was getting into. Staring straight into that muscled wall of chest with its blanket of fuzzy gold hair, Sunny could understand why some of his women went so willingly to the emotional slaughterhouse.
He placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her head. “I haven’t broken tradition yet. You knew from the beginning, moments after I met you, what I wanted.”
“To win your bet.”
“To get you in bed.”
“One and the same.”
“Hardly,” he rasped. “Much as I like sipping Wild Turkey, sweetheart, I’d rather be tasting you.”
Her insides took an elevator ride. “I said no,” she said tremulously. “Didn’t that change your mind?”
He took half a step closer. “Touch me and see.”
At his bold invitation, she sucked in her breath sharply and turned her back on him. “Do you eat salt on your popcorn?”
He followed her into the kitchen. “Sure,” he answered, lazily drawing the word out.
