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“And you think that melty-eyed look is going to get you an invitation into my home.”
Instantly, his semi-erection, born of appreciating those lively eyes and those bold breasts, became a full-blown one. He was struck by a sudden mental image of Ms. Paula Raymond, coder and nosy neighbor, sprawled on her back on his king-sized bed.
In this scrumptious vision, her holiday-themed tee-shirt was bunched up around her neck, her jeans scrunched down around her ankles, and her silver glasses perched saucily on her nose as she beamed that challenging glare at him. Her exposed breasts would be full, with tight, dark centers begging to be sucked. The crotch of her panties—they were creamy white in his fantasy, to set off her luscious brown skin—would be damp. That would be because his mouth was there. He’d be licking her and she’d be honey all over his mouth.
He stifled a groan.
Damn. Not this again.
The first time—hell, every time—he’d encountered this woman, he’d spent way too long afterwards trying to banish random explicit scenes from his mind. Usually they involved some part of the woman’s body unclothed and in contact with his tongue.
“No.” He took a deep, control-gathering breath. “I don’t expect an invitation. That doesn’t prevent me from hoping, though.”
She eyed him in silence. Then: “Why? Did you suddenly decide after all this time that you can spare some eggs after all?”
That confused him. “Eggs?”
“You don’t even remember, do you? Well, let me just help you with that, because I remember it quite well. Mid-November. Snowstorm.” Her eyes were slits and her tone accusatory. “The plows hadn’t been through yet and I was all out of eggs.”
She finished the last sentence in a high-drama voice that had him blinking. ThatI was all out of eggsmight have beenI saw a murderer stalking in the shadowsfor the way she told it.
“I went downstairs to see if the cafe could sell me some. They weren’t even open. Nobody was around. The snow was up to here.”
She drew a severe line at her thighs. Very pretty thighs. He forced himself to pay attention.
“I tried getting my car out, but that was a great big bust. So I decided on a longshot and knocked on your door.”
She shook her head as if it were a memory of great suffering for her.
“You wouldn’t open up, not until I told you exactly what I was there for. Over. And over. I told you, I’m making a pie. I’m making a pie. On without end. I’m making a pie. Is any of this ringing a bell?”
There was no time to do more than mask his amusement with a nod before she was off again.
“Once you did finally open it, you just stood there. Just. Stood there. So I said it again, do you have any eggs so I can make a pie—” he didn’t miss the longAfor emphasis—“and you said oh, sure, yes, absolutely you did have spare eggs, and just when I began to think, wow, people can change, there is hope for humanity, you said, no, I couldn’t have any of your damn eggs, and slammed the door in my face.”
He swallowed. Stared up at the ceiling. Crossed his arms. And decided, unwisely, on honestly. “I wasn’t in the mood for flirting.”
The dead silence warned him he’d said the wrong thing. When he glanced back over, her jaw had fallen so low it looked painful. “Flirting. You thought I was flirting with you. Withyou.”
“Like the other times,” he said impatiently.
“The other times!”
“Yeah. Listen, it happens. I get approached. You know how it is when strangers come up to you with all kinds of excuses to introduce themselves.”
“No, I donotknow how it is.” The temperature of her voice had fallen twenty degrees.
“Then you’re lucky,” he said with an edge. “It’s a constant thing with me. People want my connections, to get in with my family or the university or my business contacts.”
“Oh, my. You’re that popular.”
He gritted his teeth. “You witnessed that little scene with Georgette back there. She said it herself. She was only dating me as a social-climbing gambit. That’s the story of my life. It’s one thing if I can get something equally valuable in return, but...”
But in Georgette’s case, it hadn’t been satisfactory on a number of levels.Like the tepid sex. And the inane conversation. And her perfume. And her annoying friends. And her habit of...
Bastian stopped that pointless line of thinking when he saw Paula shaking her head emphatically. A brown twist bobbed over her eye, and she seemed surprised by it, then batted it away. Her hair, even all twisted up like that, looked temptingly soft. He had the urge to reach out and grab a length of it, tug her to him, and trace her mouth with his fingertip to see how it compared for softness.
“I cannot believe I’m hearing this,” she said. “You think you’re amazing, don’t you? Social climbing. That assumes you’re at the top. That you know all the people that matter in the world. Wow. And you don’t talk to people unless you expect to get something from them.”
