Page 13 of By Firelight


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Three

Her face blanched, and her involuntary glance at the painting over the mantel was telling. She squinched up her nose. “I don’t know, Grant. I’m not really model material.”

His chest was tight with a feeling that was as unfamiliar as it was scary. He cupped her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Maddy.” He saw in her eyes that she wasn’t convinced.

Her fists were clenched, and he realized suddenly that he had upset her. His heart squeezed. “Sweetheart, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re a knockout, honest to God.”

Her scowl was underlaid with an entirely unexpected vulnerability. “You haven’t even seen me with all my clothes off.”

He chuckled. “I’ve seen a lot . . . and I’ve groped the rest.”

Her lips twitched. “Does that smooth, romantic banter get you hordes of women?”

“I’m devoted to my work,” he said piously, pressing his hand to his heart, happy to play the fool if it would bring back her smile.

She sighed deeply, her chest rising and falling in an entirely distracting way. “Are you serious? Really?”

He kissed her eyelids, her nose, her perfect lips. “I’d consider it an honor,” he said huskily.

Her eyes softened, and he saw arousal begin to build again. His own had never waned. He wrestled with his libido and won, but it was a close call. Good things come to those who wait, he reminded himself ruefully. And the snow wasn’t going anywhere. At least not yet.

He stood up, his cock crying out in protest. “Let’s see about rustling up some lunch,” he said, his voice tight, his balls aching. Being a hero was a hell of a thankless job.

* * *

Maddy learned a lot about Grant that afternoon. Not so much the facts of his checkered past, but the essence of him as a man. His competitive nature rivaled hers. Over a cut-throat game of Scrabble, they squabbled happily.

Grant groused about having only one-point letters and finally put down l-i-t. “Three points,” he grumbled.

Maddy looked at her tiles and grinned. It was early in the game, and the board was wide open. She picked up five of her pieces and arranged them carefully in front of and behind his word.

He blinked and stared. His voice sounded strangled. “Clitoris?” he asked, outrage building in every syllable.

She gave him her most serious expression. “It’s a body part,” she explained slowly. “The source of feminine pleasure.”

“I know what it is,” he snapped. “I wasn’t aware we were allowed to use pornographic vocabulary.”

“It’s entirely legal.” She drew five replacement letters.

Grant played. P-e-n. “Five points,” he said, his jaw tight.

She looked at her letters and widened her eyes dramatically. “Wow. What are the chances I’d draw another I and an S?” She placed them carefully. “Penis. That’s a male . . .”

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with something entirely dangerous. “You seem to have sex on the brain, Ms. Tierney,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Not at all. I merely minored in anatomy in college. Although, being an artist and all, you probably should know this stuff. Particularly if you’re going to paint naked people.”

“They’re called nudes,” he snarled.

It got nasty after that . . .

He played “oat.” She made it throat. He played “it.” She made it “tit.” Finally her luck ran out. He played “church” on a double word. Nobody could make a sex word out of church. Plus, it got him a whole lot of points. She sighed and laid down the entirely ordinary “duck.”

Grant studied her last play, his expression shuttered. He leaned forward and casually flipped her D to the floor, replacing it with an F. Then he sat back and smiled.

She ignored his blatant disrespect for the rules and pointed out the obvious. “That’s slang,” she said. “Take it back.”

He rolled up his sleeves, baring muscular forearms. “And yet you played ‘tit,’ ” he reminded her mildly.

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