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“Got an eyeful, did you?” he asked as he walked to the window and reached for the curtains.
“Yes, I did.” She hadn’t blinked in five minutes, at least. “Thank you.” He pulled the curtains together, and her whole body went into mourning.
“My pleasure.” He chuckled. “Maybe you can return the favor sometime.”
He hung up before she could reply, which was a good thing, because she was speechless as she closed her blinds. Mentally she smacked her forehead. Duh! All she would have had to do at any time was close her own blinds.
“Yeah, like I’m stupid or something,” she said to BooBoo.
The image of taking her clothes off for him shook her—and excited her. What was she, an exhibitionist? She never had been in the past, but now … Her nipples were hard, standing out like raspberries, and as for the rest of her … Well. She had never gone in for casual sex, but this sudden lust for Sam the jerk, of all people, floored her. How could he go from jerk to tempting just by taking off his clothes?
“Am I so shallow?” she asked BooBoo, and considered the idea for a moment, then nodded. “You betcha.”
BooBoo meowed, evidently in agreement.
Oh, dear. How could she look at Sam again without remembering how he looked naked? How could she meet him without blushing or letting him see that she had a ma
jor case of the hots for his body? She was much more comfortable having him as an adversary than she was seeing him as an object of lust. She preferred her lust objects at a safer distance … say, on a movie screen.
He hadn’t been embarrassed, though, so why should she? They were both adults, right? She had seen naked men before. She just had never seen Sam naked before. Why couldn’t he have had a beer belly and a shriveled wiener, instead of rock-hard abs and an impressive morning erection?
She began drooling again.
“This is disgusting,” she said aloud. “I’m thirty years old, not a teenager screaming over … whoever it is they scream over now. I should at least be able to control my saliva glands.”
Her saliva glands thought differently. Every time an image of Sam popped into her head, which was about every ten seconds—she had to enjoy the image for about nine seconds before she banished it—she would have to swallow. Repeatedly.
She had left for work early yesterday morning, when Sam had been leaving at the same time. If she left at her regular time today, he should already be gone, right?
But he’d said he was on a task force and kept irregular hours, therefore he might leave at any time. She couldn’t time her departure so it didn’t coincide with his; she would have to carry on as usual and keep her fingers crossed. Maybe tomorrow she would be able to face him with more composure, but not today, not with her body revved and her saliva glands working overtime. She should just forget about it and get ready for work.
She stood in front of her open closet door and found herself in a dilemma. What did one wear when she might meet her neighbor whom she had just seen naked?
Thank God for the scrape on her knee, she finally decided. It was pants or long skirts until the knee healed, which prevented her from sashaying out in the black, above-the-knee sheath with spaghetti straps that she usually wore to parties when she wanted to look sleek and sophisticated. The black sheath made a statement, something along the lines of “Look at me, don’t I look sexy,” but was definitely inappropriate for work. The scraped knee saved her from a major faux pas.
Better to err on the side of caution, she finally decided, and chose the most severe man-tailored pants outfit she owned. Never mind that she had always liked the way the pants clung to her butt, or that it never failed to elicit a few admiring remarks from the male contingent at work; she wasn’t going to see Sam today. He had to be even more uncomfortable about what had happened than she was. If anyone avoided anyone, he would avoid her.
Would a man who was embarrassed have flashed her that wicked grin? He knew he looked good; better than good, damn it.
In an effort to get her mind off exactly how good he looked, she turned on the television to catch the morning news while she dressed and did her makeup.
She was applying cover-up stick to the bruise on her cheekbone when the female anchor of the local morning newscast said in a chirpy voice, “Freud never found out what it is that women want. If he had talked to four area women, however, he would have known the answer to his famous question. Find out if your husband or boyfriend is Mr. Perfect when we return, after these messages.”
Jaine was so stunned she couldn’t even think of a curse word to say. Her legs suddenly weak, she sank down on the closed toilet seat. Dawna, the bitch, must have given them up immediately. No—if she had named names, the phone would have been ringing nonstop. So far they were still anonymous, but that was bound to change today.
She hurried into the bedroom and dialed T.J.’s number, silently praying that her friend hadn’t yet left for work. T.J. lived farther out than Jaine did, so she left home a little earlier.
“Hello.” T.J. sounded rushed, and a little irritable.
“It’s Jaine. Have you seen the news yet this morning?”
“No, why?”
“Mr. Perfect made the news.”
“Oh. My. God.” T.J. sounded as if she might faint, or vomit, or both.
“They don’t have our names yet, I don’t think, since no one has called. Someone at Hammerstead will figure it out today, though, so that means by afternoon it’ll be common knowledge.”
