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Jaine sneaked several glances at him as she got two glasses from the cabinet and filled them with ice. Her blood was zinging through her veins, the way it always did when he was around, whether from anger or exhilaration or lust, or a combination of all three. Confined by her cozy kitchen, he seemed even bigger, his shoulders filling the doorway and his size dwarfing her small, made-for-four table with the inlaid ceramic tile top.
“What kind of state job were you interviewing for?”
“State police, field detective division.”
Taking the pitcher of tea from the refrigerator, she poured the two glasses full. “Lemon?”
“No, just straight.” He took the glass from her, his fingers brushing hers. That was enough to make her nipples pucker and stand at attention. His gaze zeroed in on her mouth. “Congratulations,” he said.
She blinked at him. “Have I done something?” She hoped he wasn’t referring to all the publicity over the List—oh, God, the List. She had forgotten about it. Had he read the entire thing? Of course he had.
“You haven’t cussed once, and we’ve been together half an hour. You didn’t even swear when I dragged you out of the supermarket.”
“Really?” She smiled, pleased with herself. Maybe having to pay all those fines was working on her subconscious. She was still thinking a lot of swear words, but the fines didn’t kick in unless she said them out loud. Progress was being made.
He tilted the glass up and drank. She watched, mesmerized, as his strong throat worked. She struggled with a violent urge to tear his clothes off. What was wrong with her? She had watched men drink all her life, and it had never before affected her like this, not even with any of her three ex-fiancés.
“More?” she asked when he drained the glass and set it down.
“No, thanks.” That hot, dark gaze went over her, settled on her
breasts. “You look extra spiffy today. Anything special going on?”
She wasn’t going to avoid the subject, no matter how touchy it was. “We had an interview for Good Morning America this morning—at four A.M. if you can believe it! I had to get up at two,” she complained, “and I’ve been comatose most of the day.”
“The List is getting that much publicity?” he asked, surprised.
“I’m afraid so,” she said morosely, sitting down at the table.
He didn’t sit down across from her, but took the chair beside her. “I tracked it down on the Web. It was funny stuff—Ms. C.”
She gaped at him. “How did you know?” she demanded.
He snorted. “Like I wouldn’t recognize your smart-ass mouth even in print. ‘Anything over eight is strictly for show-and-tell,’” he quoted at her.
“I might have known you’d remember only the sex stuff.”
“Sex is much on my mind these days. And just for the record—I don’t have anything for show-and-tell.”
If he didn’t, he hadn’t missed it by much, Jaine thought, remembering with great fondness how he had looked in profile.
He continued, “I’m just happy I’m not in the point-and-laugh category.”
Jaine shrieked with laughter and threw herself back in the chair so hard it tipped her out onto the floor. She sat there holding her ribs, which had pretty much stopped aching but now decided to resume at such rough treatment, but she couldn’t stop laughing. BooBoo cautiously approached, but decided he didn’t want to get within touching distance and instead sought refuge under Sam’s chair.
Sam leaned down and scooped up the cat, settling him on his lap and stroking down the long, lean body. BooBoo closed his eyes and set up a buzz-saw purr. The cat purred, and Sam watched her, waiting until the gales of laughter had subsided to giggles and wheezing.
She sat on the floor with her arms wrapped around her ribs and her eyes wet with tears. If she had any mascara left, it had to be running down her cheeks, she thought. “Need any help getting up?” he asked. “I should warn you that if I get my hands on you, I may have trouble taking them off again.”
“I can manage, thanks.” Carefully, and not without some difficulty because of her long skirt, she got to her feet and wiped her eyes with a napkin.
“Good. I’d hate to disturb … what’s his name? BooBoo? What the hell kind of name for a cat is BooBoo?”
“Don’t blame me; blame my mother.”
“A cat should have a name it can live up to. Naming him BooBoo is like naming your son Alice. BooBoo shoulda been named Tiger, or Romeo—”
Jaine shook her head. “Romeo’s out.”
