Читать книгу Hot Night - Shannon McKenna - Страница 8

Abby’s shove knocked Edgar almost off his feet.

He caught himself against the porch railing and glared at her. “So that’s the way you’re going to be.”

“You forced me to be rude to you, Edgar. I tried to avoid it.”

“Try harder,” Edgar said. “And give me back my goddamn pen.”

His eyes had turned to glittering slits in his flushed face. Abby wedged herself into the corner of the porch and held out his pen. He jerked it out of her hand. Her phone, which had dropped to the floor in the scuffle, started to ring. She made a move to pick it up.

Edgar kicked it out of reach. “Go ahead,” he jeered. “Bend over, sweet cheeks. It’s my favorite position.”

Her insides went icy cold. The phone kept ringing, but she barely heard it, with his crude words and ugly tone ringing in her ears.

Oh dear. She’d taken Edgar for a harmless jerk. He’d just mutated into something nastier. Her belly cramped. Elaine had said, what, twenty minutes before she called the cops?

A lot could happen in twenty minutes.

One last shot at pseudo-politeness while she psyched herself up to scratch and gouge. “The locksmith is on his way, Edgar. There’s no reason to wait. Bye-bye.”

He sensed her nervousness, and liked it. He oozed closer, until her back was pressed against the wall. “Scared, Abby?”

She forced herself to smile. “Nothing to be scared of, is there? Look, we’re going to wake up my landlord if we keep yakking. He’s a cop, and he works weird hours, so he won’t appreciate being bothered.”

“You’re scared,” Edgar repeated, delighted by the discovery. “Of me.” He grabbed her wrists and pinned her to the wall.

She struggled, panic squirming in her belly. His face was slick with sweat. Oh, gross. It became unpleasantly evident that he was excited. She tried to remember tricks from the self-defense course she’d taken at the gym, but the only thing that came to mind were house keys. Good for eye jabbing, face raking and the like. Hah.

Edgar licked her neck. Her stomach lurched. She dragged in a deep breath and drove her spike heel into his foot, with all her weight.

Edgar howled. Whap, the back of her head smacked painfully into the shingled wall. “You bitch!”

“Let go of her,” said a deep voice.

Edgar swiveled his head. “Who the fuck are you?”

Abby wrenched out of his grip, catching herself against the wall.

It was hard to follow what happened. It was dark, the stranger wore black, her eyes were watering, her head spun from the blow.

Edgar whipped around like a rag doll and flailed, facedown on the floor. The stranger sank down on top of him, twisting Edgar’s hand behind his back, pinning his shoulder to the floor with his knee.

She blinked tears from her eyes, squeezed them shut. Tried again.

Yes, the man was still there, crouching on top of Edgar. He was real. Dark hair hung long and loose over a battered black leather jacket. Keen eyes studied her, thoughtful and curious.

He grabbed Edgar’s hair, jerked his head up. “Apologize to her.”

“Fuck you,” Edgar wheezed. “I’ll have you arrested, you scumbag piece of shit. I’ll ruin your goddamn life!”

The guy let go of Edgar’s hair and chopped the edge of his hand down onto the bridge of Edgar’s nose. He shrieked. Blood bubbled.

“Wrong answer,” the stranger said mildly.

Edgar made wet choking sounds. The man shot her a questioning glance. “Want to call the cops? I’ll verify that he was assaulting you.”

She shook her head.

“You want me to hit him some more?” the man prompted.

She forced sound past the lump in her throat. “If you could, ah, just make him go away, that would be great, thanks.”

“OK.” He yanked up on Edgar’s hair. “This is your lucky day, pusbag. The nice lady doesn’t feel like watching you get stomped. Which is better luck than you deserve. You should thank her.”

Edgar made gurgling noises.

“Too bad,” the man murmured. “Another lost opportunity.”

Edgar shrieked as the stranger jerked him to his feet, hand still twisted up behind him. He doubled over, moaning as the guy hustled him down the stairs. Abby clutched the banister, white-knuckled.

The men were soon lost to sight around the corner of the house. The stranger said something in a low, intense tone. Edgar coughed and gasped in reply. A car door slammed. Lights came on, a motor hummed to life. The Porsche revved up and crushed Mrs. Eisley’s pansy beds as it cut a corner out of the driveway and sped away. Silence.

She wondered if the guy was just a wishful hallucination.

The shadows in the bushes at the base of the stairs resolved into a tall, dark form. He climbed until Mrs. Eisley’s porch light shone full on his face, paused, and waited. She got the sense that he was trying not to scare her. Letting her get a good, long look at him.

She couldn’t have stopped looking if she tried. The guy was straight out of a naughty dream, the kind she woke up from hot and damp and achingly lonesome. Tall and solid-looking, sharp cheekbones, an angular jaw. His eyebrows were a slashing black line. His dark mane had the look of a long-ago haircut that he hadn’t bothered to refresh. There was a tattoo on his neck. He looked hard, seasoned. Dangerous.

The kind of guy she’d sworn off for all time.

“Are you all right?” he asked her, his voice hesitant.

She clamped down on the hysterical laughter. “Yes, thank you.”

His eyes flicked over her body. In the porch light, she could finally decipher the bright color. Not blue or gray. Topaz gold.

She looked down to check what she was wearing. The Diego Della Valle. Low-cut, slinky, short. She’d been regretting her outfit all night, the way Edgar had drooled over her cleavage all evening.

This was different. The stranger’s brief, discreet once-over made her feel stark naked. She shivered, and let go of the railing to cross her arms across her breasts. She swayed, groping for the banister.

He leaped up the remaining stairs with pantherlike swiftness, grabbing her around the waist. “Whoa! Steady there.”

“Sorry.” Her hands fluttered. She had no idea where to put them. He was all around her. The only place to rest them was his shoulders, tangled in his hair, wrapped around his waist. Gripping his butt. Whoa.

He wore black cargo pants, covered with utilitarian pockets, all of which appeared to be in use. A gray T-shirt was stretched out across a broad, muscular chest. He smelled good, too. Like herbs. Rain on the earth, with faint accents of metal and woodsmoke and sea air.

“Here. Sit.” He pulled her until she stumbled down two steps, and coaxed her into sitting down on the top step. “Put your head down.”

She pressed her face against her knees as much to hide from those intense golden eyes as to recover from the head rush.

“How about you let me run you over to the emergency room?” he offered. “Your lips look kind of bluish.”

Lovely. So she looked like death, too. “No, thanks,” she mumbled.

“But he bashed your head against the wall.” He reached around and touched her head. The contact gave her a tingling shock.

She leaned away. His hand dropped. “I’m fine, thanks.”

She sneaked a quick peek at his tattoos as she struggled to her feet. On his neck was the swirling knotwork of a black Celtic cross. The one on his hand was a pair of crossed cutlasses. Pirate swords.

“OK, whatever,” he said. “Just go slow, OK?”

They stood there looking at each other until his brows knitted in a puzzled frown. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I, uh…” She floundered. “I guess I was just sort of surprised to find you still here, after Edgar left.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She shook her head, embarrassed. “It seemed so improbable. A mysterious guy pops up at the eleventh hour, like Batman. He does his thing, saves the day, and whoosh, he disappears.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “But I haven’t done my thing yet.”

What was that supposed to mean? Mrs. Eisley was deaf, and the night was dark, and she was shaking so hard, she could barely stand.

He backed down two steps, hands lifted. “I don’t mean anything sinister. I just meant that I haven’t done the job you called me for yet.”

“Called you for…for what?” She was utterly lost.

“The locksmith. Remember? Your lockout?”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re the locksmith?”

“Yeah.” His sidelong glance was delicately cautious. “And, uh, exactly why is this so hard to believe?”

She looked over six feet and some odd inches of lethally gorgeous male. “I’ve never called a locksmith,” she babbled. “I expected someone with a potbelly and a bald spot. In a blue coverall. Named Irv. Or Mel.”

Smile lines crinkled around his stunning eyes. The topaz color was set off by inky lashes. “Sorry to disappoint you. My name’s Zan.”

He held out his hand, and she took it. His grip was warm and strong. “I see. Zan,” she repeated inanely. “What kind of name is that?”

“Alexander,” he said. “I was named for my dad. He was an Alex. I didn’t like being Alex Jr., so I bullied everybody into calling me Zan.”

She had no business being fluttery. He’d saved her from Edgar, and for that she was grateful, but he was still a black-leather-wearing über-alpha wolf, like all the bad news boyfriends in her checkered past.

He probably ate girls like her for breakfast. They all did. They all had. She had no intention of being eaten for breakfast, ever again.

Her naughty brain took that thought, twirled it around and had a party with it. She rummaged for her keys, remembered why he was there, and blushed. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m kind of rattled.”

“Of course you are.” The locksmith knelt, pulling a leather pouch from one of his pockets. He pulled out a couple of metal tools and gave her a quick, assessing glance. “You still look pretty wobbly.” He took her hand and placed it on his broad shoulder. “Lean on me.”

Her fingers dug into his shoulder through the thick leather. She hadn’t had anybody to lean on for so long.

She barely noticed what he did to her lock. It clicked open after a few seconds. He made a courtly gesture for her to enter. She lifted her hand away and walked in, wishing it had taken longer.

Seconds ticked by. She flipped the light on to break the spell. “Come on in.” Her voice was pitched way too high. “I hope a check is OK.”

“A check is fine.” He stepped into her kitchen, eyes scanning the place with discreet curiosity. Sheba padded daintily over to his feet, sniffed his boots, and began to weave sinuously around his ankles.

Abby was startled. Sheba despised strangers, and she clawed strips out of the hands of anyone presumptuous enough to pick her up.

The locksmith picked her up.

“Careful,” Abby warned. “She’s twitchy. Don’t let her scratch you.”

“Oh, she won’t. Cats love me.” He stroked Sheba’s downy back.

“Really?” she said wistfully. Her last would-be boyfriend had been violently allergic to Sheba. The affair had ended after that panicked trip to the emergency room. Cortisone shots really killed the mood.

“Never met a cat who didn’t.” Sheba purred and flung her head back over his wrist, baring her throat with sluttish kitty abandon.

Abby dragged her eyes away from the spectacle with some effort. “Thank you, by the way,” she said.

He shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“No, not for the lockout. I meant for what you did with Edgar.”

He looked uncomfortable. “No big deal. Don’t thank me for that.”

“Too late,” she said. “Thanks anyway. It’s a huge big deal to me.”

He gave her a dismissive nod, followed by a long silence fraught with embarrassment. “I, uh, have to pay you,” she repeated.

“Yeah,” he agreed, rubbing expertly behind Sheba’s ears.

“What’s your fee?” she asked. “And is a check OK?”

He looked faintly amused. “You asked me that before.”

Abby discreetly tugged her neckline higher. “Did you answer?”

“Yes.” His deep voice was as soft as silk. “I said a check is fine.”

She let out her breath slowly. “So what’s your fee?” she repeated.

“Does your check have your phone number on it?” He stroked Sheba’s fluffy belly. Her raucous purring seemed deafening.

Abby checked to make sure her hair covered her cleavage. “I usually don’t—that is, I prefer—I mean, what for?”

“So I can ask you out.” His playful dimple seemed out of place in that lean, dangerous face.

Her toes curled inside her pumps. A rush of excitement tightened her chest. “I thought this was a…a business transaction.”

“It is. I just happened to ask for your number in the middle of it.”

“Don’t take this personally, but it’s been a bad night,” she said.

He nodded. “Of course. That’s why I’m just getting your number, for now. I’ll wait a decent interval before I call and ask you out.”

Abby tugged her skirt over her thighs. “What’s a decent interval?”

“Hadn’t thought about it yet,” he said. “A week? A couple days? Twelve hours? What do you think would be a decent interval?”

“Let’s stick to business,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”

He looked thoughtful. Sheba butted his hand with her fuzzy head. He stroked her obligingly. “That depends,” he said.

“On what?” she demanded.

“On the client. If the dickwad in the Porsche had called me—what was his name? Edward? Edmund?”

“Oh. Edgar.”

“If it were Edgar, I’d jack up the price as much as my conscience allows, which is a lot. Then I’d make him pay before I opened the door.”

Abby was suspicious of that teasing dimple. “And why is that?”

He shrugged. “He could afford it. Plus, he’d been driving under the influence, which pisses me off.”

“I’m not drunk,” she said. “How do you know I wasn’t driving?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like that meathead would ever let a girl drive his eighty-thousand-dollar penis substitute.”

She shook with nervous giggles. “You have a point. I tried to get him to let me drive. The harder I tried, the faster he went.”

“Dickhead,” Zan commented. “Truth is, I wouldn’t have come at all if I hadn’t liked your voice so much. I just had to see who owned that sexy Southern drawl. Where are you from, anyway?”

Abby tried three times before she could make any sound come out of her throat. “Atlanta. But that’s, ah, irrelevant. And inappropriate.”

“Oh, don’t mind me.” His voice was silky. “I’m just stalling.”

“I see that.” She grabbed her checkbook. “What do I owe you?”

“But as soon as you write that check, I’ll have to go away.” His fingers dug into the thick fur of Sheba’s belly. Her tail lashed wildly.

Abby wrenched her gaze away from the spectacle. “Stop stalling and tell me how much I owe you, Mr., er…”

“Duncan. Call me Zan.” He pulled out a card and laid it on her counter. “I could cut you a deal. I always cut my friends a deal.”

Abby’s heart thudded heavily. It was a reaction to the adrenaline, she told herself. Not to the idea of being his, ah…friend.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m really obligated to you already,” she said. “Please, just tell me your fee. It’s late.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No phone number?”

“No.” She poised the pen over the check.

He looked wistful. “OK. Make it for a hundred and twenty, then.”

Abby slapped the pen onto the counter. “That’s highway robbery!”

He blinked. “At least I didn’t ask you to pay me in advance.”

“You couldn’t have! My checkbook was locked inside!”

“I never said I wasn’t practical.” His eyes gleamed. Sheba had abandoned herself, fluffy tail dangling over his arm like a feather boa. “I didn’t mean to piss you off. I thought you didn’t want to feel obligated.”

“Sure, but there are limits!”

“I’ll make a deal with you, then,” he said. “Your lock is crap. Let me replace it with something decent. A Schlage, maybe. Parts and labor, plus the lockout, two hundred bucks. It’s a great deal.”

She tried not to laugh. “You are an opportunist.”

“One seventy-five, then, parts and labor. I swear, you won’t regret it. Call around, do a price comparison, if you want.”

Sheba yawned hugely and stretched, in a state of utter bliss.

Abby flipped open her checkbook. This had dragged on long enough, and it was her own damn fault for encouraging him. “Who do I make this stupid check out to?”

“Make it out to Night Owl Lock & Safe,” he said.

“Tomorrow I’m going to make some calls to see what the going rate is for a nighttime lockout,” she said, scribbling the check.

“Be my guest.”

She ripped it out of the book. “If I find that you’ve egregiously overcharged me, I’m going to call the Better Business Bureau.”

“You do that,” he said. “Then call me up and tell me what an evil, greedy, grasping bastard I am. Any hour of the day or night is fine.”

She held out the check. “Take this. And put my cat down.”

“But she loves me,” he protested. “She’s as limp as a noodle.”

“Thank you, and good night,” she said sternly.

He hesitated, frowning. “It’s true, what I said about your lock.”

“What would it cost to install a lock you couldn’t get through?”

A slow smile curved his lips. “It would cost you a fortune to install a lock I couldn’t get through. I’m good. Patient, thorough…tireless.”

She broke eye contact and shook with nervous laughter. “My goodness. You certainly do have a high opinion of yourself.”

“Yes.” The word was spoken entirely without vanity.

She blew out a sharp breath. “What a night. First Edgar, now you. Just take your check, please.” She pushed it across the counter.

Zan’s smile had vanished. “I am nothing like Edgar,” he said flatly. “I have nothing in common with that shit-eating insect.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I don’t want your apologies,” he said.

She was at a loss for a moment. “Ah, OK. Thanks again for the—”

“I don’t want your thanks. Most of all, I don’t want your check.”

“So what do you want, then?” The eloquent silence that followed her words made her feel like an idiot. “Oh, duh,” she mumbled. “Set myself up for that, didn’t I? Handed it right to you on a silver platter.”

“A kiss,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“That’s what I want.”

She put her hands over her hot cheeks. “Uh…whoa.”

“Don’t worry. No pressure. You don’t have to kiss me,” he assured her. “But you asked me what I wanted. I’m just telling you. That’s all.”

She was utterly flustered. “But I…I just can’t.”

“I know you can’t. I’ll live,” he said. “You’re just so pretty. You smell wonderful, and your voice makes shivers go down my spine. I’m talking about just a tiny, respectful, worshipping kiss. Like kissing the feet of a golden goddess. A sip of paradise.”

Oh, he was diabolically, scarily good. She was spellbound by those seductive topaz eyes, that silk-and-velvet voice. Imagining how it would feel to be kissed like that. As if she were precious, unique.

Loved.

She backed away, appalled at how tempted she was. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I…I just can’t risk that.”

He nodded. “Of course not. Sorry. Shouldn’t even have said it.”

Damn. If he’d been churlish, that would have broken the spell. As it was, his sweetness threw her into terrible confusion.

He placed Sheba on the floor, gave her a farewell stroke, and rose to his feet. His gallant nod was almost a bow. He walked out. She stared at the blank rectangle of night beyond the open door.

She hurried out onto the porch. “Zan!” she called.

He stopped halfway down the stairs and turned slowly. “Yeah?”

She started down after him. “Don’t you want your check?”

He shook his head. “I’d rather dream about my kiss.”

She stopped on the step above his. He still loomed, inches taller than she. “That’s, ah, not very good business,” she told him.

“Nope,” he agreed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you.”

“Shhh.” She put her finger against his lips. They were amazingly soft and warm. Something broke loose inside her, and tears flooded down.

His arms circled her, and suddenly she was draped over him, shaking with sobs. She lifted her head a moment later, sniffling. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Bet this service isn’t in your fee schedule.”

“I don’t want a fee from you,” he said. “Get it through your head.”

“Take this, then.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him.

It was a careful kiss. Tender and charged with sweetness. She felt every detail intensely: the scent of his breath, the softness of his lower lip, his hot skin, the strong, elegant bone structure beneath her hands. His beard stubble was so long, it was no longer scratchy. It was soft.

She forced herself to pull away. Zan’s head was tilted back, his eyes closed as if he’d received a divine benediction. His cheekbones were stained with color.

Her laughter sounded soggy. “Zan? Hello? You OK?”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “I’m in heaven.”

“Oh, please.” She swatted his shoulder. “Don’t overdo it.”

He opened his eyes. “I tasted tears on your lips. Made me blush.”

“Oh.” She wiped her eyes, her cheeks. “I’m, ah, glad you liked it.”

He took a step down the stairs. “I’d better go. Right now,” he said. “I can’t keep up this perfect gentleman act any longer.”

So don’t. She forced the impulsive words back. “So it’s an act?”

He backed down the steps. “Only since the dawn of mankind.”

He turned the corner and was lost to sight. She listened to his vehicle pull away. Headlights rounded the curve.

She realized that her phone was ringing. The machine clicked on as she walked in. “This is Abby. Sorry I missed you. Leave a message.”

“Abby? Are you home?” Elaine’s voice was sharp with worry. “Pick up if you are, because I’m about to call the police.”

Abby snatched up the phone. “I’m here,” she said. “Relax.”

“You got rid of the date from hell?”

“With some help, yes.” She dropped limply into a kitchen chair.

“Help? What do you mean, help?”

“Edgar was slobbering all over me, which was gross, and then this locksmith materialized out of nowhere and, uh…beat him up.”

“Beat him…good God, Abby!”

“Yeah, it was pretty special,” Abby said fervently.

“So the locksmith saved you, then? How romantic!”

“Actually, it was really violent and scary,” Abby snapped.

“I’m sure it was,” Elaine soothed. “I didn’t mean to be flip. You haven’t sounded excited about a guy since you made up the List.”

“Let’s not get into my List tonight.”

“OK. One last thing, though. Was the locksmith cute?”

Abby hesitated. “It doesn’t matter if he’s cute,” she said heavily. “He’s everything I’ve sworn at all costs to avoid.”

“Ah,” Elaine murmured. “The plot thickens.”

Abby winced. “No, it doesn’t. Please. I’ve suffered enough tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Elaine said. “Oh, another thing. Would you bring my house keys to work tomorrow? I want to give a set to Mark.”

Abby was startled. “Really? How long have you known this guy?”

“He asked for them.” Elaine’s voice was defensive. “I figured I’d just give him the ones I gave you and make new ones for you. OK? Don’t worry. Really. It seems too good to be true, Abby. He’s just so—”

The murmur of a masculine voice cut off whatever Elaine was about to say. She came back on the line a moment later. “Gotta go.”

“OK. Thanks for calling. Have fun with Mysterious Mark.”

Elaine let out an anxious, tittering laugh. “Sweet dreams of the yummy locksmith. Don’t forget my keys. See you tomorrow.”

“Right.” Abby hung up, kicked off her heels and sank into the sofa. Sheba leaped onto her lap, covering her skirt with fluff.

This was not jealousy. She would be thrilled if Elaine found true love, or even just hot sex. Her coworker was a lovely girl, talented at her job as exhibit designer, but painfully shy when it came to men.

Abby had worked for years to get Elaine to believe in her own attractiveness. Now Elaine was giving keys to Mark, while Abby, with all her extensive dating experience, was home alone with her remote control, her cat, and a pint of Fudge Ripple for company. How pathetic.

She turned on the tube, surfed until she hit an old black-and-white film. A hardboiled detective, a fragile blonde in an evening gown. She stroked Sheba. Heavy purrs vibrated through her hands. It made her think of Zan’s hands. The bold, expert way he touched her cat.

Back in her crazy period, she would’ve given that guy her number without hesitation. And waited breathless by the phone until he called.

Oh, get real. Probably she wouldn’t have let him leave at all.

Not now. Her weakness for tattooed, leather-clad bad-boy wolf types had gotten her into no end of trouble. They’d crashed in her place without paying rent, run up her phone bill, used her car and wrecked it. After the third wreck, her insurance agent had begun to make insulting comments about her taste in men. She could scarcely blame him.

The blonde was getting agitated with the handsome detective, and Abby upped the volume to see what was bugging her.

“…hired you to find my brother, not to listen to your disgusting insults!” the actress declared. “I demand to be treated with respect!”

Amen, sister, Abby thought, remembering the time she’d come home to find a pack of travel-stained bikers chugalugging tequila in her kitchen. Greg’s buddies. And the time Jimmy had accused her of sleeping with her boss, followed her to work and attacked the poor guy. Skinny, timid Bob, with his glasses and his bald spot.

The final straw had been the night she was dragged out of bed in her panties by the police at 3:00 AM, only to discover that her then-boyfriend Shep had been hiding controlled substances in her attic.

She’d been so mortified, she’d left the state.

That was the ultimate wake-up call. The guys she went for when she followed her natural inclinations were one-way tickets to disaster, if not prison. The solution was obvious. No more yielding to impulse. She would run her love life strategically. The way a general ran a war.

She didn’t want to live on the edge of disaster, as her mother had. Paycheck to paycheck, forever late on the rent for the cheap dives she lived in. Crawling into a bottle when things got too tough to bear.

Which had been pretty much all the time, toward the end.

She wanted better for herself. Beauty, security, respect. Nice things. Social standing. All that good, dull, respectable stuff. She’d worked hard to transform her life, moonlighting as a paralegal for years while slogging away on arts-administration internships.

Now she was the development manager at the Silver Fork Museum, and she was good at raising money. The museum had doubled its operating budget since she’d started working there.

She felt a glow of accomplishment when she thought about the Pirates’ Hoard. It was the springboard for their new exhibit program, a trove of treasure from a Spanish galleon sunk off the coast of Barbados by pirates three hundred years ago and just recently rediscovered.

The Pirates’ Hoard was a huge feather in her cap, if they made their crowd. It was a stretch, with that stiff quarter-million-dollar fee. A big, nail-biting gamble. She’d pulled the proposal together herself over a year ago, landing a competitive $1.2 million grant from the NEA to support the exhibition program, including funding for catalogs, wall text, mountings, a high-tech security system, etc., etc. It was an amazing coup. She was proud of herself. And this was just the beginning.

Abby had personally pulled in a lot of the money that had made the construction of the museum’s new wing possible, though her boss, Bridget, the development director, would rather die than admit it.

Her career was on the rise—and she was going to make her love life conform to the same high standard or die trying, damn it.

To that end, drumroll please, she’d compiled the List.

The List was strict. No backsliding, no freewheeling. She dated clean-shaven, well-dressed men. No lost souls, rap sheets, or addictions. No martial arts freaks, guns, or motorcycles. Above all, no tattoos.

She only considered men with good jobs, nice cars, retirement plans, college degrees. Men who were conversant in politics, economics, art, men who had well-formed opinions about the relative merits of French and Italian cheeses; men who knew how to order wine.

On TV, violins swelled, and the detective seized the blonde and kissed her. Abby sighed. Three years of dating, and she had yet to find a man who fit the List who turned her on. Her coffee cup said that if you wanted to meet Prince Charming, you had to kiss a lot of frogs.

She was sick of kissing frogs. She wanted to kiss Zan Duncan. She shut her eyes, leaned back and unleashed her very lively imagination. Supposing that the hot buzz of attraction between them had gone further. If she’d resisted a little less, if he’d pushed a bit more.

Suppose he’d looked at her with those hot golden eyes until her flustered stammering petered off into breathless silence.

She jerked her chin at him, inviting him into the living room. He hesitated in the doorway, savoring the sweet agony of anticipation.

Like kissing the feet of a beautiful goddess. His remembered words made her chest ache with longing. He approached her, stroked her cheek, slid his hand under her hair. Exploring, marveling.

He caressed her jaw and cheek with his lips before fitting them to hers. A couch materialized behind her as he sank down in front of her. He slid his hands under her skirt, tugged her panties off, and bent his head, warm lips kissing and nuzzling, circling in a tightening spiral, closer and closer to her clit, taking his time. Making her wait—and wait.

Patient, thorough…tireless. She was a knot of tension, thighs clenched, as her dream Zan finally opened her, sliding his tongue into her slick, furled folds. First the pressure of his lips was a kiss, asking permission, then a feathery caress, and then the swirl of his tongue got bolder, circling her clit, fluttering with voluptuous skill—God.

Pleasure erupted, throbbing through every part of her body.

Oh, whoa. Her eyes fluttered open to the black-and-white flickering on the TV, her tears swirling it into a featureless gray blur.

Which was a pretty succinct description of her current love life.

She stared at the screen and wondered what Zan would think if he knew she was sprawled on her couch with her hand on herself, thinking about his eyes, his hands. His mouth.

The renewed jolt of excitement startled her. She squeezed her thighs together. Pleasure jerked through her, in wrenching spasms.

Wow. Just the thought of him watching her come was all it took.