Wed in Wyoming. Allison LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
was obviously giving a blessing. Then she lifted her head, smiled peacefully again and returned to the door. She knelt down, picked up a bundle she’d left outside, and brought it in, setting it on the bed. Then she let herself out of the room. Like Sister Frances, she pulled the door shut as she went.
“Grub and fresh duds,” Brody said, looking happy as a pig in clover. He lifted the off-white bundle from the bed and the items separated as he gave it a little shake. “Pants and top for you. Pants and top for me.” He deftly sorted, and tossed the smaller set toward the two thin pillows that sat at the head of the modest bed.
She didn’t reach for them, though.
He angled her a look. “Don’t worry, beautiful. I’ll turn my back while you change.” His lips twitched. “There’s not even a mirror in here for me to take a surreptitious peek. Now if you feel so compelled, you’re welcome to look all you want. After all,” his amused voice was dry, “we are married.”
Her cheeks heated even more. “Stop. Please. My sides are splitting because you are sooo funny.”
His lips twitched again and he pulled his T-shirt over his head.
Angeline swallowed, not looking away quickly enough to miss the ripped abdomen and wealth of satin-smooth golden skin stretched tightly across a chest that hadn’t looked nearly so wide in the shirt he’d worn. When his hands dropped to the waist of his jeans, she snatched up the clean, dry clothing and turned her back on him.
Then just when she wished the ground would swallow her whole, she heard his soft, rumbling chuckle.
She told herself to get a grip. She was a paramedic for pity’s sake. She’d seen nude men, women and children in all manner of situations.
There’s a difference between nude and naked, a tiny voice inside her head taunted, and Brody’s bare chest was all about being naked.
She silenced the voice and snatched her shirt off over her head, dropping it in a sopping heap on the floor. Leaving on her wet bra would only make the dry top damp, so she snapped it off, too, imaging herself anywhere but in that confining room with Brody Paine. She pulled the dry top over her head.
She tried imagining that she was a quick-change artist as she yanked the tunic firmly over her hips—grateful that it reached her thighs—then ditched her own wet jeans and panties for the dry pants.
She immediately felt warmer.
She knelt down and bundled her filthy clothes together, tucking away the scraps of lace and satin lingerie inside.
“Trying to hide the evidence that you like racy undies?”
Her head whipped around and the towel tumbled off her head.
Brody was facing her, hip propped against the dresser, arms crossed over the front of the tunic that strained slightly in the shoulders. He had an unholy look in his eyes that ought to have had the storm centering all of her fury on them considering their surroundings.
“You promised not to look.”
His mobile lips stretched, revealing the edge of his very straight, very white teeth. “Babe, you sound prim enough to be one of the sisters cloistered here.”
Her cheeks couldn’t possibly get any hotter. “Which doesn’t change the fact that you promised.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Promises are made to be broken.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“How do you know?”
It couldn’t possibly be anymore obvious. “It doesn’t matter how many lines you give me, because the truth is, you couldn’t do the work you do if you didn’t believe in keeping your word,” she said simply.
Chapter Three
Brody looked at Angeline’s face. She looked so… earnest, he thought. Earnest and sexy as hell in a way that had nothing to do with those hanks of black lace he’d gotten a glimpse of.
She’d always been a deadly combination, even in the small doses of time they’d ever spent together.
Was it any wonder that he’d been just as interested in consuming a larger dose as he’d been in avoiding just that?
Complications on the job were one thing.
Complications off the job were nonexistent because that’s the way he kept it.
Always.
But there she was, watching him with those huge, wide-set brown eyes that had gotten to him even on their first, ridiculously brief encounter five years earlier.
He deliberately lifted one eyebrow. “It’s a job, sweet cheeks. A pretty well-paying one.”
“Assembling widgets is a job,” she countered. “Protecting the innocent? Righting wrongs? That’s not just a job and somehow I doubt you do it only for the money.”
“You’re not just prim, you’re a romantic, too,” he drawled.
She frowned a little, possibly realizing the topic had gone somewhat awry. “So what’s the next step?”
He held up a cluster of grapes. “We eat.”
Right on cue, her stomach growled loud enough for him to hear. “Shouldn’t we try to find the children?”
“You wanna pull off our own kidnapping?” He wasn’t teasing.
“That’s essentially what your plan was.”
“I’d consider it more a case of protective custody.”
She pushed her fingers through her hair, holding it back from her face. She didn’t have on a lick of makeup, and she was still more beautiful than ninety-nine percent of the world’s female population.
“Fine. Call it whatever,” she dismissed. “Shouldn’t we be doing something to that end?”
“I told you. First things first. How far do you think we’ll get if we set out right this second? You’re so exhausted I can see the circles under your eyes even in this light and I’m not sure who’s stomach is growling louder. Yours or mine.” He popped a few grapes into his mouth and held up the cluster again. “Come on, darlin’. Eat up.”
“I think we should at least try to see the children. What if that password thing doesn’t work?” But she plucked a few grapes off the cluster and slid one between her full bow-shaped lips. She chewed and swallowed, and avoiding his eyes, quickly reached for more.
“It will.” He tore off a chunk of the bread and handed it to her, and cut the wedge of cheese in half. “Here.”
She sat on the foot of the bed and looked as if she was trying not to wolf down the food. He tipped the pitcher over one of the glasses, filling it with pale golden liquid. He took a sniff. “Wine.” He took a drink. “Pretty decent wine at that.” He poured the second glass and held it out to her.
She took it from him, evidently too thirsty to spend a lot of effort avoiding brushing his fingers the way she usually did. “Wine always goes straight to my head.”
“Goody goody.” He tossed one of the cloth napkins that had been tucked beneath the bread basket onto her lap. “Drink faster.”
She let out an impatient laugh. “Do you ever stop with the come-ons?”
“Do you ever take me up on one?”
She made a face at him. “Why would I want to be just another notch?”
“Who says that’s what you’d be?”
She took another sip of wine. “I’m sure that’s the only thing women are to you.”
“I’m wounded, babe. You’re different than all the others.”
She