One Husband Needed. Jeanne AllanЧитать онлайн книгу.
said mildly, “I’ll try and remember you want to be left alone.”
“While you’re remembering that, remember my son’s name isn’t Jimbo.”
“Some things aren’t worth the effort of remembering.” He slid behind the wheel.
“What is worth the effort?” she asked waspishly.
Worth gave her an amused look, enjoying the sudden color washing across her face.
“Never mind,” she said.
“When a woman asks a man a question, it’s because she wants it answered.”
“You’re a real sagebrush philosopher, aren’t you? Is there anything you don’t consider yourself an expert on?” She strapped herself in.
He turned sideways in the driver’s seat, his right arm across the back of the seat and watched her face. “My sisters like to change the subject thinking they can get me off the track. They can’t.”
“Being single-minded is nothing to brag about. I’ve never met a man so determined to—”
He cut her off. “Kisses in the dark are worth remembering.”
Her mouth closed, and she swallowed hard.
He smiled slowly. “Unbuttoned green pajamas.” He had looked away immediately, honorable behavior he had a feeling he’d forever regret. The glimpse had shown him a nicely-shaped, womanly mound. The perfect size to fill a man’s hand, its tip hard against his palm.
More red splashed her cheeks, and she swallowed again. “Never mind. I’m not interested in your memory.”
Worth lifted an eyebrow. “Then let’s talk about yours.”
“I have no memory,” she snapped. “I’d forgotten all about yesterday morning in the kitchen and Jamie unbuttoning, that is, I hardly remember kissing you because it didn’t mean a thing to me, and—What are you doing?” she shrieked as he slid across the seat. “It’s broad daylight, and we’re sitting in the middle of a parking lot. You can’t kiss me here.”
He captured her head, his fingers busy with the tight knot of hair at the back of her neck. “I hadn’t thought about kissing you right now, but if you want me to…My mother taught me it’s rude to say no to a lady.”
“I don’t want you to kiss me,” she said breathlessly.
Her eyes were enormous in her pale face, and Worth could read the lie as easily as if she’d written it on a giant green chalkboard. He read other truths there, too. Her awareness of him as a man. Her curiosity. Distrust. And fear.
He wanted to prove she’d lied. Deepen her awareness. Satisfy her curiosity. His gut clenched. Satisfy his. Answer the question as to whether a green-eyed redhead who sparked with anger at the slightest provocation brought that same electricity to bed.
“Your husband was a very lucky man,” he said.
She stared at him, and then slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “He wasn’t.” A single tear ran down her cheek.
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