Just Give In.... Kathleen O'ReillyЧитать онлайн книгу.
Although I’d have come up with something a little less drastic than accelerator glue. The smell’s killer. I didn’t get any in your hair, or your face?” He frowned. “Are you allergic to anything?”
“A little late to ask.” She grabbed the scissors, shut the door, and got to work destroying her most favorite sweater. After two not-so-awesome tries, she could see this was going to be a problem. The wool was hard, getting harder by the second, and the glue was mucking up the scissors. Determined to avoid asking for help, she hacked on, but the scissors were getting worse, and her fingers were starting to stick, and from outside the door, she could hear him pacing.
Three more times she tried, three times she failed, and finally, Brooke sighed. The shabby girl in the mirror wasn’t responsible, or plucky, or capable of surviving whatever life threw at her. Dark hair stuck out in sweat-damp clumps. Her wonderful sweater was now crusted over with a glossy sheen that looked wrong.
Her brothers would disown her…again. Maybe she didn’t have much, but she had her pride, she had her self-respect and she had a body that was uncomfortably stiff. All because of him. No, the Captain was going to pay for this and pay big. Slowly she smiled, the girl in the mirror looking less shabby by the minute. Thoughts of revenge did that to a woman.
Flinging open the door, Brooke brandished the scissors like a sword. “Ruined. Do you have something better? A blowtorch maybe?”
He studied her partial sweater-ectomy. Then he scratched his jaw, where the darkened stubble was starting to show. “Nah. Glue’s flammable.”
“This is no time for sarcasm.”
“Not sarcasm. Look it up.”
She glared. He shrugged. “Give me a minute.”
Less than thirty seconds later, he was back with a hunting knife capable of great destruction. The Captain’s face was tense, waiting for her to take the knife, but that wasn’t part of her plan, and so she spun around, giving him her back. “Make a clean cut, neck to hem,” she instructed. “You didn’t get any glue back there. It should go easier.”
The air crackled with his fear. “You’re sure about this?”
“Just do it,” she whispered in a teasing, taunting voice.
Gently he pulled aside her hair and in one quick slice, the sweater hung in two loose pieces, her back bare except for the single bra strap.
“You can…uh…handle the rest?” His words were rough, hesitant…awkward.
Oh, yes, revenge was a dish best served hot.
Brooke whirled around, plucked at the sweater’s remains and then pulled it off, standing before him in jeans and bra. His eye flickered, mouth tightening, but to his credit, he didn’t look down. Not once. The man had the self-control of a monk.
Well, pooh. However, Brooke wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
With a sticky-fingered snap she unhooked the front fastening, tugging at the tacky material, finally ridding herself of the bra, which was a genuine la Perla and had set her back an even fifty bucks.
Still the man didn’t look.
Here she was, stiff and uncomfortable, flaunting herself like some cheap tart. The least he could do was pay attention. Drastic measures were called for.
“You know, I might need mineral spirits for these babies, after all. Got some?”
This time, the eye flickered and his face flushed, the scar turning a liquid silver. One gray eye met hers, the same hot liquid-silver color as his scar. Brooke’s skin bloomed hot, then cold, the remains of the glue clinging to her chest, making her damp, moist, sticky…
Nope, not just the glue.
She thought he was going to touch her, was dying for him to touch her, but instead he spun on his heel and walked away.
“One can of mineral spirits, coming right up.”
4
JASON FLEW TO THE BACK shed before she spotted the tiny drop of glue on her knee and decided the jeans had to go, too.
God.
The word was a curse and a prayer, a testament to what a woman’s bare breasts could do to a man’s good intentions.
The shelves in front of him were filled with paint and oil and transmission fluid, and as his eyes scanned the contents, he realized that he didn’t have any damn mineral spirits.
Not that she needed mineral spirits on those beauties. The dusky hue of her nipples needed nothing more than a touch, a taste. No, chemicals would be a crime against nature. His fingers flexed, itched, copping a cheap feel from a nearby paint can that did absolutely nothing to relieve his pain.
Now what the heck was he supposed to? Her little striptease was payback, teasing, a cock-busting joke for throwing glue on her.
And who had thought of the glue?
No, he was going to have to face her, pretend that he’d never seen her naked, pretend that all this was no big deal.
After pulling down a tin of degreaser, he glanced at the no-big-deal bulge at his fly. She wouldn’t miss that. No, she’d laugh at his misery. She’d think that he deserved it.
Which he did, but he didn’t want her to know that.
Only one way to take care of that problem. Efficiently, Jason unzipped his jeans, taking matters into his own hand, and five minutes later, he was back to his normal-size piston, and all it had taken was the mental image of Brooke Hart, naked with dark-fire eyes, open-mouthed invitation, taut, perky breasts and the arousing shimmer of epoxy.
Oh, he’d been alone too long.
Once again, he felt the pull in his balls, the hardening in his cock, and he groaned in sexual agony.
Another ten minutes. That’d do it.
He was sure.
Maybe.
THEY BUMPED ALONG the road in the Captain’s pick-up, a tense ride because apparently the man wasn’t up to having a conversation.
Maybe she’d gone too far, maybe she’d ruined the image that she’d been going for. Slutty, instead of spunky. But slutty was preferable to pity.
She peeked at his profile, the right side of his face so normal, so capable. Then she thought of his bad eye, his scar. Lots of people would pity him, and he would hate it, just like she did.
It was a short drive to the heart of Tin Cup. Her new hometown. Her first day in Tin Cup, she’d tried to find the law offices of Harris and Howell, but only located lawyer Hiram Hadley. After hammering on his door for ten minutes, the dry cleaner next door said that he was in North Dakota taking care of his father who’d been ill. Other than that, she’d had little desire to explore, since she wasn’t eager to find Austen until she’d got herself in a more suitable situation. Still, she was deathly curious about this place, so she scanned the picturesque landscape, the neat clapboard homes, the rangy mesquite trees. It was so different from the places she’d been before, but the sight of the planters lining Main Street cheered her. It felt like home.
Not that she wanted to meet anyone when she was dressed like this. The Captain had given her a large, drab olive T-shirt. Though neatly tucked into her jeans, the shirt still looked wrong. That, and she wasn’t comfortable being without a bra. She crossed her arms over her chest, and he glanced at her. Then down.
Brooke smiled tightly.
“I shouldn’t have ruined your sweater.” This time, he sounded appropriately chastened. A no-holds-barred flash-job could do that to a man.
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“Aren’t you going to apologize, too?” he asked, apparently believing that she shared some blame in