Leslie Kelly - She's No Angel

Just a pair of legs, he reminded himself, tightening his jaw against his own reactions. That was all they were.

But good legs. Definitely good.

Though the summer breeze had pressed the dress against her body in delightful ways earlier, he hadn’t realized how incredible her legs were. Nor had he pictured the lacy pink edge of fabric at the top of them that said she was wearing those sexy, silky shorts women sometimes used as underwear. Tap pants? Something like that, he was pretty sure.

Now he didn’t merely shift, he stretched and arched, the tightness of his jeans signaling her effect on him. He might be single by choice these days, but that sure didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a great pair of legs, or imagine what they’d feel like wrapped around his hips. Or his neck.

And those shorts…Did she have to be wearing sexy lingerie, too? What was it with women, anyway, the slinky dresses, the silk undies. What was wrong with jeans and plain cotton underwear?

Other than the fact that they would be much too rough against the silky perfection of her skin. Would mar it, redden it, and never do it justice.

Hell. He was in trouble here. Big trouble. Part of him wanted to grab the hem of her dress and yank it back down to her knees. Another part wanted to ask her if she’d like to pull over to the nearest secluded spot and have wild, crazy sex.

He’d seen a movie once where a woman claimed she wanted total honesty, for a man to say he didn’t want to trade lines or play games. She swore she longed for no pretense, just for a guy to say, “I want you, let’s cut to the chase and go for it.”

It was tempting. It was also bullshit. Though it sounded good, it was a total lie. They all wanted the strings, even if they swore they didn’t. And Mike wasn’t into strings. He hadn’t been, not since the last time he’d almost gotten hanged by tying himself up with them. Well, not hanged exactly. Just shot.

So he didn’t think telling this woman he wanted her was a good idea, particularly after a ten-minute acquaintance.

It was only when he heard her hiss in pain that he was able to stop casting quick glances at those thighs and the pink fabric caught between them and pay attention to her foot…the one with blood on it. “Jeez, lady, what’d you do to yourself?”

“The road wasn’t exactly paved in cotton.”

“So why didn’t you stay put and wait for help?” he growled, hearing the annoyance in his voice but unable to hide it. Did the woman have no common sense?

“Waiting around for help’s not my thing,” she muttered.

Yeah. He was getting that. Stubborn woman.

She poked and prodded at her foot, still oblivious to the peep show she was providing. If he was any kind of gentleman, he’d tell her. Then again, Mortimer was the gentleman of the family. Mike had never even pretended to be one.

“Ouch,” she said with a wince, touching the tip of her index finger to a particularly raw spot.

He rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? I would have helped you to the Jeep.” Or some other nearby flat surface where she could get off her feet. Preferably landing on her back.

“I guess I didn’t feel anything. I was too busy walking on a cloud of righteous anger,” she said, still never glancing at him. Instead, without asking permission, she opened the glove compartment and dug out a few wrinkled-up napkins. Wetting one with her tongue, she put it on the ball of her foot, which was bleeding in two or three spots.

“Perfect, add infection to your pain,” he said with a disgusted sigh. Reaching into the back seat, he flipped the lid on a small cooler there and grabbed a bottle of water. As he lifted it out, he shook it off, then tossed it to her. “Here. Clean it with that. The spit-on-a-cut thing only works if it’s your mother’s spit.”

“Thanks.”

She opened the bottle, wet the napkin and cleaned off the sores on one foot, then the other, apparently not minding when specks of blood—and the water—flicked onto her dress. A few drops also plopped onto the high arch of her foot and slid down her heel, onto her leg, landing just above her other knee. They glided up her bent limb, riding a long, soft line of flesh, weaving an intricate trail across the ridges of her skin. His hands tightened on the wheel. His jaw and jeans tightened, too.

When the droplets reached the lacy fabric of those panties of hers and rode on underneath, she finally noticed. Sucking in a surprised breath, she glanced down, realized that her dress was hiked up almost to her crotch, and immediately looked over at him. Mike managed to keep his eyes forward, as if he hadn’t been stealing glances at her like some horny fourteen-year-old peeking into the girls’ locker room. He still saw out the corner of his eye as she grabbed the hem of her dress and yanked it down. And wasn’t sure whether to give thanks or curse his luck.

“You could have said something.”

Playing dumb seemed the safest course of action. “About what?”

She frowned in disbelief. “I thought boys outgrew their fascination with girls underpants by the time they hit twelve.”

That immediately sparked a genuine laugh, and Mike had no control over it. It spilled out of his mouth, as warm as it was unfamiliar, tasting strange. But feeling…good. When was the last time he had really been amused by something? Before his transfer, perhaps. Before the drug case that had brought about that transfer, even.

The ridiculousness of her claim echoed in the car and within two seconds, she was chuckling with him. Laughing at herself. “Okay. That didn’t come out right.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“I meant…”

“I know what you meant. You were talking about that boys’ elementary-school urge to catch a glimpse of some fellow third grader’s Strawberry Shortcake panties.”

“Well, it so happens that I don’t wear Strawberry Shortcake panties,” she retorted.

“Yeah. I know,” he murmured, unable to get rid of the tiny smile still tugging at his lips.

“You were looking.”

“All the male angels in heaven would have looked.” Never glancing over at her, he continued, “We might not want to see the pink cotton under your school uniform anymore, but we are instinctively bred to zone in on anything made of silk and lace. Especially when it’s resting between a pair of soft thighs.”

Where in the hell all that had come from, Mike honestly didn’t know. He couldn’t remember stringing together such a thought in a long time, much less actually saying it to someone. A woman. A stranger.

A stranger who was watching him from the other seat, her jaw hanging open and her cheeks a little pink.

“Don’t go grabbing for the tire iron, I’m still not going to leap on you,” he said, his tone dry. “I was just making a point.” Returning his attention to the road, he noted the few small scattered buildings that made up the outlying area of the town of Trouble. And another one of those Trouble Ahead signs. “Who named this place, anyway?” he muttered.

She cleared her throat, glad for the subject change. As was he. Talking about a woman’s silky panties and her silkier thighs was a bad idea less than an hour into a relationship.

Not that they were in a relationship! No way. Their acquaintance was going to last approximately twenty minutes…the length of time it took to get her to her car.

“Probably the same person who named the towns of Paradise and Intercourse, Pennsylvania,” she said.

He wondered if he ought to point out that some considered paradise and intercourse connected but figured he shouldn’t. They’d managed to skate off thin ice and he definitely didn’t want to glide back out onto it. He just needed to get this woman to her destination, push her out of the Jeep and keep on going to his grandfather’s house. Where his world was normal. Not involving kooky women who got pissed off and walked until their feet bled. Ones who made him laugh. And leer.