Jane Sullivan - Tall, Dark And Texan

All at once he put his palm against the wall beside her left ear and leaned in closer. She froze for several tense seconds. His sharp, challenging expression, his rugged features and his intense, dark eyes made him look almost…sexy. In spite of the situation, she felt an odd stirring deep inside her, and she couldn’t stop her breath from coming faster and her body from heating up. Then he slowly reached up and touched his fingertip to the top button of her shirt, and she was absolutely certain that she was going to end up naked whether she’d agreed to get that way or not.

“I told you I like my privacy,” he said, his voice a malicious drawl. “And I meant it. So if I catch you sneaking in here again, it’s all coming off. And I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

To her immense relief, he stepped back, wearing that pissed-off expression that made him look like a prison guard on death row. She brushed past him, went inside the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She turned and leaned against it, sucking in a huge breath of relief and letting it out slowly, shocked as hell to still be clothed.

Then, out of nowhere, images sprang to mind of just what he might have meant by I won’t be responsible for what happens next, and it occurred to her that taking that particular punishment might not be a totally negative thing.

Stop it. He’s big, he’s mean and he’s threatening. A man you don’t want to mess with.

She did her business, then decided that if he could avail himself of the shower, so could she. She found soap in there, some heavy-duty manly deodorant stuff with little green flecks of Irish whatever in it, but what the hell. Clean was clean. And the generic shampoo would hardly make her hair brittle if she used it just once. On the other hand, the hot water was heaven. For the first time since she’d been driving in her car last night, her body felt warm all the way to her bones.

Of course, there was still that pocket of cold desperation clinging to the inside of her stomach.

Right now, the man in the other room was the only ally she had within seven hundred miles, and she was pretty darned sure he didn’t want her around any longer than necessary. But there had to be a way to persuade him to help her. She figured a trip to the police station to file a crime report would be a good first step. He’d at least take her there, wouldn’t he?

Past that, she had no idea what she was going to do.

AS SOON AS THE WOMAN SLIPPED past him into the bathroom, Wolfe got dressed, then went into the kitchen and found her damp clothes hanging over the chair. He threw them into the dryer on the landing of the back stairwell, then sat down on the sofa and picked up the Metro section of yesterday’s Dallas Morning News. A quick scan of the headlines told him he didn’t really give a damn about any of it, and he tossed the paper to the coffee table again.

How was he supposed to concentrate on the newspaper when there was a naked woman in his bathroom?

He folded his arms, closed his eyes and listened to the shower running, imagining what her body looked like beneath that spray of water. Damn. He would have loved to have made good on his threat, to take a look at that sweet little body he’d had his hands on last night. In the end, though, he never would have done it, no matter how bold she seemed to be about wandering into his bedroom whenever she felt like it. He hated that feeling of somebody invading his space, disturbing his peace and quiet, and by the time this day was over, he’d make sure she was gone and everything was back the way it was supposed to be.

He heard the shower stop, and a few minutes later she emerged from his bedroom wearing his shirt again and a towel wrapped around her hair. She glanced toward the kitchen chair.

“Where are my clothes?”

“I put them in the dryer.”

She smiled. “Well. That was nice of you. Thank you.”

“You can’t put them on wet. And you can’t leave until you put them on.”

Her smile evaporated, replaced by a look of resignation. She folded her arms across her chest and walked toward him.

“Look. I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I made you mad last night after everything you did for me, and then I came into your bedroom this morning and made you angry all over again. I’m sorry about that.”

He just stared at her.

She eased closer. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Why, thank you, Wendy. I accept your apology.”’ She paused. “That’s my name. Wendy Jamison. And yours is…?”

“Wolfe.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that a nickname?”

“Last name.”

“And your first name?”

“None of your business.”

She gave him a look of muted disgust, and he couldn’t have cared less. It had been a long time since he’d felt the need to be on a first-name basis with anyone, and this woman was no exception.

“Just as soon as your clothes are dry,” he told her, “I’ll take you to the police station.”

She let out a breath. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

She reached up and unwrapped the towel. Then she bent forward at the waist, wiggled her head and stood back up again, slinging her long, dark hair over her shoulders. She tilted her head and finger-combed it, letting it fall in damp, shiny threads down her back. The neck of his shirt had fallen aside, displaying her upper chest and left shoulder. Her skin was pale, more a product of genetics than the season. It was soft, smooth and unblemished—the kind of skin that looked as if it would bruise if he so much as whispered against it.

“Do you think the police will be able to recover my car?” she asked him.

“Nope.”

Her face fell. “You’re not much of an optimist.”

“I’m a realist. I’m betting your car has already been chopped, packed and shipped.”

She heaved a sigh. “To tell you the truth, that’s what I figured. Unfortunately, everything I own was in that car and trailer. Including my five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand dollars?”

“Yes. In my glove compartment.”

“What in the hell were you doing keeping that kind of money in your glove compartment?”

“I stopped by the bank as I was leaving New York. I wanted to get traveler’s checks, but their computer was down, and I got tired of waiting. It was almost closing time, and I wanted to get on the road. So I told them to give me the money in cash.”

“Bad move.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I know. Don’t you just love hindsight?”

She sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, one leg curled beneath her, then leaned forward and rubbed her fingers up and down her other leg from her thigh to her calf, drawing his attention toward yet another expanse of her bare skin. Her legs were long, lean and delicate, and he wondered how they were even strong enough to hold up the rest of her.

She looked up at him. “Got any lotion?”

He glanced away. “Fresh out.”

“Your razor was a little dull. Hard on the old legs.”

Actually her legs weren’t old at all, and they looked just fine to him. More than fine. And what in the hell was she doing using his razor?

“Bet you’re wondering why I was heading to L.A.,” she said.

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but before he could respond, she answered her own question.

“I’m going to be an actress.”

She said it with a bright little sparkle in her eyes, and he resisted the urge to roll his. A beautiful young woman heading to Hollywood to become an actress? There had to be a bigger cliché somewhere on the planet, but he couldn’t imagine what it was.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, holding up her palm. “But trust me. I’m not some dumb little ingenue who’s going to end up on a casting couch before she knows what hit her. I know what I’m doing.” She turned on the sofa until she faced him, resting her elbow along the back of it. “See, I spent a few years trying to break in on Broadway, but the trouble there is that they want you to be talented. I am, of course, but there’s a fine line, you know? Between pretty good and great? I don’t think I’ll ever cross that. I’m very self-aware. I know my limitations.”