Kathleen O'Reilly - Just Give In...

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.”

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 ruining her sweater.

“No,” she told him in a cheery, blame-free voice.

The Captain blew out a breath. “You don’t know me. You shouldn’t take stupid risks with someone you don’t know.”

This time, she blew out a breath. “Life is all about risks, taking chances. It doesn’t matter how safe and comfortable you want things to be. They never are.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’m sorry.”

This time he wasn’t apologizing for the sweater. He was apologizing for all the hardships in her life, which didn’t make her any happier. “I don’t want to be your cause du jour.”

“I don’t believe in causes.”

She doubted that, but kept quiet.

“You don’t have to sleep in your car,” the Captain said, braking at the lone stoplight in town.

“Inviting me to sleep somewhere else?” she teased. She wanted to hear him say it. She wanted to hear him admit that he wanted her. Some of it was pride and ego, some of it was that she wanted to be wanted, but the most urgent part was that she wanted him.

Charlene Hart wasn’t a fan of upstanding men. She liked her men footloose and flawed. And in the ten years since her death, Brooke hadn’t moved in the sort of circles where soft-hearted men roamed.

The soft-hearted man next to her looked at her, one eye that clearly saw so much. “No invitations. You can take the couch.”

She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.

Moments later he turned down Main Street, pulling to a stop in front of a tidy row of shops. The Hinkles’ grocery was there, a post office, Dot’s Diner and Tallyrand’s. “It’s not Paris, but Tallyrand’s has some good shirts. And shoes.”