Leslie Kelly - Terms of Surrender

One thing was sure, he was nothing like the men she usually associated with. There wasn’t a professor-ish feature on him. Probably in his early-to-mid-thirties, he was all man, not boyish, despite the twinkle and the dimples. He was rugged, not a smoothly put-together package like a slick high-rise, but a naturally spectacular formation like…the Grand Canyon.

Okay, that was a little overdone, but still, the guy was robbing her of coherent thought. She could only look at him for another long moment, pretending to consider his offer.

His cheeks were slightly stubbled, a faint smear of grease visible beside his strong nose. His skin was bronzed, his hands calloused, his muscles, she would bet, coming from hard work, not from a fitness club. And the mouth. Oh, did the man have a mouth—all soft, sensuous, smiling lips.

A shiver moved throughout her entire body, so delicate she almost didn’t notice. It took her a second to realize that shiver had been a pure, feminine response to him: attraction. Major attraction. She was no longer calculating how good-looking he was, her gears had shifted smoothly from assess to covet.

Stop it. It had been far too long since she’d been in a relationship if a guy who’d peeping-Tom’d her when she’d pulled off her underwear was giving her the shivers.

He didn’t peeping-Tom you…you Sharon Stone’d him!

She tried to pull her thoughts together, determined not to give him an opening to make a sleazy remark. “I’m okay, thanks.”

“Well, you might not need any help, but I gotta say, you’re really tempting fate.”

Curious about why, but afraid of how he’d answer, she instead replied, “Thanks for your concern, but I’m not worried.”

“Rule-breaker, huh?”

“No.”

“Just like to live dangerously?”

Oh, hell. That cemented it, reminding her of why he’d come over here. He’d definitely seen her strip. “Not in the least.”

“Well, I’ll admit you don’t look the type.”

Her spine stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gesturing toward her hair, then her clothes, he said, “I mean, you look more like a schoolteacher than a rebel.”

That was a good thing. “That’s the plan,” she mumbled.

“You’re not really a teacher, are you?” he asked.

“Not yet.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, damn it.”

“You’re late.”

“How did you ever guess?” she asked, her tone dry.

There went the twinkle. And the dimple. And a broad, white grin. “’Cause you sped in here like demons were on your tail.”

At least he hadn’t said, Demons were on your naked tail.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I have an interview. It’s fifty minutes from now and they said to check in an hour early.”

He waved a hand, unconcerned. “They tell everyone that. But the place is nearly deserted. It won’t take you ten minutes to get the visitor’s pass, I promise. Don’t worry about it.”

“Still, I don’t want to risk it, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“So you’re worried about making a bad impression?”

Blowing out an impatient breath as he stopped her from turning away with just that amused tone in his voice, she admitted, “Yes, okay? Yes, I am.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not doing very well so far.” He pointed to a nearby building. “Personnel offices have a bird’s-eye view of this parking lot.”

Oh, great. Was he saying that he wasn’t the only one who had seen her doing her impromptu striptease? Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she looked up at the windows, then down at her car, trying to judge the angle. Geometry wasn’t her strongest suit, but it didn’t seem utterly impossible that somebody looking down might have seen as much as this guy had. Plus, she had a sunroof.

“This is bad,” she whispered.

“It’s okay, you can handle it. If anybody says anything, just tell them you were worried about making it on time.”

Gawking, she snapped, “Most people would be too polite to say anything.”

“What does politeness have to do with it?”

“A gentleman wouldn’t put me on the spot about this.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You mean I wasn’t being a gentleman? My mom’ll be crushed.”

If there had been any snarkiness in his voice, she might have been annoyed, but something about his charm was getting around her defenses. So far, he had been gentlemanly in trying to let her know he’d seen her stripping off her underclothes in broad daylight in a public parking lot.

“Look, I had a run,” she explained, her tone grudging.

He glanced down. “In those heels?”

“Down one whole leg.”

“I thought both legs were usually required for running.”

She managed not to groan, realizing he thought she’d gone for a run. “I had a run in my pantyhose, okay?”

His gaze remained downward, and his voice was the tiniest bit husky when he said, “No big loss. You definitely don’t need ’em. You have great legs.”

Her cheeks warmed. The way he said that indicated he was a leg man. That in itself was refreshing, as most men she knew professionally were interested only in her academic credentials. And the few she met when at a bar or a party were all focused on the two appendages sticking out the front of her body, not the two at the bottom. Hmm. Are breasts appendages?

“Thanks. But the point is, I’m late, I want to make a good impression and I didn’t have time to stop and buy hose.”

He finally got it. “Ahh. That’s why you did it?”

Wondering how pink her cheeks were, she mumbled, “Yes.”

Smiling, he replied, “Well, luckily, I was here to see.”

She gasped. Had he really just said that? Seriously, had he just admitted he’d been lucky enough to catch a crotch-shot from a complete stranger?

“Because, like I said, you really don’t have to sweat the time. So you can go ahead and take care of this.”

“Take care of it?” she asked. What? Did he think she was going to run back and magically produce new pantyhose from her purse, like a rabbit out of a hat, and put them on?

“Sure. Just get back in your car. I’ll help you out.”

Her jaw dropped open. “Uh…”

“I mean, if you need some directions, I can hop in the passenger seat and show you.”

Directions? She’d bet he knew a lot about women’s underwear and could give directions on how to get in—or out—of them.

The very thought of that reminded her again that she wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt; that cool spring breeze flitting up her legs now felt a bit warmer.

The man did put off some serious heat.

She suddenly acknowledged the second big danger of going commando—aside from possibly getting caught. Getting aroused.

No, not aroused. But aware. Very, very aware.

He gestured down at his clothes. “That is, if you don’t mind getting in close quarters with somebody so dirty.”

She gulped, more confused than ever. Was this guy intentionally playing word games? Was he propositioning her…or teasing her? Being flirtatious, or serious? Was she just being dirty-minded when thinking about how he’d said the word dirty?

“I’m not following,” she said.

Appearing sympathetic, he explained, “You look stressed and nervous. Let’s just get in the car and eliminate some of that tension before you go inside.”

Relieve her stress. Her tension.

There was one surefire way to do that. Hmm. Maybe that explained why she’d been stressed for thirteen months, two weeks and four days. Oh, and seven hours. But who was counting how long it had been since she’d been laid? Though, she supposed writing a dissertation had been pretty stressful, too. At least, that’s what the last guy she’d been involved with had thought. He’d stopped calling around the time she hit page one-twenty and officially lost her mind. Well, unofficially lost it—diagnosing yourself was a no-no in her line of work.