Small-Town Redemption

Did he have to sound condescending? So disbelieving?

“That’s so.” She edged closer, breathed in the rich scent of coffee, the spiciness of his soap, surprised by how pleasant she found the combination. “Did they hurt?” she continued, her tone husky. Breathless.

He shrugged. Lifted the mug to his mouth again, almost clipping her on the chin.

She wanted to swipe it out of his hand, throw the damn thing against the wall. Couldn’t he see she was flirting with him? The least he could do was reciprocate, especially when she was so out of her element.

Hard not to be when he was the epitome of physical perfection. She should have known he’d look like some freaking underwear model.

While she was too tall. Too thin. With small breasts and more angles than curves.

She’d have to make sure they kept the lights off when it came time to get naked.

When he lowered his arm, she touched the tip of the sword on his biceps. Traced her fingertip up the sharp line to the flame. His skin was warm. Softer than she’d expected.

“What does this one mean?” When he didn’t answer, she tried a teasing smile, one that would bring out her dimple—and hopefully loosen him up a bit. “Or did you just think it was pretty?”

His body went rigid. “In some cultures it symbolizes judgment.”

“Judgment,” she whispered almost to herself. “I would have thought you’d choose a different emblem, something more...antiestablishment. Skull and crossbones or a hand with the middle finger sticking up.”

“What are you doing?”

His question startled her, the low timbre of his voice causing gooseflesh to prick her arms.

She licked her lips. His eyes, following the movement, narrowed to slits. “Wha—what do you mean?”

He looked pointedly at her hand still on his arm, her fingers caressing the smoothness of his skin as if of their own will.

Her first instinct was to leap back, to put as much distance between them as possible. But that would defeat the purpose of her visit, wouldn’t it? She could do this.

She’d come too far to back down now.

Charlotte flattened her palm against his biceps, and he tensed, the muscle flexing momentarily before relaxing. “I’m touching you,” she said softly, smoothing her hand up his arm and settling it on his shoulder.

Oh, please don’t let my palms start sweating. Not now.

“Why are you touching me?”

Seriously? You’d think it was the first time the man had been hit on by a woman. Jeez. “Because I want to.”

Determined, and more than a little terrified, she laid her other hand on his opposite shoulder and held his gaze, annoyed and deflated when his remained steady. She wanted to fluster him, for him feel a fraction of the nerves, of the crazy energy, she felt whenever they were together.

Thanks to her high heels, it was easy, incredibly easy, to link her hands behind his neck and tug his head down. Her heart pounded painfully. Good Lord she hoped she didn’t have a coronary. Not now, not when his mouth was inches from her own, his breath mingling with hers.

She brushed a soft kiss across his mouth. Leaned back, her stomach in knots. But Kane didn’t jerk as if she’d tossed acid in his face, didn’t push her away as if she were some leper come to spread her disease. Didn’t treat her as if she were unattractive. Unwanted.

As James had when she’d kissed him.

Kane simply watched her. Patient, curious and waiting for her next move.

Emboldened, she stepped closer until their thighs touched, her breasts pressing against his chest, his warmth seeping through the silk of her shirt. She wished he would take the initiative, would sweep her up in his arms and carry her to his bed. That he’d take control and show her how this was done.

He didn’t move.

She should kiss him again, a real kiss, one with tongue, but she was frozen, unable to move. Unable to think. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her want to curl into herself, to slink away. But she wasn’t a quitter. The only way to get what you wanted was to go after it.

And what she wanted was Kane.

“Take me to bed,” she told him, albeit a bit shakily. “Now.”

* * *

WHY HIM?

Kane sighed, the movement causing his shoulders to rise and fall, which in turn caused Red’s breasts to brush against his chest. She didn’t have a lot going on in that department, but she had enough for his body to notice.

Hell.

Reaching behind his neck, he tugged her hands apart, then set her away from him. “Sorry, Red. Not interested.”

He went into the kitchen, but not before seeing the hurt, the embarrassment, cross her face.

Not his problem, he told himself, pouring more coffee into his cup. It wasn’t up to him to soothe or coddle her. She’d come here, had come to him. He hadn’t asked for her attention or her clumsy attempts at seduction.

She stomped after him, the embodiment of a woman scorned, complete with narrowed eyes and red splotches coloring her cheeks. She’d come to him and obviously wasn’t in a hurry to leave.

“What do you mean you’re not interested?” she asked, sounding incredulous. Disbelieving. “You’re a man. I’m a woman.”

Sipping his coffee, he looked her up and down. Her hair, red as a clown’s wig and stick-straight, fell past her shoulders. Heavy makeup hid the freckles on her nose and upper cheeks. She’d done something to her eyes, had lined them in thick black, used dark shadow on the lids then coated her pale lashes with what looked to be several layers of mascara. Her lips were a glossy pink.

She looked like a kid who’d gotten into her mother’s makeup.

“Just what I meant,” he said. “Not interested.”

Maybe he’d been a little bit interested a few minutes ago. She was right about one thing; he was a man. And she had been plastered against him. Not that skinny women with bad attitudes did much for him, but her hands had been soft on his arm, her fingers warm. And, he had to admit, she smelled good, really good, her perfume subtle and sweet. A contrast to her do-me heels and the permanent scowl she wore around him.

Practically vibrating with fury, she slapped her hands on her hips, the move tugging her shirt open and giving him a glimpse of smooth, creamy skin and the edge of a lacy black bra.

His body stirred. It was that damn man thing again.

“Oh, no. You are not doing this to me. Do you have any idea how long it took me to straighten my hair?” she asked, jabbing at her head hard enough to drill her finger right into her brain. “I can’t breathe, my feet hurt and I paid one hundred dollars for this stupid push-up bra.”

He let his gaze drop to her chest for one long, lazy moment. When he raised his eyes back to hers, she swallowed visibly. He smirked. “You might want to get your money back.”

She blanched before color rushed into her cheeks. She opened her mouth, no doubt to lay him flat, but then she shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, which, admittedly, did some interesting things to those small breasts.

On second thought, maybe that bra had been a good investment.