Uninhibited

His scowl deepened.

If she was vying to become a candidate for the position of Mrs. Reed Sullivan IV, she was sure as hell going about it the wrong way. Not that she was in the running, anyway, of course. Not that anyone was in the running. But still… Didn’t she know that bank presidents and highly placed corporate executives had been known to tremble in fear when he scowled at them?

“I don’t think his teammates would appreciate the scent of lavender in the middle of a scrum,” she said to Moira, completely oblivious to Reed’s growing annoyance. “It would interfere with the smell of fresh blood and manly sweat.”

“Well…perhaps you’re right,” Moira agreed, not seeming to notice Reed’s annoyance, either. “But, still, it’s important that he be familiar with the products, don’t you think?”

“He could look at my formulas.”

“Yes, of course. That’s a splendid idea.” Moira picked up one of the shoe boxes near her hip, removed the lid and began shuffling through the contents.

Not shoes or cosmetics, Reed noted sourly, but papers. Untidy stacks of papers, shoved every which way into the shoe box.

“Now, where are they?” Moira murmured, half to herself. “I had the one for your wonderful lotion in my hand not more than ten minutes ago.”

“Why the he—” Reed caught himself before he uttered the profanity in front of his aged relative. “Why in the world would I need to look at the formula for some hand lotion?” he asked. “I’ll look at it, of course, if you want me to,” he amended when Moira glanced up with a delicately raised eyebrow that showed their kinship more clearly than the brilliant blue of their eyes, “but why would you want—”

The parlor doors opened. “Tea, ma’am.” Eddie rolled the two-tiered cart into the room.

“Oh, wonderful.” Moira beamed at her butler. “I’m sure everyone must be as parched as I am. All this talk of business has worked up a thirst in all of us, I’m sure.”

“Business?” Reed said. Had he missed something here? “What bus—”

“Put it right there, please, Eddie.” Moira motioned to a spot in front of the Adams mantel, halfway between Zoe’s end of the settee and the wing chair where Reed sat. “You can just leave it,” she instructed when Eddie began to fiddle with the delicate cups and saucers. “We’ll serve ourselves today.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Eddie bowed himself out of the room.

Moira gestured toward the tea cart. “Zoe, dear, would you mind pouring, please? I’m afraid my wrists aren’t up to managing that heavy teapot these days.”

“Yes, of course. I’d be glad to.” Zoe shifted the tapestry bag from her lap to the floor, shrugging the enveloping shawl from her shoulders as she rose to her feet.

The question Reed had been about to ask about his great-grandmother’s supposedly weak wrists died on his tongue due to a sudden and complete lack of moisture.

Killer body, indeed.

Zoe Moon was built like a goddess…an Amazon…a Playboy Playmate of the Year…. Hell, of the decade!

She was all lush, tempting curves and intriguing hollows: high, round breasts swelling luxuriantly against the front of the mannish tuxedo shirt; an impossibly tiny waist set off by a narrow, gold leather belt; sleekly rounded hips and slender thighs lovingly outlined beneath the caress of forest-green velvet.

What was the word Eddie had used to describe her?

Luscious.

Reed actually felt his mouth begin to water as he watched her pour tea into one of his great-grandmother’s delicate Spode cups.

He swallowed.

Twice.

“Sugar? Lemon?” Zoe asked, her limpid, brown-eyed gaze fixed attentively on her hostess. “Milk?”

Moira glanced up from the open shoe box on her lap. “Oh, nothing in the tea, thank you. But I will have one of those butter cookies on the side, if you’d be so kind,” she answered. “You can just put it on the table there.” She indicated a spot on the piecrust table in front of her with a nod. “There’s a dear,” she said approvingly before returning her full attention to the papers in the shoe box. “I know it’s here….” she murmured vaguely as she rifled through them.

“Just what are you looking for, Gr—”

“And you, Mr. Sullivan?” Zoe asked, turning to him with an empty cup in her hand. “What would you like?”

You, he thought in that split second before he could censor himself. Naked. In bed. Under me. Moaning my name in mindless ecstasy.

Zoe smiled and shook her head. “In your tea,” she chided softly, as if he’d spoken his desire aloud.

Reed Sullivan IV, scion of the Sullivan empire, financial wunderkind, experienced man of the world, suddenly felt exactly the way he had the time he’d been caught by Sister Madeline Marie, trying to look up Patsy Flannery’s dress on the jungle gym during recess. Now, as then, he opened his mouth to answer, but the words got stuck in his throat. He could only hope he wasn’t blushing, too.

“Mr. Sullivan?” Zoe prompted, as she stood holding a cup of tea in one slender, beringed hand and the silver sugar tongs in the other.

He had a sudden, searing vision of her standing there naked, in exactly the same position. No…not naked. In his mind’s eye she was wearing stiletto heels and a frilly little apron made of sheer net and black lace, and—

“Mr. Sullivan,” she said sharply, as if she had read his thoughts.

Or maybe it was just his guilty conscience that made her sound so much like Sister Madeline Marie had that day on the playground.

“One sugar, please,” he croaked.

“One sugar it is.”

She bent her head to her task, using the silver tongs to pluck a sugar cube from the bowl and drop it into his cup, lifting a tiny teaspoon to stir the hot liquid and melt the sugar, tapping the spoon lightly against the rim of the cup before placing it gently back on the silver spoon rest. The back of her hand brushed against a frosted petit four and she lifted her hand to her mouth, absently licking at one knuckle.

Reed sat mesmerized, watching every precise, delicate movement. Her tongue was nearly as pink as the frosting. And probably sweeter, too…

“Your tea, Mr. Sullivan.”

He snapped out of a brief, delicious fantasy of licking frosting off of her fingers—and various other places—to find her standing in front of his chair, the cup of tea held practically under his nose. He tried not to picture her naked again—he really did—but it was a hopeless endeavor; she was the kind of woman who inspired lustful fantasies. He wondered how she’d look in one of those skimpy bits of satin and lace that graced the pages of the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Something black with garters, he thought, decorated with little rosettes the color of the frosting on the petits fours.

“I hope it’s the way you like it,” she said.

“I’m sure it is,” he managed to answer suavely, years of good manners and lessons in deportment coming to his rescue despite the lascivious pictures forming in his mind. “Thank you.”

Their fingers touched.

Heat sizzled up his arm and straight into his brain cells, frying untold millions of nerve endings and sending alarm signals to points south. Her gaze lifted to his, eyes widened, startled, as if she felt something, too. And then she released her hold on the saucer and turned away. His fingers were suddenly so unsteady he had to reach up with his free hand to anchor the fragile cup in its saucer to keep from spilling hot tea in his lap.

“Ah, here it is!” Moira’s voice was triumphant. “I knew I’d seen it in this box.”

“Seen what, Gran?” Reed asked, without taking his eyes off of Zoe.

She stood with her back to him now, calmly pouring out her own cup of tea, as if that charged moment had never happened. Her wild tumble of hair was so long it brushed against the wide leather belt encircling her impossible waist.

“The formula,” Moira said.