Close Contact

Keeping a hand on her, Miles looked around. “I don’t see it anywhere else, and there are no tracks.” But good Lord, the house... Now that she was okay, he really saw it. “You actually live here?”

She shot him a deadly glare. “Yes.” And then, as if a dare, she asked, “Why?”

He wasn’t touching that. “Just doesn’t look like you.” Hell, it looked like a grandma’s place—from maybe a century ago. “I’m guessing everything is original?”

“Pretty much.” She started to stand, slipped to her butt again, and Miles stayed her.

“Wait.” He got to his feet first, saw a roll of paper towels on the counter and grabbed them. He ripped off several, giving them to her so she could clean her hands. Then, being sure to keep out of the oil, he caught her under her arms and lifted her upright. “Hold on to my shoulders and I’ll help you out of those boots.”

Grumbling, she said, “My feet are probably sweaty now. This sucks so badly.”

Trying to hide his smile, he promised, “I’ll hold my breath.”

“I’m going to ruin your shirt.”

“It’s a black T-shirt. You can’t ruin it.”

“Suit yourself.” Her small hands settled on him—and that put her breasts far too close to his face.

Forcing himself to look down, he tugged off first one boot, waiting as she put that foot to the side of the mess, then he removed the other. Her feet were small and narrow, yes, a little sweaty, and incredibly cute.

He glanced up the length of her long slim legs, pausing at the denim zipper in her soft, worn, body-hugging cutoffs. A drop of oil rolled down the outside of her left leg. “Your shorts are dripping.”

Letting out a tiny, shaky breath, she shifted her feet. “Yeah.”

Absurd the way lust bit into him. Hell, someone had terrorized her last night, they’d returned to a million hungry cats and another prank in her house, and all he could think about was leaning forward and pressing his face to her belly, going lower, breathing her in, tasting her.

He loved the sounds Maxi made while her climax built.

When he felt her hands tightening on his shoulders, he murmured, “Maybe you should drop them, too?” Somehow, he’d keep it together.

“Yeah.” But she didn’t move.

Up to him, then. Damn. “Let’s see if we can do this without getting the oil anywhere else.” He reached for the snap to her shorts.

Maxi drew in her breath and held it.

Trying to remember that he had a plan, he said as he slid down her zipper, “Maybe that shower should come first?” It wasn’t deliberate, but his knuckles grazed her.

“First?” she croaked.

He glanced up and got caught in her dark-eyed gaze. “Before we grab something to eat.”

“Oh. Eat. Right.”

What had she thought? That he meant sex? Hell of an idea, but the timing was all wrong.

And why was she thinking that anyway? He could understand how he got distracted, but she was terrified, and that should damn well keep her focused.

It was enough that he had to fight himself; he couldn’t fight her, too.

Tamping down natural urges, Miles worked the snug shorts over her hips.

Her fingers dug into his muscles as he bent to help her step out—and then she stood there in her panties.

The lady had a killer body, no doubt about it.

But he’d known other sexy women. There was just something special about Maxi.

Maybe the fact that she’d walked away from him so easily.

With that reminder in mind, Miles straightened back to his feet. “Stay put while I look around. I don’t see or hear anyone, but I want to make sure whoever dumped the oil isn’t still here.”

“No one is.” She clutched at his arm. “Every inch of this old house creaks if someone moves, even in the basement.”

Miles gently pried her hands away. “I’m going to look anyway.” He wouldn’t take chances, and it’d give him a minute to get his urges under control. “Don’t move.”

She swallowed hard and nodded, already glancing back at the front door.

Would she do as he asked, or would he find her in the SUV, in her panties, ready to go?

Staying alert to any other booby traps, Miles went into the kitchen. That room was the biggest time warp, with a white cast-iron sink top, a stove that had to be antique and a small refrigerator...on legs. He’d never seen anything like it.

An old ruffled curtain hung under the sink instead of a door, and the yellow linoleum floor was a bit bright, especially since it ran into yellow tile that came halfway up the wall.

Directly to the left was an equally dated bathroom. A row of open shelving divided the kitchen from the dining room, which opened into a small living room. The front door, locked, led to a trellis-enclosed covered porch.

He briefly went through each room, not surprised to find them very tidy, but shocked all the same that Maxi Nevar now called this place home. Nothing he knew about her fit in the setting. Then again, seeing her with chipped nails, rubber ducky boots and tangled hair didn’t fit either.

As he passed back through, he saw a book and wineglass on the end table next to the puffy floral couch. The glass was empty, the book closed.

Well, hell.

He returned to where he’d left her, standing there wearing an oversize flannel shirt, pink panties and a load of uncertainty. More than anything, he wanted to draw her close, hug her, reassure her.

Then do nasty, hot, sweaty things with her.

He shook his head and, indicting the door next to the stairs, asked, “Basement?”

“Yes. But it should be locked.”

He tried it. “You’re right.” There was even a dead bolt on it.

“Cat food is stored down there, but otherwise, I don’t use the basement.”

“I can see that.” She had it locked up tight. Later, he’d explore down there. “I’ll look upstairs now.”

“Sure, why not.” She turned to go.