“That’s good, but when I saw it, I wasn’t sure. You had these big shadows under your eyes and you looked so alone, and no one knew you were here and—” She took a large gulp of wine. “I had a bad feeling, that’s all. You probably don’t believe me. You thought I was staying because I had designs on your body, and why wouldn’t you because you do have a great body. Crap, I told you not to pour me more than half a glass of wine.”
The silence was heavy and loaded, cut through with rivulets of sexual tension.
Remembering the way she’d felt against him triggered another serious attack of lust.
He ran his hand through his hair, trying to control it. “I should probably get back to work.”
“If you’re panicking about my last comment, then don’t. I already told you, you’re not my type.”
He was starting to think that she might just be his type, and the thought surprised him because since the death of his wife he hadn’t met many women who had raised his interest levels.
“I thought you didn’t have a type.”
“I probably shouldn’t. Given how long it is since I had sex, my type should just be anyone with a penis and a pulse, right?”
Lucas choked on his wine. “Did you seriously just say that?”
“In any case, haven’t we established that prejudging people can be dangerous? Who knows what lies beneath the surface?”
He’d interviewed enough serial killers to know that most people were better off not knowing what lay beneath the surface.
“Do you ever edit your thoughts before they come out of your mouth?”
“It’s your fault for pouring wine into me.” She poked at her food. “But it’s true that generally I’m a spontaneous type.”
“How have you survived this long unscathed?”
“I’m not unscathed. I’ve dated some serious losers.”
“But that hasn’t damaged your faith in happy-everafters?”
“No. It means there are losers in the world, but I already knew that. There are also some great guys out there. I don’t happen to have met too many of them lately, that’s all. And I do know you’re not going to meet the right person by hiding away in your apartment.”
“Are we talking about me or you?”
“Both of us. I promised myself that this Christmas I wasn’t going to spend my whole time alone in my apartment watching reruns of Hallmark movies and enjoying a threesome with Ben and Jerry.” She eyed him. “The ice cream, in case you were wondering.”
“I’m ‘hiding’ in my apartment, as you put it, because I’m working.”
“We both know that isn’t true, Lucas, but even it was you can’t work all the time.”
He thought about his deadline and how far behind he was. “I shouldn’t even be sitting here talking to you.” And yet he was. And he was in no hurry to change that.
“Go. The sooner you finish the book, the sooner you can get a life.” She stood up, careful not to look at him. “I’ll clear up. And I’ll open your mail.”
“Do what you want with it.”
His mail was the least of his problems.
* * *
Had she really told him he had a great body?
She was going to have to tape her mouth. Or clamp her jaw shut. Anything to stop herself babbling like an idiot when she was with him.
But it was partly his fault. Every time he looked at her she was scalded by the heat of sexual tension. Each smoldering glance fried her brain, burning away the last of her already inefficient filters.
It was no good telling herself he wasn’t interested, or that he was unavailable. Her body wasn’t paying attention.