Georgeanne froze for an instant, testing the sensation of his touch. Even though his hand caressed her behind, and the tips of her breasts touched his chest, she didn’t feel pawed and pulled like a piece of t
affy. She relaxed a little and slipped her palms up his chest.
Beneath her hands she felt the definition of muscle.
“But you’re not worth my career,” he said as his fingers smoothed the silk material back and forth across her behind.
“Your career?” Georgeanne rose onto the balls of her feet and placed soft kisses at the corner of his mouth. “What are you talking about?” she asked, prepared to carefully free herself from his grasp if he did something she didn’t care for.
“You,” he answered against her lips. “You’re a real good-time baby, but you’re bad for a man like me.”
“Like you?”
“I have a hard time saying no to anything excessive, shiny, or sinful.”
Georgeanne smiled. “Which am I?”
John laughed silently against her mouth. “Georgie girl, I do believe you are all three, and I’d love to find out just how bad you get, but it isn’t going to happen.”
“What isn’t?” she asked cautiously.
He pulled back far enough to look into her face. “The wild thing.”
“What?”
“Sex.”
Enormous relief washed through her. “I guess this just isn’t my lucky day,” she drawled through a big smile she tried but failed to suppress.
Chapter Four
John glanced at the folded napkin by his fork and shook his head. He couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a hat, a boat, or some sort of lid. But since Georgeanne had informed him that she’d set the table with a North-meets-South theme, he guessed it was supposed to be a hat. Two empty beer bottles sprouted yellow and white wildflowers out the long necks. Down the middle of the table, a thin line of sand and broken shells had been woven through the four lucky horseshoes that used to hang on the stone fireplace. John didn’t think Ernie would mind the use of the horseshoes, but why Georgeanne would drag all that crap to the table was beyond him.
“Would you like some butter?”
He looked across the table into her seductive green eyes and shoved a bite of warm biscuit and sausage gravy in his mouth. Georgeanne Howard was a tease, but she was also one hell of a good cook. “No.”
“How was your shower?” she asked, and gave him a smile as soft as her biscuits.
Since he’d sat down at the table ten minutes ago, she’d tried her hardest to engage him in conversation, but he wasn’t in an obliging mood. “Fine,” he answered.
“Do your parents live in Seattle?”
“No.”
“Canada?”
“Just my mother.”
“Are your parents divorced?”
“Nope.” Her deep cleavage drew his gaze to the front of the black robe.
“Where’s your father?” she asked as she reached for her orange juice. The front of the robe gaped, exposing the scalloped edge of green lace and the swell of smooth white skin.
“Died when I was five.”
“I’m sorry. I know how it feels to lose a parent. I lost both of mine when I was quite young myself.”