“I’m sorry,” she said, batting her eyelashes as she slipped into pacify the talent mode. “You know I didn’t mean any of that. You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’d take my shirt off for you in a parking lot, too, if I was a sex-starved drunk girl with no self-respect.”
Bubba sighed. “You don’t have to butter me up.”
“But I would.” Marisol grinned up at him. “Butter you up and lick you clean, if we didn’t have a strictly professional relationship, and you didn’t have a very important interview at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. You remember what we decided you should wear, right?”
“I do,” Bubba said, the comment rubbing him the wrong way. “I may look like a dumb country boy, but I can hold information in my head for longer than five hours at a time.”
Marisol’s easy-going façade cracked, and for the first time Bubba saw genuine worry creep into her expression. “Seriously, Robert,” she said, the lilt going out of her voice. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s late, and I said what I knew would get the job done. I didn’t even think, and if I had, I wouldn’t have imagined something like that was capable of hurting your feelings.”
Bubba grunted. “Good old boys have feelings, too, you know.”
“I-I know,” Marisol said, her usually direct gaze flicking from the pavement, to his truck, to the streetlight above their heads. “I just…” She shrugged and rolled her eyes again, but this time she seemed more rattled than irritated. “Seriously, Robert, I can’t tell if it’s an act with you, or you’ve just never looked in a mirror, but I don’t see how you’ve made it to twenty-six years old without realizing you’re good-looking. Like…stop-a-girl’s-heart good-looking.”
Damn.Now, Bubba didn’t know what to say. His focus had been sideswiped by the realization that Marisol thought he was good-looking, and that maybe she hadn’t been completely joking about that butter comment. The possibility made it difficult to tear his eyes away from her lips, to keep from wondering what she would taste like, what she would sound like when he made her moan. It had been a while since he’d had a chance to practice his skills in the bedroom, but there were some things a man never forgot.
Like how to ride a horse, how to change the oil in his truck, and how to drive a woman crazy.
He was imagining all the ways he’d like to get Marisol worked up—with his tongue and his teeth and his hands between her long, smooth legs—when a matching pair of squeals sounded from the far side of the parking lot.
“There he is! Robert Lawson!”
Bubba looked up to see two new blondes jabbing dangerous-looking fingernails in his direction. Three-fourths of the population of Austin was composed of different shades of bottled blond, something else that was far different from Lonesome Point. A moment later, the two women started his way, jogging the painful-looking, mincing trot of women whose impractical footwear was on the verge of crippling them for life.
Marisol propped her hands on her hips with a soft curse. “Hell, Robert. Women are literally throwing themselves at you. How can you have an ounce of insecurity in that big body of yours?”
“I’m a sensitive soul,” he said, his eyes still glued to Marisol’s face, too intrigued by the flustered note in her voice to give the blondes skittering toward them a second glance.
Marisol made a sound that was half laugh, half snort, and all sexy—at least to him. “Get going, sex god. I’ll make sure the lusty twins know you’re not interested, and call you in a few.”
“I’d rather show them I’m not interested.” Bubba’s pulse spiked as he angled closer to Marisol, knowing this might be his only chance to see if the chemistry between them was more than smoke and mirrors.
Her eyes widened. “How’s that?”
“Like this.” Bubba reached for her, driving his fingers into her hair and tightening his hand into a fist as he pulled her close and took possession of her beautiful mouth.
The moment their lips touched, Marisol’s breath rushed out and her neck went limp in his hand, making his cock swell until his jeans felt like they’d do him damage. He’d let himself dream that Marisol would enjoy being kissed like this—being taken, claimed, the way he’d been dying to do for weeks—but he’d never imagined she would respond this way. That she’d open for him, melt against him, giving in without a hint of resistance. That she’d twine her arms around his neck, press her curves against his chest, and gasp in pleasure when he swatted her bottom before cupping her ass in his hand and squeezing tight.
God help him, he hadn’t intended to do anything but kiss her, but now he didn’t want to stop. He wanted to bundle Marisol into his truck, and bring her back to his hotel room. He wanted to strip her sexy red tank top off with his teeth and discover the taste of her skin, make her squirm beneath him as he showed her what good old boys can do to a woman when they’re given permission to be bad.
He was on the verge of proposing that they take this public display somewhere more private and reconsider the “just business” part of their relationship, when Marisol abruptly jerked out of his arms.
He opened his eyes to see her swiping her arm across her mouth. A moment later, she was laughing.
“Mierda,” she said, eyes sparkling. “You’re crazy.”
Bubba managed to get his breathing under control, but he couldn’t work up a smile. “Why’s that?”
“That! The dramatic kiss! But you were right, it got rid of the groupies,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “But the macho shit was a bit much, don’t you think? Even for a fake kiss?”
She was lying. Something deep inside of Bubba would bet his vocal chords on it. The way she’d responded to him hadn’t been an act. It had been real, as real as the erection doing its best to rip an escape hatch through his jeans, making him grateful for the relative darkness. If it were daylight, there would be no way to hide how aroused he was.
The thought made him want to slip his hand down the front of Marisol’s black jeans, beneath whatever she was wearing under them, and slide his fingers between her legs. The instinctive part of him was certain she would be hot, wet, and every bit as turned on as he was. The uncertain part of him—the small town boy who had never met a girl as sophisticated as Marisol, let alone kissed one—wondered if she had been acting, and he was a pathetic, lonely idiot who had gone so long without a woman in his bed he couldn’t tell the difference between turned on and playing along.
“I don’t know about the women you date,” Marisol continued. “But I’m not that kind of girl.”
“What kind of girl are you?” Bubba aimed for a casual tone, but his voice came out strained.
“I’m not,” Marisol said, her expression sobering. “As far as you and I are concerned, I’m not a girl. I’m a businessperson. I will use every weapon in my arsenal to get your career moving. I will flirt with club managers, and be your arm candy at events until you find a cute little thing to take home to your mama, but that’s where it ends. As long as you’re my client, it’s business between us.”