Kitabı oku: «More Naughty Than Nice», sayfa 2
“I’m done with my… I mean, you’re on. Now.”
“Oh.” Damn it, anyway. All caught up in the irritating man in the back row, she’d missed her cue. And now she felt flustered and off balance. You’re a tiger and they’re hyenas, she reminded herself quickly as she swept up to the podium, facing down her audience. She focused on a smiling young woman in the front row, exactly the right age and attitude to be receptive.
But it was that damn man in the back row she was thinking about. She was going to have to be at the top of her game to sell her message with him staring at her.
You’re Stevie Bliss, she told herself. You can do it.
Deliberately, she swung her head around, she found him in the crowd, and she began to speak right to him.
“Definitely single,” she purred. “And totally satisfied. Let me tell you all about it.”
OWEN DASHER felt himself fall neatly into the palm of her hot little hand.
And how exactly had she done that? He’d come prepared to be unimpressed. Bored, cynical, a little annoyed his editor had made him do this, he’d sat there as the crowd filled in, making a quick first draft of the column he intended to write.
Yet another attempt to hijack women’s brains and send them to Never Never Land, he scribbled into his notebook. Stevie Bliss—who is as fake as her Power-puff name—takes up where the Spice Girls and Ally McBeal thankfully left off….
He smiled. An excellent turn of phrase. That one just might make the final cut and end up in his column.
He might’ve thought he was being unfair, but he couldn’t miss the fact that there were other people here who didn’t care for her, either, what with the guy standing behind him who kept muttering, “Crazy broad,” and the ladies clustered around the baby carriage on the other side, all prim and proper in their disapproval. Good. He was looking forward to some fireworks.
And then she was late. As the bookstore got fuller and fuller, Owen grew more annoyed. It didn’t help that he didn’t want to be there in the first place, pretending he cared about the Blissfully Single crowd. He’d read the book. He knew how slick, shallow and maybe even dangerous her message was.
All that stuff about women who refused to get married and used men as sex objects struck him as pretty ridiculous. He’d had plenty of one-nighters in his twenty-nine years on the planet, and he’d learned from hard experience that being involved with someone purely for the sex always turned out ugly. He didn’t think there had to be love involved, necessarily, but he didn’t think you should be sleeping with someone if you couldn’t bear to wake up with them, either. Okay, so he was opinionated. He was a columnist. It came with the territory.
As he’d waited, he’d mused on why she came up with this stuff. What had made Stevie Bliss so cynical about love and relationships?
His first thought was that she must be some dried-up crone who couldn’t get a guy in the first place. He checked her picture. No dried-up crone there. But, hey, digital touch-ups were amazing. So who knew?
Or maybe she was no more than another fast-buck artist, mouthing whatever phony baloney self-help platitudes she thought were most likely to net her some easy cash. The crude, rude flavor of the month, clad in leather, sporting no undies just to get some attention.
As he was mulling the question one more time, the real Stevie Bliss walked out. No, she sauntered out, all long legs and saucy attitude. He noted the streaked blond hair, cut kind of wispy and choppy on the ends where it brushed her shoulders, the striking blue eyes behind snappy little tortoiseshell glasses, the creamy, pale skin curving down into that daring camisole, the skirt that was barely long enough to cover her assets… Wow.
If this was a dried-up crone, he was Methuselah. And far from vulgar, she seemed to have found the place where sex met class and lived happily ever after.
Letting his gaze linger on her spectacular legs, he wondered whether those boots were made for walking. And on whom. He had to admit it. She was hot.
He could see she was impatient as the introduction limped on, as her eyes scanned the room, taking the measure of the crowd, checking for pockets of negativity she might have to combat later. Smart girl.
And then her electric gaze hit him. Pow. One glance from media creation Stevie Bliss and he was sautéed in his seat. Where in the hell did that come from?
At first he wondered if this smoky glance thing was some tactic she tried on all the men in her audience. But no, she seemed to be as thunderstruck as he was. And she was gazing directly at him, no one else.
He steeled himself against his own overheated reaction. Owen Dasher was no neophyte when it came to dazzling women, after all. He’d interviewed a heap of stars as they hit Chicago to promote their movies, and if Julia Roberts couldn’t reduce him to a pile of goo, there was no way he was going to melt after one glance from Stevie Bliss.
So they did a little visual tango, eye to eye, with him hanging on to a sense of journalistic detachment by his fingernails. She’s shallow and plastic and this is all a scam, he reminded himself. And he was pleased—no, relieved—when she broke first to talk to one of her handlers. She seemed rattled, and he enjoyed that, too.
Relaxing for the first time since their gazes intersected, he managed to collect himself, taking himself sternly to task for losing it like that. But, yeah, he could handle her. He’d just proved that. She’d looked away first, hadn’t she?
Then she sidled up to the podium to begin her speech, and he felt his palms start to sweat. Okay, so her long, lovely legs and those wicked boots were hidden behind the podium. That helped. But the rest of her, still on display, was a lot to deal with. A lot of warm, delicious woman. His fingers began to clench and unclench, and he realized he hadn’t taken a single note. Hell.
As she spoke, purring about sassy sisters who knew their personal value and took no prisoners, she was staring right at him, giving him the full benefit of this little performance. Although his brain couldn’t seem to process a word she was saying, he was actually starting to believe her.
“I love men,” she confided, in a naughty tone of voice that sent sparks of heat licking up from the bottom of his spine. He stretched his legs, pretending to be bored, adjusting his position. Still burning.
“People call me a man-hater,” she continued, lifting a dismissive hand in the air. “Isn’t that silly? It couldn’t be farther from the truth. I love men. I mean, I love them.”
As she drew out the word “love” to make her implication clear, she was met by a flurry of giggles, and she turned her focus to the gaggle of teens in the front row, the ones doing the giggling. Which distracted her from keeping him pinned to his seat. Thank God.
“And why not? Men have been taking the cake and eating it, too, forever. Now it’s time for my cake.” Her smile widened, and she had a mischievous gleam in her eyes that left no doubt what she was really talking about. Sex. “Maybe with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”
Whipped cream? And a cherry on top? On top of what? Or whom? Owen groaned, slipping deeper into the fantasy.
And then Stevie licked her lip. That pretty pink little tongue flicked over her top lip, for only a second. He was a goner.
Oh, man. This was bad. Very bad.
As she moved away from whipped cream, talking instead about empowerment and freedom, about making good choices and having no fear, he could feel the crowd moving with her. He could feel himself moving with her. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to stand up and shout, “Yes! Yes!” along with the rest of the converts.
Hell, he wanted to throw her on the floor and make love to her until she screamed, “Yes! Yes!”
Time to get a grip.
Reining himself in with fierce control, Owen glared at her. She was manipulating everyone in this room, and he was not going to be part of it.
Finally it was time for questions. He looked to the groups of dissenters he’d identified earlier. Surely they could bring her down a peg or two. Go to it, guys! Dent that sex kitten veneer.
“Miss Bliss,” a rather stodgy-looking woman called out, raising her hand, which was weighted down by a huge diamond and a thick wedding ring. Several other women rose behind her, and they lifted neatly printed signs into the air. Mom, Marriage and Apple Pie read one, while another went with Bliss is a Big Liar!
“I prefer Ms.,” Stevie Bliss responded quickly. “Or you can just call me Stevie. Would you prefer that?”
“No. Yes. I mean, no.” The lady with the question looked ready to burst a blood vessel. “I do not want to call you anything. Our group, the Righteous Moms Brigade, believes that marriage and motherhood should be respected and commended, not spit upon, as you seem to do, and we would like to say that your book is just hateful—”
“Don’t you just love what she said about marriage and motherhood?” Stevie cut in. “Isn’t that wonderful? Respected and commended. You are so right. Because if it weren’t for women like you, who are on the frontlines of the marriage wars, the rest of us, the ones who are totally unsuited for that life, might have to sub in. So let’s give the Righteous Moms a hand, shall we? We love you, Righteous Moms!”
As the other women present dutifully applauded, Stevie added, “I hope everyone will read chapter five of Blissfully Single, where I talk about how you decide what’s right for you. It’s not whether you choose to be married or single that counts. It’s about having the choice, about being smart and not being afraid to go it alone if that’s what really suits you.”
And with that, she dismissed the Righteous Moms from her radar and moved on. They were still sputtering over there, but she had pretty much stripped them of their weapons by agreeing with them. Besides, she was in charge of the questions, and she wouldn’t call on any more of them.
The next set of questions was less contentious, all about what makeup she used and what designer she was wearing, before three or four guys in a row asked if they could sign up for a month of her time. “A month, a week, whatever,” one of them offered breathlessly. He was young and didn’t seem very bright, with his backward baseball cap and goofy grin, but he certainly didn’t look like he was insane or anything. “Hey, Stevie, I’ll take an hour if that’s all ya got. Ten minutes. Whatever.”
He couldn’t believe it when Stevie Bliss actually grinned back at the kid. “Aren’t you adorable?” she declared. “I’m in the market, too. My December calendar has plenty of spots. So you just get in line, and bring ID, please, so we can make sure you’re old enough, and then I will definitely put you on my list of contenders.”
Owen rolled his eyes at the level of bull being shoveled here. Who in his right mind would sign up to march in Stevie Bliss’s never-ending parade of boy toys?
Finally, a cranky gent from the back of the room pushed forward far enough to get to talk. He had a buzz cut, a Chicago Bears jacket and a sour look on his face, all of which tended to suggest he wasn’t a Bliss fan. Yet Stevie actually called on him.
“Yes? You, sir.”
“My name is Joe Ramsey, and I’m the president of the Swingin’ He-Men, Chicago chapter.”
“How lovely for you, I’m sure,” she said sweetly.
“Well, thanks.” He swaggered a little, building up steam as he unfolded a piece of paper and read from it. “So, anyway, we want to know who you think you are, emasculating the male half of the society with your wanting to take our place as the predators and the hunters and all.” He glanced up expectantly. “Well?”
“Mr. He-Man, you hunt and predate all you want.” She lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t mind a bit.”
“But what about you getting in the way and telling women they get to dump us whenever they feel like it? That they shouldn’t do our laundry or make our food or any of the other stuff women are supposed to do. That’s just wrong!”
“I agree with you, Joe. Women being forced to do your laundry or make your food, that’s just wrong. Isn’t it nice we can agree on something?” She smiled and turned away from him before he sorted out exactly what she’d said to him, as she pretended to catch sight of the clock. “Oh, dear,” she said regretfully. “I’m afraid our time is up. Thank you so much, everyone, for coming out to see me today. I’ll be happy to sign your books if you’d like to line up.”
Which they did, like lambs to the slaughter. There was even a traitor from the Swingin’ He-Men who came tramping into the line with his book under his arm, blushing and looking sheepish.
Owen was grudgingly impressed. Two protesters turned back without a hint of a dustup. No fistfights, not even a raised voice. Too bad.
“Mr. Dasher?” It was the handler, the one he’d seen chatting with Stevie before her talk. Where Stevie wore leather and displayed all the right skin on her long, lithe frame, this short, somewhat stout lady was buttoned into a nondescript brown wool suit with a plain white blouse. Big-boned and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and a no-nonsense expression, she looked more like a Righteous Mom than someone who’d be riding the Blissfully Single train.
“I’m Owen Dasher,” he said. “You are…?”
“Anna, Stevie’s assistant.” She fixed him with a level gaze. “Sorry about the delay. There’s such a long line for autographs, and she may be a while. So if you wanted to—”
“Leave?” he asked with a shade of annoyance. Stevie Bliss got him all whipped into a frenzy by sending him lascivious glances and licking her lips and talking about whipped cream, and now she was going to leave him hanging? “What, is she afraid of this interview? You can tell her not to worry. I don’t bite.”
In a testier tone, she said, “You heard her speak. Do you really think she’s afraid of an interview? I think she’s looking forward to meeting you, as a matter of fact. She just wondered if you might prefer to go get a latte at the coffee bar while you wait.”
“Oh.” He stuck his notebook in the pocket of his coat, made a move to leave and then stayed where he was. Where was the coffee bar, anyway? And why would anyone think he was a latte kind of guy? Should he be insulted? “Look, that’s fine. Whatever. I’ll be at the coffee bar.”
“Mr. Dasher?”
He glanced back, noting that Anna looked more smug now than awkward. “Yes?”
“I thought you might want to know. Stevie…” Her words trailed off as she laughed out loud. “You should be prepared. She does bite.”
2
“WOO-HOO!” Stevie was so excited that she chugged water down too fast and spilled some on her Prada leather jacket. “I was good, wasn’t I?” she asked Anna. “I mean, I was on today. I had ’em cold. I cooked! I ruled!”
“You ruled,” Anna agreed. “There was a big crowd, and we sold a ton of books.”
“I was in a groove.” She swiveled in her chair, too hyped up to sit still. “At first that reporter guy kind of threw me, but then I took it as a challenge. Did you see how cute he was? I mean, awfully cute. Very, very cute. Men like him, all cool and superior and gorgeous and way too sure of themselves, they are exactly why we started this. And today, I was a tiger and he was a hyena and it felt good. Mr. Way Cute, and I reeled him in. By the end, he practically had a hook in his mouth.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Anna said dryly. “Better get a move on. He’s waiting in the coffee bar.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. I’ll be there in a sec. I was enjoying the moment, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, hooked or not, he seemed kind of ticked off. I wouldn’t want to push him.” Frowning, Anna blotted the wet spot on Stevie’s jacket with a tissue. “I don’t know what burr he’s got under his saddle, but there’s something.”
Stevie leaned forward, more alert now. “You think he’s planning to trash me?”
Anna shrugged. “Dunno. It doesn’t really matter. Trash or flash, it’s still publicity. As long as he writes a column, that’s all I care. Or maybe if you get under his skin enough, he’ll come across with two or three columns. And then we get a slew of letters to the editor, pro and con, and the other papers will tune in to the controversy and they’ll run features and pictures, too.” She took Stevie by the hand and pulled her out of her chair, propelling her toward the door and her duty. “The shopping season is just getting started. If we play our cards right, there will be moms and daughters and sisters and cousins and friends, all dying to buy copies of Blissfully Single for each other. Believe me, we need the press. So get to work. Get under his skin.”
Stevie considered. “Under his skin… Would that be irritated or turned on?”
“I don’t know.” Anna smiled, holding open the door as Stevie reluctantly ducked through. “Whatever works. Seems like you made a pretty good start. So keep it up.”
“Hmm…”
As Anna lagged behind, looking for a lost press kit with some updated stats she wanted to give to the reporter, Stevie put her glasses back on and shook her head so her hair would fall into just the right tousled disarray. She threw back her shoulders and lengthened her stride.
She wasn’t afraid of one silly reporter. Not in the least. So why was her heart pounding like a runaway bongo drum as she swept into the bookstore’s coffee bar?
There he was, with his dark hair carelessly shoved off his forehead, gnawing on the end of a pen. As he sat there, unaware of her scrutiny, she tried to be clinical and objective. She noted that he was tall, fairly slim and very good-looking, even with that grumpy expression. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, open at the neck, with a tailored navy blazer and tan pants. Neat, well-organized, comfortable in his clothes. Nothing so scary about that, was there? Chewing her lip, she wished she could find something about him, some obvious flaw, so that she could dismiss him outright.
Damn him, anyway. At first glance, he looked perfect. Or maybe that was his flaw. Who wanted perfection?
As she strolled over, his green eyes took her measure one more time. She did her best to look careless and at ease as she slipped into the other seat at his small wooden table. For the first time in a long time, she was intensely aware that the curves of her breasts were right there on display, inches from his eyes, that her skirt was very short and tight and… And that she wasn’t wearing any panties.
Was she sweating everywhere all at once? Or did it just feel like it?
Hello, Owen Dasher. Hello, Nightmare City.
Oh, come on. He probably hadn’t read the book and didn’t have a clue about the stupid no-underwear thing. Sure he was getting a good gander at her cleavage, but so what? Lots of women wore low necklines. And he was much too close to look under her skirt.
No squirming, she told herself curtly. No panicking. And no squirming!
“Hello,” she began, meeting his cool gaze. With her skirt firmly in place, she pressed her legs together, leaned forward, and extended a hand. “You must be Owen Dasher.”
He ignored her hand, preferring to glance down at his notebook. Then he slapped a small tape recorder down on the table between them. “Right. I already know who you are.”
Ooooh. Nice voice. Husky, a shade gruff, yet with a certain note of sweetness. It made her feel all melty. Of course, she was already overly warm, so it wasn’t that big a leap. But the voice could almost make her forgive the fact that he didn’t want to take her hand. Almost.
She pulled herself away from dangerous thoughts and concentrated on How to Manipulate a Conversation 101.
“I certainly hope you know who I am,” she returned smoothly. “You were staring a hole in me all the time I was speaking. So, did you like what you saw?”
That got him to look up. Bad move. She found herself momentarily distracted by his eyes. Chilly, yes. But that particular deep shade of green was amazing, particularly accented by his thick, dark lashes. Like a cool dip in a forest glade.
Snap out of it, she ordered herself. Probably colored contacts. Didn’t she know herself how easy it was to change your eye color? He probably did it just to bamboozle impressionable interviewees like her.
When he responded, his tone was as cynical as his eyes. “I’m trying to figure out if this Blissfully Single stuff is a scam or a joke.”
Rule 1: If you don’t like the question you’re asked, respond with one of your own. “Are those the only two choices?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You listened to my speech,” she noted. “Or at least you stared at me during my speech. Did that provide any clues?”
“Not really.”
“Why? Not paying attention, were we?”
“Oh, I paid attention.”
“I thought so.” She was kind of enjoying this verbal thrust and parry. As long as she fenced with him, word for word, it kept her mind off her lack of lingerie, the tiny thread of perspiration sliding down between her breasts and the hypnotic look in his beautiful eyes.
He said, “I found out one thing. You’re very good at what you do.”
Then he edged his heavy wooden chair forward, far enough that if she kicked out her boot an inch or two, she’d get him right in the shin. Which might not be a bad idea. But he’d made his point. His physical presence was strong and intimidating, generating enough body heat to knock her whole chair over. She dug in. She wasn’t going anywhere. Although some cold water thrown on her head might’ve been nice. Better yet, cold water thrown on his head.
Instead, she simply said, “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
His jaw clenched. He sounded frustrated when he shot back, “Take it any way you want. I meant that you’ve obviously practiced delivering your spiel, you make a slick presentation, you sell what you’ve got to sell and the morons who buy your book get what they deserve.”
Stevie lifted an eyebrow. “And you’ve decided they’re morons because you don’t like my message, you don’t like my fans or because you’re threatened by me?”
“None of the above.”
“Then what? What is your problem, Mr. Dasher?”
“Who said I had a problem?”
She was losing control of this interview, letting him ruffle her feathers. And she had no intention of letting that continue. She was supposed to be getting under his skin, not vice versa.
Rule 2: Be calm, but establish who’s boss. Draw a line in the sand. Keeping her voice cool and collected, she mused, “I think you should quit playing footsie with me, Mr. Dasher. This is supposed to be an interview, remember? So far you haven’t asked any real questions, have you?”
She bent nearer, giving him a steady gaze that she hoped disguised her real feelings. I am going to smoke you, Mr. Big Shot. You think you can confuse me with how hot you are? You think I don’t know you just called my readers morons? You are going down!
He stared back, enigmatic and annoying.
Rule 3: Put him on the defensive. She struck. “Are you having problems getting your questions together? Don’t be afraid. Why, you can ask me anything, and find out every little thing you ever wanted to know about the Blissfully Single life, or…” Tipping her head to one side, she offered a superior smile. “Let me guess. You’d rather talk about you, right? ’Cause, after all, you’re the guy here. You’re used to everything revolving around you. Poor little dear. This must be confusing, when you’re not the center of attention.”
But he didn’t take the bait. “I’ve got questions.”
“Fire when ready.” Get that revolver out of the holster, big boy.
Fast and snappy, he asked, “Where did you get the idea for the book? Bad marriage? Some guy dump you? No date for the prom?”
“Do I look like a woman scorned?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“No.” She leaned in even closer, so that they were knee to knee, eye to eye. And if he wanted to stare right down the front of her camisole, well, that view was available. But he didn’t. His eyes stayed on hers. Darn him. She’d been sure she could distract him with some cleavage. Charging ahead, she finished, “I’m perfectly happy in my relationships. Plural. Always have been.”
“Ever been married?”
“No.”
“Left at the altar?”
“No. How about you?”
He grinned, and it was so swift and genuine, she couldn’t breathe for just a second. He’s enjoying this, too. He’s as turned on as I am!
“No and no,” he said. “So if you’ve never done it, what do you have against marriage?”
“If you’ve never done it, why are you defending it?”
“I’m supposed to ask the questions, and you’re supposed to answer. Which you didn’t.” His voice dropped lower as he repeated, “What do you have against marriage?”
Luckily, she had a series of set responses to that particular question—it was the first one everyone always asked—so she could pull another easy answer out of a mental file without thinking about his smile, his even white teeth, his perfectly formed lips….
I want you to kiss me with those lips. Now. Often. Starting with now.
On automatic pilot, she murmured, “Marriage is a lovely institution. But I don’t want to live in an institution.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he breathed, and his hand slid onto her knee.
“Doesn’t make it any less true,” she whispered. Stevie fixed her gaze on his adorable mouth, not even hearing his words.
Who cared? She was stoked up. She was on fire. His fingers crept an inch or two higher, tickling and warming her skin at the same time. The sensation—so small, so inconsequential—was incredible. God, that felt good.
She slipped to the front of her seat, rubbing one boot along his calf. He leaned in, lining up for the kiss she knew was coming. But it didn’t. He just sat there, waiting, as the air between them crackled with possibilities.
Feeling very naughty, she licked her bottom lip, watching his eyes as they followed her tongue. Secure in her hot-to-trot persona, she whispered, “So are you going to kiss me or not, Mr. Dasher?”
“Why would I do that, Ms. Bliss?” he asked, in the same soft, dangerous tone she was using.
She kept her boot on his leg. “Why wouldn’t you? You know you want to.”
“I do?”
“Oh, yeah. You do.”
“I don’t kiss women I barely know.”
“So get to know me.” Fast. And then kiss me.
As he gazed at her with a definite spark of mischief and heat, she knew she had him right where she wanted him. She was so proud of herself for acting sexy and reckless—right out of the Blissfully Single playbook—until she suddenly realized she was making a huge mistake. Playing at reckless was fine. Really being reckless was terrible.
As besotted as she was, she still recognized they needed a power shift here. Quickly. Or she’d be in the storage closet making mad, passionate love with Mr. Way Cute before she knew it. She had never done anything that crazy and irresponsible in her entire life, with or without a storage closet and Mr. Way Cute. No matter what she pretended to be, she was not the right sort of person for this full-on assault.
Sliding her foot back to her own side of the table, she decided to say something crude enough to knock him off his game. “If you’re trying to play it coy, you don’t need to. Anyone who’s read my book knows it’s not that hard to get into my pants.”
“But, Stevie, anyone who’s read your book knows you don’t wear any.”
He’d read the book. He knew.
Panic and excitement trilled deep inside her. His soft breath ruffled her hair as he tilted in near her ear. Down below, his hand flirted under the edge of her leather skirt. Oh, man. He’d read the book. He knew!
That was so unfair. She was wet, she was burning up, she wanted him. She closed her eyes and leaned into his fingers, letting him go wherever he wanted. “Oh…”
“Ahem.” Someone loudly cleared her throat. Someone standing right next to them.
Stevie opened her eyes. It was Anna, grinning from ear to ear. Anna scraped another wooden chair on the floor, pulling herself up at their table with a great deal of commotion, as Stevie scrambled to get away from Owen and his wandering fingers. She almost tipped her chair over backward but she was out of his reach.
“Looks like you two are getting along great,” Anna declared, slapping a folder down on the table near Owen’s whirring tape recorder.
Lord, lord. If the nasty little seduction scene hadn’t been bad enough in person, he had it on tape. He could rewind and listen whenever he wanted! Are you going to kiss me or not, Mr. Dasher? Anyone who’s read my book knows it’s not that hard to get into my pants.
Stevie grabbed for the thing, but Owen was faster. He had it turned off and stuck in his pocket before her hand hit the table.
“Just in case you needed any of the more recent figures on who’s buying Blissfully Single or how well it’s selling, I have that all for you,” Anna announced, ignoring any of the subtext churning at the table. “We’re very hot right now. In bookstores, I mean.”
Hot. In bookstores. Uh-huh. Just like her. What had she been thinking, letting things get so out of hand? Hand. Bad choice of words. Why did everything remind her? His hand, her skirt. Her bad, bad judgment. Why couldn’t she get her mind to move past their lewd and lascivious behavior?
Momentary lapse. Over. Move on, she ordered herself.
“Do you have any stats yet on how many marriages you’ve broken up?” Owen interjected in a perfectly charming tone that belied his words and annoyed her to no end.
“Broken marriages?” she echoed, stung by how easily he could switch gears. “Me personally? Or the book?”
He arched one dark eyebrow. “The book, of course. I was wondering if anyone who was already married had decided to throw it over and join the Blissfully Single movement.”
