Get a Clue(13)

“Just do it,” he said, sounding tired. “This place is supposed to be some sort of exclusive hideaway, famed for its privacy.” Pushing away from the doors, he came close again, but then turned and faced the fire, holding out his hands to the flames. “Plus, I don’t think Dante’s exactly eager to have us demanding to know what the hell happened, booking two guests at the same time. He’s probably in hiding.”

Maybe. Another shiver shook her body. Her jaw was sore from all the chattering her teeth were doing inside her head, and she felt so weary she could have curled up into a tiny ball in front of the fire and slept for the rest of the week.

“You done yet?”

“No.”

“Jesus. Just do it, would you?”

She reached for the zipper on her jeans. “You always this patient?”

“It’s a special gift.”

“Betcha it gets you a lot of women.”

“Yeah, they’re beating down my door.”

In direct conflict with those confident, cocky words, he hunched his shoulders, stretching the sweater taut across the muscles there as he stared into the fire.

She didn’t have the time, nor could she spare the energy, to wonder about him, but she did. “Are you married?”

A rather harsh laugh escaped him. “No.”#p#分页标题#e#

“Committed?”

“No.”

With or without the attitude, she imagined he did have women beating down his door. It was all that disheveled hair calling to a woman’s fingertips, that come-sin-with-me expression, those drown-in-me blue eyes.

And then there was the rest of him, which would have a weaker woman begging him for a distraction from this cold.

But she wasn’t weak, and she had enough problems at the moment. She didn’t need to be courting more. Hitching his oversized sweatshirt up to her chin to see, she reached for the zipper on her jeans, trying like hell not to inhale the delicious scent of the soft material again. Eyeing him carefully, she began to peel the wet jeans off her hips, not an easy chore because they’d practically iced themselves to her skin. She had to do the shimmy shake, and finally, finally got them to her knees, stopping to adjust her wayward panties.

Cooper turned around.

“Hey!” she squealed, crossing her hands over her tiny scrap of white satin—worn for the rat bastard Dean.

Cooper ran his gaze from her undoubtedly wild hair to his own sweatshirt stuffed up to her chin, exposing her belly button piercing and the panties that hadn’t been meant to cover much, and didn’t. “I figured fair’s fair,” he said very softly.





Five



I’ve heard that men are like fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it’s up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with. Me, I just want to do the stomping.

—Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry





Literally caught with her pants down, Breanne stood frozen to the spot, unable to move or even breathe. In that horrible beat of time she became painfully aware of how she must look, sweatshirt high, pants at her knees, her barely there bikini bottoms askance . . .

Cooper’s deep blue eyes sparked, flamed, and the oddest thing happened to her. In spite of everything, a little ball of heat swirled low in her belly.

She had to be delirious. From the cold. From exhaustion. From her life sucking big-time. Awkwardly she hopped again, trying to pull her jeans back up, but they weren’t going anywhere. Then she made one too many hops and caught her boot heel on the hem of the jeans. Waving her arms wildly, she struggled for balance.

Cooper merely stepped forward and caught her.

Fine. He could help her and she could die of mortification later.

But he didn’t help. He put a hand to the middle of her chest and gave her a little push, making her fall gracelessly to the couch. Once again, the pink vibrator hit the floor and rolled to a stop at his feet.

They both stared at it for one beat before Breanne tried to bounce back up.

“Stay,” he commanded.

Oh, no. Hell, no. She scissored her legs, meaning to kick him, either in the chin or the nads, she didn’t care; she was going to take him down. Now.

But he just laughed low in his throat, and then again when she struggled to karate-chop him with her legs caught together by her own jeans. Laughed, as he crouched beside her, a big hand on either of her thighs and said, “Give in, Princess.”

“I never give in.”

Holding her down with ease, he reached for the fallen vibrator, lifting it up. The obnoxious thing still glowed neon-pink. “Never say never.” Then he grinned at her in the firelight, looking just like the devil must look in the dead of winter with no one to torture. “This thing keeps showing up. Maybe you should claim it.”