is a professor of biology, Father is an endocrinologist, and Hugh, my fiancé, is a geneticist!”
His eyebrows lifted. “How intimidating of them.”
Tossing her hair in defiance of his flippant attitude, she snapped, “I’m proud to be part of a scientific family. I’m a scientific librarian myself. I catalog and store some of the most important work ever done in this country!”
“I see.” His voice quivered. “No wonder you’re proud of yourself. That’s very, um, impressive.”
Stealing another peek at him, she saw that he didn’t look impressed in the least—more as if he was getting a huge kick out of every word she said. His dark eyes were alight with laughter; his big, bronzed, well-defined and dark-haired chest above his flat, hard stomach, shook with the effort of repressing his glee.
What was she doing, noticing his chest— that strong, olive-brown, muscular chest with enough dark springing hair to beg a woman to curl her fingers through it….
Oh, dear. Houston, we have a problem!
And she knew just what it was. She’d studied this well-known scientific effect on the feminine psyche for a thesis four years ago. The instinctive reaction to a tall, dark, strong-chested man: the type who could fight off invaders, hunt, provide for his woman, rescue his children from danger. This—this thing that had just happened to her was based on pheromone release alone. She’d thought herself above this unconscious reversion to her caveman ancestors; but, to her horror, her primal and base inner self was checking Ben Capriati out as a potential provider.
She shook herself, like a dog shaking water off its fur. No need to make a big deal of this! It was a scientific glitch: a simple case of recessive genetic memory dominating her better self. It had nothing to do with—couldn’t be—chemistry.
Physical attraction to an underdressed, seemingly unintelligent biker who did nothing but laugh at her, when she already had a reasoned, intellectual man all her own? Ugh. It couldn’t be!
It’s possibly more to do with the fact that you’ve been all but invisible to Hugh for the past year or two, the imp whispered from the back stalls of her mind.
She tossed her head, unaware that her hair fell from its bun again, spilling her despised curls around her face. “I suppose you think you’re funny. People who spend their lives contributing to the human race are something to mock. I feel sorry for you.”
“If it makes you feel better,” he replied with unimpaired cheerfulness. “I was about to go for a swim. Want to jump in with me, Lucy?” His eyes gleamed in wicked fun. “Swimsuit optional.”
“Oh—” she gasped, trying to keep the indignation, but a sudden rush of pleasure—someone outside my head called me Lucy!—left her in a crazy tangle of emotions. “How could you think I’d—” She slammed her mouth shut and turned to stare at the bright, sunshiny day through the window in the open-plan timber kitchen. “No. I won’t swim. Thank you.”
He sighed. “I was afraid of that. I’ll have a shower then.”
She frowned. “Why not have a swim?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday. You lock me out and your four and a half tenths turns to nine…and breaking windows isn’t my speed.”
“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t dream of it!” she gasped.
“Sure you wouldn’t,” he agreed, looking her over with open cynicism. “You look like a meek little bookworm, not a crazy home invader who’d push your way into my house or sue a kids’ charity. I seem to be a bad judge of character where you’re concerned. I’m not taking chances. I’m not losing my winnings that easy.”
“I wouldn’t sue a charity! It was a ruse to—” She sputtered to a stop, tangled inside a guilty half conviction that she might have done just that, until with a few words he’d shown her how low, how immoral that would be. “I have the right to—”
The roaring of a car motor snapped her out of her garbled outrage. “Mr. Hill—?” She bolted for the door. “I—he’s gone!”
“It appears he got out while the going was good.” The amused voice came from behind her, a rich, sexy baritone. “Can’t say I blame him. Do you always half finish your sentences? And I wouldn’t advise stepping through the door like that. Too easy for me to lock it in your face, Miss Four-and-a-half-points.”
She jumped back inside the door, and fell right against him.
Oh, help. This primitive reaction must be more ingrained in her genetics than she’d feared. The scent of maleness and musky sweat filled her senses; the rocklike muscles holding her up seemed to force her most yielding feminine softness to come out of hiding. And looking up into those dark, laughing eyes made her pulse pound—storm, crash, hammer….
Surely she was further up the evolutionary scale than this! Such a typical female response to a handsome man was so unlike her. I used to love this with Hugh. Hugging him after a run or a game, feeling so feminine.
Yeah—how many years has it been since you got one of those hugs? The imp inside her muttered. Two, three?
“Could—could you move back, please?” she asked, but the cool dignity she’d hoped for came out as rushed breathlessness. She closed her eyes. Oh, no—what if he thought this coded genetic response was something more than a proven scientific fact? What if—what if he—and what if she—?
He stepped back.
The delicious chill in her spine died. He didn’t even try to make a pass at her. No man ever found her irresistible. Especially not rugged, sexy cavemen like Ben Capriati.
She peeped up at him. He was grinning, as if he knew about what Hugh called her “Lucy kick”: that hiding beneath her no-nonsense scientific facade lay a B-grade Hollywood fantasy life. Dreaming of a hero, a handsome, swashbuckling pirate to rescue her from her empty, boring life, and always being so alone…
Lifting her chin, she walked past him to the kitchen. After opening and shutting cupboards, she frowned. Most of them were empty, or held only crockery. “Where do you keep the coffee?”
Silence.
When she turned he was standing behind her, biting his lip. “What? It’s not a hard question, is it?” The fridge told the same story: aside from jugs of water and juice, and some cans of beer, it was empty. “You don’t have any food at all!”
“I know.” He grimaced. “Well, you see, I—”
“You don’t drink coffee?”
“Sure. I—”
“You ran out of everything at once?”
Ben shook his head. “No. I never had any food. I—”
“Did you just move in, and haven’t had time to shop yet?”
He pulled up a high-backed stool from the breakfast bench, sitting backward on it. “I’ve been here a week.”
“Then why don’t you have food? Where are you eating?”
Cupping
