changes.
The man in him took a much more carnal inventory.
Setup or not…he wanted her with a rush of attraction so completely overwhelming it turned his feet into lead weights until he couldn’t take another step. He just stood there, a foot behind her, staring down at the top of her head.
Then she turned around again, as if aware of his presence. Slowly tilting her head back, she peered up from beneath the rim of her baseball cap, looking at him with those big baby blues.
He paused, studying her head-on. The glimpses he’d had of her as he’d made his way through the diner had only provided tantalizing clues. Now, under the full-frontal assault of that face, those wide eyes, that sexy mouth—now parted in surprise as she returned his stare—he realized he was already in deep.
He’d been attracted to her weeks ago. But now that the sadness seemed to be gone from her eyes, his attraction took a big leap forward. He wanted her. Sex with this woman instantly became number two on his list of personal goals for the year. Right after saving enough money to put a down payment on a house, but before getting his mutt Fredo to stop chewing his shoes.
“I think I’m supposed to be meeting you,” he murmured. He stepped closer until his thigh touched the edge of her table, coming very close to her hands, which were flat on the surface. “I’m Detective Walker.” He gave her a little smile, just to put her at ease since she still had that deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. Then, with an exaggerated shrug, he added, “You’re the only person here wearing a red hat.”
Still nothing. Nada. Not one word, not one gesture. Not a smile. Certainly not a phone number and an invitation, which were, to be honest, the words he’d really like to hear coming out of her incredible mouth. But she merely sat there, frozen.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?”
And finally…finally…she blinked. Her mouth snapped shut. Her jaw visibly tensed. On the table, her hands curled into fists, as if she were suddenly feeling violent.
When she spoke, he realized she was feeling violent. Because in a low, shaking voice, she said, “You’d better arrest me, because I swear to God, the minute I find Rosemary Chilton, I’m going to murder her.”
UNLESS ROSEMARY HAD gone into the witness-protection program last night after she’d set up this outrageous meeting, she was dead meat. Because Melody was going to track her down and kill her for this. After she tortured her by throwing her entire collection of Manolo Blahniks into the Savannah River.
She’d been set up. Completely, totally, shockingly blindsided…by one of her best friends. She hadn’t felt this taken for a ride since her divorce hearing.
It was humiliating enough to tell a cop that people might be getting killed because of a sex list she’d made as a joke six years ago. That was when she’d figured she’d be talking to some cuddly Father Bear of a cop.
This guy was no Father Bear. And cuddling was the last thing a woman would want to do if she got him into bed. Because Detective Walker was him. Her ultimate fantasy. Her marine from Time magazine. And oh, God, was he to die for.
“Why do I get the feeling we’ve been set up?” he asked, lifting one corner of his wide, drool-worthy mouth in a smile.
Melody had to swallow, not yet able to answer. Her throat was tight, her voice having dried up when she’d made the mistake of glancing at his jean-clad hips, mere inches from her arm.
Soft, slouchy, threadbare jeans were made for bodies like these. Made to ride low on lean hips, to bulge in the most interesting places, and to hug long, hard legs.
She jerked her attention up, trying to focus on his face. That move was just as bad…and every bit as dangerous. Because his face—those eyes, that intensity—had been what had drawn her to him the first time she’d seen him six years ago. And they hadn’t changed a bit. She wondered if he was the real reason she’d always had a thing for dark-eyed men, up to this very day.
“You do think we’ve been set up, right?” he asked, obviously trying to pry her out of her silence.
“Yeah. Definitely a setup,” she finally muttered, already wondering if he’d chase her down and arrest her if she got up and ran for the door. They always arrested people who took off from the police on the TV cop shows. But only after patting them down.
Oh, Lord, she was better off sitting here with her face turning twenty shades of red and her butt feeling as if it were superglued to the chair than being patted down by this man. Being touched by him at all would be like throwing a lit match on a box of Fourth of July firecrackers. She’d start sparking and popping and two seconds later she’d be on the man like an actor on an Oscar statue.
“Can I sit down anyway?” he asked.
He didn’t wait for permission. He simply moved to the other side of the table and slid into the seat, facing her.
Facing. Goodness gracious, his face. The handsomeness she’d imagined behind the blood and grime in the magazine photo hadn’t come close to the reality. His face was lean, his cheeks closely shaven, emphasizing the strength of his jaw. His lose-yourself-in-them eyes were the color of rich chocolate. He had a strong nose, and a mouth she wanted to suck on like a lollipop.
The body simply defied description. From the broad shoulders clad in a tight black T-shirt, to the thick arms bulging with muscle, the man personified strength. His chest was impossibly broad and she’d already gotten a load of what he could do for a pair of aged jeans. Delightful things. Sinful things.
Somehow, it seemed impossible that he should look exactly the same. Just as big. Just as masculine. Just as intense and brooding, but God, so incredibly sexy.
He somehow seemed to have been plucked out of the field of battle and dropped right here into civilized Savannah, but hadn’t quite caught up with his change of venue. Because he looked dangerous. From the thick, dark head of hair to the glitter in his eyes, to the coiled strength of his body, held so tight and aware, he screamed danger.
“My first name’s Nick,” he said, breaking the silence.
Nick Walker. A good name. A strong name. Definitely not a cuddly, fatherly name. Rosemary, you demon.
“And you are?”
“Call me Mel,” she mumbled.
So, there was the introduction. What happened next depended on how single he was and whether Melody decided her list was more than just a joke, like Rosemary had.
Of course, she didn’t even know if he’d want to have wild, passionate, completely unexpected sex with her. She didn’t know if she’d want to.
Liar.
“So, what story did Rosemary use to get you here?” His voice was low, gravelly almost, but in a few drawn-out syllables there was an unmistakable Southern softness. A bit of twang that she liked a lot. And, she had to acknowledge, she didn’t like only the soft lilt in his voice, she also liked the way his mouth moved with every word he spoke. “I figure she made up some excuse for you to come down here and meet with a complete stranger.”
Before Melody could reply, the waitress appeared beside their table with a mug and a steaming pot of coffee. She quickly served the newcomer, giving him a warm look.
