shouldn’t have implied you are a bitch. It was unprofessional. I’m sorry.”
She averted her eyes toward the large magnolia tree that squatted in the yard between the inn and the street. “No problem. I am a bitch. Everyone knows it.”
Silence descended on the porch. He thought he heard crickets.
“I’m sure you’re not, um, well, not to everyone.” Damn. What was he? A tongue-tied virgin standing in front of a wet-dream fantasy girl?
Amusement twitched at her mouth and her gaze caught his. Her eyes weren’t brown like her sister’s. More of a hazel with flecks of gold and green. They looked like the granite on his kitchen counter. Mesmerizingly gorgeous. Of course, he couldn’t see them from where he stood, but he remembered from earlier. “You’re being nice to me.”
He shrugged. “Not really, but I sense you need someone to give you a break today.”
“Like you did earlier? You gave me a DUI test on the side of the highway a mere—” she glanced at the red leather watch on her arm “—forty minutes ago.”
He glanced through the glass in the oval door. The parlor looked to be a crush of people, talking with their hands, sipping punch. It looked uncomfortable. He moved toward Scarlet. “Again, just doing—”
“Your job. Yeah, I get it,” she muttered, not moving from her spot on the swing.
“So, are you in time-out or something?”
At that, she laughed. It sounded like tinkling bells and his groin tightened. “Yeah, something like that.”
He gestured toward the rocker in front of the swing. “Mind if I sit?”
“It’s a free country.”
“Not really, if you think about it,” he replied, sinking into the flowered cushion of the rocker. “We pay taxes.”
She jerked her gaze to his. “You’re strange.”
“I think I’d rather you call me a bitch,” he said. Did everyone think him strange? Hell, he’d heard nothing but the same from his own mother every day of his life. Along with his father. And nanny. And tutors. The list could go on and on.
She lifted her eyebrows and laughed. His libido climbed out from under the rock where he’d stuffed it and punched him in the gut. A match struck, desire flamed. He needed to get his ass off the porch, shake a few hands and choke down some wedding cake. He didn’t need to tempt himself with the woman in front of him.
Yet, he didn’t move.
“So are you a bitch?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.
“Is that code for asking if I’m gay?” he said.
“Are only gay guys bitches?”
“I really don’t know,” he said, finally cracking a smile. It felt creaky. Unused.
For a moment they sat, measuring each other. It was a far different vibe from the one they’d engaged in earlier.
“My roommate’s gay. I’ll ask him,” she said, scuffing one heel against the painted boards. She set the swing going a bit and stared off into the distance at a stop sign at the end of the street. Or maybe it was the Weeks’s old Chrysler parked in their driveway. He couldn’t tell.
“Your roommate’s gay? Interesting.”
“Yeah. The best roommate a girl can have. He cooks things like reductions and flambé, cleans with pure vinegar and knows what sweater goes with my newest wedges. I should probably marry him. He’d love that kind of cover.” She smiled again, shifting her attention to him. It felt good having her regard. He wanted to stay there, under her gaze, under her spell. “My roommate is Stefan Horton. And I suppose I should tell you he’s not out. So…” She made a lock motion, tossing the imaginary key over her shoulder.
She said it as though he should know the name. He searched the recesses of his mind. No clue. “Stefan Horton?”
“He plays Karakas on Deep Shadows.”
“Oh.” Adam had never watched the campy drama, though plenty of people around town had buzzed about it since the day it debuted. Everyone knew the demonically sexy queen of the vampires was played by Frances’s niece, who happened to be Chef Rayne Rose’s younger sister. The Oak Stand Gazette had done a feature piece on Scarlet and had even netted a telephone interview. He’d perused the interview one night while sitting on the outskirts of town, waiting for the roughnecks at Cooley’s bar to get rowdy the way they did every ladies’ night. He’d remembered her publicity shot. The alabaster breasts threatening to topple out of the black spandex. Those red, red lips and haunting eyes.
“You don’t watch, I take it?”
He shook his head. “The existential angst that underpins the soap opera doesn’t fit my ideal viewing parameters.”
“Big words. And it’s not a soap opera,” she said, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. Though her skin was remarkably fair, she was not freckled. Her shoulders were smooth and faintly golden from the sun, as if awaiting his kiss. “You’re not from around here.”
It was a question. “No. I’m originally from Houston.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Houston.”
He leaned forward and clasped his hands. He was accustomed to questions. Everyone in Oak Stand wanted to know who your mama and daddy were. And where you attended church. But he hated answering questions about his past. “I went to prep school on the East Coast. They force Texas twang out, much like I’m sure you did when you trained as an actress. You don’t sound Texan.”
“I’m not a Texan. I’m from everywhere.” The mood shifted. No more lightness. Something darker had awakened in her. For a moment she didn’t speak, seemed caught in her thoughts. Then she looked up at him. “You know, I have some wicked fantasies about prep-school boys in stuffy oxford shirts and sweater cardigans. About getting them out of those khaki pants.”
It was off-kilter. Almost sarcastic. She vamped him and his blood responded, heating like lava, making him forget who he was. Her gaze narrowed to smolder and her pink tongue appeared at the corner of her plump lips, throwing gunpowder onto the fire.
He couldn’t stop himself. He dragged his gaze over her fantasy of a body. The tank top was tight and outlined what he wanted to see. Even her blue-green nail polish looked provocative. He knew it was wrong. He knew he’d poured his own fuel onto the fire that blazed between them. “I had some pretty wicked fantasies myself. The best one involved a smart-mouthed redhead with long legs and big—”
“Are you flirting with me?”
Her words were like ice water, dousing the flickering flames within him. What in the hell had he been thinking playing with her like that?
“Are you flirting with me?” he countered with a deadpan expression.
He found his cool. No need to let her know how much he wanted to handcuff her in a very unprofessional way. No need to let her see the weakness he held when it came to women like her.
