wanted to see her again?
Even as she reminded herself she didn’t like these tactics, a thrill of excitement raced through her. There’d definitely been attraction between them; she knew he’d felt it, too. She hadn’t for one second really believed he was gay.
Maybe his spiel about not being interested in women or relationships had been a cover, just a line to keep from seeming too interested. Maybe he’d recognized her car and followed a crazy impulse, stopping her so he could ask her to meet him for a drink, or a pleasant walk along the beach, or for hot, steamy sex in the nearest bed.
Cool it.
Whatever the reason, she forced herself to remember she wasn’t interested. Okay, she was interested—definitely aware of him, as any woman would be aware of a guy so hot he should come with a warning label and oven mitts. But, aside from already having decided he was so not her type, she, for one, had meant it when she said she wasn’t on Wild Boar for romance, or sex. Those were the last two complications she needed to add to her life. Lying low and hoping people forgot about her supposed obsession with orgasms wouldn’t be easy if the local police chief started giving her lots of orgasms. Although, she had to admit, it would certainly be fun.
“I’m not worried,” she finally replied, forcing orgasms out of her head. She’d work on her own think-method later, when she was alone. “I’m just surprised you didn’t mention your status as the island’s chief enforcer.”
“That makes me sound like a mobster, not a cop.”
“Sorry. Now, come on, tell me why you pulled me over. Could you just not resist following me?” she asked, flirting a little, despite her own best interest and good intentions.
He admitted it, slowly nodding. “You got me. I had to come after you. I couldn’t help myself.”
She swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t started something she knew she couldn’t finish. Flirtation was fun—she usually enjoyed it, especially with a guy as attractive as this one. But she was here to lie low, not to get laid.
But she just couldn’t resist. “It’s the hair, isn’t it?” she asked with a feigned sigh. “Yes, it’s my natural color.”
He bent down so he was squatting beside the car, resting a forearm on the door. They were practically face-to-face now, and the position gave her the chance to study those dark, dreamy eyes, framed by the thickest, longest lashes she’d ever seen on a man.
He watched her just as intently, answering, “It’s not the hair, but thanks for clarifying. It’s not your pretty eyes, either.”
She licked her lips, enjoying the way his stare roved over her face, as if he not only liked what he saw, but was memorizing her features to think about later. Hmm.
“Well?”
“Two things. First, you have my gloves.”
His gloves. Damn, she’d totally forgotten to give them back, had simply stuffed them into the pockets of her raincoat. She flushed, immediately grabbing them and shoving them toward him. “I’m so sorry. I was just so relieved to get off that ferry I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m the one who raced off for the near-emergency.”
He took the gloves from her, his fingertips brushing against hers, lightly, softly, and he didn’t immediately pull away. She sucked in a surprised breath at the excitement she felt at such simple skin-to-skin contact. They’d been mashed together, full-frontal, during their choppy boat ride, but through the bulk of their clothes and coats, she hadn’t been able to register much more than a quick acknowledgment that he felt as strong and powerful as he looked. This brief, innocent connection of fingertips somehow seemed more intimate. Quick pictures flashed through her head of those strong, warm hands touching lots of other places on her body.
Lindsey was a big advocate of women taking care of themselves, being in complete control—financially, emotionally, physically and sexually. But oh, lord, did she love big, strong, man-hands.
“What’s the second reason?” she whispered, not sure whether she wanted him to say she’d forgotten something on the boat, or that he wanted to take her out for a blue-plate special.
Meat loaf’s good. I like meat loaf.
“Well, there’s also the fact that...”
“Yes?”
“You’re going the wrong direction down a one-way street.”
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