like every other lab I’ve seen. In another life, I was a geek, too.”
“You were not.” Not in a million years.
She abandoned the claim with a lift of her bare shoulders, regarding his dumbstruck face with a small, teasing smile. She moved an inch closer and stroked a finger downward from the knot of his tie. He’d tucked the ends in between his shirt buttons, so there wasn’t far to go.
Her polished nail lifted the edge of his shirt placket. She peered inside at the protected tie. Her narrow nose wrinkled. “You’re so prissy, Shane. Like an old maid.”
She always called him Shane. He liked that, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.
Old maid was less flattering. He felt himself becoming huffy and defensive, the way he often did around Zoe. She was far too unpredictable for his personal comfort zone. And he worried he’d give away some clue about how often he fantasized about her. “Precision is crucial to a scientist.”
Her frank stare ran over him. “I thought you’d be in a lab coat. I always picture you in a lab coat. Which is kind of funny since I’ve never seen you in one.” Her smile was wide and inexplicably charming. She knew it, too. Knew it and used it, in concert with a wide-eyed blink that was quite versatile. Innocent-sexy or devilish-sexy or sassy-sexy. But always sexy.
He’d never noticed that her eyes were the color of maple syrup, flecked with gold leaf. Always before, she’d been coming or going, shouting down the stairwell or waving at him from their shared backyard, where she liked to sunbathe topless. She wasn’t shy about turning over onto her back, either. He might not have known the color of her eyes, but he was well acquainted with her breasts. They were the proverbial martini-glass tits—small and pert. Lightly freckled. Her nipples were bubblegum-pink when they hardened.
“I have a lab coat,” he blurted. “Over there.”
“So I see.” Her steep platform clogs clacked on the floor as she crossed the room to the row of pegs where black rubber aprons, safety goggles and lab coats hung. “Can I try it on? Or is that like trying on a cowboy’s hat?”
“What?”
“You know. Wear my hat, try me on.” She winked and slipped into the shapeless white coat.
Except it wasn’t shapeless on her, even though her slender figure was swallowed by the starched white cotton folds. The coat completely covered her own clothing. There was something erotic about seeing her bare legs beneath the crisp hem, especially when he glimpsed a thigh in the unbuttoned gap. As if she might be naked underneath.
Add the notion she’d put in his head that he could have allowance to slip as easily into her and—
Brain freeze.
But fever everywhere else. He tugged at his collar, then an ear. Other areas needed more intimate adjustment. He was thirty-three years old, for crying out loud. He hadn’t had such a swift and awkward boner since high school. No, make that since his one and only spring-break trip to Mexico, when he’d learned that alcohol magically untied the bikini straps of cute college coeds.
Zoe twirled, kicking up a heel. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” Donovan croaked. That was all he could think of to say, because her twirl had lifted the edge of the coat and the ruffle on her flirty little skirt, flashing him a glimpse of a taut bottom clad in a pair of zebra-stripe bikini panties. Boing.
Guillermo’s jaw hung slack.
“This has been fun, but I came to ask for a favor,” Zoe said when neither of the men spoke. Her voice had taken on an unusual gravitas.
Donovan was both intrigued and disappointed. How many times had cute females like Zoe flirted with him, only to ask for something two seconds later, from copying his chemistry homework to requesting overnight lab results?
She shrugged out of the coat as she walked toward the lab bench, the solid table they worked on. Her sharp eyes made a quick survey of the contents. “I’m writing a story for the Times.”
“But you’re a gossip columnist.” Donovan read her twice-a-week columns even though most of the names and faces meant nothing to him, not unlike the details of what they wore and where they partied. “Excuse me. I should introduce you to my intern. Zoe Aberdeen, Guillermo Reyes. She works for the San Diego Times.”
The boy nodded with glazed eyes. He was six inches taller than Zoe and almost twice her weight, but he was thrown for such a loop by her presence that she could have hog-tied him without a squeak of protest. Donovan knew the feeling.
Zoe twiddled her fingers at Guillermo. “Ciao.” To Donovan, she said with a highly arched brow, “I may be a gossipmonger, but I’m also a journalist.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Did you study journalism?”
“I have a master’s in literature. Before everything changed, I was planning to find a nice, cozy position as a teaching assistant so I could expand on my thesis, but, uh—” She broke off and, oddly tongue-tied, looked down at the material her hands were wadding.
Donovan waited, so curious about her claims that he didn’t even consider taking the coat from her to shake out the wrinkles.
“But that’s not relevant,” she continued with a frown. “My degree isn’t in journalism anyway.” Her eyes rose to Donovan, narrowing as she threw out one of her typically unexpected remarks. “Do you only answer the questions of those with the proper pedigree?”
“Of course not.” He was still trying to absorb the news that Zoe had an advanced degree of any sort. From what he knew of her, with the string of boyfriends and the loud parties and the comings and goings at all hours, she was strictly the Holly Go-lightly of the West Coast, dedicated to burning her candle at both ends.
“That’s good, because I need—”
He interrupted her request. “Sorry. I turn everyone away, regardless of their credentials. This lab’s test results aren’t for public consumption.”
“What about if it’s a case of the public good? Like something dangerously contagious?”
“In that case, I suspect the Times wouldn’t send a gossip columnist to investigate.”
Her pointy chin jutted at him. “But what if they did?”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t make those decisions. You can get in touch with the police department’s press liaison and ask your questions there.”
Zoe flung his coat at the table. It hit the edge and slid to the floor. Spots of color had flared in her cheeks. “Why do you work so hard at making me dislike you, Donovan Shane? I’ve tried to be friendly, but you’re distant and implacable. Dry as dust. You have no—” Her hands flew up in the air. “No zest!”
“I’m not an orange.”
She blew out a sigh. “You’re also too literal.”
“I was making a joke. A bad one, granted.”
Her gaze zeroed in on him and she was silent for several seconds—an eternity for Zoe. He feared what might come next, but she asked mildly,
