Page 4 of Mercenary
“How do you know Kylie?”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes rake over me, from head to toe. From my red-toned peasant blouse, to my cutoff jeans, to the flip-flops on my feet. Without expression. Without the same sexually charged enthusiasm that I’d shown him seconds ago.
So cold. Stone cold.
Suddenly I’m even more unsure of him. Unease settles in as he looks me over. Once. Twice. Until his brisk examination ends and his gaze shifts to the cupcakes stacked neatly in the Tupperware on the countertop.
Escape. “They’re not finished yet. I still have to add the icing. But go ahead and help yourself. I’ll be right back with a towel.”
“Goddamn it,” his cuss follows me out of the room, causing me to lengthen my stride.
What have I done, inviting him in out of the rain?
* * *
I’m perplexed and,let’s face it, a whole lotta unnerved as I hurry to the hallway closet to retrieve a towel from the pile inside. Barely focused on my task as I consider the sexy dilemma dominating my small kitchenette.
Sexy . . . yes. The stranger’s the most handsome man I’ve ever set eyes on. He’s all man, without a lick of boyishness in his cold manner. A mountain of a man, without an ounce of fat on his large, powerful body. He reminds me of the hero in one of the historical romances I read to escape my own head, a ruggedly strong and handsome medieval warrior coming to claim his woman. My cheeks warm and my heart thumps erratically in my chest at the thought. He’s way out of my realm of familiarity. And the only armor my warrior’s brought with him is a knife fit for champions.
You were being kind, my inner voice chides me. You didn’t see what he held in his hand.
The rain angrily drums against the roof, which will make my task of getting rid of him all the more difficult.
I wish I could call Kylie once more to ask her about him. But my cell phone is on the coffee table in the living room. Anyway, I’m about to relocate to an entirely different state. Be independent. Live life. If I call her every time I cave in, sacrifice what she considers good judgment in order to offer someone shelter from a storm, she’ll either drag me back home to Shelby or relocate to San Diego.
I clutch the towel to my breast.
I’m twenty. Time to manage my dilemmas without her insistent advice.
I reenter the kitchen and stop short. My doubts roll away like river rain after a torrential storm. Leaving me speechless, in reckless-girl oblivion.
The notched bit of wood is on the countertop next to the bowl of icing that I’d put in the refrigerator. The knife is gone. And a funny oh-so feminine feeling, beginning in my toes, speeding up my spine, making my heart thump wildly and my jaw go slack, overwhelms me.
Homemade chocolate icing coats his fingertips. I watch, fascinated, as one by one, he licks them clean.
Happy birthday, Madelyn.
His jawline is missing its hardness. His body less stiff, less controlled. He seems younger than I initially thought, in his late twenties. Less wound up, more relaxed. The tension in the small space has disappeared, replaced by a noticeable air of contentment. His laid-back manner, the softening of his lips, the way he takes his time licking each long digit . . . oh yeah. I’m not the only one brought to my knees by homemade cupcakes.
I stare at him, thinking how he’s ten times more dangerous like this.
In three bites, he polishes off a chocolate cupcake, a perfect balance of flaky to moistly rich. Paying no heed to me whatsoever, standing there, eating him up as he pops the last piece into his mouth.
Then, God love him, he licks his lips.
Whoa. Easy. Except there’s a tiny bit of icing on his bottom lip . . . and I find myself waiting breathlessly to see what he’ll do about it.
Heat rushes through me. My skin is hot enough to fry a Sunday flapjack. Fortunately, he misses this as he stares at the floor.
He curls a finger at me, and my eyebrows arch high. I hesitate at the come-here gesture.
What does he want?
Maybe some help with that smidgeon of icing on his lower lip. Do I point it out to him . . . or be more daring?
I step closer, noticing how rainwater still clings to his long eyelashes. I inhale the outdoorsy scent of him, fresh and pure like damp wood. Wood smothered in chocolate with rich accents of chocolate cream.
He reaches out to me. To pull me into him and let me help him out with that speck of icing? Sadly, no. Instead, he tugs the worn, tattered cotton towel I’ve forgotten I was holding from my grasp. “I’ll take that.”
