Conflict of Interest - By Allyson Lindt Page 0,3
the veil of innuendo. She gave him an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “No worries. If it’s your boyfriend asking you to talk dirty to him, go ahead.”
“Not likely. No boyfriend.” She answered the phone. “What? …I stopped for coffee someplace where they weren’t going to snap at me for being nice.” She glanced at him, hesitation in her eyes, and then shook her head. “Fine, okay. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
She dropped her phone in her purse and turned to him. “I’d love to stay longer, talk about whether or not one’s manhood can actually throb, but I have to go.”
“Shame. I might have proposed a hands-on experiment.” He shoved the rest of his donut in his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of coffee.
She laughed through her embarrassment. “Does talking like that ever get you in trouble?”
“Let’s just say I’m willing to take my chances in some cases.” Or more specifically, in her case. He stood and offered her a hand. “I should probably get back to real life too. I’ll walk you out.”
His hand lingered on her arm as he guided her through the crowds toward the exit, her warm skin against his sending pulsing tingles through him. When they stepped onto the sidewalk, the din of Saturday morning traffic rushed in to replace the chatter of inside. “Where did you park?” He was pretty sure he’d never seen her drive—it was hard to miss those things on mornings when the place was deserted except for the two of them—but it was polite to ask.
“Home.”
That was a more vague answer than he was looking for, but it wasn’t like he wanted to meet her family. Or her cats. Whatever. His hand moved to the small of her back, nudging her across the parking lot. She didn’t resist.
“Do you want a lift?” he asked.
Her footsteps slowed, and she pulled away. “In the love van?”
He spun to face her, not sure what to make of the comment. She’d nicknamed his car? Fascinating. “Excuse me?”
She nodded at the Escalade in the back of the parking lot. “That one’s yours right? The Game God license plate? The tinted windows meant to keep out even the most penetrating light?”
She knew what the G4M3G0D on his plates meant. She was full of entertaining surprises. He bit back the urge to joke about the word penetrating. “That’s it, but love van, really?”
She fell into step beside him again. “No one’s ever accused you of that before?”
“Not to my face. Interesting assumption.” He moved closer, letting his bare arm brush hers.
“No worse than deciding I was reading some bodice ripper inside.”
He stopped at his SUV, spinning to face her and leaning back against it, one foot propped up on the rubber strip running along the bottom of the door. He looped his thumbs in his pockets. “Fair enough. We’re even on the inappropriate assumption front then?”
She kept her distance but didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. “I didn’t know we were keeping score.”
A gust of wind tore through the parking lot, whipping her ponytail into her face. She hugged herself and shivered as the clouds devoured the last traces of direct sunlight.
He forced his hands to stay by his side, biting his tongue before he could offer to warm her up. Or ask if she’d like to be the one biting his tongue. “Someone’s always keeping score.”
“Clever.” She shook her head, laughing. A sharp chill wove itself into the wind, and she rubbed the visible goose bumps on her arms. Even through her bra, he could see her nipples were hard nubs, adding new geography to her fitted T-shirt.
He shouldn’t be staring. Or imagining pulling her close, running his hands over those peaks, warming her up. He clicked the locks off on his car, yanked the door open, and grabbed his jacket off the back seat.
“Hmm…” Her voice was closer than she expected. “Clean, beige leather, no shag carpet.” He turned and she stepped back, ducking her head. “I had to see for myself.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” He draped the fleece over her shoulders, pulling the neck closed, hands lingering on her collarbone. The soft fruit of her shampoo mingled with a flowered perfume, and he pushed back the urge to pull her closer, breathe her in, taste her.
She stepped closer. “Not disappointed at all.”
That was going to make fighting the impulses more difficult. Even though she was only a few inches shorter than his six two,