An Offer He Cant Refuse - By Christie Ridgway Page 0,14

away.

It was because of that hunch he'd had about her from the beginning, he told himself, as he watched her steer onto a narrow lane and then park in the driveway of a small patio home. She was a key to the puzzle of his father's death, he knew it. He pulled alongside the curb across the street as she climbed out of her car, her shoes in hand.

Not that her wet, barefoot contessa look wasn't... compelling all on its own. He'd only made a brief observation of Tea Caruso dry, but he figured she couldn't be more attractive than she was right now, her damp dark hair rippling in wild waves down her back, her clothes plastered against her hourglass body to flaunt a small waist that flared into an eat-your-heart-out-J.Lo ass.

He let her get inside, counted to lucky number seven, then strolled to her front door. She answered on the first knock.

And couldn't hide her surprise. She pushed at her unruly hair with her hands, then swiped her forefingers beneath the bottom lashes of her sloe eyes. "I - well - I... What are you doing here?"

Lifting his excuse, her belongings, he smiled. "I thought you might want these."

"Oh." Their fingers brushed during the transfer and a rush of color washed up her neck. 'Thank you."

She set the items down then looked at him, making it obvious she expected - hoped - he'd leave. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, still smiling. An awkward silence descended. As heartless as it was of him, he let it grow.

Her naked toes curled against the tiled entry. "I suppose I should have stayed long enough to reschedule," she finally offered.

He nodded. "We need to do that."

Silence drew out again, and again he did nothing to prevent it. The Texas Hold 'Em table had made him expert at the Buddha-like wait, but he suspected she'd had no such special training.

He was right. Ten seconds later she capitulated to his unspoken pressure. Her spine lost a little of its starch and she shuffled back, her toes still curled inward. "Would you like to come in?"

More than he wanted her to know. So he hid his satisfaction behind his poker face and crossed over the threshold. Even if she wasn't aware of it, she was an opponent of sorts, and he made it his business to study the particular "tells" of the people he played against. Invariably, through dress, body language, environment, or all three, other players gave the essence of themselves away.

Knowing more about Tea might give him an advantage he could possibly use at some time later in the game.

Yet in the five steps it took him to reach the living room, he saw that Tea Caruso's surroundings surrendered very little that looked useful. The neutrality of the pale gray walls and darker gray upholstered furniture was only broken by a collection of hand-painted Italian pottery lined like brightly uniformed soldati along the mantelpiece. The overall lack of color and embellishment surprised him, given the contessa's own exotic, dark-haired and dreamy-eyed looks. It was a cool, controlled sort of room, and the mystery of the contradiction between it and the woman drew his gaze back her way.

She shuffled. "Please sit down," she said, plucking at the skirt of her damp dress, as if trying to ease its plastic-wrap fit. "Would you like something to drink?"

"I don't want to put you to any trouble." Really, he didn't. However, after months of near-sleepless nights his needs were stronger than his scruples.

"It's no trouble. Iced tea? Coffee?"

But that polite yet halfhearted try at hospitality dealt him a painful, guilty pinch anyway. Damn, he thought with an inward grimace. Was this what he had come to? It was never his way to force his company on unwilling women.

"No, thanks. Nothing." He shoved one hand in his pocket, feeling for his keys. There was no pressing reason for him to push her so fast, so soon. It probably wasn't even smart. "On second thought, I won't hold you up any longer."

"Oh." She blinked those dreamy dark eyes. "All right."

And if she considered him crazy for traipsing in then traipsing right back out, she didn't comment upon it further as she followed him back to her tiny foyer. He paused in the open front doorway, his gaze on his car, parked at the curb of the home across the street. "We'll talk - "

Sunlight glinted against the brass numbers nailed on the side of that house. The address.