An Offer He Cant Refuse - By Christie Ridgway Page 0,44

in the bedroom mirror sent her into hiding forever.

Gripping the nubby lapels, she looked over at Johnny, who appeared manly yet adequately covered in knee-length navy athletic shorts and a white tennis shirt. "Why do men get to wear clothes that are comfortable and loose-fitting?" she demanded. "How would you like to live a life in Lycra?"

One corner of his mouth kicked up again and he flicked a long finger against her nose. "I never win these arguments. So I'M save us both time and apologize right away for everything from Barbie dolls to Playboy centerfolds."

"Big apology. They're the same thing."

He laughed, and his finger stroked down her cheek this time. "What's the big Lycra phobia anyway? You afraid to let me see your body, Tea?"

Of course she was afraid to let him see her body, she thought, as tingles skittered down her skin from where he'd touched her. I'm the fat sister. The one who battled every calorie from making camp on her hips, her butt, her breasts.

He moved closer, bringing the walls of the room #with him.

She tried stepping back, but he'd hooked his forefinger around the thick belt at her waist. At her next inhale, she drew in Johnny's scent, tangy and clean. And then just like that, like a wave, like a whiplash, once again heat whooshed over her body. Desire.

Her heart was tripping all over itself as she tried thinking her way over, through, out of the intensity of it. But her thoughts were as scattered as her breath. She didn't want this! She didn't want this sudden yearning that had to be oozing out of her pores, like steam rising from boiling water.

Because it would control her, and not the other way around.

"Such a coward," he scolded softly, "and still into all that useless self-denial." His head drew closer.

In slow motion, Tea watched his mouth descend toward hers as her body pulsed at her breasts and between her legs. For Johnny, all for Johnny. God, he was beautiful, she thought, the lack of air in the room putting her into a stupid daze. Ail-American blue eyes and golden hair and tanned skin. The All-American boy most likely to succeed all grown up.

Her fingers uncurled from their place on the robe's lapels and dropped, brushing against hard abs beneath his shirt. He flinched, stilled, then moved in.

Open your lips, Contessa. Let me have you.

His voice inside her head broke through her breathless dizziness and sent a cold bucket of self-preservation over her trembling skin. She jerked back, and Johnny's fingers loosened the tie of her robe. As it slid off, she made a run for the door wearing only the lime-colored V-necked shell and matching tennis skort. "We better go."

A long wolf whistle followed her out her front door.

Johnny didn't.

Taking a deep breath, she turned on the walkway to face him. He was standing in the doorway, staring at her. Tingles ran down her arms and up her legs and she felt the back of her neck go hot beneath the thick braid of her hair.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. She wasn't in the market for a man. And she didn't have any practice in dealing with this out-of-control, wild... thing for one she barely knew.

"What are you waiting for?" she demanded, irritated with both of them.

"A couple of things," he said, rubbing his hand over his chest in an absent gesture. "First and foremost being the ability to think anything beyond 'gimme' when I see you dressed like that."

It shut her up and he didn't say any more until they were both inside his Jag and threading through the late-afternoon traffic on the four-lane section of Palm Canyon Drive. "I'm also waiting for some insight into what you're so afraid of."

Her head whipped toward him. "What?"

He glanced over. "Do I look like the Big Bad Wolf to you?"

"You whistle like him."

He smiled. "If you saw you through my eyes, you'd forgive me for that."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Let's just say Lycra is your friend."

He was grinning, so she wasn't sure she believed him. It was hard to redraw her self-image, just as it was hard to see herself with a man like Johnny Magee. She tugged on the hem of the tennis skirt, secretly loving the bright color, not so secretly wishing it would grow another few inches. Or twelve.

A dark movement in the side view mirror outside her window snagged her attention. A car in the next lane over, nose to their tail.