Naughty Neighbor - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,23

Pete Streeter was completely clothed. Five minutes earlier she’d approved of that arrangement; at the present moment she’d be grateful if she could just drop off the face of the earth.

“My toes are numb. My foot’s going to have to be amputated.”

Pete sighed. He didn’t want her foot to be amputated, but damned if he didn’t like looking at her with her leg hooked up onto the dashboard. “I’ll help you get loose, but we’ll have to do this again sometime,” he said, inching her foot through the opening in the wheel.

“When hell freezes over. This has been the most embarrassing night of my life. Let me get my clothes on, and then push me out the door. When you get home you can send a cab to come get me. I don’t ever want to see you again. I’m moving to Montana tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be a cowboy. Do they still have cowboys?” She searched under the seat. “I can’t find a sock.”

“Moving to Montana isn’t a good idea. You’d miss the air pollution, the traffic jams, the lines at the supermarket checkout. I think you should stay here. We could get married.”

“I don’t want to get married. The only thing I want to get is dressed. And I’m never taking my clothes off again. Not ever. Not even when I take a shower.”

He didn’t understand her embarrassment. It wasn’t as if they were strangers. They’d just almost made love. True, it hadn’t been exactly as he’d imagined their first lovemaking would be, but he thought it should count for something. Maybe that was the problem, he decided. They had gone too fast, been too frantic. They should try it again, slowly, with tender words and maddeningly gentle touches. He looked down at his jeans. He could do it. Watching her gather her clothes had reinspired him. She still hadn’t managed to get her shirt on. More inspiration.

She worked at untangling her bra from the gearshift, and her breasts jiggled with the effort. That tears it, Pete thought. A man could only take so much.

“I don’t want you to feel awkward,” he said, popping the top snap on his jeans. “The problem here is that I have too many clothes on, so I’ll take some off.”

“I don’t care what you do with your clothes,” Louisa told him, shoving her arms into her shirt. “I’m keeping mine on for the rest of my life, and I’m going to try very hard to forget this happened.”

He shook his head. Women were such a puzzle…especially this woman. He debated apologizing, but discarded the idea. He didn’t feel apologetic. He felt affectionate and proprietary. He also felt a tad insulted that Louisa wasn’t responding in kind and wanted to forget the whole thing.

“Participants are supposed to get mellow after almost making love. Where’s your afterglow? Where’s your sense of humor?”

“That wasn’t almost making love. That was…” She searched for a word but couldn’t come up with anything horrible enough. All the words that came to mind were shamefully exultant. In truth, it had been hands down the most exciting ten minutes of her life. It had been excruciatingly delicious. That didn’t alter the fact that she was now mortally embarrassed and disgusted with herself. “That was a conflagration,” she finally said.

He smiled in agreement. It had indeed been a conflagration.

She tugged her navy cords over her hips. “It must have been the sparkling water. Maybe it was the moon. Is there a full moon out tonight?”

“This is insulting.”

Louisa shrugged into her jacket. When she was fully clothed she turned and looked at him. His face was unreadable in the darkness, but she could see enough to know he wasn’t smiling. His tone had become serious and chillingly quiet. Now he was mad, she realized. She supposed he had reason to be. Blaming her passion on the moon wasn’t flattering to him. It also wasn’t true, but the truth wasn’t something she wanted to face right now.

“I suppose physical attraction might have played a part.”

“Uh-huh.”

He didn’t look appeased. She sighed and slouched in her seat. “What do you want from me, Streeter?”

“How about the truth?”

“I wouldn’t tell you the truth if you beat me senseless. You could rip off my fingernails, dunk me in boiling oil, carve your initials on my forehead…”

He made a disgusted sound. “Stop. You’re making me nauseous.” He took the keys from the ignition and jerked his thumb at her door. “Out.”

“I was only kidding about taking a cab,” Louisa