Baddest Bad Boys(91)

He strode next door and knocked on her front door, perhaps a little more aggressively than necessary.

He’d been conned, and he didn’t like being conned.

Probably he should go back to his house and drink some coffee, give himself a chance to cool down and little miss “I’ll use your services again” time to wake up. But he didn’t feel like doing the sensible thing.

He gave it a minute, then banged again, holding the bell with his finger at the same time.

After an age and a half, the front door opened. Chloe Flynt stood there, her black hair soft and tousled in the sexiest case of bed head he’d ever seen. Her eyes were the most amazing purple–blue, and they gazed at him in the vaguely unfocused way of someone who’s not totally awake yet. He had no idea what—if anything—she was wearing since everything from the neck down was behind the door.

“You should have asked who it was before opening the door,” he snarled.

“I looked out the bedroom window,” she said on a yawn. “I could see you.” Almost as though his sharp advice to be cautious had the opposite effect, she straightened and opened the door fully.

He’d checked her out, the way a single man in his prime always checks women out. He’d sensed a very nice body was packaged in the trendy clothes she wore. But he’d had no idea.

She wasn’t a tall woman, but she was exquisite. She wore teeny-tiny girl boxer shorts with the Union Jack stamped all over them and a little white T-shirt with “Rule Britannia” printed across the chest. Her legs were shapely; her breasts small and perfect. Even the tiny strip of skin between the end of her shirt and the beginning of the shorts fascinated him. So white, so smooth.

His gaze returned to her eyes and he found them fully awake now and regarding him with a certain amused speculation. Damn it, she’d knocked him on his ass and she knew it.

“Don’t tell me, your bra has the Queen on one cup and Prince Charles on the other.”

She glanced down at her outfit as though she’d forgotten what she was wearing. “A going-away present from a friend.”

The sun was against his back, already warm. To his right he heard a bee sounding like it was snoring in the Texas lilac bush he’d planted last year.

“Did you come over to check that my pajamas are patriotic?” she asked.

He realized he was staring and felt stupid, which annoyed him even more. “I came to deliver some mail which came to me by mistake.”

He held out the envelope.

“Thank you.” She put out her hand, but he didn’t relinquish the envelope.

“What’s going on, Chloe?”

Her eyebrows rose in an incredibly snooty fashion, as though she might call her palace guards to come and have him shot. “I beg your pardon?”

“Somebody stuffs a thousand bucks in cash in my mail slot in the middle of the night, it makes me curious.”

“A thousand dollars?” she exclaimed, sounding delighted. “He must have added a tip. How sweet.”

For an instant he was distracted by the thought of what her services were and what she’d done to deserve such a big tip.

A jovial male voice called out, “Mornin’ Matt, ma’am.” Chloe’s hand waved in greeting and he turned to see Chuck Dawson and most of his car pool waving as his van drove by. He moved his body to block Chloe from view, though he wondered why he bothered, since she didn’t seem at all worried about waving her flag to whoever went by.

“Maybe we could discuss this inside,” he said.

“Discuss what? You’re bringing me my mail. Thank you.” She held out her hand again, flat palmed.

“Where did the money come from?”

“None of your business.”

He shifted and as he did he saw a white convertible turn into the road, one he recognized all too well.

“Shit,” he muttered, then stepped forward so fast his neighbor squeaked when he bumped her with his body, pushing her inside the house and shutting the door fast behind them.

“How dare you. Leave this house instantly,” she demanded, small and fiery.

He ducked away from the window and made a dash for the kitchen.

“Are you a lunatic?” that crisp English voice trilled.

“Quiet. She’ll hear you.” He was in the kitchen, jamming his butt onto a kitchen chair that put him out of window range of his own house next door.

“Who will hear me? Matthew, what on earth—”

“Brittany.”

She followed him into the kitchen and looked down at him. “And who is Brittany?”

“My girlfriend.”

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“I’m an empath, Colin. My gift is that I sense things. I sense the Other. I can sense their feelings, their thoughts.”

Oh, yeah, he’d definitely tensed up on her. “You’re telling me that you can read my thoughts?”

The temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees. “I’m telling you that sometimes I can tell the thoughts of super-naturals.” She’d known he wouldn’t be thrilled by this news; that was why she hadn’t told him the full truth the other night. But now that they were working together, now that her talent was coming into play, well, she figured he had the right to know.