Envy(122)

She laughed nervously, a bit breathlessly. “Nice try, but I think I was expected.”

“I hoped. I even said my prayers.”

“Then it’s all right if I come in?”

“Are you joking?”

“I thought maybe… will Mike—”

“Not if you lock the door.”

Since coming into the room, she’d kept her hands behind her. Feeling for the doorknob at the small of her back, she depressed the lock button to guarantee their privacy. Keeping her hands behind her back, she approached the bed.

The polished floor planks felt cool against the bare soles of her feet. Her short nightgown was no weightier than air against her skin, and judging from the intensity with which Parker was watching her as she moved toward him, he had noticed that it wasn’t very substantial.

She brought her hands from behind her back. “I brought you presents. Two, to be exact.”

The first was a standard drinking glass that belonged to the wet bar in the guest house. She extended it to him. He took the glass from her and held it up, looked at it for a few seconds, then laughed when he saw the winking phosphorescent lights inside. “Lightning bugs.”

“I caught them myself,” she said proudly. “I saw them through the guest house window while I was dressing for dinner and chased out after them.”

She’d sealed them inside the glass by stretching a piece of plastic wrap over the top, then puncturing it to ensure the fireflies a longer life.

When he looked up at her, his eyes shone with feeling. “It’s a great present. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Shall I?” She took them back and set them on the nightstand.

“What’s the other?” He indicated the book she was now hugging to her chest. “Are you going to read me a bedtime story?”

“Sort of.”

“I wondered why you were wearing your glasses.”

“I took my contacts out.” Nodding toward the empty side of his bed, she asked, “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

She rounded the end of the bed and crawled onto it, then folded her legs beneath her and sat back on her heels, facing him. “You’re already reading a bedtime story.”

He closed the book lying in his lap and set it on the nightstand. “I’d rather hear yours.” She turned the book toward him so he could see the title stamped in gold into the green cloth cover. “Grass Widow,” he read, smiling.

“A novel by my favorite author.”

“What, him?”

“There’s no call for false modesty.”

“But you’ve got high standards, Ms. Matherly. You’re a hard sell. What do you like about this novel?”

His use of her maiden name didn’t escape her, but she didn’t interrupt their game by acknowledging it. She opened the book. “Well, in particular, I like the scene where Deck Cayton, the handsome, sexy, roguish, but engaging hero, uses a card game to obtain information from the bimbo.”

“Frenchy.”

“Whatever. It’s a provocative and involving scene.”

“The fans certainly thought so. Critics, too.”

She pursed her lips and frowned. “However—”

“Uh-oh. Here it comes.”

“The scene has raised a few points.”

“Typical editor,” he said under his breath. “For every compliment there’s a criticism.”

“Look, Mr. Evans, if you don’t value my points—”

“No, no. I do value them, those raised points of yours.” His eyes dropped to her breasts. “I’ll take them like a man.” He placed one hand behind his head and gave her a smug grin. “That was a metaphor.”

“I got it,” she said dryly. “Shall I proceed?”

“Please. Give me a for-instance.”

“Uh…” She dragged her eyes away from the furry hollow of his armpit. “For instance, the language is very descriptive.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be?”

“Yes, but in this passage it’s—”

“Explicit?”

“To the extreme.”

“Why’s that bad?”

“I didn’t say it was bad. My problem is with its accuracy.”

“Accuracy.”

“Right. I’m not sure that the, uh, mating positions you’ve described are anatomically possible. For human beings, I mean.”

He snuffled a laugh, then stroked his chin somberly. “I see. Could you be more specific?”

“There are several examples. So what I thought,” she said, pausing to clear her throat, as she opened to the marked page, “is that we could act it out and see if these… configurations… are doable.”

“That’s what you thought?” he drawled sexily.

“Yes, that’s what I thought.”

He remained very still for several moments, gazing at her. Then slowly he removed his hand from behind his head. “As I recall, our handsome, sexy, roguish, but engaging hero begins by placing his hand on Frenchy’s thigh. It’s a comforting gesture. Nothing more. He wants to reassure her that he poses no threat.”

He placed his hand on her thigh just above her bent knee and squeezed it lightly. Through the baby-blue silk of her nightgown, she felt the heat and strength of all five fingers individually.