A Knight in Central Park(68)

His jaw twitched.

He didn’t love Alexandra, so what was he worried about? No responsibilities tied him here—no sirree. Other than dealing with Sir Richard when the time came, he was as free as a bird, obligated to no one but himself. He was exempt, so to speak, relieved of all...

Her long thick lashes fluttered and he found himself engulfed in big, beautiful liquid green eyes. It was too late. She had already marked him as an easy target.

“Are you finished?” she asked in what he considered to be a throaty, seductive whisper.

He sat up. “Darn right I’m finished. And just for the record, you don’t love me, Alexandra. And that’s final.” He’d never liked people who pointed fingers, but he’d been pointing a lot of them lately. He pointed one now, accusingly, selfishly, blaming her for conjuring up all these touchy, feely things he was experiencing. Asking her to go on about her inner self...where the hell did that come from? Sure, most people from his time spent millions of dollars on books to learn about their inner selves. But not him. Not Joe McFarland. He’d never touched one of those self-help books in his life. The idea was absurd.

Giving no thought to his lack of clothing, he slid his legs over the edge of the bed and came to his feet. “I don’t love you, Alexandra, so don’t even think it.”

She gasped. “I never implied such a thing.”

“I don’t have any feelings for you whatsoever,” he ground out as he crossed the room to retrieve his clothes.

Alexandra came to her feet and let out a ponderous sigh.

“Don’t sigh at me,” he said over his shoulder, “because right now, I’m not even sure if I want to be your friend.”

She followed him across the room.

He stepped into a more comfortable pair of breeches that he’d traded the innkeeper for last night. He waited for Alexandra to comment on what he’d done with Ari’s clothes, but she was much too busy trying to get him to look into her eyes again. And when he did, he saw that she was immensely pleased about something.

And that irritated the hell out of him. “What are you doing, Alexandra? Can’t you see that I’m angry? See my face?” He pointed to it. “I’m frowning. People usually stay away from people who are frowning.”

“Why is that?”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, but for some reason it just sort of makes sense.”

Her smile turned into a full-blown grin.

He shook his head. “What are you so damn happy about?”

“I am pleased, Sir Joe, because—where did you get those breeches?” she asked, clearly swept off track.

“The innkeeper kindly agreed to exchange them for Ari’s clothes. So now,” he said, crossing his arms across his bare chest, “tell me what has you grinning like a Cheshire cat?”

“I am smiling, my lord, because it is as clear as fresh spring water that you have a crush on me.”

He snorted as he looked at her, drawn to the freckles on her nose and the dimple in her cheek that appeared every time she smiled. Every muscle in his body tensed. She was right. He had crush on her, a foolish infatuation. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he lied.

Her gaze lowered to a thin scar across his abdomen. She traced it with her fingertip, gently, as if it pained her to think of his being injured. “’Tis from battle?”

He gently removed her hand. “Yes, you could say that...a battle with appendicitis.”

She pouted. He’d never seen her pout before.

“Why, Sir Joe, are you surly when ’Twas you who asked me to stay and keep you company?” Her brow puckered. “I thought you wanted to know who I was.”

“I changed my mind.”

“I am a woman,” she said anyhow, lifting her chin high and pacing before him, “who enjoys the company of a man I know I can never have. He isn’t anything like the warrior I might have envisioned, but he has turned out to be so much more than the scholarly neat-freak I had first happened upon.”

He gave her a sour look.

“He is brave, honorable, and honest.” She stopped pacing long enough to let her eyes roam brazenly over him from head to foot. “And reasonably handsome if one prefers the scholarly type; well-muscled but not precisely an artist’s dream.” She put a finger to her chin. “Gracious, but not debonair. Stubborn, but not pig-headed, and verily he is unwavering in his life’s aspirations.”