Joanna's Highlander (Highland Protector #2)(7)
As much as she’d have liked to dive right in—or under, so to speak—Joanna controlled the urge to make the most of the opportunity. You are so off-limits.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you.” Joanna fixed Grant with one of her most professional I could handle you any day looks. He fired back with the same come-hither grin that had geared up the ache in her nether regions on more than one occasion. This situation called for serious damage control. “I’m sure Violet’s case isn’t under your table,” she added.
“No. It’s right there. See it?” Annamae said, bending slightly and motioning at the shadows.
I freakin’ give up. Joanna bent and made a quick sweeping glance under the table, struggling against the wicked urge to give Grant’s spread-eagled position a closer look. Big hands. Big feet. What could one little glance hurt to see if the rest of the package sized up? Oh my…
A hot ripple of appreciative dammit made Joanna swallow hard. She stood bolt upright and quickly shook her head. “Uhm…nope. All I saw was a napkin. I’ll tell the cashier and they can watch for it. If it’s here, I’m sure they’ll find it tonight while cleaning up and we can stop by tomorrow and pick it up.” We so need to get out of here.
“No.” Georgetta shook her head emphatically. “Violet won’t rest if she doesn’t have it. It’s right over there. Here—I’ll point it out to you.”
Too late, Joanna discovered she was no match for Georgetta Millsap’s well-aimed hip. A solid bump to the back of her legs and a firm shove to the small of her back sent her diving forward—not under the table but straight into Grant’s lap.
Her C-cup girls thumped hard against Grant’s muscular chest, then her forehead popped his with a stinging smack. Nose to nose, her elbows on either side of his head, Joanna struggled to catch her breath and blink away the stars muddling her vision. Straddling one of his legs, Joanna floundered to get away. Son of a bitch, this is so not going well! I’ll lose that damn contract for sure.
Grant clamped both hands around her waist and lifted her into the air with a jerk that immediately halted her struggling. “Have a care, lass. Yer about to unman me with yer knees.”
“S-sorry,” Joanna said just as her hands slipped off the slick vinyl back of his chair and she buried his face almost ear-deep into the V-neck of her shirt, which was currently stretched so low from its pinned state under Grant’s hands that the lace of her red bra framed his cheeks nicely.
“Sh-h-it!” Joanna panic-rolled to the right, tangled both feet around Grant’s booted foot, then hit the floor. Hard. Inside, she was screaming, I’m going to kill those old ladies! Out loud, amazing even herself with her calm, authoritative tone, she pointed toward the front of the café. “Hazel! Get everyone on the bus. Now.”
Strong hands gripped her shoulders, lifted her up from the floor, and steadied her to her feet. “Are ye all right then? Ye landed with quite the jar.”
Damn him. He would act like a gentleman. And that get-me-naked Scottish burr is gonna be the end of my self-control yet. She pulled in a deep, calming breath, praying that she was the only one who could hear her heart pounding. Double damn him. He smells so good—as usual. I’ve gotta get the hell out of here.
Joanna swallowed hard, forced a smile, and took a step back as she jerked her clothes back in place. “I’m fine. Thank you. Just fine.”
Grant gallantly dipped his chin with the hint of a smile that said he knew acknowledging her answer any other way might befuddle her even further. Glancing down, his brows suddenly drew together and he pointed to the floor. “Is this what yer seeking, lass?” Grant bent and retrieved a bright purple, rhinestone-studded glasses case from under his chair.
When in the ever-loving hell had those conniving old women planted that under the MacDaras’ table? Joanna knew damn good and well that Violet couldn’t have tossed her case that far from where she was sitting on the other side of their table. No way could she have managed a move like that without being noticed.
Joanna took the case from Grant and snapped open the lid. Sure enough, embroidered in the silk lining were the letters V. W. Violet Woodard. Joanna snapped the lid shut and glared through the wall of café windows at the sleek black tour bus waiting outside. The bus’s windows were tinted, so she couldn’t see its interior, but it was a safe bet that there were seven old noses pressed to the panes trying to see how their little plan was playing out. If Lucia ever takes on another group of geriatric gangsters, I’ll kill her.
Joanna gave Grant her politest smile and a most apologetic shrug. They didn’t need this crap getting reported to the MacDaras’ lawyer or Alec. Grant had always been the friendliest of flirts and had never acted like he’d get his kilt in a wad over the tour groups as quickly as his older brother did—but they couldn’t afford to take any chances. The MacDaras stuck together on all things business. The entire town of Brady knew that. She bobbed her head and seriously considered attempting an old-fashioned curtsy to complement the weird archaic way Grant always talked. “Thank you—for all your help,” she finally said, abandoning the curtsy idea. She’d probably end up on her ass again anyway.
She scooped her shoulder bag off the chair and shoved the case into it. “Again, sorry we interrupted your evening.” She blew out a weary sigh. “I swear I’ll do my best to make them behave during the rest of their stay here.” I think shock collars are the only thing that might work, and Georgetta will probably rewire those and trash them in minutes.