“Depends on what?” she asked, looking up at him, those wide brown eyes striking him square in the chest...and lower, when they made contact with his.
She was so very pretty.
So very young, too.
Her pale, heart-shaped face, those soft-looking pink lips and her riot of brown curls—it all appealed to him in an instant, visceral way.
No real mystery, he supposed. He hadn’t touched a woman in more than five years.
This one was contraband. She had a use, but it wouldn’t bethatone.
Hell, no.
He was a hard bastard, no mistake. But he wasn’t a criminal.
He didn’t belong with the rapists and murderers he’d been locked away with for all those years, and sometimes the only thing that had kept him going in those subhuman conditions—where he’d been called every name in the book, subjected to threats that would make most men weep with fear in their beds—was the knowledge that he didn’t belong there.
That he wasn’t one of them.
Hell, that was about the only thing that had kept him from hunting down Alicia when he’d been released.
He wasn’t a murderer. He wasn’t a monster.
He wouldn’t let Alicia make him one.
“Depends on what scares you,” he said.
She firmed those full lips into a thin, ungenerous line, and perhaps that reaction should have turned his thoughts in a different direction.
Instead he thought about what it might take to coax those lips back to softness. To fullness. And just how much riper they might become if he was to kiss them. To take the lower one between his teeth and bite.
He really wasn’t fit for company. At least not delicate, female company.
Sadly, it was delicate female company that seemed appealing.
He needed to go to a bar and find a woman more like him. Harder. Closer to his age.
Someone who could stand five years of pent-up sexual energy pounded into her body.
The sweet little architect he had hired was not that woman.
If her brothers had any idea she was meeting with him they would get out their pitchforks. If they had any idea what he was thinking now, they would get out their shotguns.
And he couldn’t blame them.
“Spiders. Do you have spiders up your sleeves?”
“No spiders,” he said.
“The dark?”
“Well, honey, I can tell you for a fact that I have a little bit of that I carry around with me.”
“I guess as long as we stay in the light it should be okay.”
He was tempted to toy with her. He didn’t know if she was being intentionally flirtatious. But there was something so open, so innocent, about her expression that he doubted it.
“I’m going to go sketch,” she said. “Now that I’ve seen the place, and you’ve sent over all the meaningful information, I should be able to come up with an initial draft. And then I can send it over to you.”
