He and Britt had been working on their custom Harley choppers, Britt running a shammy over the chrome on his handlebars and Fisher finishing the job of changing out his headlight, when their office manager/live-in chef/and all-around girl Friday appeared on the upper landing. Now they stood motionless, mesmerized by the graceful sway of her hips as she carefully navigated the metal staircase in strappy, high-heeled shoes that showed off her fresh pedicure.
The paint on her toes was a sinful, ruby red. It matched the lipstick staining her mouth.
Fisher was amazed at how subtle a woman in seduction mode could be. No detail was too small. No element was overlooked. Everything was done for one purpose and one purpose only…to attract and hold the male gaze.
Sure as shit is holdin’ mine.
Of course, she could be wearing a circus tent and rain boots and he’d still be unable to look away. Because Eliza Meadows was…
Well, the poem says it all. She’s as beautiful as the night.
As mysterious, wondrous, and magical too.
Also…Britt was right. If anyone had earned their place beyond the pearly gates, it was Eliza with her soft heart and generous spirit. With her honesty and integrity and world-record patience when it came to working and living with a group of stubborn, arrogant, high-handed fighting men.
Too bad she’s spent the last four months datin’ the biggest bag of dicks this side of the Mississippi, he thought sourly.
All his softer sentiments were crushed beneath the weight of the venomous, prickly legged thing stretched to its full height inside him.
Eliza was the upper crust yin to his grits-and-gravy yang. She was a boarding school socialite. He’d grown up so poor he couldn’t have jumped over a nickel to save a dime. She could look at the impressionist paintings in the Chicago Art Institute and tell the difference between a Monet and a Renoir. His idea of fine art was the faded, velvet picture of dogs playing poker that had been nailed to the wall behind the sofa in his cousin’s house.
In short, he and Eliza hadnothingin common.
Zip. Zero. Zilch.
Which meant she’d never been his. But, more importantly, neverwouldbe his. So there was no reason for him to be jealous of the high-haired son of Senator John McClean.
And yet, he thought, his breath getting trapped in his lungs when she stepped off the bottom tread and sashayed her way across the shop floor in his direction,here I am.Jealous as a cock pigeon over his hen. And provin’ the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
He blamed the venomous, prickly legged monster he’d inherited from his father for the sneer that spread across his face and the fact that the first words out of his mouth were caustic instead of complimentary.
“That man of yours ever consider takin’ ya out for a scoop of ice cream? Why’s he always makin’ ya get all gussied up? What’s he tryin’ to prove?”
Her beautiful mouth, painted that scrotum-tightening red, flattened into a thin line. “Why do you insist on giving me grief for that?” She cocked a hip to give her balled-up fist something to perch on. The move caused the slit in her dress to slide open, revealing that one pale, perfect leg.
A leg that, in the wee hours of the morning—and sometimes right smack dab in the middle of the day—he imagined trailing his fingers over. Trailing his lips over. Trailing histongueover.
“Maybe ’cause ya provide me with such a wealth of material on the matter.” He grinned and then immediately reconsidered his words. Hitching his chin to her exposed leg, he slowly let his gaze travel up her hips and waist to settle on the mounds of flesh left bared by the dress’s lowcut neckline. “Or, in the case of tonight’s outfit, it’s probably more fittin’ to say such a decidedlackof material.”
Since his eyes were drinking in the lovely lines of her decolletage, he didn’t miss the deep flush that stole up from her chest to stain her neck and cheeks. He followed the color until his gaze clashed with hers.
Her dark eyes, which she’d inherited from her Greek mother, slanted up at the corners to give her a slightly feline appearance. They were usually filled with a warm, inviting light. But right then, they were as hard and as cold as gunmetal.
Guilt whispered in his ear. He ignored it. And when she squared off against him like a prize fighter facing a big-fisted opponent, he thought for sure she was using her feminine appeal to drive him wild.
No way she doesn’t know how sexy she is standing there like that. Nostrils flarin’. Purse clutched in a curled fist. Teeth bared in a snarl that makes a man want to fill her mouth with?—
“Charlie can wear a pair of jeans and eat ice cream with the best of them.” She cut into his thoughts.
Good thing. His thoughts hadn’t been headed in a direction he was particularly proud of.
She glanced over his faded Levi’s and standard-issue Hanes tee with a derisive sneer. Despite that, he felt the path of her gaze like a physical touch. Every inch of his skin heated in response.
“But he can also rock a tuxedo,” she added, “eat caviar, and stand in a room full of this country’s most powerful people with his head held high. Not too many can saythat.”
She punctuated the last word by tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. Most days she wore it slicked back in a bun or pulled tight in a ponytail. Tonight it was long and loose, falling in thick, shiny waves around her shoulders. Begging for the touch of a man’s fingers.
To keep from reaching out, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets. The fingers on his right hand automatically curled around the cold steel of his favorite harmonica.
