“Oh, you’re back,” she murmured, and Jake realized that her eyes were open. Sleepy, sensuous, their smile dark like a moonlit glade.
He did his best to reel in his control. “You’re gonna freeze in that.”
She looked down at her attire. “The fire must have burned down. I was really too hot before.”
Jake motioned with a jerky movement of the mug. “You wear that all the time?”
She grinned ruefully. “Not as much romance in writing as people think. This is as exotic as it gets.”
Pulling herself up, she raked her fingers through her hair and curled her feet underneath her. “Come and sit down,” she offered.
Jake couldn’t quite move. He was afraid that if he did, he wouldn’t stop at sitting down. His hands itched for the feel of her again. His mouth was dry and his palms wet.
Amanda looked up at him, her eyes guileless and smiling. “Nobody’s here,” she admonished. “Your reputation’s still safe. I promise not to tell anybody that you were a nice person to me, if you just sit down and relax a minute.”
All Jake could do was shake his head.
Amanda tilted hers, so that her hair slid down the side of her throat, so that it curled over the tops of her breasts, burnished mahogany silk against pale cream satin. Textures and memories.
“Jake,” she whispered, sounding almost disappointed. “I don’t bite.”
His smile was dark. His hands trembled. “Oh, yes you do. And it hurts like hell.”
Did he see tears? Had that been what he’d wanted? If it was, it wasn’t now. He couldn’t bear the idea of hurting her.
“Amanda, I—”
But it seemed to be her turn to shake her head. “No,” she said, her voice deliberate. “I’m not listening to excuses or apologies. I’m not listening to anything unless you sit down first. Please, Jake.”
He did. He sat down and prepared to apologize, to excuse his behavior the night before. But this close he could smell the soap on her, the wild tumble of wind and sunlight in her hair. A woman like her should have smelled exotic and expensive. Amanda smelled like a high meadow in the spring, and it was destroying him.
“Good,” she allowed, “vou can compromise. I’d wondered.”
“Amanda—”
She didn’t seem to hear him. Reaching over, she stole the mug from his clenched fingers and took a long sip of coffee.
“Ah,” she sighed, eyes briefly closed. “Good and strong. Just the way I like it.” Opening her eyes, she impaled him with an impish grin. “Another myth shot to hell. Everybody thinks an author drinks Scotch or champagne for breakfast. I drink my coffee black and my Scotch on chicken. I do admit to a weakness for red wine. I was going to try and ply you with some, but I noticed you don’t stock any. Not even for cooking.”
Jake did his best to maintain some control. “I don’t drink wine.”
Her face folded into a dry grin. “I think I just said that.”
“Amanda.”
“Yes?”
“Close that damn robe.”
She took a look down at the same view Jake had. “But Jake,” she protested, “it’s just my old cotton underwear. It’s hardly sexy.”
“Don’t,” he grated out, yanking the edges of the robe closed himself. “Don’t play games with me, Amanda.”
Could she really have been that innocent? She looked up at him in surprise, but Jake could have sworn he caught a shadow of relief in her eyes. Gratitude.
Gratitude? How the hell could that be?
But she didn’t even give him the chance to consider it. “I think it’s time to talk about last night, Jake.”
