Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [22]
She’d distracted him much of the previous night already. For that, he supposed he ought to thank the woman. For once he hadn’t gone to sleep with the sound of screams echoing in his head or the memory of the slow drip of blood down his face and the taste of it on his lips. The pain of the knife. Or the bullet.
No. He’d lain in his bed long into the night, picturing her silhouetted against the fire, her hair glinting gold under the flames. Her lips pursing out as she dropped her long-lashed eyes closed to savor the warmth. The red sweater plunging between those full breasts and the long legs highlighted by the tight jeans. And then later, wearing that windswept nightgown that had molded tightly against every inch of her body, barely concealing that body from his hungry eyes.
Of course, she hadn’t been wearing any clothes in his dreams. She’d been naked and so had he as they’d explored every inch of one another. His long, deep, erotic dreams had made him wake up in the middle of the night with a hard-on that made it impossible to go back to sleep. So he’d prowled the house a little, as he often did, listening to the creaks and the groans, none of the sounds able to drive out the voice in his head that screamed murderer.
He’d finally forced himself to return to bed, managing to find a few restless hours of sleep that had, once again, starred his houseguest and had, once again, been X-rated.
One bad night had convinced him he didn’t need her hanging around distracting his waking hours, too. But she hadn’t been lying when she’d come back to the front door a few minutes ago—after she was supposed to already have driven away, off his mountain and out of his life.
Not quite believing her claims of car trouble, he’d grabbed the key out of her hand and gone to check for himself.
It was dead. Completely flat. He tried pumping the gas and twisted the key in the ignition again, but got absolutely no response.
“Dammit,” he muttered, popping the hood and getting out the driver’s side door. Ignoring the light drizzle of cold autumn rain, he went around to the front and lifted the hood. He had no idea what he thought he’d find by checking out the engine. What Simon knew about auto repair could be summed up in three letters—AAA.
Still he gave it a shot, figuring the irritating brunette on the porch would expect him to. He tinkered a little bit, knowing enough to see that the spark plugs were connected and the battery looked shiny and new.
“Are you sure you have gas in it?” he asked, swinging his head around to peer at her over his shoulder.
She nodded, not stepping out from her sheltered spot beneath the awning. Staying nice and dry. “Positive. I gassed up less than a hundred miles from here last night.”
Knowing he’d exhausted the last remnants of his automotive knowledge, he slammed the hood down, pocketed the key and strode toward the house.
“No luck?” she asked, her big brown eyes wide and innocent as he joined her on the porch. Her lower lip was jutted out in a tiny pout of frustration.
He wanted to bite it.
He settled for grunting. “No.”
“Gee…it was running just fine when I got here.”
“Do you have an automotive service?” he asked, forcing himself to focus on the objective—getting her to leave—and not on her soft, delicate face and full red lips.
“I do.”
Excellent.
She followed him back into the house. “But I can’t call them.”
“Why not?” he snapped.
She held up a small cellular phone. “No signal.”
Not surprising. One would think that sitting on top of a mountain would give him access to some kind of cellular signal, but his own phone rarely worked. “Use the one in my office.”
That pouty lower lip disappeared into her mouth.
“What?”
“I think the storm knocked out your phone service, too. I already tried.”
Damn. Double damn.
Not taking her word for it, Simon went into the office and grabbed the receiver from its cradle. Nothing. Not even static.