Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [56]
“I told you, I’m interested in you.” He slid down a little bit, eyeing her over the juice glass. “Any particular reason why you don’t want to believe that? Don’t try telling me you’re not used to men wanting you—I wouldn’t believe it.”
“Not more than my sister.” Jilly couldn’t believe she’d actually said that out loud. She hated even thinking it, but to have spoken it was far, far worse. Especially to him. It must be the brandy. If she’d known she was going to run into him she would have stayed put. It was too high a price for sleep. “I thought you were the ghosts,” she said, quickly changing the subject.
“I didn’t think you believed in them.” He was watching her, but she couldn’t see his expression. Maybe it was just as well.
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe in them. I’ve just never seen them.”
“And how long have you lived in this house?”
“Seventeen years, off and on.”
“You’d think you’d have run into them by now if they existed,” he said reasonably.
“You’d think so. What are you doing down here when you’ve got that wonderful new bed?”
“Thinking. And it’s not that wonderful.” He took a sip of the brandy, then offered the glass back to her. There was no way in hell she was going to put her mouth where his had been, so she shook her head.
“I’ve had enough,” she said. “I’m not used to drinking much.”
There was no missing his slow, wicked smile. “Don’t tell me you’re wasted, Ms. Meyer?”
“Only very slightly,” she said with great dignity. “What were you thinking about?”
“That maybe I should leave here.”
“Leave?” she repeated stupidly. It was everything she’d prayed for, the answer to her current problems. It was the last thing she wanted.
“Leave,” he said. “You know, git, skedaddle, vamoose, take a hike, get the hell out of Dodge.”
“You’ve been watching too many westerns.”
“Maybe it’s the house that does it to me. Though Brenda de Lorillard wasn’t famous for westerns, was she? She was big in those weepy women’s movies of the forties.”
“I don’t know,” Jilly said. “I don’t really care. Why are you leaving?” She centered in on what was important.
His eyes narrowed, and his smile was wryly self-deprecating. “Does it matter?” he said. “Maybe I ought to get out of here before I become what I hate.”
“And what do you hate?” She knew the answer with sudden, illogical certainty. He hated Jackson Dean Meyer, her father. His deep-pocketed mentor.
He didn’t answer. She didn’t expect him to. He drank the rest of the brandy, then set the empty juice glass down on the parquet floor. He looked up at her, a lazy smile on his face. “Then again, maybe I don’t give a shit. So why don’t you want me to leave?”
“I want you to leave,” she said immediately.
“Then why don’t you come over here and say goodbye?”
She didn’t say a word, leaning back in the sofa and stretching her long bare legs out in front of her. He liked her legs—she had absolutely no doubt about that. He really liked her legs.
Fair enough—she liked them herself. They were her one true beauty. Not even Rachel-Ann had endless legs like she did.
“You don’t know me nearly as well as you seem to think you do,” she said.
“I don’t?”
“You think I’m a shy, fragile little flower, don’t you? Terrified of big strong men like you, afraid of sex, afraid of life?” Her voice was mocking.
“I don’t know if you’re afraid of all big strong men, sugar. You’re certainly scared shitless around me.”
She didn’t even hesitate. She rose with one fluid movement, crossed to the sofa and calmly straddled him, putting her arms around his neck and looking down into his eyes. “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” she mocked him. He shifted, and she could feel his erection. It startled her so much she started to pull away, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.
“Don’t leave now that it’s getting interesting,” he said. “You started it this time. Let’s see how brave you really are.”
Part of her wanted to pull away, run away. She had no idea whether he’d let her go if she struggled, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
The other part, centered between her legs,