That's Amore! - Janelle Denison [71]
Their hips touched, as did their thighs. His trousers brushed against her bare calves, and one of her feet had slid between both of his. If they were sitting, she'd be straddling his thigh. The thought made pure warmth and liquid heat ooze through her body, to settle with insistence between her legs.
Oh, God, what was happening to her? Comfort had changed to something else—something heady and wicked and dangerous. She was mentally cataloguing how seductively perfect it felt to be in his arms, how much she suddenly wanted this man.
This man. Luke Santori. The man she'd decided must have been adopted because of how unlike his easy-going brothers he was.
Boy, had she been mistaken. How on earth could she ever have thought Luke was cold when his whole form gave off such sizzling heat? Not to mention the tender, sweet way he stroked her back, making soothing sounds against her temple. Saying more soft things she couldn't quite make out, beyond the word "safe."
Safe? Good Lord, she was nowhere near safe. This was the Nazi bride's groom and here she was curling into him like a stripper against a pole. She jerked back, bringing her shaky fingers to her mouth, trying to regain control of herself.
"Rachel?"
She gave him a slow nod, silently telling him she was okay, though, in truth, she was anything but. "You sure you don't want me to call Mark?"
"Mark?"
"My brother. He's a cop and his station's not too far from here."
Another big hunky Santori brother to fill up every molecule in this suddenly small-feeling shop? No, thanks. Her senses were already on overload, pushing her into dangerously aware territory. Territory she had no business even glancing at, much less curling up against.
Engaged man territory.
"I don't think so. I'm okay, and I somehow doubt he'll be back. Especially if his fiancée starts questioning him about the cut on his head." Still feeling too close, too affected by a man she had no business being affected by, Rachel stepped away, retrieving the poor little groom figurine, who'd landed among the white satin wedding shoe display.
"Who was that guy?" Luke asked, leaning one hip against the counter and crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"The husband-to-be of one of my customers."
He frowned. "Nice."
Hearing his sarcasm, she for some reason felt compelled to elaborate. "It's not as uncommon as you think. Grooms with cold feet seem to think the dressmaker's their last chance for a fling." She grinned wryly. "I suppose they consider me a safer bet than risking communicable diseases at their bachelor parties."
A flash of something like anger made his eyes blaze and his jaw tighten. "This has happened before? Why don't you have a panic alarm or something?"
She shook her head. "Nothing like this has happened before. It's usually harmless flirtation. But it's still annoying."
"It's more than annoying." His jaw remained tight, his pulse visible in his temple. "What if I hadn't shown up here?"
"I didn't feel in any real danger."
Until you walked in. "Do you know self-defense?"
"Like karate or something?"
He nodded.
"Uh … no. But my knee can do some damage. And I think my fingers are bony enough that if I punched a guy in the throat I could make it pretty darn hard for him to breathe."
Rolling his eyes, grabbed her hand and lifted it. "Oh, yes, you should really register these things as lethal weapons."
Only his obvious disapproval kept her from yanking her hand away in shock. Because she was apparently the only one of them who had felt the amazing flash of electric heat when their fingers had touched.
"I think Freddy's neck was too fat for you to find his Adam's Apple," Luke said, still tsking, but now sounding slightly amused. "A finger in the eye is probably a safer bet."
"I prefer the good old knee to the groin."
"With nutless cowards like him, you might have a hard time hitting the target."
His disgusted words startled a laugh from her lips. "Poor Cassie."
"Cassie?"
"His fiancée."
Finally realizing Luke was still holding her fingers, Rachel slowly pulled