Cutting Loose. Susan Andersen
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you’ve got your greedy little fingers all over.”
“You wish. I live in this area-it makes sense for me to be here.”
“Yeah? Well, so do I. So I guess you must be following me.”
His thumb stroked her hand. Damn, she was touchable.
He grimaced. Where the hell did this shit keep coming from? She was bad-tempered and judgmental and except for unexpectedly hot taste in shoes she didn’t know jack about dressing to entice. So there was no way in hell she should be getting him all steamed under the collar.
Yet he couldn’t keep pretending that she wasn’t doing exactly that. Lie to the Feds, lie to your sister if you had to, but don’t lie to yourself. Truth was truth, and the big reality here was he would do silky-skinned Ms. Kaplinski in a heartbeat. She wasn’t even close to his usual type and he didn’t understand the attraction, but there it was.
Hell, maybe it was nothing more than the fact he was a guy. Men were a species who saw an opportunity for sex everyplace they looked. So shoot ’em.
She shivered and her hand clenched beneath his. “They aren’t your noodles, but take-”
“Uh, actually, ma’am,” the counter clerk interjected, “they are his. Yours will be up in a minute.”
“Oh.” Embarrassment scudded across her blue eyes, but she promptly hid it behind a bland expression as she let go of the bag. “Then I apologize.” Hot color scorching her cheeks, she said in a voice so low, he had to bend his head closer to hear, “I seem to keep putting myself in positions that make it necessary to say that.” Shaking her head, she about-faced on a three-inch heel and strode away.
Okay, he thought as he dug out his wallet. The big problem here wasn’t that he was attracted to her despite the fact she had no discernible sense of humor and apparently didn’t believe in dressing to display the goods. It was that he had just finished making his sister a promise not to screw up the sweet deal Kavanagh had made with Jane and her friends. Hannah would shoot him, and he had a feeling his Guy Chromosome defense wouldn’t carry much weight with her.
Not to mention his word was gold. That was probably the first lesson his father had ever taught him, and it had stuck like gorilla glue. A man’s only as good as his word, Dev. It was practically the Kavanagh credo.
He paid for his noodles, hesitated a second, then walked over to where Jane had buried her nose in a copy of the Seattle Weekly . “Can we talk a minute?” he asked and seated himself at her table when she ignored him.
She rattled the paper, the go away subtext clear.
He sat without speaking and waited.
Heaving a big sigh, she lowered the weekly. Pink still tinged her cheekbones as she met his gaze. Then she sighed again, only this time it was little more than a soft exhalation.
“Okay, here goes,” she said. “I truly am sorry. For a lot of things. I’ve been throwing around wild accusations like confetti and making way too many half-assed comments. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’m not usually like this. And I’m going to stop it. Starting now.”
Oh, low blow. If he didn’t get to see her naked he’d really prefer to hang on to the illusion that she was an unlikeable bitch. But since he’d come over here in the first place to show her he could be professional, he squared his shoulders.
“I’ve heard stuff coming out of my mouth that’s not familiar to me, either. Things my mother would’ve had me by the ear to wash my mouth out with soap if she’d heard. So here’s the deal. I propose a truce.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I’m for that. We’ve got to work together-are going to be working together for the next several months. And being angry all the time is exhausting.” She thrust her hand across the table at him.
Reluctantly, he met it halfway, knowing damn well that touching her would only fuel his awareness. She kept their handshake mercifully brief, however, and he discovered that she had a good, strong grip.
Discovered, too, that instead of swamping him with the undercurrent of sexuality that seemed to run like a 220 volt between them, this actually felt more like what it was intended to be: the sealing of a pact. He sat back in his chair. “So you like Spicy Basil stir-fry, too, huh? I was going to take mine home, but you want to eat here? We can get to know each other a little better.”
She appeared a little less than certain, but said, “I guess.”
What the hell. Maybe this wouldn’t turn out so awkward after all.
CHAPTER FIVE
Turns out Devlin isn’t a complete ass after all. Why does that seem worse somehow?
O KAY, THIS IS AWKWARD . Jane didn’t know about Devlin, but the laden silence as they removed their cartons from the take-home sacks and peeled wooden chopsticks out of their paper wrappings was uncomfortable as all get-out to her. She snapped the joint connecting the two sticks and opened her container, taking a peek at him. God knew she didn’t know what to say and he either suffered from the same problem or felt no need to fill the void, because several long, prickly minutes passed without either of them uttering a word.
She ate a few bites to give herself a reason for not talking. But the weighted silence gnawed at her. “Great dish, huh?”
Oh, brilliant, Kaplinski. She wanted to smack herself. Could she be more inane?
Devlin surprised her with a grin, however. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I love this stuff. I could eat it three times a day, four days running.” Shifting in his chair, he was all muscle in motion, his wide shoulders straining the seams of his black tee and the unbuttoned green-and-black flannel shirt he wore over it, the sinews of his forearms beneath his rolled-up sleeves bunching and releasing with the subtlest movement of his wrists. He settled in his seat and scooped up a couple more bites of his dinner.
A moment later he planted his chopsticks in his still half-full container and dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. Then he caught her in the crosshairs of a seriously intense hazel-eyed gaze. “It must be pretty cool working in a museum. I’m sort of a museum junkie myself.”
A snort escaped her. “Sure you are.” Immediately, she wished the words unspoken. Oh, nicely done, Jane. Way to keep the truce going. But, c’mon. One look at that build, those reckless eyes, and she was pretty sure most people would excuse her for doubting museums were the kind of entertainment to draw a guy like this.
Particularly if they were the female half of the human race.
“No, I’m serious. It started years ago when I went to the Viking Ship Museum in Oslo.” Sliding his carton to one side and the salt and pepper shakers to the other, he leaned on his forearms, his long fingers splayed out on the tabletop and his eyes alight. “Have you ever been there? Seen the Gokstad and Oseberg ships?”
She shook her head, fascinated by the enthusiasm in his voice and the way his dark eyes lit up with it.
“They’re clinker-built oak Viking boats that were found in burial mounds on farms in Norway in the late eighteen and early nineteen hundreds. Both were built in the ninth century. Eight hundred thirty-something and eight-ninety I think it was, which just blows me away. If I could have, I’d have crawled over those babies from stem to stern to check out their construction up close. Because they may be more than eleven hundred years old, Jane, but the craftsmanship still rocks.”
He pushed back, shooting her a lightning-quick self-deprecating smile. “Anyhow, for a while after I discovered them, it was all boat museums all the time. Then I started branching out. I admit the kind of museums that mostly host paintings aren’t my thing.” The brawny shoulders she couldn’t seem to peel her gaze away from lifted in a careless shrug beneath worn flannel. “But show me stuff made by some highly skilled craftsman, and I’m all over it. Those ancient boats? Most of them were built by guys who had to make their own tools first.