His Private Pleasure. Donna Kauffman
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really do it. But he was too damn grateful to tease her about it. He’d get his chance later. A vivacious brunette who liked the feel of a hot rod vibrating beneath her thighs was almost impossible not to have some fun with. And he might just be up for a little fun. As soon as he got out of this damn tree.
If he wasn’t so annoyed at his mother’s damn bird—and all too aware of the coming confrontation—he’d have enjoyed the hell out of watching Ms. Fancy Heels try to climb a tree. She wasn’t kidding when she said she wasn’t a climber.
“Dammit!”
She glared up at him as she lost the scant foot she’d gained and landed on the ground again. He had to admit he admired her spunk when, rather than quit, she squared her lovely, rounded shoulders and tried again. She wore a silky, aquamarine T-shirt that clung to her curves. A narrow band of smooth, honey-colored skin peeked from between the hem of the shirt and the low waistband of her white cotton pants. Pants that hugged her all the way down to just below her knee…and just above a very nice flare of calf muscle.
Must have gotten them from tottering around on those Popsicle stick heels, he thought, not uncharitably. Given her definite lack of athleticism, he figured she’d been born into those amazing curves of hers…and he was damn grateful for that, even if it didn’t get him out of this tree.
He winced a little when her bracelets—she wore what looked like dozens of silver chains on her wrists—scraped along the gnarled trunk as her slender, ringed fingers scrabbled for purchase. He mentally added a manicure and possibly a trip to the jewelry store to the tab he was rapidly running up with her.
Another slide, another broken nail. She didn’t even look at him this time. Instead she turned, shot a gauging glance around the corner, then shifted her gaze to her car.
Oh no. “Now you’re taking off?” Not that he could blame her.
“Of course not. I always finish what I start,” she retorted, then hopscotched barefoot on the hot pavement as she hurried to the driver’s side of her car and jumped in. Literally. So maybe she was a bit more limber than he’d credited her with.
“What exactly are you—” He stopped as he realized her plan. She edged her car just beneath the tree, climbed back out, then scooted her fine little body onto the metal luggage rack bracketed to the miniscule trunk.
“Hold on,” she called up to him.
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere.” He couldn’t believe she was actually going to all this trouble. But it was too damn entertaining to watch. Not to mention critical to saving his backside. Literally and figuratively.
He hadn’t been surprised to hear she was from L.A. He could spot that movie-town gloss a mile away. Usually her type headed for Santa Fe and Taos, but occasionally they tooled down to Sierra County for the Balloon Regatta, or just to tell their friends they’d been to a town called Truth or Consequences.
None of which explained what a West Coast princess was doing crawling up on her car in downtown Canyon Springs. He watched her steady herself and carefully straighten, before looking up at him. Damn, but God had been having a really fine day when he put her together.
So, maybe Dylan would discover why she was here over lunch. And if he was lucky—and it had been so long since he’d even thought about getting lucky, he figured he was long overdue—breakfast as well.
Her short black curls whipped about in the breeze, dancing along a forehead presently furrowed as she reached once, then twice, for his backside.
Her nails were painted dragon-lady red. As was her mouth. And dear Lord, what a mouth. How had he missed that? Her eyes were a bright flashy blue that almost matched her shirt. But that bow-tie mouth… A man could waste large portions of the night fantasizing about a mouth shaped like that.
She reached up again. This time those nails scraped lightly along the swath of cotton the tear in his uniform had revealed. The way his body leaped to attention you’d have thought she’d stroked them down the length of his—
“Careful,” he barked when she brushed him again. Jesus, it had been too long, if just the tips of her nails were arousing him so swiftly. It was bad enough his choice in underwear was being flashed to half the town. He really didn’t need to reveal anything else, most especially not a raging hard-on.
“Get down before you fall,” he ordered, when she made a little hop and swiped at his belt.
“I can get it, I just have to…” She crouched and jumped a little higher and smacked the heel of her hand against the part of his belt that was stuck. “There!” she cried as it popped free, then shrieked when she lost her balance and did a slow tumble into the front seat of her car.
“Are you okay?” Dylan levered himself up onto the branch and looked down at the scene below.
She didn’t answer. Not because she was hurt. Because she was laughing.
She was sprawled in the passenger seat, legs spread akimbo over the headrest and dashboard, arms flung wide as if waiting for him to hope down to join her.
“Don’t give me any ideas,” he murmured, then watched in amused fascination as she expertly untwined herself from the upholstery, levered herself upright, then pushed her wayward curls from her face, checked her lipstick in the visor mirror and settled in the front seat as casually as if she was merely waiting for her driver to show up. Yeah, definitely more limber than he’d given her credit for.
He’d never harbored hot-rod sex fantasies before, preferring the roominess of a bed—a big bed—thank you. But images of tangling himself up with her and all that soft leather were definitely appealing to him at the moment.
“Sure you’re okay?” he asked, thinking he’d be a lot more okay after a cold shower. Or an afternoon drive into the countryside with her in that car.
“Oh, no problem, Officer,” she said oh-so-innocently, then followed it up with a sly wink that was anything but. “But you might want to get down from there before…” She pointed behind him.
Oh yeah. “I have to get this damned bird down first.” He’d forgotten all about Mango. His scowl returned as he looked up to where the cockatoo had been moments ago. There was a great flutter and flapping sound behind him. He swiveled just in time to see Mango stretch his huge wings—his huge clipped wings—and swoop ever so gracefully in an umbrella of white-and-salmon-colored feathers to land on—
“Look out,” he shouted. “Incoming.”
Ms. Bow-tie Lips turned just in time to see Mango land on the seat back behind her.
“Mango is a good boy!” the bird announced rather proudly, then attempted to prove his claim by prancing back and forth, bopping his head up and down, then extending one claw and, very sweetly, asking, “Step up?”
Dylan swore as he climbed to the lowest branch, then dropped to the ground. “Come here, you big pink chicken,” he said as he approached the car.
But Mango was having nothing to do with him. He lunged and squawked, his crest fluffed out to its fullest extent.
“You know, I don’t think he likes you,” his rescuer murmured.
She really did have the sassiest mouth.
“He does prefer women. Go ahead, put your arm out for him. He’s asking you to, so it’ll be okay.”
She laughed—a full-bodied sound that had those images flashing in his brain again. “Yeah, right. I’ve already lost three nails. I’d as soon keep the fingers they were attached to.”
“He won’t—”
“Why, there’s my precious boy!”
Dylan broke off and looked up as Tucker and his mother rounded the corner. He had no idea where the Miller twins, Metsy and Betsy—one fraction of Tucker’s personal fan club—had left off, but Dylan was glad for the reduced crowd. His mother rushed toward him. Rush being perhaps