Killing Time. Leslie Kelly
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what some might have interpreted as fear, but which Caro recognized as unbridled laughter.
Bull-like. There was something a man would aspire to, right? The thought inspired several wicked images. She had to back away again, if only to force herself to stop trying to peer around the armed woman for another tantalizing glimpse of the hips and down.
Wow, what hips. Wow, what down.
“I know. But for some reason, you made me think of him,” the woman replied.
“I don’t know many men who would compare favorably to a bull. But thank you very much, all the same.”
Still hidden in the near darkness, and still wondering whether the two were playing some sort of lovers’ game, or if she’d really stumbled into a hostage situation, she took a few calming breaths to decide what to do.
Look some more.
That worked.
This time, she gave into her impulse, dropped to her knees, and peered around the door from a lower angle. Definitely a better angle. For assessment purposes only, she told herself, knowing she was a big fat liar whose pants, if she had been wearing pants, would be incendiary right about now.
She stayed hunkered down, assessing the couple. The woman was a puzzle. Broad in girth, huge in stature, she wore an unflattering pair of jean overalls, which, Caro was sad to say, seemed to have come back into fashion for some bizarre reason. Not in Hollywood, of course. But they were showing up in the rest of the country—which pretty much meant another planet, as far as most people in L.A. were concerned.
Louise appeared taller than the better-than-average-height man, and heavier by a large amount. So maybe the hunk had a thing for big girls. In which case, he’d never spare a glance at Caro, who only stood five-seven when she wore two-inch heels.
She certainly wasn’t an imposing figure now, down on all fours in a closed real estate office, spying on a pair of lovebirds, or a female rapist. She still hadn’t decided which was the most likely explanation. Either the man was a philandering Realtor having a kinky good time—complete with props like fake guns—on a Monday morning. Or he was a poor innocent victim being held up by a naked-Realtor-robbing Amazon.
Not sure which, she curled her back and neck a bit, hunching lower until she was able to see that, yes, the woman was definitely holding a real—if rather old-looking—pistol.
The hostage wasn’t turning around. He remained still, his body aligned with the sight of the gun. His back was perfect. Smooth. Sculpted with layer upon layer of thick muscle. Tanned, taut skin glistened with a sheen of sweat that probably had more to do with the situation than with the temperature.
His thick arms flexed with the tension. That, more than anything, convinced Caro that while his tone might be flip, and his voice might hold laughter, he wasn’t relaxed. He was, in fact, completely tense, obviously waiting for his chance to extricate himself from this unusual situation.
The overall-wearing bandit was still too busy staring at that naked tush to move. Caro couldn’t blame her—she couldn’t do anything else, herself.
She’d never really considered herself a butt woman. A man’s eyes were so much more important. Or at the very least his smile. A pair of lips that could instill a sense of shimmering heat while widened in laughter used to make her completely crazed. One smile, in particular, had nearly been her undoing.
But as for the rest? Good looks, as she’d found in Hollywood, didn’t always equal good men.
That didn’t mean they weren’t fun to ogle. Particularly in this case, with a man whose backside looked hard enough to crack a walnut, and hot enough to make her legs go weak.
Then the man shifted, as if he planned to turn around. She hissed. Weak, nothing. At the thought of seeing the full-frontal onslaught, Caro’s legs turned to jelly. If not for her arms holding up the front part of her body, she probably would have fallen face-first on the carpet.
“Don’t turn around,” the woman said matter-of-factly, apparently noticing her victim making a move. “Please stand there and look away while I get myself mussed before Daddy gets here.”
Daddy. Mussed. Caro began to understand. This was strictly TV Writing 101 stuff. Tons of shows, from soaps to sitcoms, had explored this scenario in every conceivable way. This woman wanted to be caught in a compromising situation with Mr. Studly. Enter the enraged, armed papa. Fade to commercial.
“Please don’t take off your clothes.” He sounded more nervous than he had when she’d threatened to shoot him.
No commercial, Caro, this is real life.
“Fair’s fair.” Then the woman chuckled. “At least now I know what all the women in town are dying for a glimpse of.”
His thighs? His flexing calves? His arms, which looked strong enough to carry a woman to the nearest flat surface and make love to her from here to Sunday? All of the above?
Most especially that hard, sweetly curved rear that cried out to be caressed, held, stroked and clenched in mind-numbing passion? Caro gulped as her nervous habit kicked in: she started to hum the theme song from Sex in the City.
“Who would’ve thought those little black points were the tips of his ears?”
It took a second for Caro to understand what the woman meant. Then she leaned in farther, blinking off the haze of lust to take a really good look at the man. That was when Caro noticed what was above his perfect, hard, finger-licking-good backside.
A tattoo. A sexy, wicked, playful tattoo. It told a story that revealed quite a lot about the man it adorned.
Part of it, the little creature in the small of his back, riding just above his right cheek, made her pause. Because it looked familiar. Very familiar.
“Impossible,” she whispered, not believing her own eyes. She studied it, blinking a few times, wondering if she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing.
It was a lamb. A cute little furry white lamb, as incongruous as it was adorable when decorating this hunky man’s body. “Crazy,” she called herself, knowing there were millions of men in the world who had millions of tattoos.
Maybe some other hunk had decided to put a cute little lamb on his backside in honor of some other woman whose last name was the same as hers. Maybe that other hunk had called that other girl a sweet little lamb the first time they’d been introduced.
Or maybe she’d wronged someone in another life and karma was getting even. That was the only explanation about how fate could be cruel enough to bring him back into her world.
“Please, no,” she whispered. But even as she did so, she knew it was futile. Somehow, Caroline knew this particular tattoo belonged to only one particular man. “Lord help me.”
“Okay, Louise, this is getting ridiculous. And I’m getting cold,” the man drawled.
This time, because she was listening for it, she did, indeed, recognize the voice.
Mick Winchester. Good God, it was him. She hadn’t seen the man for eight years and already he had her down on her hands and knees, playing Peeping Tom. In two minutes flat, he’d turned her into a mindless, brainless female. Just like she’d been during the crazy, passionate year of their relationship.
She couldn’t help staring at him again, gobbling him up with her eyes, knowing that once his face was turned to hers, she wouldn’t be able to look her fill. Because he’d be watching her, laughing at her, knowing how she reacted to him.
Always had. Probably always would. Dammit all to hell.
In the office, Louise said, “It’s good you keep your tattoo covered.”
Remembering the tattoo, Caroline stared at it again, studying the whole image. The old tattoo was now part of a bigger picture. The glimpse of the lamb had made her cringe at the thought of facing Mick again. But studying the whole thing and assessing