The Nights Before Christmas. Vicki Lewis Thompson
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bed, she found herself wondering about his future plans. Maybe he’d asked the question because he was saving money to get a place of his own. “Do you want a big house eventually?” she asked. Then she took a bite of the cracker and cheese she didn’t want but had to pretend to enjoy.
“A house, maybe. Not a really big one, though. I like intimate, cozy spaces.”
She choked on a piece of cracker.
“Are you okay?”
Nodding frantically, she coughed and took a gulp of her soup. Intimate, cozy spaces. The man had a way with words.
He gazed at her with concern. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
She cleared her throat and blinked the moisture from her eyes. “I’m sure. Just took a breath when I shouldn’t have. So you’re hoping to buy a little bungalow, then?”
“Yeah. More like a cottage. I’ll probably always work in the city, but I wouldn’t mind having a vacation place in Wisconsin. On a lake would be terrific. And it has to have a fireplace.”
“Sounds like a nice dream.” Nobody would have to talk Greg into snuggling on the sofa on a rainy afternoon or during a weekend trip to a cottage in Wisconsin. Longing shivered through her. She wanted to be cuddled on a sofa. She wanted to be held, stroked, petted. According to Terri, this man knew how to do the job right.
But he was still a virtual stranger, and she didn’t go to bed with strangers. “You said that toolbox belonged to your dad,” she said. “Was he a handyman, too?”
He looked surprised by the question. “Yeah, he was.”
“So you decided to follow in his footsteps?”
“Not at first. Not until after…” He paused and stared down into his soup. Then he glanced up. “Not at first,” he said again with a smile. “You know how it is. Kids never want to do exactly what the parents do.”
She was positive he’d just made a decision not to tell her something important. Apparently he could talk about his vacation-home plans, but not about his father. He might be willing to take her to bed, but he wasn’t willing to tell her his innermost secrets.
Maybe that’s how a Casanova had to operate. Confiding secrets bonded people together, and Greg wasn’t about that. He was about restoring a woman’s sexual confidence and moving on.
Suzanne knew she ought to just accept the rules of the game. Instead she began to wonder why Greg had chosen this loner lifestyle, and if he protected himself because someone in his past had hurt him. “Do you like the work?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes, I do. The pay’s not great, but I get a place to stay and I’m pretty much my own boss. I also happen to like these older apartment buildings. I take a lot of satisfaction in keeping the place maintained in top condition.”
“I’m sure.” And in his spare time, he did the same for the female tenants, both taking and giving satisfaction. Broken light switch, call Greg. Broken heart, call Greg. But who was this man who rode in on a white horse, saved the day and rode away again? She wanted to know what made Greg Stone tick.
“How about you?” Greg said. “Do you like your job?”
He’d smoothly switched the topic of conversation away from him, and she decided to let him get away with it for now. “Yes, I like it.” He had nicely shaped ears, she thought. Some men enjoyed having a woman run her tongue around the curve of their ear. Others didn’t. She wondered which type Greg was.
“What exactly do you do?” he asked.
His green eyes were mesmerizing. A woman could forget everything if she allowed herself to be caught in that gaze. “I’m a financial analyst with Apollo Mutual Funds,” she said.
He nodded. “I thought you did something like that.”
“Do I look so much like an economics major, then?” she asked with a tight smile. Jared used to taunt her about that. You may love playing with stock-market quotes all day, but you don’t have to look like you do. She’d finally figured out he wanted someone who looked as if she modeled lingerie for a living.
“You do look like an economics major,” Greg said with an answering smile. “And I think—”
“I know. Don’t say it. You think I need to loosen up, dress less conservatively, wear my hair down, stop looking so financial all the time.” She’d tolerated that speech from Jared, but she didn’t have to hear it from the handyman, especially when the handyman kept himself shrouded in mystery.
He took another sip of tomato soup. “I was going to say that I think that looking like a financial analyst is kind of sexy.”
“Sexy?” She glanced down at her cream-colored silk blouse. “Hardly. But then it isn’t my goal to make a sexual statement when I go into the office.”
“It may not be. That doesn’t mean you don’t.”
She met his gaze and suddenly didn’t want to play anymore. “Maybe that sort of flattery works with other women, but I’m not taken in,” she said quietly. “I’m well aware of the type of outfit and behavior that men find sexy, and that’s not where I shine.”
He leaned toward her, his quiet tone matching hers. “Pardon me, Ms. Talbot, but obviously you don’t know your Wall Street Journal from the National Enquirer if you’re going to make a statement like that.”
Her cheeks grew warm. She’d expected him to retreat, not counterattack. And she was gradually becoming aware that his vocabulary didn’t quite fit her image of an uneducated blue-collar worker. “I have some experience in this matter,” she said.
“Not enough, apparently.”
“And you do?” They’d danced around enough, and now she wanted to rip away the curtain he was hiding behind. “Why don’t you tell me what makes you such an authority on the subject of sexual attraction?”
He put down his mug. “Why and how men and women are sexually drawn to each other is one of my favorite topics. I’ve studied it endlessly.”
“Really? In what way?”
His eyes blazed. “I’m going to choose not to answer that, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that when a woman with a great body wears a conservative little suit, many men find it sexy as hell. They’re convinced that a temptress is hiding underneath that businesslike exterior, and they consider it a personal challenge to see if they can strew that uptight outfit all around the room, because nine times out of ten they’re right.”
She drew back, her heart pounding. “But not necessarily. Sometimes they’re wrong.”
“Sometimes,” he said softly.
“They would be wrong about me!”
He studied her for several long seconds. “Would they?”
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