Trace of Fever
Page 67
“This reminds me of the place I was staying.”
“Yeah, except that I’m a guy and you’re…not, and neither place is appropriate for you.” He parked the car, got out and came around to her door to play at being a gentleman. “Let’s go.”
Priss noticed several couples loitering around in plain view. “In front of them?”
“Drunks and hoochies. Don’t worry about it.”
Eyes narrowing, she tucked in her chin. “Hoochies?”
With a roll of his eyes he caught her arm and hauled her out. “Don’t go getting offended on behalf of the female populace. Most of the women that hang out here have hit on me—aggressively—without knowing shit about me, and at least half of them were married. So yeah, they’re not exactly paragons of society.”
Still affronted, Priss held back. “What do you call the men who behave that way?”
“Names that’d scorch your pretty little ears.” He urged her forward. “Now come on.”
He marched her right past the people, and Priss did her best not to make eye contact with anyone. One woman stopped molesting the man with her and instead glared at Jackson.
Filled with scorn, she propped her hands on her hips and said loud enough for the whole parking lot to hear, “I thought you said sex was against your religion?”
He tipped a make-believe hat at her. “Yeah, but see, she converted me.”
Priss wanted to kill him. She held his big cowboy hat in front of her thighs until they’d passed the people, and then she held it over her behind.
“Not sure the hat is big enough for that.”
Steam came out her ears. “You—”
“Just saying you have curves, honey.” Jackson laughed as he moved her around ahead of him. “How ’bout I’ll be your cloak?”
He’d already seen every inch of her, so Priss agreed with that solution. But damned if she’d thank him.
He paused at a door to unlock it, stepped in to turn on lights and survey the room, then drew her in. “Have a seat.” He locked everything back up again. “I’ll grab you a blanket or something.”
For that, she did thank him. Watching him walk away, she noted his long-legged stride, the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips. His blond hair was a little too long, sun-streaked and wind-blown, and…appealing.
Was Trace’s sister sweet on him? Given all she’d heard, Priss had to think so.
He returned with a flannel shirt, a blanket and a pair of cotton boxers. “Not exactly haute couture, but it’ll get you more covered than you are now. Those shorts have an open fly, though, so button ’em up.”
Priss took the clothes, and when he just stood there, she shoved him in the chest. “Go away.”
Amused once again, he touched a bruise on his forehead. “Yes, ma’am.” On his way to the kitchenette, he asked, “Something to eat or drink?”
The way he acted, this could have been a routine social gathering. He was even more cavalier than Trace, and definitely as cocky.
She sighed. “Both.” Eating would give them both something to do.
“Coming right up.”
Priss pulled on the shorts first. They were loose in the waist, but snug in the butt. “So tell me, what’s with the cowboy gear? I heard you were like a beach bum or something.”
He stiffened, then looked over his shoulder at her. “The clothes are cover.” When she squawked, he lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry. It’s, uh, hard not looking.”
“You’re a pig!”
“Nah. It’s just that I admire the female form.”
“That’s the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard!” It could have come straight from one of the cheap p**n os.
“I’ll have you know I’m sincere, and I have plenty of artwork around my place that proves it.”
“Bunch of nudie posters?” Priss guessed.
“No, smart-ass. Real art.” He kept his back to her, but his ears lifted with his grin. “But, yeah, nudes.”
“Figures.” She pulled on the flannel and wrapped it around herself. She wasn’t really cold, but her skin prickled. Probably nerves. She had just escaped…something.
“Gotta tell you, sweet, a photo of you fresh from the shower would go real nice.”
Priss snorted. “If it’s a photo you want, you should ask Trace.” She was still rankled over that. “He’s holding on to one.”
“No shit?” Jackson half turned.
Now that she’d donned the clothes he gave her, she didn’t mind his attention. “Undercover, you said? As a cowboy in Ohio?”
“Whatever. It was workin’ just fine.” He went back to the fridge. “Who told you I look like a beach bum?”
He sounded irritated, but so what? His endless good humor was beginning to rub her the wrong way. “Molly.”
“Ahh. Nice gal.”
She looked at his bronzed shoulders and the deep grove of his spine down his back. “You gotta admit, you have the tan for it.”
“Most of it is natural coloring. Everyone in my family is dark.” He ran a hand over his head. “Despite the blond hair.”
“So you’re not a sunbather?”
“Never said that.” He cleared his throat. “You know Alani?”
“I know you two are sweet on each other.”
“Yeah, except that I’m a guy and you’re…not, and neither place is appropriate for you.” He parked the car, got out and came around to her door to play at being a gentleman. “Let’s go.”
Priss noticed several couples loitering around in plain view. “In front of them?”
“Drunks and hoochies. Don’t worry about it.”
Eyes narrowing, she tucked in her chin. “Hoochies?”
With a roll of his eyes he caught her arm and hauled her out. “Don’t go getting offended on behalf of the female populace. Most of the women that hang out here have hit on me—aggressively—without knowing shit about me, and at least half of them were married. So yeah, they’re not exactly paragons of society.”
Still affronted, Priss held back. “What do you call the men who behave that way?”
“Names that’d scorch your pretty little ears.” He urged her forward. “Now come on.”
He marched her right past the people, and Priss did her best not to make eye contact with anyone. One woman stopped molesting the man with her and instead glared at Jackson.
Filled with scorn, she propped her hands on her hips and said loud enough for the whole parking lot to hear, “I thought you said sex was against your religion?”
He tipped a make-believe hat at her. “Yeah, but see, she converted me.”
Priss wanted to kill him. She held his big cowboy hat in front of her thighs until they’d passed the people, and then she held it over her behind.
“Not sure the hat is big enough for that.”
Steam came out her ears. “You—”
“Just saying you have curves, honey.” Jackson laughed as he moved her around ahead of him. “How ’bout I’ll be your cloak?”
He’d already seen every inch of her, so Priss agreed with that solution. But damned if she’d thank him.
He paused at a door to unlock it, stepped in to turn on lights and survey the room, then drew her in. “Have a seat.” He locked everything back up again. “I’ll grab you a blanket or something.”
For that, she did thank him. Watching him walk away, she noted his long-legged stride, the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips. His blond hair was a little too long, sun-streaked and wind-blown, and…appealing.
Was Trace’s sister sweet on him? Given all she’d heard, Priss had to think so.
He returned with a flannel shirt, a blanket and a pair of cotton boxers. “Not exactly haute couture, but it’ll get you more covered than you are now. Those shorts have an open fly, though, so button ’em up.”
Priss took the clothes, and when he just stood there, she shoved him in the chest. “Go away.”
Amused once again, he touched a bruise on his forehead. “Yes, ma’am.” On his way to the kitchenette, he asked, “Something to eat or drink?”
The way he acted, this could have been a routine social gathering. He was even more cavalier than Trace, and definitely as cocky.
She sighed. “Both.” Eating would give them both something to do.
“Coming right up.”
Priss pulled on the shorts first. They were loose in the waist, but snug in the butt. “So tell me, what’s with the cowboy gear? I heard you were like a beach bum or something.”
He stiffened, then looked over his shoulder at her. “The clothes are cover.” When she squawked, he lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry. It’s, uh, hard not looking.”
“You’re a pig!”
“Nah. It’s just that I admire the female form.”
“That’s the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard!” It could have come straight from one of the cheap p**n os.
“I’ll have you know I’m sincere, and I have plenty of artwork around my place that proves it.”
“Bunch of nudie posters?” Priss guessed.
“No, smart-ass. Real art.” He kept his back to her, but his ears lifted with his grin. “But, yeah, nudes.”
“Figures.” She pulled on the flannel and wrapped it around herself. She wasn’t really cold, but her skin prickled. Probably nerves. She had just escaped…something.
“Gotta tell you, sweet, a photo of you fresh from the shower would go real nice.”
Priss snorted. “If it’s a photo you want, you should ask Trace.” She was still rankled over that. “He’s holding on to one.”
“No shit?” Jackson half turned.
Now that she’d donned the clothes he gave her, she didn’t mind his attention. “Undercover, you said? As a cowboy in Ohio?”
“Whatever. It was workin’ just fine.” He went back to the fridge. “Who told you I look like a beach bum?”
He sounded irritated, but so what? His endless good humor was beginning to rub her the wrong way. “Molly.”
“Ahh. Nice gal.”
She looked at his bronzed shoulders and the deep grove of his spine down his back. “You gotta admit, you have the tan for it.”
“Most of it is natural coloring. Everyone in my family is dark.” He ran a hand over his head. “Despite the blond hair.”
“So you’re not a sunbather?”
“Never said that.” He cleared his throat. “You know Alani?”
“I know you two are sweet on each other.”
