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Maybe the itching in his hands was nothing more glamorous than the soothing powder he’d doused Lancelot with that morning. The wretched creature had sensitive skin and had been scratching so hard Van couldn’t concentrate.
His aunt had supervised the whole powder process that morning with a knowing look and a highly irritating smile. She thought he was worried about the dog. He just wanted some peace. Only some —
“What are you going to do about the dogs?”
“Hmm?” It took Van a moment to realize he was still in the wrong place to find any peace.
“You owe me.” She stalked toward him, waving a long, sinister chef’s knife in his direction.
“I — Give me that!” He snatched the knife away from her. The woman was a menace. “Give me that green pepper too. I’ll dice it.”
He whipped a glance toward the stove that would be used for the omelet. Good, it was electric. If it were gas, she’d probably blow them both up.
She was beating eggs now. “I said, you owe me.” The beating picked up speed and violence.
Van kept a wary eye on Mary as he chopped, although, really, how much damage could she do with eggs? Even now, only a few globules had flown out of the bowl to festoon the counter.
Actually, he wished for more. Those few little globules weren’t nearly enough distraction from the thoughtofher—globes.Hernice,round,warmones. The ones that would fit so perfectly in his hands, since he seemed to have hands on the brain.
Her — globes — were hidden from his view at the moment. They still filled his mind’s eye. He watched her hand whipping the eggs, and his gaze followed the motion up her arm, which led to the thought of luscious locomotion throughout the neighborhood of her chest ...
Ahem.
He did owe her. A man had to accept his responsibilities. And his dog’s responsibilities.
Van was even seeing a few advantages in that. He could get to know her. Maybe she wouldn’t be as dangerous to work with as he’d thought. He could refuse to tell her things he didn’t want her to know, couldn’t he? And just because they worked together on a book in an office didn’t mean they had to work all the time. Nor did it mean they had to stay in the office.
So what if he didn’t want to get involved? He needed a woman who thought the same way, that’s all. Well, not just any woman who thought the same way. He’d always been selective.
Maybe he should select this woman. As long as he was very careful. She wasn’t remotely like his usual sophisticated creatures, but there was something about her. There were a lot of somethings about her.
For instance, he could get really interested in stroking her silky blonde hair back from her peaches and cream face so he could memorize the curve of her jaw with his lips. And he mustn’t forget that exceptional stretch of legs. They would wrap around a man’s waist just so.
But he wouldn’t start there. He believed slow care, attention, anticipation, and exploration combined into the greatest aphrodisiac known to humankind. Where would he start?
Each one possibility lured him the way the smell of great coffee could make a man come running first thing in the morning.
Hewantedtoreacharoundherandcupherbreasts inhishandsandnuzzlethesoftskinatherneckwhile he fit her curves to his planes until he was in the perfect position to let his teeth nibble her ear, and then,slowly,gently,wraphismoutharoundherlobe. Itwouldtastesweetandsoftandfirm.Hewouldsipit withhismouth,nudgeitwithhisteeth,lethistongue explore ...
“Lancelot and Guinevere,” Mary said.
“Huh? Oh, yeah.”
What if Mary was falsely accusing his dog?
No, he didn’t think so. If she were making anything up, she’d have concocted something more believable than a Basset Hound jumping a six-foot fence to mate with a Saint Bernard.
Besides, Van just couldn’t see getting out of this situation that way. He’d have to prove Lancelot wasn’t the father. Or sire. Yeah, that was probably the right word for a dog.
Whatever you called the male in such an equation, Van could see only one way to prove the male beside the equal sign was not Lancelot. The indignity of a DNA swab would be the only defense against a pawturnity suit.
Van suddenly heard what he’d just thought. “Pawturnity suit!” He groaned with genuine pain. “Hey, that’s good. I can’t believe you said that.”
“I can’t either,” he said through clenched teeth. “If you ever tell anybody I did — ”
“I won’t tell anybody because you’re going to tell me I don’t have to launch a pawturnity suit to get justice for Guinevere. Unless you want to try to tell me Lancelot is fixed.”
Van dropped the chef’s knife with a clatter as his hands flew protectively to his crotch. “Of course not.”
