Only one thing to do. Ditch the drawers.
The evening was getting late, it was dark, people were drinking. Who’d notice if she switched into something sexy and her dress suddenly fit a little too tightly? Nobody, that’s who. And maybe doing it—getting ready for seduction, feeling the silky glide of lingerie against her most intimate parts—would get her in the mood to act on her plan to seduce him.
“Would you excuse me? I need to run inside for a minute.”
To pry off my underwear.
“Of course,” he said, releasing her. No argument, no suggestion that he go, too, so they could continue their dance in private. How—boring—refreshing.
Thrusting aside those thoughts, she turned away from him toward the house. But she hadn’t taken one step when she heard a woman nearby whisper in a loud, tipsy voice, “Whoa, mama, who’s that?”
Curious about the comment, which sounded as though it should have been accompanied by a purr, she glanced toward the gate, and her breath caught in her throat.
Anna stood there, and beside her was a stranger. A tall, dark-haired stranger, wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else.
The jeans looked good. The nothing, fantastic.
He was shirtless, shoeless, sweaty. His slick, tanned body gleamed under the twinkle lights, lines of oh-so-interesting skin striped with equally interesting shadow. His broad shoulders looked Atlas-size, and his thickly muscled arms flexed as he swiped a hand through his jet-black hair.
She couldn’t make out whether he was as handsome of face as he was of body. But she definitely noted that his six-pack abs were so perfect they ought to be sold in a liquor store and come with a warning label.
Whoa, mama, indeed.
“Mimi? Are you all right?”
She tore her attention off the stranger and glanced at Dimitri, who was watching her curiously.
“I’m fine,” she told Mr. Handsome.
But, heaven help her, she could not stop wondering about the identity of the new arrival.
Aka: Mr. Hot.
* * *
TALK ABOUT MAKING a bad first impression on his new neighbors. Not only was Xander McKinley so not the garden party type, but he was also bare-chested, sweaty and probably stunk from having lugged boxes all evening.
He had fully intended to stay inside tonight, to ignore the party going on in his new backyard. He was a stranger to these people, and while it had been nice of his landlady to extend the invitation, he hadn’t even considered intruding. He still hadn’t gotten his head wrapped around the whole Southern-gentility thing, since Georgia was like a different world from Chicago. But he knew it wasn’t mannerly to barge in on a party when the invite had only been extended out of politeness. So he’d planned to just finish hauling in the last of his stuff, which he’d picked up from the storage unit this afternoon, then unpack a few boxes and settle into his new home.
Unfortunately, settling in hadn’t included hooking his new key to his key ring. So when he’d run outside to grab one last thing out of the truck—sans shirt and shoes—he’d also found himself sans key. And locked out.
“I’m so sorry about this,” he repeated to his new landlady.
Anna waved away his apology. “I should think you’d know how to get in without a key, being a dashing firefighter and all.”
“I didn’t think you’d want me ramming the door down.”
“Best not. Anyway, it’s just as well, since it forced you to come out and meet everyone,” she said.
He gestured toward his sweaty, bare chest. “I’m not exactly dressed for a party.”
“Well, I won’t let you back into your place until you promise to come back after you’ve gotten cleaned up.”
“I don’t know….”
“I do. No more arguments.” The woman led him to a row of chairs in a gazebo, grabbing an oversized purse that was covered with peace signs and jingled with every movement. “I don’t have a key to your front door with me, but I have a master that fits all the secret doors.”
“Secret doors?”
“You probably didn’t notice it—every unit has one. The one in your unit is inside what’s now your bedroom closet. It leads into the screened porch.” She grabbed a jangling ring of keys and removed a small, antique-looking one. “Here it is. Go through the porch and head for the door in the far right corner.”
She gestured toward the porch, and he glanced over. There were about fifty people at the party, many of them milling around outside the back door, and he was going to have to go through all of them. Great. Wonderful. Note to self—don’t go out shirtless and shoeless unless you know you can get back in.
He reached for the key, but before he could take it, something caught his attention. Or, rather, someone.
He whistled. “Who is she?” he mumbled, not even realizing he’d said it out loud.
There were a lot of women here. Attractive women. The South definitely had its share of them. But this one actually made him forget where he was and what he was saying. He could only stand there, staring, as she walked toward the screened-in porch.
With her back to the decorated lawn and woods, she was almost haloed by the thousands of tiny lights. She looked like some kind of magical creature stepping out of a storybook, and he had to blink a few times to rid his mind of the imagery.
He could shake off the magic, but no amount of blinking could change the fact that she was stunning. Or that she looked like she belonged to the night—to nature and the woods and everything mystical.
The woman was tall. Her silky dress was long and shimmery, the color of soft, springy moss, and it clung to a curvy body that would make a man drop to his knees and howl. Her thick hair fell down her back in a tumble of waves and was a mixture of earthy colors—mostly red, but with some gold and brown strewn in there as well. He couldn’t make out her features in this lighting and from this distance, but he saw a mouth curved up into a smile.
He’d thought earlier how hot it was for a summer night. But he hadn’t even understood the meaning of the word until he’d spied her across the party. Because a blast of heat had hit him square in the chest just watching her cross the lawn.
“That’s Mimi Burdette.” His landlady smiled, her gaze shifting back and forth between him and the redhead, who’d disappeared into the screened porch. “Would you like me to introduce you when you come back?”
Oh, hell to the yeah. But something made him ask, “Is she here alone?”
“She’s single,” the woman replied without hesitation. “Totally available.”
Hard to believe, but everybody had a down spell now and then. “Interesting,” he said, more to himself than to Anna.
He hadn’t even been thinking about meeting a woman; the idea of romance was so far down on his list it wasn’t on the first page. New job, new home, new state, fresh start—yeah, that was his focus. Having nothing left in Chicago, he’d moved south, determined to make sure he did what he’d promised his parents he’d do before they’d both died last year—go out and start over somewhere new. Find a life for himself. One that didn’t include sadness and loss and family responsibilities that had kept him close to home for nearly all of his thirty years.
Hell, maybe a woman could be part of that new life. Just because he hadn’t been looking didn’t mean he should walk the other way if an interesting one crossed his path. And an interesting one had most definitely just crossed his path.
“Mimi, huh?” The name was too cute for such a sensual-looking woman and he had to wonder if it was a nickname.
“She’s fabulous,” Anna gushed. “Daughter to a grocery store magnate. Very wealthy and successful.”
Oh, great. Just the type of woman he did not need. He stiffened, unable to help it.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like rich people. He made it a point to never judge anyone based on their checkbook balance, be it written in red ink or in black. It was just that, working as a Chicago firefighter, he had met more than a few wealthy wome
n who wanted to walk on the wild side with somebody who had a dangerous job. He’d once participated in a bachelor auction to benefit a kids’ charity. The Junior League set had treated all the men like meat in a butcher shop. The sixtyish cougar who’d bought a date with him hadn’t quite reached the level of sexual assault, but she’d come close, and he’d sworn he’d never date a woman with money. Rich, spoiled and young probably wasn’t too much different from rich, spoiled and old. So forget her.
“Thanks, but I don’t think so,” he said, disappointment flooding him. Anna’s brow shot up, and confusion creased her brow. Not wanting to explain, Xander added, “And thanks for the key. I’ll return it soon.”
“Okay, see you in a little while.” Then, clearing her throat, Anna added, “Remember, through the screen porch, to the small, old-fashioned door in the far left corner.”
Left? Yeesh. Good thing she’d repeated herself—he’d been thinking right. Or, more accurately, he hadn’t been thinking right…not since he’d spied that stunning figure in green.
Xander nodded, then headed for the porch. There were at least a dozen people inside. He didn’t see a reddish head, but he probably would once he stepped into the shadowy alcove. Despite having decided that some rich Southern belle whose looks clawed at his guts wasn’t on his shortlist of people to meet, he couldn’t deny he wanted to see her close up. Mainly he wanted to see her eyes. Were they green, the same mossy shade as her dress? Or a rich amber-brown?
Or maybe they’re pinched, cold, bloodshot.
That would probably be a good thing. Because then he would see she wasn’t as attractive as he imagined, but just a normal, rich, bored, jaded young woman. Not some magical fantasy creature spun out of summer moonlight.
As it turned out, though, he didn’t get the chance to see her up close. Because, as he made his way across the screened porch, he realized she wasn’t inside. She must have slipped back out when he wasn’t looking.
Smiling and nodding at the several people who said hello, he headed for the back left corner. The door was tiny, as Anna had warned, and was nearly hidden by a large, potted plant. Sliding the key into the old-fashioned lock, he entered, seeing a small, dark passage before him.
Inside, clothes hung in front of his face—more felt than seen, since it was so dark. He must have hung up more things than he’d remembered, because the closet was more full than he’d expected. Of course, it could just seem that way because he was coming in from this side angle.
He pushed past his things, noting the soft, delicate scent in the air. Whoever had rented this place before him must have left behind some sachet or air freshener—his clothes sure didn’t smell like the flowery stuff that filled his every breath.
Reaching the doors that led to his new bedroom, he saw one was slightly ajar, and that the room beyond was well-lit. Strange. He didn’t remember putting a bulb in the new lamp he’d picked up for his bedside table.
He had just put up his hand to push the door the rest of the way open, when he heard a voice.
“Soft and pretty, sultry and sexy or hot and raunchy?”
He froze. That voice had come from his bedroom, and he knew damn well he hadn’t even hooked up a TV or radio, much less left it turned on.
“What’s it going to take to turn you on?”
Sexy voices of strange women standing in my bedroom would be his first answer. Though, why said strange woman would be in his bedroom, he had no idea. Had a pair of guests crept inside, thinking to slip into what had been an empty unit until earlier today, to grab a midparty quickie?
“Do you like what you see?” she purred.
He waited for a male voice to answer, but heard nothing. Miss Purrs-A-Lot was either talking to herself, or the guy she was with had been struck mute while he tried to decide between pretty, sexy or raunchy.
Frankly, so had Xander. All he could wonder was if there was an option D, for “all of the above.”
Well, he’d also been struck mute by the realization that he was playing the role of voyeur in this sexy drama.
“I somehow suspect you’ll like pretty and soft, not sexy,” she said, her voice a little less throaty, a little less wicked. In fact, she sounded almost…disappointed. Which lent credence to his theory that she was entirely alone.
He rubbed his forehead, racking his brain to figure this out. A voice was coming from his bedroom. A female voice. A throaty, attractive female voice. A throaty, attractive female voice talking about something very sexy. To herself.
Wondering if he’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in a male fantasyland, or was being set up for some kind of X-rated Punk’d episode, he pushed the door open another inch and looked into the room. He couldn’t see far, because his line of sight was blocked by the woman staring at her reflection in the mirror on the other—closed—closet door. Yep. She had definitely been talking to herself; to her reflection, anyway.
Then he realized…it was her. The redhead whose eyes, he now saw, were so blue they looked violet. The one in the green dress. Only, now, she wasn’t wearing that green dress. She was—holy shit—nearly naked.
The long strands of her red hair had fallen forward over her soft, bare shoulders, covering much of a lacy black bra. And covering the curves that bra was covering.
Too bad.
No, it’s not, jackass. Because he didn’t know if his heart could have taken seeing what he suspected was an utterly perfect pair of breasts. Just spying the rest of her body was enough to rob him of breath. And coherent thought.
The hair played peek-a-boo with the bra. But below that was nothing but smooth, soft-looking, pale, feminine skin. Miles and miles of it.
Her bare midriff drew his eyes downward, to the indentation of her small waist, then the flare of her hips. Those hips were covered by two thin straps of silky fabric—dark green, lacy—that descended into a V of shimmery material that covered her groin. Long, supple legs went on forever, or to the floor, ending in a pair of sexy, spike-heeled black shoes.
“So I guess a thong might be overdoing it,” she said.
A thong could never overdo it in his book.
“Too bad. This thing doesn’t look too shabby,” she said with a sigh. She turned, glancing at her reflection, checking out the rear view.
Oh, man, what a view. The strip-of-fabric-pretending-to-be-underwear slid between two delectable cheeks, and Xander nearly choked, sure he’d never seen a more perfect ass.
Suddenly realizing what he was doing—playing Peeping Tom—he slammed his eyes shut. Sure, the woman had decided to come into his bedroom to do her lingerie assessment, for some weird reason, but that didn’t mean he should stand here in the dark like some perv, squirming to catch a peek.
He tried to figure out what to do. How did one handle this type of situation? Should he go back the way he’d come, hoping she wouldn’t hear him, then go tell his landlady that some chick with a great ass and a Godiva complex was trespassing in his place? Or maybe he ought to get out there and confront her before her boyfriend showed up to decide whether he liked her thong? He hadn’t even slept in his brand-new bed himself yet; he sure didn’t want another couple christening it.
Especially not if the other couple was that woman and any other man on the planet than himself.
He could have answered one question for her—yes, oh, hell, yes on her current underwear. If the guy was straight and breathing, he’d like the damn thong. In fact, as for himself, well, he couldn’t think about much except how much he wanted to tug that shiny green fabric out from between those luscious curves. With his teeth.
You gotta get out of here.
Yeah. Pronto.
Even though the lighting was low in the closet, and he couldn’t see well, he knew he’d have to at least open his eyes to make sure he didn’t poke himself in the face with a hanger. So he risked a peek, opening just the left one. He hadn’t turned away from the crack in the door, so he got a full-on image of what she was up to.
She was up to d
ropping her panties.
“Whoa, stop right there!” he barked, not even having made the decision to reveal himself. Instinct just propelled him out into the bedroom.
She let out a little scream, and he opened his mouth to tell her he wasn’t some kind of attacker. But before he could speak, and before she could dive for her clothes or dart for the door, his foot caught the edge of the dresser, and he fell flat on the floor, landing right at her sexy feet.
And looking up at a most interesting view.
ISBN: 9781459238039
Copyright © 2012 by Lisa Renee Jones
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Lisa Renee Jones, Watch Me
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