by Mimi Riser
* * * *
Mmm, what a comfortable spot…
Still half asleep, Sharon didn’t know where she was, and didn’t care. She felt warm and cozy, and that was all that mattered at the moment. A brief moment.
Too brief.
Peace receded as her memory swept relentlessly in, like an ocean tide. She opened her eyes, and saw a green jersey barely an inch away.
Huh?
Shit.
She’d been sleeping curled up against Rory’s side—with her head on his shoulder no less.
Ack!
She scrabbled away.
“Enjoy your little rest, did you?” He smiled at her with what seemed to Sharon an uncalled for amount of goodwill.
“Why don’t you take a long walk off a short pier,” she grumbled.
“Ah, we must’ve woken up cranky from our nap. What a pity. And sleeping so sweet and peaceful we were, too.” His crooning tone oozed with sticky honey coated mockery.
“Oh, go to—”
“Don’t say it,” he warned, a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.
“—Helsinki!” Sharon sang out, feeling an invigorating rush of rebellion. “You can’t punish me for saying that, now can you, Rory Egan?”
“I could if I’ve got a grudge against Finland maybe.”
“Do you?”
“No, actually.”
“Then put a sock in it.” She met his black glare with a look of triumph—then grabbed for the dashboard as he swerved the car off the road, braking to a screeching halt.
“It’s said that there are two ways to tame a willful wench.” His low voice sent shivers down her spine. Hot shivers.
“Hadn’t we better keep rolling? It’s getting late.” She edged away from him until her back hit the car door. She considered opening it and running, but knew he could catch her. “I…I thought you wanted to get home before dark…” The words trailed off into a nervous gulp as she noted the determined set to his features, the fiery glitter in his eyes. He reminded her of a jungle cat who, with victory certain, bides its time before moving in for the kill.
“I’ve already tried one method,” he continued, acting as if she hadn’t said a thing. “Without much success. Apparently.” Stealthily he closed the gap between them until Sharon could feel his warm breath on her face as he spoke. “So…”
So? So? Get on with it, for godssake! The suspense was killing her.
“What are you going to do?” she rasped out.
As if she couldn’t guess.
Help…
“Shut you up once and for all.” With one smooth move he pulled her to him and captured her mouth.
Wham!
Sharon had experienced some lip-locks before, but never one like this. It rocked her like an earthquake, reduced her to rubble. Sweet destruction. Her senses reeled. Whatever his failings, you had to give Rory points for expertise. He might be a bastard—but, hot damn, the guy could kiss!
Eat your heart out, Oliver Winthrop III.
Rory took kissing to a whole new level, took her into orbit, flew her to the moon. He sizzled all her circuits and left her dazed and panting for breath. Panting for more.
Gasp…
It took Sharon a moment to realize that he had, in fact, left her. The motion and sound of the car clued her in to that pertinent detail. Rory was back in the driver’s seat; they were back on the road. And she was back to hating him.
His crime?
He rattled her to the core.
And couldn’t even finish what he’d started! She’d been ready for anything just now, ready to go all the way.
Groan.
She’d never be able to live it down—never guessed that such a simple thing as a kiss could be so…so…
Oh hell, she should have known that nothing was simple where Rory Egan was concerned. Impossible man. He’d humiliated her beyond endurance, stripped away her last shred of pride.
He chuckled.
He would.
“Well, well…so you’re finally at a loss for words.” He said it gently, actually, without a trace of ridicule. But that didn’t let him off the hook.
How dare he look so smooth and unruffled after what he did! That kiss obviously meant nothing to him. He’d just been proving his power—and her lack of the same.
Fine. Then she’d concede this match to him. But if he ever tried it again, she’d kick his nuts from here to Kalamazoo. To him, apparently, this was a game.
To Sharon it was now war.
Through narrowed eyes she glared at his profile as her imagination ran rampant over the multitude of atrocities she wished would happen to him—anything to wipe that smug expression off his face. As if sensing the stormy vibrations directed at him, Rory unexpectedly turned his head, meeting her eyes. A broad grin slashed a bright white line between his arrogant nose and chin.
“If looks could injure, I’ve a suspicion I’d be lying torn and mangled this very instant,” he remarked, as though he were merely commenting on the weather.
Speaking of which, where was a thunderbolt when she needed one?
Laughter sounded—his—while Sharon scooted as far away from him as was possible in the cramped confines of the compact car.
