"Then we'd better go inside."
"I'm going inside. You're leaving."
"I want a drink, and from the looks of it, you could use one."
He casually slid open the patio door. "After you," he said courteously, stepping aside. Because she was chilled to the bone and because she wanted to put on more clothes as quickly as possible, she swept past him and reentered her bedroom.
"Where's the kitchen?"
"I asked you to leave, Mr. Tyler."
"You don't want a drink?" He dropped into the upholstered easy chair in the corner and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee. "Okay. We'll dispense with the drinks and start our discussion here and now."
It was hard to maintain her dignity, much less her belligerent insistence that he leave, when her teeth were chattering and her hair was dripping icy rivulets of water onto her shoulders and chest. His eyes kept straying to her breasts. Devon was keenly aware that her rigid nipples were making impressions against the thick terry cloth.
"It's a small house," she said scornfully. "I'm sure you can find the kitchen on your own."
Smiling, he rolled out of the chair. Standing only inches from her, he cupped his hand around her shoulder and used his thumb to whisk drops of water off the slope of her breast. In a low, stirring voice he said, "I like you wet."
To demonstrate her immunity to him, she slammed the door in his wake. He would never know that because of his touch her knees were about to liquefy. She dropped the towel, peeled off the swim trunks, and vigorously toweled herself. She dressed in a two-piece velour lounger, because it was quick, convenient, and warm. It also covered her from neck to ankle. Not wanting to take the time to dry her hair, she fashioned a turban out of a towel.
The lamps in the living room had been turned on, and Lucky was surveying her compact-disc library. When he heard her come in, he turned his head.
Their gazes locked. Seconds ticked off ponderously while they continued to stare at each other as if mesmerized.
Devon could remember things about him, small things that only a lover would know, yet he was a complete stranger to her. Suddenly, and with a degree of desperation that shocked her, she realized she was greedy for information. She wanted to know every trivial detail of Lucky Tyler's life.
All she really knew about him was that he adhered to a code of chivalry that had almost disappeared in contemporary America, that he had a keen sense of humor and a pair of startling blue eyes, and that his touch could set her on fire. She couldn't easily dismiss from her mind what had passed between them on their night together … even though she had no choice but to try and forget it. His expression told her that he was also finding it impossible to forget.
At last he said, "All I could find was beer." He was drinking his from the bottle, but on the faux marble block she used as a coffee table, he'd set a cold beer and a glass. She acknowledged her drink with a thank you, but made no move toward it. "Don't you want it?"
"What I want, Mr. Tyler, is to know why you think you can so grossly invade my privacy." She complimented herself on sounding imperious and cool.
"Is that what I've done?"
"What else would you call it? You've harassed me at my office, and trespassed on my private property."
"So why haven't you called the police?"
He was also a cocky bastard, she decided. He knew why she hadn't called the police. His knowing smile grated on her. Forgetting to be cool, she raised her voice. "Why did you follow me home?"
"Because I'm not finished with you."
"Well, that's just too damn bad, Mr. Tyler, because I was finished with you the minute—"
"You left my bed?"
She fell silent.
He took advantage of her speechlessness. "Is that why you stayed with me that night? Were you that hard up for a man? Would any man have done?"
"No, no, and no!"
He responded
as though she had said yes. "Then, in the morning, once I'd done stud duty for you, you figured it was all right to sneak out."
"You're wrong," she said, stubbornly shaking her head. "I won't even honor that with a denial."