egs.
She fought hard. Slapped. Kicked. Cried and shouted and called him names.
Well, he could hardly blame her but holy hell, he was exhausted and irritable. Most of all, he seemed to have forgotten how to think straight. He’d had it with trying to figure out if she was what Hamilton claimed or if she was something else.
Mostly he’d had it with trying to figure out how come he kept kissing this woman when so much pointed to her being bad news.
How come the feel of her skin under his hands was getting to him, even now?
The smell of her hair, too. That flower scent…
He had her down to her bra and panties. Enough, his weary brain said, and for once, he listened to it and let her go.
“Okay,” he said grimly. “My turn.”
He started to peel off his shirt. She gave a shocked sob and whirled toward the door.
“For heaven’s sake,” he snarled, and turned the lock. Then he picked her up and put her in the shower. She’d have to make it past him, if she made another break for freedom, and no way was he about to let that happen.
He tossed his shirt aside. Unzipped his jeans. Stepped out of them. Looked down at his Jockeys and decided to leave them on because as tired and angry as he was, he knew he was still on the edge of her having a predictable effect on him.
Then he stepped into the shower and closed the smoked glass door.
Mia shrank back. The look on her face almost made him laugh. The one time he’d stayed here, in a guest suite, the official who’d owned the house woke the place early in the morning with the kind of scream no grown man should make.
Everybody had come running.
They’d found the guy in this very shower stall, his back tight to the wall, a snake the size of the Amazon curled in the middle of the floor.
The way the guy had looked then was exactly the way Mia looked now.
Matthew reached past her. She all but bared her teeth. He plucked a bar of soap from the built-in shelf, made a point of showing it to her, then reached for a couple of washcloths.
She didn’t move.
Okay. Let her play it her way.
He lathered one of the cloths, scrubbed the dust and sweat of the day and the road from his face, then from his body.
Mia watched, the way he figured an anthropologist would watch a tribal ritual.
He reached for the shampoo. Worked up a good lather. Rinsed off, but not the way he liked to, head back, eyes closed, because closing his eyes on the woman sharing this enclosed space would probably win him a knee in the groin.
Finished, he held out the soap and the other washcloth.
Mouth set, eyes narrowed, she took what he offered with no thanks. Rubbed the soap on the cloth. Began washing. Her face. Her throat. Her arms. And all the while, the water sluiced down on her skin, tiny drops beading on the swell of her breasts above her bra.
That plain white, demure, completely unseductive bra.
It was soaked. And translucent. Matthew could see her nipples.
His gaze dropped lower. Her panties were soaked with water, too. The dark shadow of the curls on her mons was clearly visible.
And, the scent of the soap…
How come it didn’t smell like that on him?
He shifted his weight. Get out of the shower, Matthew, his head told him. Right now, you idiot. Right now!