Hitched (Roman Holiday 2)

“Okay, well, all I was trying to say is that we should get this stuff all out in the open. Like, I should probably tell you that I’m not currently involved with anybody. There was a guy with the nonprofit in Bolivia, Chad, but he came back to the States a few weeks before I did, and anyway he wasn’t all that in the sack. Not bad on oral, but—”

“Ashley,” he interrupted. “I’m not interested in your sexual exploits.”

The extra emphasis he bestowed to the word interested gave her a thrill. “So you’re saying you’re not available?”

“I’m saying you have no sexual interest in me. You’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“You’re provoking me, and you’re totally shameless about it. Are you even capable of subtlety?”

“I tried to hit on a guy subtly once. He took my best friend home. So the next time, I just shoved my breasts in his face. That worked a lot better.”

“I can imagine.”

“Oh, you like my breasts?”

He rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded like it might have been “Completely without shame.”

“Makes for interesting sex.”

“Stop with the sex talk. I’m taken.”

“By Carmen.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to see the woman who could take you. I bet she wears leather. Binds you to the headboard, and then straps on—”

“Jesus,” he said, and she laughed, unable to help herself. He was such an excellent straight man, his face a mask of disgust. “I should have left you on that tree.”

“Probably. But instead you rescued me when I fainted. You’re my hero now.”

“I didn’t rescue you. I tossed you over my shoulder like a sack of cornmeal.”

“You did?”

“How did you think I got you into the office?”

“I assumed you cradled me tenderly in your arms.”

That made him snort, and one corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah, right.”

“Admit it, Díaz. You had dirty thoughts when I was unconscious.”

“I did. I thought, ‘Díos mio, this jeba is filthy.’ ”

He didn’t just say the Spanish words. He spoke the whole sentence as though he were, briefly, the Miami Cuban he looked like—slow, drawling, with a girls-can’t-resist-me machismo and a decent facsimile of a disreputable smile.

So decent, in fact, that it sort of worked, if the chagrin-drenched stab of arousal between her legs was to be believed.

Damn. Damn.

Roman put on his blinker. “I’m stopping for gas.”

And because she couldn’t quite manage to locate a witty comeback, Ashley simply said, “Fine by me.”

When he cut the engine, she jumped out and made for the bathroom, telling herself that her knees were weak and her pulse too fast because of the ordeal she’d been through. Two nights on a palm tree would mess a girl up, even if she’d grabbed a shower, some snacks, and two naps.