BRENT WILLIAMS
Brent hadn't been mistaken. She was a goddess. Her face looked somehow familiar: heart-shaped with long cheekbones, a pert nose, and eyes the color of brandy. Maybe she was a model. Or social influencer.
Maybe he'd died and gone to heaven and she was his personal angel in paradise.
She noticed him. Her stare was intelligent, exacting, and...did he see a flash of emotion? Anger? What could he have done to piss her off?
You mean besides ogling her, you jerk?
The heat of embarrassment crept up his neck. He cleared his throat. "Uh. Hi."
She walked toward him with a sashay so confident, so sexy, he almost swallowed his tongue.
"Number Seventy-One, right?"
Number 71? "I don't play sports. Professionally. I counsel. Kids." He tried to pry his gaze from her breasts. Damn, they were beautiful, tender mounds. The most perfect set of—
"They don't do tricks and they don't respond to questions posed to them."
Brent looked at her. She looked amused and annoyed. Her smile was rueful. And familiar. "I apologize. I'm just...I've never—"
"Seen a woman's breasts?"
"I've seen breasts. Lots of them." And I'd love to see yours.
One thin-plucked eyebrow rose. "Really? Do tell."
He groaned as his face flamed. She made him feel like he was twelve-years-old again, trying to convince Marly Hayes to kiss him on the mouth. She didn't, either. She hauled off and punched him, just like this woman would, if he didn't stop thinking with his dick.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I don't usually act so—so—"
"Lustful?"
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He meant it, too. He'd never been this taken by a lady at first sight. He enjoyed the fairer sex, loved their bodies and their minds and their hearts, but not one, not one, had ever affected him this way.
"Well, Number Seventy-One, I figured you for slicker moves. Not an original line."
"It's not a line. It's the God's honest truth." He frowned. "Why do you keep calling me Number Seventy-One?"
"Your apartment number. I saw you come out of it earlier. Dane Sinclair, right?" She shrugged. "I just moved here. I live in the building across from yours."
Something weird flickered in his belly. Not lust. Suspicion. She's been watching the apartment? She knew Dane's name, but not his face?
"You know a lot for someone who just moved here."
Her gaze flicked away, then returned. "I saw you and I asked about you."
Suspicion faded under her smoky stare. He wanted, more than he wanted his next breath, to taste those full, wet lips. "You, uh, asked someone about the guy living in my building?"
"Yeah. The apartment manager liked my breasts, too." She sighed, apparently at the shallowness of men, then grinned, that same rueful curving of the lips that made his blood thicken with instant lust. She stepped closer and her scent, a musky smell with the faint tint of chlorine, filtered into his senses. "Is it a crime to ask after a good-looking man? Am I supposed to twitter and giggle and bat my lashes waiting for you to notice me?"
"God no. I'd be your willing captive if you'd only ask." Brent shook his head. "But I'm not Dane. I'm just staying at his apartment for a day or two."
Surprise flickered in her gaze. "I thought I saw a girl going in that apartment yesterday. Is that his girlfriend or yours?"
"His. Definitely his. I'm unattached. So available my mother is ashamed. She tells her friends I'm dead rather than admit I'm single. Do you want to marry me and remedy that?"
She laughed, her gaze dark with amusement and...what else? Disappointment? The bare edge of desire? Brent watched the movement of her slender throat, the tilt of her head as she looked at him. "What's your name?"
"Brent."
"Lillian." She extended her hand and he took it.
Her fingers were damp, slightly chilled from the water, but he felt like he'd been electrocuted. She looked at their clasped hands and frowned, then carefully withdrew, staring at her palm as if touching him had left a mark on her skin.
She'd left a mark on him. He felt seared to the bottom of his soul. This kind of desire was almost painful. "Do you want to go get a bite to eat?"
"I'd like that." The smile again. The one he wanted to kiss right off her mouth. "But I'm not on the menu, okay?"
He grinned. Maybe not the main course, but they'd just see about dessert.
***|***|***|***|***
MARISSA VANDERSON
TUESDAY LOOKED OKAY for a guy with a three-legged Great Dane collapsed on top of him. He was in the middle of the living room, spread-eagled on the floor, trying, in quiet tones, to convince his new pal to get up. The dog licked his face.
"Whew! Three-week-old garbage smells better than his breath." The Dane lapped Tuesday's forehead and nose. "Damn, girl, get this monster some doggy mints, will you?" His gaze found Marissa's. "This isn't part of my job description. I want a raise."
She sat on the couch with two cats and a trembling, long-haired creature that was some breed of miniature dog. For all her desire to have pets, she knew very little about them. Smiling at Tuesday, she said, "I'll give you another thousand dollars if you let Dane, Jr. sit on you, okay?"
"Quit calling him that!" yelled Dane from the kitchen. "You are not naming any furballs after me. Especially that one."
"Fine. I'll call him DJ."
"Marissa! You will not call—ouch!" Dishes clattered followed by human thuds. "Tell this cat my toes are not for nibbling."
Nibbling? Something truly risqué popped into her mind involving nibbling, herself, and Dane, but she managed to hold her tongue. She didn't want to embarrass herself in front of Tuesday by blurting out her fantasies.
The cats settled deeper into her lap, purring, as she petted their soft fur.
Well, soft, after she, Dane and Tuesday had bathed them. All the animals had received a thorough cleaning in the backyard, though almost all of them complained about it. Despite the loss of a back leg, the Dane ran well and fast—especially when chased by a water hose and two irate men.
Fluffy leapt off the couch, vibrated more than walked to Tuesday, and plopped onto his neck. DJ lifted his head from Tuesday's chest and licked the little furball fur.
Dane walked into the living room and Marissa's gaze immediately went to him. He'd donned a pair of khaki shorts and a tan-striped shirt.
Earlier, during what he'd dubbed Animal Hell With Water, he'd worn cut-off jeans and, gulp, no shirt...