"Excuse me, dollface, you’re in my seat."
Dollface? You’ve got to be kidding me. Frannie craned her
neck to look up at the man who had spoken. The toffee-rich
voice should have warned her that the owner was sinfully
delicious, but she didn’t expect to find Heaven peering
down at her. Intense black eyes caressed her with frank
appraisal and amusement. Her spine tingled with the wicked
perusal.
Hot day-um, he’s as fine as homemade wine.
Before standing, Frannie fumbled in her purse for her
ticket receipt. The dark-haired stranger towered over her,
not moving an inch, and she felt trapped—seat to her front,
seat to her back and sex appeal to her side. What a spot to
be stuck in! First class might have more leg room and wider
seats but when a large hunk of manly goodness was nearly in
your lap, there wasn’t much room to turn around. If she
wasn’t so grumpy, she might have appreciated the limited
view.
Checking the seat assignment, she shook her head. "No, I’m
in the right seat."
"That can’t be right. Let me see your ticket."
Great, entitled beefcake attitude. First he thinks I’m a
seat thief and now he’s calling me a liar, or worse,
illiterate.
"I can read, but here, see for yourself."
She tossed the receipt at him. Having gone forward and
backward through three time zones in forty-eight hours
along with two layovers, all she wanted was a bath, some
hot food and a soft bed. Her feet ached, her underwire
poked her ribs and she felt as wilted as a prom corsage
three days after the dance. Her mood was ripe for a fight.
He examined her ticket as if it were a map to a hidden
treasure. A sparkle lit his eyes and he smiled over the
wrinkled receipt, one thick black brow arched in smug
delight. "Houston, we have a problem. This is an e-ticket.
I purchased mine the old-fashioned way. It appears a
computer goof assigned us the same seat."
Smugness, thy name is…whatever McHottie’s name is.
Her last nerve frayed, Frannie couldn’t help it. His claim
of the obvious sent her over the edge. Hand to her chest,
she quipped in her deepest drawl, "Lawdy-be, what powers of
deduction you have there, Sherlock. And all without your
Captain Marvel Decoder Ring! Be still, my beating heart."
Chuckling, he leaned closer and purred, "So do you want top
or bottom?"
"Top or bottom of what?" He couldn’t mean the seat. It
sounded as if he was flirting with her. That couldn’t be
right. She was plain old Frannie, the girl next door, the
best friend of your girlfriend, the sensible shoe in the
stiletto aisle.
"Of the seat," he confirmed, handing her back the ticket.
Zings and zaps shot up her arm as his finger stroked hers
with deliberate intention. She snatched her hand away,
earning a wink. "I prefer the bottom with you on my lap,
but if you want the bottom, I don’t mind."
He eyed her with lusty consideration and Frannie decided on
the spot he was crazy. Not just a little loony but flat-out
nutso.
"Uhm, no. I was here first and possession is nine-tenths of
the law. Go find another seat."
One palm smoothing her skirt over her butt, she intended to
claim her seat but he caught her arm and swung her into the
aisle. Before she could blink, she was perched on his lap.
In her seat! Her overtired brain short-circuited and
blanked out her thoughts. Only two things registered. Her
feet did not touch the floor and her ass was planted snugly
on his zipper. His fingers reached up and traced the curve
of her jaw while her brain rebooted and fired up.
"I always get what I want and I want this seat. I like it.
It has a wonderful view." Low and seductive, tinged with a
slight flavor of the Deep South, his voice caressed her
skin. "We don’t need two seats. We can share."
She would have leapt off his lap but he held her fast with
a strong arm across her waist. An angry burn started in her
throat and shot to her scalp. "Mister, if you want to keep
that arm, you’ll let go of me right now and get out of my
seat."
It took a bit of a shove but she freed herself from his
embrace and leapt into the aisle. Only a wiggle-step back
prevented his hand from cupping her elbow once more. Her
lips parted to tell him where to shove his caveman demeanor
when a savior appeared in the guise of a flight attendant
with too much Botox.
A false smile pasted on her face, Frannie explained the
situation to the plastic Barbie-looking woman who promptly
rolled her eyes.
"Not again. I hate that computer. Sir, if you’ll follow me,
I can get this straightened out." The attendant turned and
walked back to the cabin, fully expecting the dark-haired
man to follow in her hip-jiggling steps.
Frannie plopped her fanny into the vacated seat, attempting
to ignore the warmth left from his body, and smirked up at
him. Neener neener neener. She expected to find anger on
the man’s face. Instead she found barely concealed
laughter. He raked his hand through ebony hair and cocked
that annoying brow at her once more. Hard muscles strained
at the sleeves of his polo as he crossed his arms, shaking
his head at her. An indulgent smile curved his lips.
"Pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you?"
"Yep." Her own brows raised in exaggerated haughtiness, she
settled comfortably, making sure to snuggle her fanny
deeper into the seat. "I just love squashing the arrogant
claims of overly pompous playboys."
"And just which claim do you think you squashed?"
"The claim you always get what you want. You may have
wanted this seat, but my ass is in it now."
"Okay, I’ll take it."
She frowned. "Take what?"
"Your ass. I do always get what I want and I’ve decided I
want you."
Her jaw dropped at his absolute gall. His gaze was too
personal, his voice too intimate, his manner too
pushy. "My, we are stuck on ourselves, aren’t we? Better
run along now and find that new seat. Preferably in the
baggage hold."
She waved her hand in a "shoo fly" motion. Sir Boss-a-lot,
you are dismissed.
He threw back his head and let loose a hearty laugh before
bowing and snatching her hand for an exaggerated European
kiss on her knuckles.
"Farewell, dollface, ’til we meet again."
"Go away. We’ll never meet again."
"Wrong," he whispered before turning his back on her and
following the attendant. Sputtering in speechless fury,
Frannie turned to watch his tight buns clad in faded jeans
walk down the aisle. What an ass! And dayum, what an ass.
She was shaken from her stupefaction by her real seatmate
claiming his place beside her. As soon as the takeoff was
complete, the gray-haired Asian man began frantically
typing on a laptop. No conversation needed. Determined to
put the McHottie encounter out of her mind, Frannie opened
her computer and tried to work. It wasn’t long before the
columns of numbers blurred. When it took her three tries to
get the math right, she gave up and leaned back against the
seat.
Lawd, I’m tired. She’d nearly dozed off when the hair on
her neck rose and her heart beat faster. Turning in her
seat, she peered behind her and found McHottie staring at
her with those coal-black bedroom eyes. Three rows back and
across the aisle, he winked and blew her a kiss. In a burst
of immaturity, she stuck her tongue out at him then huffed
back into her seat, earning a reprimanding look from the
little Asian man.
For the rest of the flight, she refused to turn around.
Even when she had to pee, she crossed her legs rather than
walk past him. Instead, she spent the long, quiet hours in
a daydream state picturing herself with the dark-haired man
in various sensual yet torturous scenes.
The corners of her mouth tilted in a wicked smile as she
imagined him hung by his feet over an anthill, golden slick
honey smeared over his bare body. She could see the thick,
sweet gel spread across his bare back. It glistened on his
hard muscular chest, smoothed over broad, straight
shoulders, coated solid thighs. An ache in her sweet tooth
echoed between her legs. All during the return flight, she
allowed her mind to frolic with images of his delicious
torture, every last one of a sensual, sexual nature. By the
time the landing gear opened, her panties were soaked
through and she was in desperate need of her vibrator.
Instead she contented herself with touching up her makeup
and fluffing her drab brown hair. She’d tried dyeing it
once but the red highlights made her look orange. Too pale
to pull off a dark chestnut, she also had no wish to be a
blonde, so mousey brown it would stay. It was cut in a
great no-nonsense brush-n-go style. No two-hour morning
routine for her.
With a sigh, she contemplated her eyes, wishing they were
any color other than plain old medium brown. Unfortunately,
she had twenty-twenty vision and never needed contacts.
Purchasing something just to change her eye color seemed
overly vain. Besides, it would be like adding a teaspoon of
dirt to Mt. Everest—too little change to make a difference.
The tiny mirror caught a brief flash of dark hair and
darker eyes and she snapped the compact shut. Why would
someone as sexy as McHottie bother flirting with a Plain
Jane? His kind never had before unless they wanted
something. She had nothing he would want. She was grilled
cheese to his smoked salmon, vanilla to his triple fudge
chunk. No, men as sexy as McHottie didn’t flirt with women
like her. Beautiful people flocked to each other. The men
she attracted were just like her—sensible, steady, pleasant
and boring.
She wasn’t ugly, just normal. Normal build, normal height,
and maybe ten pounds overweight according to those stupid
women’s magazines where everyone looked anorexic. That was
okay. She liked to eat more than once a full moon. Those
ten extra pounds she could deal with if it meant her
breasts weren’t microscopic. Small but firm, they suited
her frame just fine, and when she wanted more, she had
Vicki Secret’s super-duper, ultra-padded pushup bras.
Still lost in her personal musings, Frannie gathered her
things and stood to exit the plane. Her head connected to
something very hard with a loud crack. McHottie’s chin.
Wiping a small dab of blood from his lip, he sighed as she
rubbed the small knot forming on her skull.
"Careful, dollface. You don’t have to attack me."
"I didn’t ask you to stick your face over my head."
"I’d stick my face any place you like." His voice was
husky, private, meant only for her ears. A jolt of longing
made her wet panties grow warm again. She jerked away,
making a mental note to buy extra batteries soon. Luckily,
her Asian seatmate wormed his way between them as she made
her escape. She filed McHottie away in the corner of her
mind marked fantasy material.
In the terminal, she stopped only long enough to run to the
ladies room to pee, wipe some of the wetness from her
crotch and wash her hands. Collecting her bag, she pulled
on her long, lightweight coat. Early December had been wet
and rainy with snow threatening Northern Pennsylvania
nearly every day. The Weather Channel predicted a cold
snap. For once, it seemed they were correct. Outside, the
icy wind stole her breath for a moment as she hurried to a
waiting cab.
Her mental fuel reserves plummeting, she spat out her
address before sliding into a stale incense-scented cab. An
extravagance, but the solitude during the long ride home
would be well worth the undoubtedly outrageous fee. The
Middle Eastern cabbie put her bag in the trunk as she sank
into an exhausted slump. Moments later, his dark, bearded
face appeared beside the window. His heavy accent was
difficult to understand.
"Miss, you share cab ride? Same area you go to?"
"Whatever," she replied with a tired wave of her hand.
Mentally, she was already raiding her fridge. Business
trips were not her favorite pastime anyway, and the strange
encounter on the plane had strained her fatigued mind into
absolute mush. She could not hold one coherent thought in
her head.
Two well-developed legs clad in faded blue slid in the seat
beside her, followed by a deep gray overcoat.
"You!" she screeched banshee-style.
"My, my, my, what a nice surprise. I told you we’d meet
again." McHottie’s broad smile made tiny lines crinkle
around his onyx-like eyes. He leaned back against the cab
seat and arched an eyebrow. "Your place or mine?"
"Get out of my cab!"
Squinting into the front of the cab interior, McHottie
chuckled. "Your cab? I didn’t realize your name was
Muhammad Aziz Ahmed Nabal?"
Growling in annoyance, Frannie hopped out of the cab,
ripped her bag out of the startled cabbie’s hands and
stormed off in search of another taxi. A passing shuttle
bus whizzed through a slimy puddle, covering her in misty
spray. This definitely was not her day. Rolling her eyes
and pushing her wet hair off her face, Frannie scowled up
at the dark heavens that seemed to laugh at her
predicament.
"What’d I do to piss you off?"
* * *
This is not my underwear. Brow wrinkled in confusion,
Frannie stared at the various colored briefs in the
suitcase. Male briefs, complete with the mysterious front
pocket most women wondered about. And it was more than not
her underwear. It was not her shirts or her pants or her
shampoo. The suitcase looked like hers. Okay, so there
wasn’t that little scuffed place where it had fallen off
the hotel luggage rack and got stuck in the elevator door.
And the red piece of ribbon she’d tied around the handle so
she wouldn’t mistake it for someone else’s was missing.
Yeah, that theory sucks. You have to actually look for the
ribbon for it to work. They didn’t tell you that little
hint on all those travel channels. But anyone could have
made the same mistake, especially when your mind was filled
with erotic images of a side serving of honey-glazed
McHottie. The suitcase was the same color and style as
hers, with the same identification tag. Even the name was
hers, Frances Sullivan.
No, wait. She peered closer. It wasn’t her name. It read
Francis, not Frances. And it was almost her address. The
numbers were transposed and she lived on West Claireborn,
not West Claymore. West Claymore was the upscale end of
town, full of new homes built by fast-rising young
executives. Frannie’s side of the tracks was more modest,
full of starter homes and remodels, like her own little
Craftsman-style house.
So, this suitcase was not hers. So whose was it? Well, duh.
She mentally smacked her forehead. She’d obviously grabbed
the wrong case from the cabbie, which meant this belonged
to none other than McHottie himself. Funny, he didn’t look
like a Francis. He probably went by Frank.
Suddenly curiosity tapped her on the shoulder. Two fluffy
black bundles hopped into the open suitcase, drawing her
from her musings. She shouldn’t invade his privacy anymore.
She should probably zip everything back up and try to track
him down. Yeah, I should also drink eight glasses of water
a day and avoid caffeine. It was possible—in theory, if you
stretched your imagination—there could be a piece of paper
somewhere in the suitcase with a phone number on it. She
really should look for it. It would be the responsible
thing to do. Not nosy in the least, nope, responsible. She
always did the responsible thing. She was good like that.
Shooing the cats away, she picked up his shaving kit.
McHottie had no athlete’s foot or crabs or other ailment
that would require OTC medications, just plain old Tylenol.
He used basic white toothpaste and a shampoo/conditioner
blend for normal hair. Boring. In fact, the only
interesting things in the kit were four pre-lubricated
condoms tucked in the outside zipper. She smiled in nosy
delight. So he’s most likely single.
Guilt tossed aside, Frannie delved through the rest of the
suitcase. Gawd, it smelled good in there, like spicy woods
and raw sex appeal. Buried under a stack of socks was a
John Grisham paperback with bent cover and folded pages,
one she hadn’t read. He seemed to prefer silk-soft worn
jeans and comfortable sweatshirts. An enormous pair of
ugly, broken-in sneakers proved he had size thirteen feet.
And you know what big feet mean, the slut in her mind
whispered.
Yeah, big shoes, replied the geeky accountant who held the
slut in check.
She found no pajamas so he must sleep in the nude. It fit
her image of a playboy perfectly. The thought of his bare
skin made her heart leap up and dance a little rumba around
her chest. To calm her sudden pulse rate, she blew out a
quick breath. She really had to stop fantasizing about him.
The doorbell’s harsh intrusion into her fantasy made her
jump. Frannie knew in her heart who stood beyond her door
and hated herself because she was looking forward to seeing
him. She descended the stairs, determined to be civil to
the sleeps-naked, big-footed, condom-carrying single man.
She ignored the fire ants that raced through her veins and
congregated in her belly, doing a little conga line.
Glancing down at her chest, she quickly contemplated
changing clothes. The faded cotton pajama bottoms and plain
pink tee shirt with no bra would have to do. Completing
this fashion statement were her favorite dilapidated
slippers. With no makeup and her freshly washed hair damp
about her face, her desirability factor registered
somewhere on the negative end of the beauty scale. If
nothing else it would put a screeching halt to his
flirting.
At that surprisingly sad thought, the conga line fizzled
and sank, leaving her with a heavy stomach. Outwardly calm
and deliberate, she opened the wooden door.
"Hello, Mr. Sullivan." Frannie tried to make her voice
sound friendly. Friendly is good, sex-starved is not.
"Hello, Ms. Sullivan." Rich as butter, his voice prickled
her skin more than the chilled air streaming in from
outside. McHottie had changed into another pair of careworn
jeans and the deep blue of a sweatshirt poked out of his
half-opened winter coat. A few ice crystals clung to his
midnight hair and he had an open, easy smile on his face.
He carried a pizza box beneath a pastry box. Even through
the storm door she could smell the fragrant scent of
garlic, cheese and pepperoni.
Fizzles bolted through her stomach that had little to do
with the food boxes he lifted. "I brought a peace offering.
I thought it might make the luggage exchange more pleasant.
Can I interest you in a slice of pizza or cheesecake?"
He could interest her in a whole lot more than food but she
stifled that notion. With a nod, she took the boxes while
he picked up her case from beside his knee, red ribbon
screaming brightly next to his hand, and stepped into her
world. Glancing at her hardwood, he kicked off his damp
boots, revealing stark white athletic socks, no holes. Her
lip tilted, touched at his unexpected thoughtfulness.
"You really didn’t have to but I’m starving so I’m not
going to complain. The kitchen’s this way. Just leave that
case by the door. I’ll go get yours after we eat."
"Uhm, is your husband home?" He removed his coat and
followed her into the small kitchen.
"Oh, I’m not married anymore. Sullivan was my ex’s name.
You can call me Frannie."
McHottie clasped his hands together and raised his eyes
upward in prayer. "Thank you, Lord. I owe you one." At her
quizzical glance, he sent her a sheepish smile. "I was
having a very difficult time accepting the fact that we
might be related. I’m from Georgia but I still don’t flirt
with my cousins."
"Georgia? Really? I’m originally from Valdosta but we left
there when I was about eight." Frannie opened the
refrigerator and peered inside to hide the jitters in her
stomach. He’s still flirting. "I have milk, coke, beer or
coffee."
"Beer, please. Here, let me help." McHottie opened the
cabinet behind him and retrieved two plates. Frannie
stopped perfectly still, the cold brown bottle chilling her
fingers, and stared at the fake china in his big hands.
Bristles of apprehension skittered across her flesh.
"How did you know which cabinet to open?"
"Uhm, I don’t really know." His brows dipped and she found
solace in his confusion. He seemed as surprised at his
action as she was. He shrugged with dismissal. "I keep my
plates beside the stove, so I just assumed yours would be
there. I guess it’s a pretty common place."
Handing her the dishes, he took the beer then sat at her
small table. The tantalizing smell made her stomach growl
as she sat across from him. She inhaled the aroma of heaven—
pepperoni, bacon, spinach and black olives on Gino’s
special thick crust. Her favorite. Her mouth watered in
anticipation. When he reached for the pepper shaker at the
same time she did, she thrust herself back in her chair and
crossed her arms across her braless bosom.
"This has got to stop."
"What?"
"We have the same name, similar addresses and now you bring
my favorite pizza and top it with black pepper, just the
way I do. What’s going on? Are you some kind of stalker or
something?"
Both inky black brows shot upward toward a slight widow’s
peak and he roared with laughter. He twisted the cap off
the beer then leaned forward and extracted his wallet from
his back pocket. He handed it to her casually. The warmth
it held from his body stuttered her heart like the engine
of a four-hundred-dollar rust bucket on a February morning.
She fought the urge to bring the supple leather to her
cheek.
"Here, check my license. I swear to you I’m not a stalker.
I really am Francis Sullivan. I really do live at 4742 West
Claymore. I own brown leather luggage, love Gino’s number
three special with extra cheese and black pepper and keep
my plates beside the stove."
"This is too weird," she murmured, staring at the rather
unflattering identification picture of him. He was six foot
one, his birthday was June ninth and he was an organ donor.
The laminated card said his eyes were brown but they
appeared black as she watched him watch her. Black as
homemade sin and damn near as potent.
He served her a slice of pizza and put three on his
plate. "Do you think someone’s trying to tell us
something?"
Ignoring his question, she handed him back his now cool
wallet and picked up her pizza slice. "Do people call you
Frank?"
"Frank is my father. Francis was my grandfather. I go by
Jinx."
"Jinx?" The pizza halted in front of her lips. "Why Jinx?"
"Yeah, long story short, I was a surprise. My brother was
in college when I was born. My sister was a junior in high
school. She was mortified her parents still did it and got
pregnant. My very existence scandalized her. So she named
me Jinx before I was even born, claimed I ruined her life."
His easy grin made her relax even more. "My parents were
older too. Dad had just retired from the Navy when Mom
started tossing her cookies every morning. They were
ecstatic, I’m told. They thought they were destined to be
childless."
"Do they still live in Georgia?"
"No, Mom passed away a few years ago and Dad just last
year."
"I’m sorry." His gentle murmur warmed her blood. Deep
compassion reverberated in his dark eyes and it stirred
those stomach ants back into dance. Nodding her acceptance,
her cheeks heated. He was sweet. Gawd help me.
Frannie stuffed herself with two slices of pizza then sat
and listened to Jinx talk about his family while he ate.
His voice rolled over her skin like heated oil, soothing
and sensuous. Having just returned from an extended
Thanksgiving visit, he had plenty of fresh stories to tell.
The vivacious humor in his eyes enthralled her. His
animation and energy filled the room and she laughed along
with him, drawn in by his teasing banter. More similarities
came to light amidst shared memories.
Their first pets were both named Snoopy although neither
was a dog. Each had teachers named Mr. Butts. They attended
high schools named for presidents, although in different
states, and both had graduated summa cum laude from
different colleges. After slicing two pieces of cheesecake,
hers less than half the size of his, she went to the
coffeemaker. When she offered him a cup, he agreed but a
dare seeped into his tone.
"Take one guess how I like it." As she poured liquid
creamer in her cup, she smirked. She added an equal amount
of the rich white cream to his cup and handed it to him.
Chuckling, he took a small sip. "Perfect."
"You know, this has got to be some kind of cosmic thing."
She pulled her knees up under her on the chair. "It’s
unreal how similar we are."
"Well there are some important differences," he pointed
out, hiding a smile behind his coffee cup. "I don’t have
three romance novels tucked underneath my thong panties."
"You went through my suitcase!" The accusation in her voice
should have made him feel guilty. Instead, he just laughed,
arching that devil-black left eyebrow.
"Tell me you didn’t do the same."
Since she couldn’t, Frannie wisely stayed silent and sipped
her coffee. A panicky thought burst through her brain. Had
she packed anything embarrassing? No. Her vibrator was
still in her nightstand drawer and she hadn’t needed the
acne cream so far this month, so she was covered. But just
knowing his fingers had touched her underwear made her
blush. Peering over the rim of her cup, she caught him
studying her with intense eyes. The crackle of mutual
attraction electrified the air.
Before she could think of a response, Hocus and Pocus
wandered into the kitchen. Idly, Jinx reached down and
stroked one silky cat as it twined through his feet. A love-
starved Pocus pushed his broad head against Jinx’s calf.
With a deep chuckle, he reached lower to pet the animal. A
second sneaky black paw darted out from behind his chair.
Suddenly, he jerked his arm up, hissing in surprise and
pain.
"Hocus! Pocus! Out!" Frannie scolded, sending both cats
scurrying into the living room at breakneck speed.
Flirtation fled as mortification barreled into the room.
Three long scratches just above Jinx’s right wrist oozed
blood. He took a paper napkin and dabbed at it as she ran
water on a clean dishcloth.
"I’m so sorry. Hocus doesn’t like men but he’s never drawn
blood before." Face burning, she handed him the cloth.
"It’s okay, it’s just a scratch, but it stings like hell."
My luck he’ll get some weird cat fungus and sue me. "Come
in here. Let me wash it out and put something on it."
Frannie led him to a small half bath off the hallway. She
poured peroxide on the thin red lines and tried to ignore
the way he seemed to take up all the space in the tiny
room. There was barely enough room to turn around with him
standing beside the sink, and she fumbled with the bottle
lid. He was too close, too male, too delicious. The scent
of pure masculine essence intoxicated her. She couldn’t
think straight.
It’s not fair. No one should be capable of making a
bathroom a sexy place.
But he did, just by being there. Gone was the easy friendly
presence and harmless flirtations which had developed in
the kitchen. Here in the tiled closet, he oozed sex appeal.
And I like the ooze, damn it! He stepped even closer.
Concentrating on drying the foaming bubbles from his arm,
she tried to ignore the jerk in her heart. His quiet voice
fanned the hair at her temple.
"So, no husband, but is there a boyfriend I need to worry
about?"
"What?" Why do I always turn into an idiot around this man?
"If I kiss you, is there a boyfriend somewhere who’s going
to clean my clock?"
Frannie raised her head and stared directly into the deep
pools of his eyes. Thick lashes framed his searing gaze,
rekindling the smoldering fire he had sparked on the plane.
He’s a snake charmer and I’m dancing to his tune.
Mesmerized, she couldn’t speak and simply shook her head.
He took the damp cloth from her hands and tilted her chin
fractionally upward with his knuckle. Her eyes closed as
her mouth parted in anticipation. Since the encounter on
the plane, she’d been dying to taste his kiss. Soft as a
snowflake’s landing, his lips settled across hers.