"What do you mean?" he prompted softly.

She picked up a pillow and plumped it in her lap. "I've already decided that my romantic days are over. That sort of thing only gets in the way of real life. I'm better off without it."

"I see."

But he didn't. The woman was alive with a la tent sexuality that she couldn't hide. His glance fell to brush across the rise of her peaked breasts against the fluffy knit of the sweater. Something stirred inside him.

He realized, with a feeling of wonder, that he wanted her, that he desired her with a hot, rushing sense of masculine joy that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"No French chef, then," he said, his voice husky with a new awareness.

She reconsidered for a moment, not noticing the change in him. "There would be one real advantage to the French chef. Since he doesn't know how to speak English, he couldn't mess me up with Aunt Doris, even if he tried. All he would be able to do would be to stand around and grin and say, 'Mais oui, madame,' and things like that. No one would have a clue."

"Unless Aunt Doris speaks French."

Charity sank against the back of the couch, laughing. "Lord, I hadn't thought of that." Her hair flew in wild wisps about her face. She reached up to push it away without annoyance, unconscious of how that gesture arched her body, and not noticing the shudder that went through Ross as he watched.

His mouth was dry. She looked cuddly. Like a slinky teddy bear. Those breasts under that sweater- He could hardly keep from reaching for her. He dug his fingers into the cushion, cursing under his breath. What was the mat ter with him? He was acting like a teenager. He shifted his position on the couch, moving into the corner, forcing himself to smile.

"Better stick with the temporary from the agency," he advised, his voice a hoarse whisper.

She made a face. "The gargoyle?"

Ross straightened, breathing deeply, concentrating on a distant wall. He'd tell her the truth at last and restore some order here. But before he managed to get the words out, there was a knock on the doorframe. A slight, gangly- looking young man stood there, his expression intense under a shock of orange hair.

"Yes?" Charity said the word a little impatiently. She was enjoying her conversation with Mason's friend, and she knew there wasn't much time left before he would have to leave for the airport.

"Hi," said the intruder expectantly. "I'm Paul Lomax. You must be Mason's sister Charity."




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