"When you're poor and have kids, you learn these things. It'll work. Trust me."
Another long moment. Finally, he pulled the shirt off over his head and handed it to her. At once, she wished she'd told him to change into a new one and bring her the stained shirt. His body was flawless: thick muscles moving effortlessly beneath bronze skin. Sloping shoulders, huge biceps, wide chest, lean abdomen …
Now she understood rule number three and why it had the most exclamation points. She stopped her eyes from traveling further down his body and turned quickly to the sink. Her heart was flying, her mind mentally undressing him. She placed the shirt in the bowl.
"You have kids."
She bristled. She shouldn't have mentioned it, especially to the man she intended to rob. He was freakin' huge; what if he came after her?
"None of your business," she said with what she hoped was cheerfulness.
"You brought it up."
"I'm closing the discussion." She focused on mixing dish soap and lemon juice in her palm. "Rule number six: no questions."
"You're not supposed to ask me questions. I can ask whatever I want in my fucking house."
"The rule doesn't specify," she replied sweetly. "Rule number three does, though."
He left the kitchen, his air no longer calm. She watched him, mouth agape at the muscles outlined in his back and the tight ass. She'd never seen someone with so much … wow.
She was beginning to think it was five years since she'd seen a naked man, judging by her body's hungry response to the sight of his exposed upper body. Was she that desperate? Or was he that good looking? He reappeared a few moments later in a t-shirt.
He was that sexy, she decided.
His gaze fell to the single sign of disorder in the living area: the book she left on the table adjacent to the couch. His presence warmed the whole room. Seeing the contrast between him and his environment, she suddenly realized what it was about her surroundings that made her uneasy all afternoon. His condo was lifeless.
"Have you ever thought of redecorating?" she asked curiously.
"Why do you give a shit?"
"I don't really. You don't find this place … not really you?"
"I like it this way," he snarled and snatched the book.
"No, I don't think you do. I mean, your bedroom is more you. Masculine. Dark."
He was staring at her again.
"Angry," she added under her breath.
"You seemed adamant about not being fired a few minutes ago."
"Sorry. I tend to talk too much when I'm nervous." She returned her attention to the task at hand, warmth creeping up her face. The twins were used to her chatter. It was her curse with men, and after five years of not dating and the enormous mission of stealing from a stranger, it was only getting worse.