Page 29

“Right!” He dashed out of the wagon, and Jean used the opportunity to suck in a steadying breath. Unfortunately, she could still smell Charlie’s clean soap-and-orange-spice scent.

Time to up the ante. Pulling a trial-size perfume from her purse, she spritzed her wrists, rubbing them against her neck and the inside of her knees.

From outside, she heard Charlie mutter to himself, followed by the thump and drag of a heavy suitcase coming up the stairs. Jean leaned back on her elbows, crossing and uncrossing her legs to find the most provocative arrangement.

“I hope this is the right one,” he panted, lugging a bulky leather suitcase behind him.

“Open it for me.” It was halfway between a command and a complaint, as if she were too weak from shoe loss to do it herself.

Charlie wrestled the bag onto its side, then unsnapped the clasps. Lingerie exploded at him like a jack-in-the-box, silky underthings in every shade springing in all directions.

“Sorry!” He tried to slam it shut, yelping in pain when he caught his fingers in the lid. “I was trying not to look,” he explained, yanking his hand free.

Jean glanced at the appendage in question, brows raised. His fingers weren’t the only thing he’d pulled out of the suitcase.

“Oh, that’s—” He trailed off, blinking at the scrap of silk in his hand.

Charlie brought it closer to his face, studying her panties like a scientific specimen.

“Is that… are they… do you—” It seemed to hit him all at once that he was staring at her underwear.

Cracking open the lid, he shoved them inside, hurriedly closing the latches like he was afraid something inside might make a break for freedom.

“I’m sorry I touched your, ah.”

“G-string?” Jean lifted one shoulder, as if people were constantly pawing at her underthings. “It’s not like I was wearing it. That would be a different story.” She held eye contact, willing him to imagine the whisper of silk between his fingertips and her skin.

“I’ll go get your other bag,” he said, face on fire.

“It’s the trunk,” she called after him. “The heavy one.”

It sounded like he was wrestling a bear, or whatever they did for fun around here. Jean watched him shove the trunk to the foot of her bed, a few painful inches at a time.

“I’d help, but I just had my nails done.” She held up her hand as evidence.

“That’s okay.” He wiped his forehead. “Is this the right one?”

At her nod, he carefully opened the lid. “That is a lot of shoes. How long are you planning to stay?”

“I like to have options,” she said, ignoring the second half of the question—and the hopeful lift in his voice.

“I suppose it’s easier when they’re so small,” he reasoned, holding up a size six stiletto with a distinctive red sole.

“I don’t feel like wearing those.”

Charlie picked up an equally ridiculous pink slipper. The feathery fluff at the toe danced as he turned it from side to side, a half smile playing across his face. “Funny to think a grown-up could have such little feet.”

“Can you find something that isn’t for the boudoir, or are you too busy touching my stuff?”

Charlie dropped the slipper like it was covered in spikes instead of satin, reaching for the next closest shoe. “How about these?”

“Fine,” she sniffed, though it was clear he’d grabbed a pair at random. Straightening her leg, Jean pointed her toes.

He stared at her foot. “You—want me to put it on you?”

“Yes. I want you to put it on me.” She batted her lashes. “It’s only fair. Since you broke the other ones.”

“I’m very sorry about that.”

“So you’ve mentioned.” She wiggled her toes at him. “Well?”

His dark eyes met hers. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll pretend you’re my podiatrist.”

His warm fingers clasped her ankle before sliding down to cup her heel. A lesser woman might have weakened, but Jean kept her eyes on the prize. Which was—her mind blanked out as his knuckle stroked the arch of her foot.

Revenge! She was doing revenge. And the prize was bringing him to his knees, which she’d technically achieved, considering he was crouched on the ground in front of her.

It didn’t quite feel like the slam dunk of victory as Charlie slowly slid the satin strap of a midnight-blue heel over her toes.

Her heart was beating a little too fast.

“I like a nice tight fit,” Jean said, retaking control of the situation.

He frowned in concentration. “I’ll do my best.”

She lowered her leg, watching awareness settle over him. Jean was lying on the bed, his head between her thighs. His gaze tracked from one knee to the other, a slow pan he couldn’t seem to control.

She would have given a lot to know what he was thinking.

For a few seconds, she indulged herself in an alternate scenario where he turned his face to plant a kiss on the inside of her thigh, then kept going.

Charlie had been an eager student in that department, taking to it much more naturally than cards.

“It sure is nice of you to travel all this way.” His voice was faint.

Jean was glad she could still affect him this strongly, even if it forced her to feel something too. Lust was a normal human reaction—nothing to be ashamed of. “I like a good time.”

“Is that why you came?”

“Why else would I be here?” She let the challenge hang in the air. Go ahead, Charlie. Explain it to me. To my face . “Maybe I just really love—” Jean drew out the pause, letting him twist in the wind—“beer.”

He had the nerve to look disappointed, as if she was enough of a chump to whisper sweet nothings after he tossed her aside. “And beans, I hope?”

“What?”

“Do you like them?”

“I… sometimes.”

“Good. Because that’s what we’re having for supper. Over a campfire.”

“I see.” She didn’t really, but it was important to maintain the illusion that Eve knew everything.

He sat back on his haunches. “It’s not very fancy, I know.”

She thought of the dinners they’d scrounged together, a buffet of leftovers and vending machine snacks eaten on the floor of his room. Of course, that was before she found out he was heir to a beer fortune. If she’d known he was loaded, Jean would have made Charlie buy his own Snickers.

“I should let you get changed,” he said, when she didn’t reply. “For tonight.”

“Why? You don’t like what I’m wearing?”

“Oh no, I like it a lot. It’s really—very nice.” He swallowed hard. “The long dangly bits are especially interesting. Almost like, you know…” He danced his fingers up and down as he searched for the right word. “Tentacles.”

“I think it looks like I’m unraveling,” she countered. “If you pull one of the strings, the whole top might come apart. And then I’d hardly be wearing a thing.”

“That’s a different way to look at it.” And look he did, from the tips of her toes to the part in her hair. Charlie shook himself. “I should go.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“No.” He tried to make serious eye contact. “I haven’t forgotten anything .”

“Your watch,” she reminded him.

“Oh. It’s still tangled up in your—” He nodded at her fringe.

“Then you better get busy.” Jean rolled onto her hip, propping her cheek on one hand. That forced Charlie to crawl halfway onto the bed, bracing his knees on either side of her body as he began disentangling his watch. His movements were so cautious, he could have been defusing a bomb.

“That’s a nice perfume you’re wearing.” His voice was unsteady, like there wasn’t quite enough oxygen in this tent-wagon, even though the flap was half-open.

She shifted onto her stomach, erasing the polite gap he’d left between his legs and her body. “I know.”

“It almost smells familiar.”

“Don’t tell me your mother wears it.”

“No.” He inhaled deeply. “It’s not that.”

“Grandmother?” Jean guessed.

“She smelled like Vicks, mostly. Sinus trouble.”

Jean opened her mouth to tell him that her grandmother had always smelled like cinnamon gum before remembering she wasn’t giving him any more pieces of the real her.

With a last gentle tug, Charlie finished unknotting his watch. “Got it.”

She waited for him to move, but he stayed where he was.

“You know, your perfume reminds me of a girl I used to know.”

“I doubt that. It’s very uncommon.”

“So was she.”

Alarm bells clanged in Jean’s head. She wasn’t ready to go there. Charlie needed to leave before he unearthed any of her secrets—like the one stashed underneath all those froufrou undies. So what if she still liked to sleep in his T-shirt? Maybe it was softer than anything else she owned.

“I’m tired. I think I’ll take a nap before dinner.” Jean pulled her legs out from under him, curling her knees into her chest. “Close the door on your way out.”

She kept her eyes squeezed shut until she felt the stairs shake under his weight.