Fast & Loose Elizabeth Bevarly (bts book recommendations .txt) 📖

for thinking that. “Eddie’s client list is confidential. In fact, I thought the other guy who was there when you and I were there was the one renting my house. It was why I wasn’t worried about renting out my house. He seemed like a nice man.”

“Oh, and I didn’t?”

“Of course not.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise at that. “Excuse me?”

“You knocked me down,” she reminded him. “And you kept calling me sweetheart.”

He had? He couldn’t remember that.

“I hate guys who do that,” she added.

She did? He’d try to remember that. But all he said was, “What about that time at the Ambassador Bar? Was that scheduled, too?”

“Hey, Einstein, I was there before you that night,” she told him.

That was right, he recalled now. She had been seated at the far side of the bar when he came in.

“I’m there a lot, waiting for Bree to finish her shift. So that was your fault we ran into each other that night. You were invading my turf.”

Oh.

“Just like you’re invading my turf now,” she added.

“Oh, no,” he immediately objected. “This is my turf until next Sunday. It’s bought and paid for. I don’t care if this is your house. You’re the invader here, not me. So tell me, Ms…. Flannery, was it?”

She nodded but said nothing.

“Tell me then, Ms. Flannery. Why did you break into your house-slash-my turf?”

She sighed with much annoyance, though whether it was for him or for herself, Cole couldn’t have said. “Because when I found out it was you staying here, I wanted to make sure you hadn’t trashed the place.”

Cole told himself he should be most concerned about the fact that, in spite of her friend’s keeping his client list confidential, she’d still found out he was staying here. If she could find that out, what was to keep any number of other women—women he’d just as soon not see—from finding out, too? But really, what concerned him most was the fact that she thought he had it in him to trash a place like this. Any place, really. But especially a place like hers that was warm and welcoming and offered solace and serenity to a man who had a lifestyle like his, a lifestyle that contained neither of those things. He knew King Cole’s reputation wasn’t sterling, but neither had he thought it was tarnished to the point where people could think him so crass and careless.

“I’m no neat freak,” he agreed, “but I’m not a slob, either. And I sure as hell wouldn’t trash a place. Especially one as nice as yours.”

That seemed to mollify her some. “You think it’s nice?”

“I think it’s great,” he said sincerely. “I like how you use color.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s a very inviting space.”

“That’s nice of you to say that.”

It occurred to him that they had just slipped from stalker/stalkee accusations into an interview from HGTV rather effortlessly, but decided not to dwell on why. It was enough that the pinched, uneasy look had been erased from her face, and that she was talking to him now the way people did who were making each other’s acquaintance for the first time. And he decided not to dwell, too, on why that made him feel better.

“And you have great taste in art, too,” he told her, because…Well, just because, that was why. And it was a damned good reason.

She actually blushed at that. “Some of it’s mine.”

“The glass, right?” he said, already having figured that out.

She nodded. “And some of the paintings, as well.”

“No kidding?” he asked, genuinely impressed.

“Glass is definitely my first love,” she said, “but oil on canvas is my second favorite medium. And I love sketching, too.”

“Really. You know, I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like, and—”

She laughed at that, halting his words. Not that she sounded scornful or anything. She just had a really nice laugh.

“What?” he asked.

“That’s such a cliché, you know.” She deepened her voice in a fair mimic of his as she continued, “‘I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like.’” She went back to her regular voice as she added, “That’s what people say when they’re trying to impress someone but don’t have a clue what the art means.”

And her point was? He shook the thought off. “Anyway, I like your house and I wouldn’t wreck it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Cole?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you let me up now?”

Only then did he realize he was still sitting astride her in her hallway, holding her arms over her head. Strangely, though, instead of immediately releasing her, which was what any decent guy would do, he discovered he kind of wanted to keep her there for a while longer.

He was so going to hell.

His hesitation must have made her think he still didn’t believe her, because she added, “Look, if you let me up, I’ll prove to you that I’m Lulu Flannery and that this is my house.”

Although he was still reluctant to let go of her—and that reluctance, he had to admit, had nothing to do with any potential mistrust of her intentions—he released her wrists and levered himself off of her. She immediately wrapped her left hand around her right wrist and rubbed it gently, then mimicked the gesture with the opposite hand. Something chilly and unpleasant nicked his insides at seeing it.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said.

Her reply was what seemed like an unconcerned shake of her head, but whether that meant she was saying that it was okay, it was nothing, or that he hadn’t hurt her, or that she was blowing off his apology altogether, he wasn’t sure.

“I left my purse out in the car,” she said as she scrambled up from the floor, “so I don’t have my driver’s license on me.”

He started to tell her that it was okay, that he believed her, but she hurried on before he had a chance, chattering as she pushed past him and she made her way toward the door at the end of the hall.

“But