"And for your information," she said, "Valentino's not French. He's Italian."
    "Still, I'll bet old Jean Paul has eaten himself a few frog legs in his day."
    "You may be right." She tossed her blond hair. "But I'll bet he didn't gig them himself."
    "Probably had servants to do it for him," Randy replied.
    "You're impossible." She blew out a long breath. "I've got to pee."
    That was no big surprise. She always peed right after sex.
    "Let's go."
    He grabbed the flashlight from inside the center console.
    "You're not coming with me!" She sounded more shocked by that idea than she'd been by the idea of him gigging amphibians.
    "You wander off the road on your own, darlin', and you could end up in the swamp. Which, unless you've always wanted to experience an up-close-and-personal meeting with a gator, isn't something I'd recommend."
    "An alligator?"
    "You're in the Lowcountry, sugar." He stroked her dark hair, "Where do you think those fancy shoes and purses you like so much come from?"
    "I suppose it's a lot like what they say about making sausage. It's best not to think what goes into it."
    But she was thinking about it. He could tell by another shudder that perversely made him want to take a nip of her smooth bare shoulder.
    "You don't have to worry, cupcake." He nuzzled her neck, drinking in the scent of gardenias. "You'll be safe with me."
    "That's what you said that first night you showed up at my apartment with a pizza. If I remember correctly, it took you exactly ten minutes to get my panties off."
    And hadn't she been more than willing to help? Hell, the way she'd attacked the zipper on his jeans, he'd worried she might cost him the opportunity of fathering the next generation of Beaudines.
    "I can't control myself around you, darlin'," he drawled. "You set my poor male head to spinning."
    She folded her arms. "I suppose you think that good old Southern boy so-called charm works on me?"
    "I was hoping it would."
    She laughed in feminine resignation. Randy had always liked girls, and fortunately for him, they'd always liked him right back.
    "Well, you're right. It does."
    He might not be as wise as he would have liked when it came to the mysterious ways of women, but he was smart enough not to gloat. Instead, he leaned over and opened the door.
    She frowned as he climbed out of the car behind her.
    "There's no way I'm going to let you stand here and watch me pee," she complained. "I need my privacy."
    Personally, he thought it was a little late for modesty, after she'd had his cock in her luscious mouth and he'd been deep inside her, but he didn't want to ruin the lingering sexual afterglow with an argument.
    "Okay. Why don't you stay right here by the car, then." There was enough moonlight he figured she'd manage not to fall into the pond without the flashlight. "I'll walk a bit down the road and give you that privacy."
    "You're going to leave me alone? On a deserted road? In the dark?"
    Jesus. Stay. Go. He couldn't win. "I'll only be a few feet away."
    "Don't listen."
    Resisting a mighty urge to roll his eyes, Randy lifted his right hand. "I promise." He began walking away. "You give a holler when you're ready for me to come on back."
    It felt good stretching his legs after having had them folded into pretzels. He figured some people might consider making love in the backseat of a car on a deserted Southern lane romantic. When you were six-foot-four, it proved more than a little cramped.
    Not that he'd been complaining. Although they'd been together for nearly a year, they still couldn't keep their hands off each other. Which suited Randy just fine.
    It was also surprising, since usually by now things would've cooled off. At least on his part. Hell, what women insisted on calling their "relationship" had never lasted more than a couple months before. Which had him wondering, on occasion, if maybe he and the sexy little dress designer had stumbled into something that might prove permanent.
    However, his mama

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