Her Fifth Husband? by Dixie Browning Read Free Book Online Page A

gardener—that had been Rosemary’s department.
    He filled two tumblers with ice, covered the ice with tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator and looked around for a serving tray.
    Two o’clock on a workday—not that every daywasn’t a workday—and he was goofing off as if he had all the time in the world. The last time he’d had lunch with a lady was—
    Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time.
    â€œHere we go, two barbecue plates, two iced teas,” he said, sounding like a snake-oil salesman as he walked into the living room. “You want your barbecue reheated?”
    â€œNo thanks, it’s fine this way.”
    â€œMe, too. Reheating always does something to the flavor.”
    His social skills had grown rusty with disuse. Small talk defeated him. Besides, what could a hot babe who lived in a lavender house and drove a red Lexus convertible possibly have in common with a middle-aged widower who lived in a half-furnished white-on-white duplex—one who drove a six-year-old SUV with a primer-coated fender he’d never gotten around to repainting?
    He watched as she reached for a hush puppy with her good hand. “Why don’t I bring a towel to spread over your lap? Eating sideways is kind of awkward.”
    What was awkward was his being here. He should have just brought her home and left her. Although if he’d done that, she might have gone without lunch. Supper, too.
    Ah, hell, she had plenty of friends she could’ve called on for help. With her looks she probably had to beat off men with a stick. “Look, I can eat in the kitchen if you’d rather be alone. Or leave and take mine with me.”
    â€œOh, for Pete’s sake, pull up a chair and use the coffee table. Move the rest of that stuff onto the floor.”
    He slid her magazines, books and mail to one side to clear a space on the table and drew up a cane-bottomed chair that had two monkeys carved on one of the backpanels. She had unique tastes, he’d say that for her. Colorful, too. The rug was one of those oriental types, mostly orange and black. As for the pictures on the wall…yeah, unique just about covered it.
    â€œIt’s an Eisher,” she said, following his gaze. “The one beside the escritoire.”
    As he didn’t know an escritoire from an estuary, Jake only nodded. “Interesting,” he said, which was usually a safe comment. “You want catsup for those fries?” That was even safer.
    Condiments at hand, they applied themselves to the late lunch. It was getting on toward three. Oddly enough, the silence wasn’t all that uncomfortable. At least it wouldn’t have been if he could have stopped watching her trying to manage with one injured hand and the other one handicapped by long, red fingernails and several rings.
    He’d have offered to feed her, but he didn’t trust himself to get that close. As it was, it might take a while before he could forget the way she’d felt in his arms when he’d carried her down the outside stairs at the cottage, and from there in to the hospital. As small as she was, there was nothing fragile about her. She was firm, but soft where a woman should be soft.
    And then there was the way she smelled, like orange blossoms and incense with a few exotic spices tossed in. Under the right circumstances something like that could easily set off a riot.
    In other words, look, but don’t touch.
    So he looked. The suntan stopped a few inches from the bandage on her bum ankle. Did that mean it was one of those spray-on jobs?
    Yeah, probably. With legs like hers, she could’ve painted them blue and it wouldn’t have mattered. Her lips were shiny from the fries and the hush puppies and those thick black eyelashes made her eyes look like the color of the surf in August, before the storms got it all churned up.
    Hmm, that was odd. He could’ve sworn they were tan just yesterday.
    Oh,