Honey and Smoke by Deborah Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

on men who aren’t interested in that.” She half-turned and plunked her mug down on the counter.
    “I’m permanent. I’m not going anywhere.”
    “Good. It’ll be interesting to hear all the gossip about your romances. One day I’ll tell my grandchildren that I knew you when you were young, and you haven’t changed a bit. There’s something to be said for creating that kind of legacy.”
    He had gone very still. Either he was angry, or he was calculating his next move. Regardless, his towering, silent scrutiny made her struggle to ignore the poignant mixture of regret and resentment in her chest.
    “We’ll see,” he said softly.
    Betty tried to laugh. It came out as a huffing, high-pitched, anxious sound, and she kicked herself mentally. She shook her head and looked at him pensively. “Why don’t you and I call a truce and be friends? And I mean
just
friends. That way we won’t keep on disappointing each other.”
    His dark expression lightened with amusement and speculation. “So you’ve been hoping for something from me? What is it? I hate to disappoint you.”
    She held up both hands. “Oh, no. You’re not drawing me into a word game.”
    “I already have. But relax. Let’s be friends.” He came forward a few steps and held out his right hand. His eyes glimmered with laughter. “Shake?”
    “You have more smooth moves than a greased snake.”
    “You should have been a drill sergeant. You’ve got a way with words. What are you afraid of—a simple handshake?”
    She clasped his hand firmly. They shook. He stroked the center of her palm with his fingers as he drew away, and she cursed him silently because his touch made her breath shorten and her skin grow hot. Betty turned away, hoping that he couldn’t read her reaction easily.
    “More hot chocolate?” she muttered.
    “No thanks. I’ve got an air mattress to inflate.” He started to leave, then stopped so close that his thighs were almost, but not quite, brushing her hips. Hisscent, a combination of leather, wool, and fresh autumn air, was distinctly masculine and provocative.
    Betty stared at the mugs and didn’t move. “I’ll bring you a few blankets. Oh, there’s plenty of wood if you want to start a fire and sleep in front of the fireplace.”
    “Thanks.” His warm breath caressed her cheek. “You’re being very nice to a man who makes you feel uncomfortable.”
    “I’m not uncomfortable,” she said between gritted teeth as he left the kitchen. Alone, she bent over and, shaking her head in exasperation, covered her face with both hands. She felt as if she were on fire.
    Several hours later Betty awoke with his voice in her ear and his hand on her shoulder. She knew something was wrong with the scenario, and after a second she realized what—he was in her bedroom, and she was in bed. She sputtered and tried to move away.
    “Sssh, babe,” he whispered, gently holding her still. “There’s someone or something in your cellar. I want you to get dressed and stay by the phone. I’m going to check the cellar out.”
    “But there were
three
of those guys. What if—”
    He laughed grimly. “They’d better be bad if there are only three.”
    She brushed a hand over her eyes and double-checked. Yes, he was for real. “Look, John Wayne, I don’t want you to get hurt. I mean, if you get beat up or shot in my cellar, I’ll feel obligated to be nice to you.”
    “Exactly. How about a smooch for the departing warrior?” He bent over her and took her mouth with a hard, caressing kiss, then trailed a finger over her lips. “I can die semi-happy now.” Then he was gone, padding out of her bedroom and down the hall, walking so softly that his hiking boots were nearly soundless on the creaking wood floor.
    She scooted out of bed and fumbled in a tall wicker basket where she had stored some of her clothes. Pullinga pink jogging suit over her pajamas, she shoved her feet into loafers and tiptoed downstairs.
    Faux Paw sat on a low