Lover in the Rough by Elizabeth Lowell Read Free Book Online Page B

eyes and trembled at the sensations he caused, a tightness going from her throat to her navel and beyond. When the tip of his tongue moved intimately, learning every contour of her ear, she made an inarticulate sound. Her hands went to his arms, steadying herself in a world that had suddenly begun to turn swiftly around her, throwing her off balance. She felt the tremor that went through him, the heat and tension of his body as it moved against hers.
    With a soft curse Chance held her at arm’s length. “Lunch,” he said in a husky voice. “Unless you’re on the menu . . . ?”
    “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m being stalked by a tiger?” Reba asked, laughter and something more serious rippling beneath her question.
    He chuckled. His lips brushed her temple. “Are there any restaurants around that serve live Maine lobster?”
    “You’re very good at changing subjects, aren’t you?”
    Chance smiled down at her. “If you don’t like lobster—”
    “I love Maine lobster,” she interrupted in an exasperated voice.
    “So do I, and I haven’t had any for seven years.” He laughed at the curiosity that leaped in her eyes. “You’d make a wonderful cat,” he murmured, “all tawny and supple, with a cat’s full share of grace and curiosity.”
    “Flattery will get you.”
    “Get me what?”
    Reba smiled like a cat and walked out of the office without answering.

----
    T he restaurant was small, unobtrusive, and dedicated to the principle that customers preferred the management to spend money on food rather than fancy furnishings. As a result, Jaime’s was unknown to the tourists who sought out only the flashy and more famous watering holes. The atmosphere in the restaurant was convivial, the selection of wines limited but well chosen, and the customers more interested in conversation than in being seen and oohed over by strangers. Jaime’s had been one of Jeremy’s favorite restaurants.
    “What is it?” asked Chance quietly, sensing the change in Reba as she looked around the room.
    “Jeremy loved this place,” she said, her voice even.
    “Do you want to go somewhere else?” asked Chance, taking her hand in both of his.
    “No,” she said, feeling his warmth and hard strength surrounding her hand. “Since Death Valley, it’s been . . . better. I can look at his picture. I can remember things we did together and not cry every time. I think I’ve accepted the fact that Jeremy is dead.” She looked at Chance. “Thank you. I was running blind before you found me in the dunes. It was only a matter of time until I tripped and broke my neck.”
    Chance lifted her hand to his mouth. His moustache stroked her palm like a silk brush. “You would have survived. You’re stronger than you know.”
    Reba smiled slightly. Tears magnified her eyes. “Sure,” she said huskily, “I’m a regular cat, born to land on my feet. You just happened to find me when I’d lost my balance.”
    A waiter appeared to show Chance and Reba to their table. Chance sat next to Reba, waved away the menus and ordered lobster for both of them. He looked at the wine list and then at Reba.
    “No Australian wines,” he said wryly. “Unless you have a better suggestion, I’ll just close my eyes, point my finger at the white wines and pray.”
    “I have a weakness for Chardonnay,” she admitted, reading the list quickly. She looked up at him from beneath thick, dark brown lashes. “Unless you’d prefer something sweeter?”
    His slow smile made heat tingle through her. “What I want isn’t on any wine list,” he drawled softly, looking at her lips with hungry silver-green eyes.
    “The Balverne Chardonnay,” she told the waiter quickly, watching as the man tried not to smile, and failed.
    Chance laughed, a sound as soft and fundamentally untamed as his chamois shirt.
    “Question number one,” said Reba in a determined voice. “Where were you born and where have you lived since then?”
    “That’s two