Pink Satin by Jennifer Greene Read Free Book Online Page A

sound. Why couldn’t he have needed his kitchen painted instead of the bedroom? Why did these silly images keep popping into her head?
    Oh, well. In a half hour, the room would be done. He’d already finished three walls and the ceiling before she came in. A little molding and one windowsill were all that remained, except for the wall Ryan was painting now. She climbed down from the ladder and started working on the windowsill.
    Truthfully, she didn’t mind helping him. Facing house projects after a long day’s work was never any fun alone. And even though he was only a short-term resident, she wasn’t surprised that he wanted a fresh coat of paint on the place—not simply because he couldn’t live with Mrs. Wissler’s purple, but also because he was clearly a man who’d want to put his own stamp on a place.
    Her eyes darted to Ryan. His forehead was dotted with moisture, and damp brown hair curled on his brow. An evening beard darkened his chin, and Greer found herself staring at it, then letting her eyes wander deliberately down to his bare, muscled chest.
    She relaxed. No dreadful rush of sexual emotions assaulted her. These little fantasies that kept cropping up in her head were absolutely ridiculous. Ryan had done little but tease her and make her laugh. There’d been nothing to make her believe he was even seriously interested. “I should have brought Truce,” she said absently as she picked up the paintbrush again. “He’ll be howling up a storm next door. He doesn’t seem to mind if I’m gone all day, but if I leave at night I always come home to those pitiful wails.”
    “A cat that needs a babysitter,” muttered Ryan.
    “I take it you’re a dog man.”
    “Was that meant as an insult?”
    She shook her head, laughing. “No, but people always seem to go one way or the other. German shepherd?” she guessed.
    “Great Pyrenees. I left her with my brother in Maine. I knew there’d be no place for her to run here.”
    “I thought the Pyrenees were mountains.”
    “They’re also big white dogs. Would you stop working like a Roman slave, please? You’re hitting my masculine ego where it hurts. I can’t keep up with you.”
    “You poor thing,” Greer began, and dropped her paintbrush on the tarp at her feet when she heard the faint but unmistakable ring of a telephone through the paper-thin walls.
    Behind her, she heard Ryan setting down his paint roller. “Your apartment’s unlocked?”
    “Yes, but don’t. Really. I—”
    He paused only long enough to grab a rag for his hands before he disappeared. Greer gnawed on her lip, then picked up her brush and dipped it in the paint can again. Dip and stroke, dip and stroke. Her heart was trying to condense into a tight, hard beating ball in her chest, yet Ryan couldn’t have been gone five minutes.
    “A man named Michael,” he said briskly. “I told him you had your hands full of paint and you’d call him back when you could.”
    Greer took a huge breath. “Thanks. For a minute, I was afraid it was my favorite crank call—”
    “So who’s Michael?” Ryan interrupted conversationally. “Another potential heavy breather?”
    Expecting him to pick up his roller again, Greer was startled when he blocked her from behind. He stole her paintbrush from one hand and a small rag from the other. For one very small moment, the backs of her thighs were cradled against the fronts of his, and Greer stood immobile as a statue. “No. Just someone I occasionally go out wi—what on earth are you doing?”
    “Break time,” Ryan announced, moving away from her.
    “But we could have the whole room finished in just a few minutes…” Her voice trailed off. He’d already disappeared into the hall.
    “I brought Truce with me,” Ryan called over his shoulder, “so he wouldn’t start howling if you stayed a few more minutes.”
    “Oh. Well, that was nice of you, but…” Greer let her voice trail off again, so he wouldn’t hear the hint of doubt.