LITMIR.BIZ

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Moon was built like a goddess…an Amazon…a Playboy Playmate of the Year…. Hell, of the decade!

      She was all lush, tempting curves and intriguing hollows: high, round breasts swelling luxuriantly against the front of the mannish tuxedo shirt; an impossibly tiny waist set off by a narrow, gold leather belt; sleekly rounded hips and slender thighs lovingly outlined beneath the caress of forest-green velvet.

      What was the word Eddie had used to describe her?

      Luscious.

      Reed actually felt his mouth begin to water as he watched her pour tea into one of his great-grandmother’s delicate Spode cups.

      He swallowed.

      Twice.

      “Sugar? Lemon?” Zoe asked, her limpid, brown-eyed gaze fixed attentively on her hostess. “Milk?”

      Moira glanced up from the open shoe box on her lap. “Oh, nothing in the tea, thank you. But I will have one of those butter cookies on the side, if you’d be so kind,” she answered. “You can just put it on the table there.” She indicated a spot on the piecrust table in front of her with a nod. “There’s a dear,” she said approvingly before returning her full attention to the papers in the shoe box. “I know it’s here….” she murmured vaguely as she rifled through them.

      “Just what are you looking for, Gr—”

      “And you, Mr. Sullivan?” Zoe asked, turning to him with an empty cup in her hand. “What would you like?”

      You, he thought in that split second before he could censor himself. Naked. In bed. Under me. Moaning my name in mindless ecstasy.

      Zoe smiled and shook her head. “In your tea,” she chided softly, as if he’d spoken his desire aloud.

      Reed Sullivan IV, scion of the Sullivan empire, financial wunderkind, experienced man of the world, suddenly felt exactly the way he had the time he’d been caught by Sister Madeline Marie, trying to look up Patsy Flannery’s dress on the jungle gym during recess. Now, as then, he opened his mouth to answer, but the words got stuck in his throat. He could only hope he wasn’t blushing, too.

      “Mr. Sullivan?” Zoe prompted, as she stood holding a cup of tea in one slender, beringed hand and the silver sugar tongs in the other.

      He had a sudden, searing vision of her standing there naked, in exactly the same position. No…not naked. In his mind’s eye she was wearing stiletto heels and a frilly little apron made of sheer net and black lace, and—

      “Mr. Sullivan,” she said sharply, as if she had read his thoughts.

      Or maybe it was just his guilty conscience that made her sound so much like Sister Madeline Marie had that day on the playground.

      “One sugar, please,” he croaked.

      “One sugar it is.”

      She bent her head to her task, using the silver tongs to pluck a sugar cube from the bowl and drop it into his cup, lifting a tiny teaspoon to stir the hot liquid and melt the sugar, tapping the spoon lightly against the rim of the cup before placing it gently back on the silver spoon rest. The back of her hand brushed against a frosted petit four and she lifted her hand to her mouth, absently licking at one knuckle.

      Reed sat mesmerized, watching every precise, delicate movement. Her tongue was nearly as pink as the frosting. And probably sweeter, too…

      “Your tea, Mr. Sullivan.”

      He snapped out of a brief, delicious fantasy of licking frosting off of her fingers—and various other places—to find her standing in front of his chair, the cup of tea held practically under his nose. He tried not to picture her naked again—he really did—but it was a hopeless endeavor; she was the kind of woman who inspired lustful fantasies. He wondered how she’d look in one of those skimpy bits of satin and lace that graced the pages of the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Something black with garters, he thought, decorated with little rosettes the color of the frosting on the petits fours.

      “I hope it’s the way you like it,” she said.

      “I’m sure it is,” he managed to answer suavely, years of good manners and lessons in deportment coming to his rescue despite the lascivious pictures forming in his mind. “Thank you.”

      Their fingers touched.

      Heat sizzled up his arm and straight into his brain cells, frying untold millions of nerve endings and sending alarm signals to points south. Her gaze lifted to his, eyes widened, startled, as if she felt something, too. And then she released her hold on the saucer and turned away. His fingers were suddenly so unsteady he had to reach up with his free hand to anchor the fragile cup in its saucer to keep from spilling hot tea in his lap.

      “Ah, here it is!” Moira’s voice was triumphant. “I knew I’d seen it in this box.”

      “Seen what, Gran?” Reed asked, without taking his eyes off of Zoe.

      She stood with her back to him now, calmly pouring out her own cup of tea, as if that charged moment had never happened. Her wild tumble of hair was so long it brushed against the wide leather belt encircling her impossible waist.

      “The formula,” Moira said.

      “The what?” he murmured, wondering how all that glorious hair would look cascading down Zoe Moon’s naked back…wondering how it would feel if he reached out and grasped a handful…wondering if the curls between her slender thighs were the same flame-hot color as the ones on her head.

      “The formula I want you to look at, dear,” Moira said. “I found it.”

      Reed managed to tear his eyes away from Zoe long enough to glance at his great-grandmother. “What formula is that, Gran?”

      “For Zoe’s wonderful hand lotion. Haven’t you been paying attention? Reed?” Her voice rose slightly in reprimand. “Reed, are you listening to me, young man?”

      “I’m sorry.” He turned his head toward his great-grandmother, refocusing his attention with superhuman effort. “You have my full attention.” Or she would when Zoe sat down beside her again so he didn’t have to strain to keep her in his peripheral vision. “What do you want me to look at, sweetheart?”

      “This formula, for starters.” Moira tapped the side of the shoe box with the tip of one finger. “And the rest of the papers, too, of course.”

      “The rest of the papers?” His glance darted sideways as Zoe reseated herself in the corner of the settee.

      She brushed a long, springy tendril of hair back with one hand, casually sweeping it behind her shoulder, and crossed her legs—her long, slender, velvet-sheathed legs—balancing her teacup and saucer on her knee.

      “What, ah…” Reed swallowed and forced himself to look back at his great-grandmother. “What kind of papers?”

      “Oh…” Light glittered off the sapphire on Moira’s right hand as it fluttered through the air. “Receipts and bills and things,” she said vaguely, finally claiming her great-grandson’s attention completely.

      Moira Sullivan was never vague about anything. Ever.

      “Zoe brought all her files as well as her formulas.” She smiled approvingly at the younger woman. “You did bring everything with you, didn’t you, dear?”

      “Everything I thought might be useful to the discussion.” Zoe gestured at the tapestry bag on the floor. “What’s not in shoe boxes is in there.”

      “Useful to what discussion?” Reed leaned forward and carefully set his teacup and saucer on the little piecrust table so he could give his full attention to the conversation. He had the uneasy feeling that he’d missed something vitally important in his libidinous preoccupation with the luscious Miss Moon. “Just what are we talking about here?”

      “Well, my goodness, Reed,” Moira admonished him, “haven’t

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