LITMIR.BIZ

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hardened—though she wasn’t the least bit cold, oh no sir—and she knew they were poking at the thick fabric. Would he notice? Could he tell?

      Would he care?

      Trying to pretend nothing was the least amiss, she made herself continue downward. But, man-oh-man, was he something to look at. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and unfastened a second button at the throat. The vee of undershirt she could see was blinding white and contrasted with the dark, past-five-o’clock stubble on his chin and around his mouth.

      His mouth made her think of his kiss again. It was just a regular man’s mouth, she supposed, but she liked the wideness of it and the deep etch of his upper lip. She really liked how it had felt on hers and, then, when his tongue had touched—

      “Don’t look at me like that,” he suddenly said.

      She was two steps from the bottom and the rasp in his voice made her grab for the railing. “I’m sorry,” she said, unable to move, hardly able to speak. “What?”

      “You look at me like that and I forget all about my intentions.”

      Her mouth went dry. “What intentions?” Maybe they were bad intentions…yet why did the idea of that sound so very good?

      Matthias glanced over his shoulder. “My intention to feed you before anything else. Didn’t I promise to rustle up dinner?”

      Behind him she could see he’d set two places on the coffee table pulled up before a wide, soft-cushioned couch. Something was steaming—she could smell it, beef bourguignonne?—on two plates and ruby-colored liquid filled two wineglasses. Candles flickered in low votives.

      Had she mentioned she was a sucker for candlelight?

      She took another whiff of that delicious-smelling food. “Are you a good cook?”

      He smiled and she liked that, too. His teeth were as white as his undershirt and they sent another wave of hot prickles across her flesh. “Maybe. Probably. But I’ve never tried.”

      She had to laugh at that. “Are you usually so confident? Even if you haven’t attempted something you just expect you’ll excel at it?”

      “Of course. ‘Assume success, deny failure.’ My father taught us that.”

      “Yikes.” And Lauren thought her cold-blooded père knew how to apply the screws. “That’s a little harsh.”

      “You think so?” Matthias walked over to take her wet clothes in one hand and her free hand in the other.

      He insinuated his long fingers between hers and the heat of his palm against hers shot toward her shoulder. “I think…I think…” Lauren couldn’t remember what she was about to say. “Never mind.”

      He was smiling at her again, as if he understood her distraction. He led her toward the couch. “Let me put your clothes in the dryer, then we’ll eat.”

      She stared after his retreating form for a moment, then started back to awareness. She was supposed to take the wet clothes home! Right after she told him the engagement was over! Right before walking out the door without dinner, without anything but her car keys and the comforting thought that she’d done the right thing.

      But now he was coming toward her again, that small smile on his face and that appreciative light in his eyes. He brought that attraction between them back into the room, too—all that twitching, pulsing heat that drew her heart to her throat and her blood to several lower locations.

      Tell him it’s over! Her good sense shouted.

      Tell him later, her sexuality purred, with a languid little stretch.

      “Sit down,” Matthias said, reaching out to touch her cheek.

      Her knees gave way.

      Merely postponing the inevitable. Lauren assured herself that she’d take care of what she came for and leave. Soon.

      

      Except, an excellent dinner later, she was feeling a bit fuzzy from more merlot than she was used to. As well as a lot charmed by the man who had taken their dishes into the kitchen and was now sitting back on the cushions beside her, dangling the stem of his wine-glass between his fingers.

      Over the meal he’d entertained her with stories that all revolved around his adventures in take-out dining. If she needed any further evidence that he was a business-obsessed workaholic like her father—and why else would Papa Conover have pushed so hard for her to marry Matthias?—now she had it. The man couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten food prepared in a home.

      “Even this doesn’t qualify, I’m afraid,” he said, gesturing to where their plates had been. “The cartons were printed with the name of some gourmet catering place in town.”

      “Hunter’s Landing, right?” Lauren asked. “Though it’s not named after your friend from college? The one who built this house?”

      Matthias shook his head. “No. Just a little joke on his part, I guess. He had a wild sense of humor.”

      The suddenly hoarse note in his voice made her throat tighten. He missed his friend, that was certain. Swallowing a sigh, she closed her eyes. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. This wasn’t the way he was supposed to be. She didn’t want her parent-picked fiancé to be sexy or charming or vulnerable and, for God’s sake, certainly not all three. It only made it that much harder to break it off with him.

      She was always such a nitwit when it came to men. There was a reason she’d been engaged three times before now. There was a reason she’d picked the wrong men and then stuck with them until the humiliating end—until they walked out on her.

      “So,” Matthias said, breaking into her morose thoughts. “Enough about me. Tell me all about Lauren.”

      All about Lauren? Her eyes popped open and her spirits picked up. Was this the answer? If she told Mr. Assume-Success-Deny-Failure Barton all about Lauren, he might break it off between them himself! Because the truth was, when it came to romance, she was all about failure. And obviously more accustomed to getting dumped than the other way around.

      Drawing her legs onto the couch, she turned on her side to face him.

      Except his face was directed at her legs, bared by the edges of the terry robe that had opened with her movement. Heat rushing over her face, she yanked the fabric over her pale skin. She wasn’t trying to come on to him. She was trying to get him to see that a marriage between the two of them would never work.

      When she cleared her throat, he looked up, without a hint of shame on his face. “Great legs.”

      The compliment only served to discombobulate her further. The heat found its way to the back of her neck and she blurted out, “You know, you’re fiancé number four.”

      He stared. “Number four?”

      Ha. That had him. Now he’d turn off the charm and dam up that oozing sex appeal. She nodded. “I’ve been engaged before. Three other times.”

      He gave a small smile. “Optimistic little thing, aren’t you?”

      She frowned, bothered that he seemed more amused than appalled by her confession. Maybe he didn’t believe her. Maybe he thought she was joking. Holding up her hand, she ticked them off. “Trevor, Joe and Jean-Paul.”

      “All right.” He drained the remainder of his wine and set the glass on the table, as if ready for business. “Give me the down and dirty.”

      He still seemed amused. And charming. And sexy.

      Blast him.

      Lauren took a breath. “I almost married Trevor when we were nineteen. It was going to be a sunset ceremony on the beach, followed by a honeymoon—one that I’d planned and paid for—that would hit all the best surfing spots in Costa Rica. On my wedding day, I was supposed to wear a white bandeau top, a grass skirt I found

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