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He held it up. “Not really my color.”
“Pink looks good on blondes,” Amy said.
“In that case, how can I refuse?” He shrugged off his clinging wet shirt, gave his powerful chest a swipe from his towel, and reached for the sweatshirt.
Her kingdom for a camera, Amy thought. She wanted to stroke him so much her palms itched. It was almost an ache, this need to run her hands along that rippling bare skin and feel the masculine hardness.
She didn’t dare risk changing their relationship that way. Either Quent would start to feel uncomfortable around her or he’d add her to his collection of conquests. Either way, it would spell the end of their good times.
He yanked the sweatshirt into place. Although loose on Amy, it clung to him. “Not bad,” he said. “You loan this to all your boyfriends?”
“Only the blond ones,” she said.
“I hope you wash it in between.” The microwave bell rang, summoning Quent.
“Usually. If I remember. I mean, they come and go so fast, who can keep track?”
She didn’t like misleading him, even as a joke, but if Quent discovered how little experience she had, the man would laugh. Amy couldn’t bear to be teased about the fact that she’d reached her third decade still a virgin, and not entirely by choice. Above all, she didn’t want Quent to be the man to whom she finally gave herself, because it would mean so much more to her than it possibly could to him.
Someday, Amy hoped to find a gentle, undemanding guy who would love and treasure her. The problem was that when she did meet men of that description, she felt a big fat nothing toward them. Certainly not the scary, exhilarating sense of riding a roller coaster that hit her every time she imagined Quent’s mouth covering hers, his body pressing her down…
“Is it something I said?” He stood there holding out a steaming mug of cocoa. “Or are you ignoring me on purpose?”
“I was remembering the last macho hunk who wore that sweatshirt,” Amy invented.
“I could wipe up the floor with him.”
“Oh, yeah? He was a wrestler.”
“Professionally?” he asked.
“Just with me,” she said. “I won, by the way. Pinned him best two out of three. Come to think of it, we never got to three.”
Carrying the popcorn, Quent led the way into the living room. “Maybe we should try that.”
“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” she said.
“Hurt me? You didn’t take a close enough look at my muscles while I had my shirt off,” he shot back. “Care for me to strip again?”
With all my heart. “I’ll pass,” Amy said. “Hang on.”
She set aside her mug and dug through the front closet for the portable heater. She found it behind her ski poles and Boogie board.
Set up in front of the couch and plugged into an extension cord, it radiated a luxurious circle of warmth. Amy and Quent sank onto the sofa to enjoy it.
For some reason, they kept sliding to the middle. She tried not to react when his knee nudged hers or to the brush of his shoulder as he raised his mug to drink. But she couldn’t help it.
“I like your hair loose that way.” Quent’s voice sounded hoarse.
“It won’t dry in a ponytail so I shook it out.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, not sitting this close. They’d practically be kissing.
Overhead, a gust of wind hit the roof. Instinctively, she shifted closer to Quent, as if he could protect her from the storm.
Their hands met when they reached into the popcorn bag at the same time. Amy’s skin prickled.
“Next time I’ll stock up on supplies so we can each have our own,” she said.
“I prefer it this way,” Quent murmured.
She stopped trying to deny the heat deep inside her, the tingling in her lips, the inability to think of anything except Quent’s broad chest. She simply had to find an excuse to touch him, just once.
“Are you sure that sweatshirt isn’t too tight?” She ran her hand across his shoulders. “It looks snug.”
“I can’t tell you what that does to a guy.” He set his mug beside Amy’s on the coffee table and clasped her waist. “You’re going to slug me for this, but I can’t resist.”
Amy’s mind went white. Time slowed, and the universe filled with the slow, inevitable descent of Quent’s mouth onto hers.
Her lips parted to welcome him. Despite its tenderness, the kiss jolted her. She swayed toward him until her breasts grazed his chest.
His palms caressed her hips, bringing her closer, then raised trails of sparkles as he stroked up her rib cage. She ought to draw back. Ought to, but couldn’t.
Amy played her hands along Quent’s back, down to that incredibly tight masculine butt. She might never get this chance again, she thought dazedly.
When his tongue explored the corners of her lips, she teased it with light nips that intensified his probing. At the same time, wonder of wonders, his strong, skilled hands slid beneath the waistline of her sweater and smoothed upwards to the swell of her breasts.
She wore only a thin sports bra, a fact that he discovered rapidly. His hands covered the small nubs, arousing white-hot flames that licked through her body.
Was he simply acting like a guy, responding unthinkingly to whatever woman he found himself with? Amy didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. She’d never felt such powerful sensations before.
“Amazing.” Quent drew his head back. “I should have known you’d be…you’d be…”
Whatever he meant to say, Amy was never to learn, because at that moment a huge crash shook the room. It felt as if a bomb had gone off.
She was too shocked to move until cold water blasted her face and tiny pieces of something spattered across her hand. “What on earth?”
With an oath, Quent pulled her away from the couch. “We’d better turn off the power before something catches fire.” He reached down and unplugged the heater. “That’s for good measure.”
There were pieces of white ceiling plaster clinging to her sweater, Amy realized. Her brain still struggled to accept what had happened, but by the time they reached the doorway en route to the fuse box, the truth dawned.
She’d finally kissed the man of her dreams, and the roof had caved in.
Chapter Two
“That’s one heckuva palm tree,” said the fireman, studying the wreckage from the rain-drenched parking lot.
The tree had fallen straight across Amy’s roof, smashing shingles and the gutter. The fire-team members, their bright yellow slickers deflecting the downpour, had thrown a tarp over the roof to protect the contents from further damage, but it was clear the place would be unlivable for some time to come.
“How big do you make it?” Quent asked. “Twenty, thirty feet?”
“Hard to tell. You’ll need to get a private contractor out here to cut it up and haul it away, and you’ll need to board over that hole it made. I’d suggest you contact a roofer as soon as possible.” The man turned to talk to another firefighter.
The sheeting rain and stormy late-afternoon darkness diffused the lights of the rescue vehicles. Their flashing reds and haloed whites reflected eerily off the blacktop.
Holding the umbrella