LITMIR.BIZ

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there. “You’re a good bartender,” she said.

      His bushy eyebrows wiggled again. “That’s not all that I’m good at.”

      The conversation was getting a bit too intimate for her liking. Glass in hand, Emilie stood. “How about showing me around?”

      Rowan gave her the grand tour of his surprisingly neat home. Downstairs, French doors separated the living room from a small office with tons of shelf space. The dining room was an extension of the kitchen, and a half bathroom provided a convenient place to wash up. Upstairs were two spacious bedrooms all with tiny back decks. One bathroom had a Jacuzzi tub as well as a shower. The other was more of a powder room and designed for the lady of the house. Recessed lights illuminated the vaulted ceilings. All in all it was a charming place to live.

      “So how’s a big-city girl from Joisey adjusting to small-town life?” Rowan asked when they were seated downstairs again. He’d slipped off his loafers and began poking her with his toes.

      She grabbed his big toe playfully, capturing it between her thumb and index finger and squeezed.

      “I love it here. This little town’s got style and possibilities,” she said.

      “You’ve got style.”

      “You never give up, do you?”

      On the radio, D’dawg, the popular radio personality, was having a field day picking on Mayor Solomon Rabinowitz.

      “Don’t y’all think it’s high time this village loses its idiot?” he drawled. “Hit me up and tell me if you agree. Lines are open y’all.”

      One caller after another said their peace. The mayor apparently had few supporters.

      “How come no one will ever admit they voted for Rabinowitz, yet he’s serving a second term?” Rowan asked, shaking his head.

      “Because he stole the election from Miriam Young, better known as the Flip-flop Momma. She’s a single mom who likes to wear flip-flops. Florida has a reputation for not being able to count votes.”

      Rowan guffawed loudly. “You’re funny. Don’t know about you but I’ve had enough. I’m cutting this off.” He took his foot back from her and crossed the room to turn off the radio. Returning to the sofa again, he took Emilie’s glass and set it down. “What if I were to ask you to stay the night?”

      “If I said yes, you’d probably run.”

      “Try me.”

      “Okay.”

      “Okay, what?”

      “Okay, I’ll stay.”

      She didn’t know what had gotten into her. It wasn’t as if she and Rowan would be taking this further. And that was precisely why she’d agreed to stay over. There would be no emotional involvement between them, and so he was safe. It wasn’t as if this was the first time they’d been out, more like their fifth, and she did find him attractive.

      “I should have filled you up with cosmopolitans sooner,” he mumbled, taking her hand and leading her upstairs.

      “I’m perfectly sober.”

      Rowan’s bedroom was comfortably air-conditioned, the sheets fresh smelling and crisp. Fully clothed, Emilie hopped onto the king-sized bed. He climbed in beside her and immediately began helping her out of her shirt.

      As Rowan’s rough palms stroked her body and his mouth began an intimate exploration of her flesh, she found herself responding. Soon she was giving as good as she got.

      Don’t think, Emilie. Just live in the moment.

      It had been almost a full year since she’d been made love to and her body was wired and quickly on fire.

      Rowan was making loud noises as she tore at what remained of his clothing. Much as she would have preferred to slow things down, neither of them seemed able to wait.

      “Before this goes any further, let me ask the obvious question,” Emilie said. “Do you have protection?”

      “Like a good Boy Scout, I’m always prepared.” He showed her the condom that had magically appeared in his hand. Emilie helped him slide it on.

      “Get on top of me so that I can see you,” he said, shifting her into the dominant position.

      She was quickly impaled on Rowan. He wasn’t at all selfish. In fact he was a giving and considerate lover. She didn’t have a single regret. Emilie closed her eyes and allowed the sensations to wash over her. It could only get better if they were in love. But love complicated things and emotions caused you to make wrong choices.

      Rowan James was not the kind of man who would ever settle down. By his own admission he was always off chasing one dream or another, and he was clearly the wrong man for her. But his hands on her flesh caused her to do a sexy gyration. Rowan’s deep baritone, and the next thrust, had Emilie clutching his broad shoulders. Her body came alive as he took her on a wild ride. She’d turned into a bucking bronco.

      And he was bucking right along with her, in tune with her body and satisfying her more than she’d ever thought possible. Even their breathing had synchronized.

      When Rowan held her around the waist and sat her down hard on him, she bit down hard on her lower lip. Never in her wildest imaginations had she expected it to be this good with a man who was just a booty call.

      And as Emilie spiraled out of control, she thought about the old Tina Turner tune.

      What did love have to do with it?

      Chapter 3

      Making love with Emilie Woodward had been a far more moving experience than Rowan had ever imagined. Three days later and he still couldn’t get her out of his head. He was still thinking about her and trying to get rid of the perfumed scent that lingered in his nostrils. He’d been attracted to the vivacious redhead from the first day he’d laid eyes on her. He’d been determined to have her, and not just in a sexual sense.

      Fortunately the company she worked for, the Knight Corporation, had hired him to develop the land butting up against the golf course. That had given him reason to saunter into Emilie’s office every chance he got. Eventually he’d worn her down and she’d agreed to go out with him. Their first official date had been Chere Adams and Quentin Abrahams’s wedding.

      Initially, Rowan had thought Emilie was white but it was no big deal when he found out otherwise. He was used to dating women outside of his race and in fact that was his preference. He’d married a black woman. The issues leading up to his divorce had nothing at all to do with their different ethnicities.

      Emilie was a striking woman with great shoulders and magnificent breasts. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit those full breasts had turned him on from the moment he’d laid eyes on them. But it was her take-charge attitude and outgoing personality that he’d really been attracted to. He wanted to know what made her tick.

      Getting Emilie to trust him and realize he was sincere was going to be a challenge. She had her guard up—a barrier he planned on penetrating. Rowan had tried everything to convince her he was cool, and that her ethnicity wasn’t a problem for him, but she either wasn’t listening or he wasn’t getting through. He refused to believe she didn’t care.

      What he’d failed to share was that his upbringing was far more humble than hers. He’d grown up in the projects in a tough Brooklyn, East New York, neighborhood. While other white families raced for the suburbs, his parents, both factory workers, stayed put. He’d been left with no choice but to adjust and fit in. And so he’d grown up playing stickball and basketball with black and Latino kids.

      As he got older, he began dating his playmates’ sisters, who by then didn’t seem to notice the color of his skin. He knew the urban slang, holding his own with the best of them, and when it came to street brawls he could match the nastiest gang leader blow for blow. Growing up under those circumstances

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