Part 4 (1/2)

What more was, I couldn't say.

I stacked a popular Viking romance author's newest book face out. Now those were men with abs. I held up another man candy cover when Jill covered her face with the billionaire book.

Her eyes slanted sideways at me. ”Pssst. Don't look but there's a hawt surfer in Cookbooks. By Foreign Cuisine.”

My gaze collided with sardonic blue-grey eyes glinting at me over an absurdly expensive coffee table style cookbook.

”And she looks,” Jill sighed. ”That was subtle.”

My shoes rooted to the floor. Mark lowered the book, his smile somewhere between hard sh.e.l.l and aren't you happy to see me?

Without breaking eye contact with Mark, I set the Viking book on the shelf. ”I know him.”

”You do?”

”And he needs to leave.”

With all the a.s.sistant manager authority I could muster, I marched into the Cookbook section. ”What are you doing here?”

”Good morning to you too.”

I gritted my teeth at the s.h.i.+ver his voice sent down my back. Last night rushed through me...the headiness of our bodies mashed together, the long erotic kisses, his hips swaying with mine as if we were at a high school dance before I had the most intense s.e.x of my life. Today I was fully dressed, having nothing in common with last night's sensual woman.

Swallowing my awkwardness, I tried a stiff, ”Why are you here?”

”Looking for a book,” he said matter-of-fact. ”Do you always greet your customers like that? No wonder these places are going out of business.”

”You're stalking me,” I hissed. ”I should call the police.”

”And tell them what? 'Arrest this man. He's buying a book.'”

”Really? The Art of Israeli Cuisine.” I angled my head to read the table of contents. ”You have a thing for Twenty Ways to Prepare Lentils.”

”My tastes aren't main stream.” Mark's panty-melting smile hinted at his s.e.xual appet.i.te.

It rocked me back on my heels. Mark appeared to be enjoying himself. I didn't know what to do with his disarming humor. Last night he was Mr. s.e.x. Now? We stood close with bland Muzak piping overhead and me feeling like I was. .h.i.t square in the chest. I smelled every little thing about him. The laundry detergent on his T-s.h.i.+rt, the spicy shampoo he'd used to wash his still slightly wet hair, and him. My nipples tingled inside my bra. This was crazy animal behavior.

”How did you find me? And why?” I glared at the cookbook. ”And don't tell me you came looking for a cookbook. You wouldn't know a sieve from a sifter.”

Mark tucked the book under his arm, acting put out. ”Oh, I know my way around a kitchen.”

”You cook?”

”Rather well,” he said smoothly.

Light played in his eyes. He enjoyed our little exchange. Or maybe he enjoyed throwing me off kilter? Howell's st.u.r.dy low pile blue carpet was as steady as ocean water under my flats, and that made me grumpy.

”I don't believe you,” I muttered, backing into a shelf. His smell and unshaven jaw made me want to crawl all over him. That's hormones for you.

”Did somebody skip breakfast this morning?”

”I'm waiting.” b.u.t.t planted on the shelf edge, I clamped both arms across my chest.

Leaning on the shelf facing me, Mark hooked a thumb in his jeans' pocket. He took a deep breath, his plain black T-s.h.i.+rt stretching across the same pecs I'd smashed my b.o.o.bs against last night. The contempt line at the side of his mouth was more prominent under fluorescent light.

”Let's start with how I found you. Last night you mentioned working at a book store. I saw a car in Mrs. Smith's parking lot with a Howell's Bookstore b.u.mper sticker. It wasn't hard to figure out.” His eyes widened ready to drive home a point. ”And there's an Abbie Rutledge listed on the website as the contact for book signings and store events.”

How did he manage to sound logical? I forgot about telling him I worked in a bookstore. And there was b.u.mper sticker on my car. A dead giveaway. The small, family-owned chain put their stamp on two counties in southern California.

”Howell's has three bookstores in a fifty mile radius,” he went on. ”Made it easy to narrow down my choices.”

”Did you go to the other two stores looking for me?”

Mark hesitated. ”Yeah. I did.” His cool guy exterior fractured, but his voice was deep and rea.s.suring. ”If you really want me to leave, I will. I don't want you to be uncomfortable.”

I let the shelf take most of my weight as his words sank in. The power to decide was in my hands. ”Why?” was the best I could manage.

”To ask you to lunch.” He grinned and held up the book. ”And to get this great cookbook.”

”It's ten forty-five AM.”

”So, take lunch early.”

I'm glad the shelf supported me. Mark showing up took the wind out of me, as much because I wanted to see him as not see him. A war raged inside me. His grin tugged at me, tore down my capability to reason.

”I can't. We're...busy.”

One of our regulars, Mrs. Beardsley, squeaked by with her walker.

Mark's brow c.o.c.ked. ”Yeah. Rush hour.”

From our vantage point, you could see most of the virtually empty store. My brain tried to process him standing three feet from me, but what came out was a surreal blend of Muzak and naked skin. Last night I wore black stilettos at his request before we'd even met. Today I wore navy twill pants with a white cotton b.u.t.ton down s.h.i.+rt, a name tag lanyard larger than a deck of cards around my neck. This was the real me not the bondage babe he'd paid for.

”It's only lunch,” he said.

”You know some of us have to work.”

”I work. Contract work.”

”Contract work? Is that code for unemployed?” I was getting waspish, because he'd come into my place of business and I couldn't believe all he wanted was lunch. The fluttery feel inside me hoped Mark wanted more than lunch.

He pointed to the spot over his heart where three white lines chased a five-pointed star. ”This was the job I recently finished. Nor Star Lasers in Irvine.”

I pushed off the shelf, scrutinizing the logo. A black T-s.h.i.+rt hugged his chest and shoulders, the bottom hanging loose around his lean waist. How easy it'd be to slip my underneath and touch his flat stomach, something I wasn't able to do last night with my hands cuffed. I avoided temptation, clasping both hands casually behind my back.

”What do you do?”