Page 8 of Hot to Trot

“So you have a roommate? Is this in LA? Or…?”

“Manhattan. And he’s the best roommate a girl can have. He cooks things like reductions and flambé, cleans with vinegar, and knows what sweater goes with my newest wedges. I should probably marry him."

She smiled again, shifting her attention to him. It felt good having her regard. He wanted to stay there, under her gaze, under her spell.

"My roommate is Stefan Horton.”

He searched the recesses of his mind. No clue. "Stefan Horton?"

"He plays Karakas onDeep Shadows."

''Oh." Adam had never watched the campy drama, though plenty of people around town had buzzed about it since the day it debuted. Everyone knew the demonically sexy queen of the vampires was played by Frances's niece, who happened to be Chef Rayne Rose's younger sister. TheOak Stand Gazettehad done a feature piece on Scarlet and had even netted a telephone interview. He'd perused the interview one night while sitting on the outskirts of town, waiting for the roughnecks at Cooley's bar to get rowdy the way they did every ladies' night. He'd remembered her publicity shot. The alabaster breasts threatening to topple out of the black spandex. Those red, red lips and haunting eyes.

"You don't watch, I take it?"

He shook his head. "The existential angst that underpins the soap opera doesn't fit my ideal viewing parameters."

"Big words. And it's not a soap opera," she said, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. Though her skin was remarkably fair, she was not freckled. Her shoulders were smooth and faintly golden from the sun, as if awaiting his touch.

He wanted to touch her. Slide his lips down to where her neck met-

Nope. Not going there.

“Everyone seems to enjoy it. I don’t watch a lot of television, so…”

She nodded. “You’re not from here.”

It was a question. "No. I'm originally from Houston."

"You don't sound like you're from Houston."

He leaned forward and clasped his hands. He was accustomed to questions. Everyone in Oak Stand wanted to know who your mama and daddy were. And where you attended church. But he hated answering questions about his past. "I went to prep school on the East Coast. They force Texas twang out, much like I'm sure you did when you trained as an actress. You don't sound Texan."

"I'm not a Texan. I'm from everywhere." The mood shifted. No more lightness. Something darker had awakened in her. For a moment she didn't speak, seemed caught in her thoughts. Then she looked at him. "You know, I have some wicked fantasies about prep-school boys in stuffy oxford shirts and sweater cardigans. About getting them out of those khaki pants."

It was off-kilter. Almost sarcastic. She was vamping him, deflecting. He knew it but even so his blood heated, making him forget who he was. Her gaze narrowed to a smolder and her pink tongue appeared at the corner of her plump lips, throwing gun powder onto the fire.

He couldn't stop himself. He dragged his gaze over her fantasy of a body. The tank top was tight and outlined exactly what he wanted to see. Even her blue-green nail polish looked provocative. He knew it was wrong. He knew he'd poured his own fuel onto the fire that blazed between them. "I had some pretty wicked fantasies myself. The best one involved a smart-mouthed redhead with long legs and big-"

"Are you flirting with me?"

Her words were like ice water, dousing the flickering flames within him. What in the hell had he been thinking playing with her like that?

"Are you flirting with me?" he countered with a deadpan expression. “You brought up taking off khaki pants.”

He found his cool. No need to let her know how much he wanted to handcuff her in a very unprofessional way. No need to let her see the weakness he held when it came to women like her.

She leaped to her feet. "Nope.”

She walked toward the front door, not bothering to glance back at him.

His body bade him to follow her, to find out how it would feel to have her perfect white teeth nipping his earlobe, to have her abundant flesh filling his hands. To discover the way she'd feel beneath him, on top of him, around him.

But Adam didn't move. He was no slave to desire. Not anymore. So instead of watching Scarlet, he focused on a moth fluttering above some flowering bushes ringing the porch.

Brother, you've lost your mind. Don't forget who you are in this town. You are the law. And you are currently on duty. No indulging in witty repartee with a bold tart of a woman who broke the law less than an hour ago. Get a grip.

He rose and straightened, donning his resolve and doffing his uniform hat.

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