Page 33 of Too Hot to Sleep
He pursed his mouth.
She swallowed, and her ears popped with the released pressure.
"Did you tell him what I asked you to last night—that I think he's a lucky man?"
Georgia nodded.
"And what did he say?"
She inhaled. "He asked me if he should be jealous."
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him no, because..."
"Because?"
Best to nip this flirtation in the bud. She exhaled. "Because you're not my type."
He crossed his arms over his chest, a small smile on his lips. "What type am I?"
She chewed on the inside of her cheek.
He leaned forward on the table, his face inches from hers. "Georgia," he said softly, "what type am I?"
Her throat convulsed. The type of man who could set her world on end. Send her spiraling into decadence. His eyes searched hers, and she was afraid of what he saw. She wanted to pull away, but their mouths were like inverse magnets, the attraction growing stronger exponentially as the space between them closed millimeter by millimeter.
Georgia didn't know what she expected, but the electricity of his lips meeting hers was an intoxicating, luxurious feeling of pure indulgence. Like eating white-chocolate-covered cherries while relaxing in a deep, fragrant bath as hot as the body could stand. She opened her mouth to receive him, flicking the tip of her tongue against his teeth in invitation. He accepted with a deep moan that vibrated inside her mouth, sending a stab of desire straight to her belly, and moisture to her—
Georgia pulled back and covered her mouth with the back of her hand. What had she done?
He remained leaning forward, his mouth open a fraction, his brow furrowed. "Georgia?"
This was sheer lunacy. The man was a player, and she'd fallen for it. Mortified, she stumbled backward, away from theconfining picnic table. "You're the type of man... who would kiss a woman who's involved with another man." She wiped at her mouth, breathing hard. "I... I don't like the way you make me feel. I try to be an honest person, Ken, just as I expect the man I'm seeing to be honest with me."
He didn't respond, just stared at her.
"You probably think that's old-fashioned," she said with an awkward laugh. "But trust is very important to me."
A flush darkened his face. Perhaps she'd spoken too vehemently, but the words needed to be said, if only for her own ears. After all, if she were seeing Ken Medlock—not that she would—but if shewereseeing him, she wouldn't be slinking around kissing some other man in the park.
"Goodbye," she murmured, then grabbed her purse and camera bag and practically ran to the bus stop two blocks away. Cool relief flooded her—she'd managed to disentangle herself from the man without totally dishonoring her relationship with Rob. Close call.
Rob.Remorse sat in her belly. Poor man, he was probably feeling neglected, down with a cold and her playing twenty questions on the phone last night. She'd been so inconsiderate—and she a nurse, for goodness sake.
When a thought struck her, she chastised herself for not thinking of it before—instead of a clandestine meeting with Ken Medlock, she should be fostering her romance with Rob. She'd stop at Claxton's Deli, pick up a big bowl of their chicken soup and drop by Rob's house.
Georgia turned toward her destination, a decided spring in her step. Rob would be so surprised.
Chapter 13
ROB'S HOUSEwas a forty-minute walk from the nearest bus stop, but Georgia didn't mind. The weather was wonderful, if hot, and she had plenty of thinking to do. Ken Medlock's interest in her was flattering, but fleeting, she was sure. She knew Ken's M.O.—the man saw her simply as a challenge, a conquest. Rob, on the other hand, had taken her out regularly for many months now. And they were finally progressing toward the kind of physical relationship she desired. She'd be crazy to mess it up now.
Her first thought when she saw Rob's beautiful two-story gray brick home was that she'd never seen his lawn so unkempt. Her second thought was that it must be driving him crazy, lying in bed with a cold while his Bermuda grass went to seed. But at the sight of the newspapers stacked on the stoop, alarm blipped through her. The fact that Rob hadn't been able to retrieve his belovedWall Street Journalmeant that he was more ill than he'd allowed her to think.
She stepped over the stack of papers, then balanced her purse and the canister of soup to ring the doorbell. After a couple of minutes with no response, she rang it again, perplexed. With no answer, she dug the copy of the door key he'd given her from her wallet and carefully unlocked the front door.
"Rob?" she called in the direction of the upstairs. She walked into the foyer, frowning at the dim lighting. "Rob?"
