Free Can't Say No by Jennifer Greene

alligators under the bed? I would have been here last night if I hadn’t had so damn much to take care of. Just sit down, and we’ll have a little talk.”
    She jabbed a furious forefinger at the sleeping bag.
    He nodded. “You didn’t really think I was going to leave you alone here to scream your heart out all by yourself? Besides, it was hot up at my place.”
    A blatant lie. His house had central air conditioning, and her nightmares were her business. Bree’s lips tightened as she motioned even more angrily to her cake.
    “Terrific stuff. It was still warm when I came in. I could smell it when I was ten feet from the door. Now, I know I took a little piece, but that was hardly my fault. You shouldn’t bake like that if you don’t want it eaten. Incidentally, you’ve got quite a contraption there.” He motioned to the “bubbler” she had set up in the corner by the dry sink, where she’d played with a formula for perfume hours before.
    “I had such high hopes when I first walked in here that you were making a little moonshine—it is a still, isn’t it? But that smell isn’t remotely related to liquor. In fact,” Hart drawled lazily, “the scent has distinctly aphrodisiac qualities. One of the first things I noticed about you on the plane was that scent you wear—nothing heavy, is it, honey, just whatever it takes to drive a man over the edge. Are you a witch in secret, Bree? Woops. I forgot the lady isn’t inclined to talk back.”
    Hart twisted around, spotted her purse on the floor by the dry sink and bent over, rummaging around in it until he withdrew her notepad and pen. “Drink your milk,” he ordered. “And then—just this one time—we’ll do a little communicating your way. Against my better judgment. One way or another I’d like at least a hint as to why you get the screaming meemies at two in the morning. Unless you’ve got something better to talk about?”
    He motioned her to the sleeping bag, as if he expected her to sit there. Bree stood rooted to her spot in the shadow of the stairs, one hand holding her robe closed and the other clutching the cold, sweating glass of milk.
    “Ah. We get the feeling the lady doesn’t want to talk about it. Well, fine, Bree.” Hart sprawled in a kitchen chair and raised one bare foot to the opposite one with a lazy yawn. “I told you before that it’s terrific finding a woman who doesn’t constantly prattle on and on, demanding constant attention, interrupting my every sentence…” He yawned again, a flashy grin zipping across his face. In that crazy, flickering candlelight, he looked like a demented tawny bear.
    “Believe me, honey, I can talk for two. You want to hear about the time I drove a car into a swimming pool? That’s a good story. It happened to be the principal’s car—in the suburb of Los Angeles where I grew up—and the principal’s daughter happened to be in it. Happened to be in the car, that is, not just the suburb. Problems sort of compounded on that one, since I was only fifteen and didn’t have a license—”
    My God, he could talk. On and on…Bree stood motionless in the corner. She took a token sip of the milk, but never considered sitting down. Even to perch on the steps was tantamount to giving him permission to stay. And Bree couldn’t do that.
    Tension crackled around the room like a resounding echo. It had nothing to do with Bree’s nightmare. It had nothing to do with Hart’s naturally lazy baritone, soughing on and on about a dozen irresponsible escapades he’d had in his youth. The tension was strictly sexual; it rippled disturbingly whenever her eyes met Hart’s—and his never once left her face.
    “So they let me take over the business. Uncle Harvey was sick of the constant travel. Dad was still trying hard to believe I could turn into an upstanding human being if given a little responsibility.” Hart yawned and paused long enough to lift both feet onto the kitchen table, crossing his ankles.