Free The Chase by Lauren Hawkeye Page A

up by Paris Hilton at the Grammys?”
    He barks out a laugh, clearly surprised, then turns the full force of his attention on me. “Describe your favorite pair of panties.”
    I swallow against a suddenly dry throat. He’s flirting with me , unmistakeably flirting with me... and I like it. A lot. The question has changed from if he’s interested to a debate over whether I should jump in with both feet, or if I should run as fast as I can before I lose my heart.
    I’m saved from the decision right this moment by a knock on the door. Adam’s phone buzzes at the same time. “It’s Amy.”
    I find it a bit strange that she would call and knock at the same time, but I suppose it’s so that Adam doesn’t accidentally open the door to a knife wielding superfan. And I’m not entirely sure that he isn’t anyway, when he opens the door to admit Amy, and the first thing she does is hug him—a back rubbing, mmm kind of hug—while simultaneously glaring at me over his shoulder.
    “I brought some clothes for this one, like you asked.” Adam looks a little confused by the enthusiasm of Amy’s hug, and I repress a snort of amusement as I field the big shopping bag that she unceremoniously tosses my way.
    I have no doubt that she’s been able to keep her feelings under wraps up to this point, but with someone she perceives as competition on her turf, she can’t stop herself from all but peeing on him to mark her territory.
    “So for the shoot...” Finally releasing him from her tentacles, Amy switches into business mode. I sort through the bag as Adam and Amy—and oh man, wouldn’t that be just too cute if they did hook up—go over the details of this afternoon’s photo shoot. I’m surprised by how many articles of clothing are in the bag, but then again, none of them exactly take up a lot of room.
    They’re hooker clothes masquerading as trendy club wear. Super skimpy ones. I stuff them all back into the bag and roll my eyes—there’s no point in getting upset when she’s pretty much hit the nail on the head.
    I make my way up the small spiral staircase, then flop onto the bed , bored by their chatter, which I find hard to follow. The exhaustion and fitful sleep of the last twenty-four hours, combined with the exquisite softness of the mattress, the comforter, the pillows beneath me, have me drifting off without realizing it.
    I wake up with late afternoon su nlight streaming in through the walls of windows. Adam is staring out of one of the panes of glass, hands tucked into his back pockets as he gazes blindly at the undulating waves.
    As quietly as I can, I prop myself up on my elbows, looking at him while he’s unaware, a luxury I haven’t yet had.
    Standing as he is, deep in thought and silhouetted by the stunning, southern Atlantic ocean, Adam Kincaid is... breathtaking. There’s no other word for it. The dark hair, the crazy beautiful eyes, the profile that would be perfect if not for the slight crook in his nose, probably the result of an encounter with the ball in some long forgotten childhood game.
    He’s shirtless again, wearing nothing but a pair of low slung suit pants that look hideously expensive and have clearly been tailored just for him. They show off his fine ass and cling to muscular thighs, thighs that I can only too well imagine bracing my palms against as I take him into my mouth.
    What a thought. What a deliciously dirty thought.
    Those same pants showcase a washboard stomach and hipbones that should be declared illegal. I want to trace the lines of that sexy vee with my finger, want to feel the hot silk and steel of his skin stretched tight over solid muscle.
    A small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, escapes unbidden from my throat. Adam turns, perhaps not all that surprised that I’m awake and have been watching him. I can almost hear the sizzle in the air as our eyes meet, and wonder if it’s been coming to this, ever since we first set eyes on one another.
    I no longer