Free More Than Paradise by Jennifer Fulton

the room, she slid her hand behind the stranger’s neck. “Look at me like you want it,” she said. Fat chance.
    But what a fantasy.
    At Þ rst the woman was hesitant, then her dismay gave way to resignation. With an impatient sigh, she linked her hands behind Ash’s neck and gazed up at her in a languorous invitation that made her stomach curdle. “Let’s get this over with.”
    Ash’s pulse leapt and she cradled the dark head, tilting it back a little. She intended to make the kiss convincing but impersonal, just protracted enough to send a message to the lurking predators. Instead, at the Þ rst brush of their lips, she kissed her reluctant accomplice hard on the mouth. It was bliss. Plain and simple. She backed off just enough so she wouldn’t be at the wrong end of a roundhouse, then lingered, parting the trembling lips with her tongue.
    The deep, sensuous kiss that followed had not been included in their tacit accord. Neither had the response—a mufß ed gasp and a shiver that told Ash her companion’s nipples had just gotten hard.
    A raw surge of desire almost made her pass out. In danger of losing herself completely and touching body parts she shouldn’t, she pulled back in the nick of time, and they stared at one another, neither saying a word. Both drew breath erratically.
    Ash was aware of noise and movement around them, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything but the woman she was holding. The stranger looked just as stunned. Goose bumps had lifted the down of hairs along her smooth forearms. Wild color infused her cheeks and darkness consumed her eyes. Ash found herself transÞ xed by the play of emotions across her features, the ß ash of yearning followed by a strange haunted sorrow, then a fretful restlessness that transferred itself to her body.
    Throwing caution to the wind, she didn’t back off but dared to do the unthinkable. She slipped both arms around her and held her close, stroking her soft hair and breathing her in. “Everything’s okay,” she said, kissing the cheek that tempted her lips. “That was perfect. Now pick up your book and let’s get out of here.”
    With surprising compliance, the woman slid from her bar stool, bringing her body into brief contact with Ash’s. The brush of her breasts and thighs almost made Ash whine. Disconcerted, she tried
    • 57 •

    JENNIFER FULTON
    to rationalize her response. The memory of her exciting threesome in Brookline had faded like the drive-through fantasy fodder it was. Her libido was alive and well, never entirely satisÞ ed. Also, she inhabited an amatory desert devoid of tender affection. Chemistry was therefore bound to occur with any passably attractive female. And this particular female had a voice that made Ash feel like she was drowning in warm honey, and hard-to-get stamped all over her. Ash was a sucker for women who wouldn’t give her the time of day.
    “What’s your name?” this one asked as they headed out the door.
    “Ashley Evans.”
    “Ashley,” she repeated with an odd frown of concentration. “I’m Charlotte Lascelles. Thank you for helping me, Mr. Evans.”
    Mister. Ash deliberated over whether to correct the assumption.
    She had counted on the likelihood that her companion had initially mistaken her for a man. Most people did. She was tall, built, and had a deep voice and nondescript features that could belong to either gender. In the traditional European uniform of the tropics—loose cargo pants and a four-pocket bush shirt over a tank—her body looked even less shapely than it was. Most of the time, it suited her to let wrong assumptions about her gender stand. In this neck of the woods looking like a man, and one who knew how to use a gun, was an asset.
    On this occasion, she thought it was probably the gallant choice to keep her mouth shut. Why make this stranger feel uncomfortable, realizing she’d returned the kiss of a woman? They were never going to see each other again.
    Ash hailed a red cab,