Free The Perfect Husband by Lisa Gardner Page B

night?”
    “I… I don't know.”
    “Fixed yourself a good meal?”
    “A long time.”
    “Well, stop it.” He ran a finger down her arm. She flinched and he shook his head. “There's nothing to you, Angela. You've let yourself go. Now you're just bones with shadows rimming your eyes. A good stiff wind could blow you over.”
    “It's hard,” she said. “We've… we've been on the run. There are problems—”
    “Tough. You have to learn to compartmentalize. From here on out, you separate. You're scared, sleep anyway. You're anxious, eat fruits and vegetables. Get some mass on those bones, then we'll talk muscle. And stop shredding your nails. If you won't take your body seriously, how is anyone else supposed to?”
    “Strange advice coming from you.”
    “I just preach, never practice.” His fingers lingered on her arm. The pads of his fingertips were rough and warm. He doodled a lazy pattern she felt down to her toes. She stepped back.
    “You don't like that?”
    “I… no, I don't.”
    He chuckled. “Liar.”
    “I'm looking for a teacher, not another mistake.”
    “Ah, and that's how you see men.” He tapped the beer bottle against his forearm, then lifted it for a deep swig.
    “We'll start in the pool,” he said. “Try to get you in shape without hurting anything.”
    “I'm not a good swimmer.”
    “I thought you said you didn't whine.”
    She brought up her chin in defiance and he laughed. “You're good. You have spirit.”
    “Oh, that's me,” she muttered. “I'm just plain
spunky
.”
    He chuckled again, then his gaze grew speculative, caressing her cheek. He raised the cigarette. The end glowed red as he inhaled. Several seconds passed before he released the smoke.
    She found herself watching the small O formed by his whiskered lips. She watched the long strands of his silky black hair brush his collarbone. The porch light flickered over him. She wanted to touch his skin, see if it felt as warm as it looked.
    She glanced down immediately, caught off guard by her own reaction.
    “Scared?” he murmured huskily, his voice too knowing.
    “No,” she said instantly.
    “You're shaking in your boots. And I haven't even tried anything. Yet.”
    “I'm not scared!” But she was, and they both knew it. She was uncomfortable, and her thoughts were muddled. Should she trust him, should she not trust him? Should she run, should she play it tough? Should she step closer, should she step away? She was sick of the doubt.
    She made her decision. Before she lost her courage, she grabbed the beer bottle and yanked it from his grasp. She crossed to the white gravel bed bordering the cactus garden and dumped the beer out.
    “No more. I hired you. I want you sober.”
    “A marine shoots better drunk,” he said curtly, no longer amused.
    “Well, J.T., you're
not
a marine.”
    “Big mistake, Angela. Big mistake.” He stalked toward her.
    She stood her ground. “You getting mean?” she said haughtily. “Do you miss the beer that much already?”
    “Not the beer. Sex.” His arm whipped out, faster than she could have imagined. One hand palmed her head, his fingertips rubbing her scalp.
    “You still haven't moved. Maybe you want to kiss me. If you do something that dangerous, will you feel strong?”
    He bent over her. This close she could see the feral gleam in his eyes, could see the individual hairs of his twenty-four-hour beard.
    Facial hair. Genuine facial hair to go with the hair on his chest. He had no idea what those things meant to her. No idea what it was like to be confronted by a man who was anything but cold.
    “Come on, Angela, kiss me. I'll show you the third thing I'm very, very good at.”
    He leaned closer still but didn't touch her lips. They both knew he wouldn't. He wanted her to do it.
    She reached up and carefully, hesitantly, touched the prickly rasp of his beard. It was softer than she imagined. Her fingertips tingled. He sucked in his breath. She was holding her own. She