Free His Illegitimate Heir by Sarah M. Anderson Page B

named Emily Richards in Atlanta, Georgia, outside a Doo-Wop and Pop! Salon. It was easy to see the resemblance between them—she was clearly his mother.
    No, her not going for guys like Richards had nothing to do with race and everything to do with the fact that he was way too intense for her. The way he’d stared at her over the lip of his pint glass during their tasting lunch? Intensity personified, and as thrilling as it had been, it wasn’t what she needed on her time off. Really. She had enough intensity at work. That was why she always went for low-key guys—guys who were fun for a weekend but never wanted anything more than that.
    Right. So it was settled. She absolutely did not go for someone like Richards in a suit. Good.
    â€œCasey?”
    Casey whipped around and found herself staring not at a businessman in a suit—and also not at someone who was blending. Zeb Richards stood before her in a white T-shirt with bright red raglan sleeves. She was vaguely aware that he had on a hat and reasonably certain that he was wearing blue jeans, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his chest. The T-shirt molded to his body in a way that his power suit hadn’t. Her mouth went dry.
    Good God.
    That was as far as her brain got, because she tried to drag her eyes away from his chest—and made it exactly as far as his biceps.
    Sweet mother of pearl was the last coherent thought she had as she tried to take in the magnitude of those biceps.
    And when thinking stopped, she was left with nothing but her physical response. Her nipples tightened and her skin flushed— flushed , dammit, like she was an innocent schoolgirl confronted with a man’s body for the first time. All that flushing left her shaken and sweaty and completely unable to look away. It took all of her self-control not to lean over and put a hand to that chest and feel what she was looking at. Because she’d be willing to bet a lot of money that he felt even better than he looked.
    â€œ...Casey?” he said with what she hoped like hell was humor in his voice. “Hello?”
    â€œWhat?” Crap, she’d been caught gaping at him. “Right. Hi.” Dumbly, she held up the tickets.
    â€œIs there something wrong with my shirt?” He asked, looking down. Then he grasped the hem of the shirt and pulled it out so he could see the front, which had a graphic of the Braves’ tomahawk on it. But when he did that, the neck of the shirt came down and Casey caught a glimpse of his collarbones.
    She had no idea collarbones could be sexy. This was turning out to be quite an educational evening and it had only just begun. How on earth was she going to get through the rest of it without doing something humiliating, like drooling on the man?
    Because drooling was off-limits. Everything about him was off-limits.
    This was not a date. Nope. He was her boss, for crying out loud.
    â€œUm, no. I mean, I didn’t actually figure you would show up in the opposing team’s shirt.” Finally—and way too late for decency’s sake—she managed to look up into his face. He was smiling at her, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on her. Dammit. This was the other reason she didn’t go for men like him. They were too cocky for their own good.
    â€œThat’s all,” she went on. “You don’t exactly blend.” She was pretty sure she was babbling.
    â€œI’m from Atlanta, you know.” He smirked at her and suddenly there it was—a luscious Southern accent that threatened to melt her. “Who did you think I was going to root for?” His gaze swept over her and Casey felt each and every hair on her body stand at attention. “I don’t have anything purple,” he went on when his gaze made it back to her face with something that looked a heck of a lot like approval.
    She fought the urge to stand up straighter. She would not pose for him. This was