Free Stirring Up Trouble by Kimberly Kincaid Page B

own with nothing but water and bad intentions between his slippery skin and hers.
    His mouth was fast and unforgiving in her mind as he skimmed a hot line over her shoulder, setting the edge of his teeth to the slope of it with just enough pressure to balance the sensation with more excruciating heat. He lifted his eyes, locking them on hers, and for one suspended moment, Sloane lost herself in the depths of imaginary desire.
    Until she connected the liquid brown gaze of her fantasy man with its real-world owner, and her breath slammed through her lungs in a hard gasp.

Chapter Six
    Ten minutes after jerking the shower dial all the way into cold territory, Sloane was dry, dressed, and no less hot and bothered by the naughty images she’d conjured of the guy who was about to sign the only paycheck she’d seen in months.
    Emphasis on bothered .
    “Seriously . . . I’m losing my mind,” she muttered into a travel mug the size of a fishbowl and elbowed her way out the door, only to be blasted in the face by sunlight so bright, it bordered on cruel.
    “Gah!” Not even a full-bodied jerk-and-wince could save her completely, and Sloane had no choice but to shutter her eyes closed in an act of self-defense.
    Gavin’s smoldering glance popped back into her brain, as clear as a billboard on Broadway.
    Sloane’s lids flew back open to reveal the last remnants of a jewel-toned sunrise filtering through bare trees. Golden light played brightly on the frost-encrusted grass, sending sparkles bouncing in every direction like fresh-cut diamonds scattered on velvet. Surely, the view up here in God’s country should be breathtaking enough to eradicate any other mental image, no matter how attractive. Sloane settled her eyes closed once more, determined to replace passionate looks with pastoral landscapes.
    Good Lord, the man’s eyes were so sexy, it was just unfair!
    “Okay, that’s enough.” Sloane huffed her way down the frozen concrete pavers leading to the driveway, sliding a pair of huge Tom Ford sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. The now-bearable sunlight folded around the trees that formed a perimeter around her rented bungalow, creating that pastoral scene in her head like an epic showing of too little, too late .
    Oh, sure. The sun could do its best to turn her corneas to early morning toast, but ask it to do a little thing like help blot out a couple of ultrasexy images, and it just twinkled benevolently from behind a damned tree. Like racy thoughts of the person signing your paycheck were not only normal, but encouraged.
    Sloane put the Fiat in Drive and commanded herself to get a grip. The last thing she needed was to blow the tiny shred of focus she’d managed to work up, thinking of a guy who wasn’t even her type. The smoldering kiss he’d leveled at her last night—the one that was clearly wreaking havoc on her overeager neurons—had been a mistake, and she absolutely had to expunge it from her memory. Getting down to business was priority number one, and creating a paper hero who looked nothing like Gavin Carmichael topped that list.
    She jammed her eyes shut so tightly they tingled, forcing away the image of those deep brown eyes, fringed with lashes as warm and decadent as a tray full of cinnamon rolls. Instead, she pictured Gavin scowling and holding a plaque that read YOUR NEW BOSS, AKA THE ICE KING beneath his handsomely chiseled jaw.
    Well, that did the trick.
    When she pulled into the familiar gravel driveway a few minutes later, Sloane had adjusted her mental snapshot of Gavin to that of a regular guy with ordinary eyes and dime-a-dozen features. After all, she’d seen him a bunch of times at La Dolce Vita, and not one of those meetings had ever prompted illicit shower fantasies. She mounted the front porch steps with a decisive nod. Her imagination had just gotten the best of her, that’s all. No harm, no foul.
    “Good morning.” Gavin stood in the open doorway, wearing a perfectly pressed blue