Free Sliding Home by Kate Angell Page B

Dunn would give his
left testicle to take Revelle Sullivan to dinner. It was rumored several Rogues
had asked her out, yet she'd declined, and discouraged any second passes.
    He refused to be shut down.
Success was all in the timing. He'd ask her out when the moment was right, and
not before.
    “Where is it?” he asked. “Should
we take two cars?”
    “I rode in with Guy this
morning,” she told him. “I'm supposed to call for a limo when I'm done for the
day.”
    “Or you could ride with me.”
    “Does your car have a
cappuccino machine and CNN?”
    “No, but you can sing along
to the radio if you like.”
    “Soft rock?” she asked as
she closed down her computer and grabbed her patent leather shoulder bag, no
doubt designer and costly.
    “I'll let you pick the
station.” He was up and behind her in a heartbeat. He stood at the door as she
locked up for the afternoon. He breathed her in. Her fragrance was
sophisticated, light, classic. And all woman.
    “Chanel.” She caught him
sniffing her.
    “Nice,” was all he could
manage.
    At the exact second she turned,
he shifted his stance. They bumped. The back of her wrist brushed his zipper
and his dick jumped to shake her hand.
    Her eyes went wide, her
blush hot.
    He ducked his head,
embarrassed by the flagpole in his pants.
    He mumbled an apology.
    She bit her lip, eyes
downcast.
    All conversation died as
they descended in the elevator and stepped into the parking lot. Four vehicles
remained: a silver BMW, a black Porsche Cayenne, a green Land Rover, and a dark
blue Ford pickup, jacked-up with oversize tires.
    Her gaze hit his, direct
and assessing, and rilled with humor as she picked out his vehicle. “Has to be
the monster truck.”
    “Not monster, but an
off-road racer.”
    “Do you compete?” she asked
curiously.
    “Not professionally, but I
like the challenge of dirt tracks and mountain trails.”
    She strolled toward the
truck. “Looks like you.”
    Beat up, rusty, muddy, with
a broken headlight. Rhaden wasn't certain her assessment of him was all that
complimentary. He did, however, like the way she ran her hands along the
suspension. The way she admired the enormous tires.
    He followed her to the
passenger side. “Let me give you a hand,” he offered as she stretched to open
the passenger door.
    She went up on tiptoe to
climb into the cab.
    He curved his hands about
her hips.
    Revelle was all tight
calves and hiked skirt. He caught the lace on her thigh-high stockings as he
lifted her up. The bounce of her bottom nearly undid him.
    He slowly made his way
around the hood, sucking air and talking his dick down, with little success. He
was one hard, sorry bastard.
    Inside the cab, she gave
him directions to Collage. Fascinated by the height and vibration of the
pickup, Revelle chose conversation over the radio and shot him a dozen
questions. She'd never driven off-road and wanted details.
    Traffic moved quickly.
Green held at every streetlight.
    He parked two blocks south
of Jacy's Java, a coffee shop owned by Risk Kincaid's wife and frequented by
the Rogues. He assisted Revelle from the cab. He'd have loved to slide her down
his body. Yet a simple touch and his south would rise again. He held her at
arm's length, played the gentleman.
    The one-room schoolhouse
was situated on the old town square. The building took Rhaden back to the days
of hand-sawed and hand-planed timbers. Square nails held the boards together.
    Inside, pointers, maps,
yardsticks, and ten antique desks were set up for class. Framed behind the
teacher's desk, black-and-white photographs depicted early Richmond.
    An antique potbelly stove
stood in one corner. The stove had once provided both warmth and a hot meal for
students. Rhaden could hear the long-ago echo of the school bell as the
children walked a short distance from home or arrived by horse-drawn hacks.
    Rules were posted on the chalkboard.
Discipline had called for a ruler rapped across a student's knuckles or a