Free Heartless Rebel by Lynn Raye Harris Page B

           “No
wonder we nearly ran into that yellow van,” she teased. Because she didn’t know
what else to do. This moment was so intimate, so private and personal, and she
felt out of sorts in a way. He wasn’t her lover, yet he’d bought clothes for
her.
                 It’s a job, Cara , she reminded herself.
There was nothing wrong with what she was doing, being here with him like this.
It was different than any job she’d had before, true, but it was still a job.
And she had no suitable clothes for the wedding. This was simply part of the
process. She tried to ignore the fact she was in a bathrobe, and that she had
nothing on underneath.
                 “Look
in the pink bag,” he said, eyes glinting silvery hot.
                 Cara’s
fingers touched silk. She pulled out a delicate white bra and thong—and shoved
them back inside again as Jack laughed. She was so far in over her head that it
wasn’t funny. Had she really thought she was going to keep this about business
between them?
                 “So
modest. I like that about you,” he said.
                 Cara
straightened her spine as she stared at him. It was hard to be quelling when
you were in a bathrobe. “I’m not in the habit of showing my underwear to men I
hardly know. It’s not polite.”
                 He
laughed again as he took a step toward her. “Can you really say we hardly know
each other after last night?”
                 Heat
enveloped her, wrapped her in its web, made her long for another look at his
naked body. She’d tried not to look, but she hadn’t succeeded. And she couldn’t
forget what she’d seen. The long, strong legs. The lean hips, the jutting sex.
The flat abdomen and muscled torso. He’d had a tan line, she remembered, a
boundary line where she could run her tongue and see if it drove him as insane
as she imagined it would. Stop .
                 “Once
again, Cara, there’s an invitation in your eyes.”
                 “You
think too highly of yourself—”
                 He
closed the distance between them much quicker than she’d have expected for
someone still recovering from a brutal beating. And then he was threading a
hand in her hair, tilting her head back, his mouth coming down on hers—lightly,
sweetly, because of the cut on her lip. It stung, and yet it was also heaven.
                 Sensation
crashed through her, tightening her nipples, stretching her skin, leaving a
fiery imprint in its wake. The kiss was nothing, and yet it was everything.
They were sharing breath, sharing heat and scent and touch.
                 He
slipped his other arm around her, pulled her close enough that she felt the
hard hot heat of him through the woven cotton of her robe. His tongue traced
the line of her lips, the touch sensual and overwhelming, and she opened her
mouth to let him inside because she suddenly couldn’t imagine doing anything
else.
                 When
their tongues met, she couldn’t stifle the moan that emanated from her throat.
He was so cautious, so gentle, and yet she wanted more, wanted him to unleash
the fire. But he remained gentle with her, his tongue stroking against hers so
deliciously, not overtly demanding and yet so compelling at the same time.
                 It
was an intimate caress, this sensual slide of tongues together, and she
shivered with the lus-ciousness of it.
                 She
threaded her fingers into his hair, pulled his mouth tighter to hers. The
contact stung, and yet she wanted it, needed it somehow. The kiss deepened, and
her insides liquefied. Her body ached with need. It had been so long since
she’d been with a man. Yet that wasn’t what caused the ache.
                 It
was him. Jack Wolfe. He was exasperating and exciting and dangerous and tender.
She couldn’t figure him out, but she