Free Lifestyles of the Witch & Famous by Mimi Riser Page A

how Farrell could have uncovered info like that – and knowing Georgie-boy, he’d have loved the research, too. The idea of any man but himself uncovering Molly made Tyler want to slam something. The other man, preferably.
    Tyler bit back a curse. Tenderness and possessiveness? He was in worse shape than he’d thought. Anger at himself, coupled with a fear of what he might be falling into, manifested as anger with Molly. And why not? She wasn’t entirely blameless here. Shouldn’t a woman give a guy a little warning? How else was he supposed to know these things?
    He glared at her as, with obvious effort, she blinked the daze out of her eyes, pulling herself up into awareness by her own bootstraps. Except she was wearing some sort of artsy beaded ballet slippers – or had been. The slippers had fallen off at some point in the proceedings and were lost now in the jumble they’d made of the bed. She’d lost quite a lot just recently, hadn’t she? A nice man would have asked, “Are you all right?” Tyler knew that. But then, he’d never claimed to be nice.
    “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?” he demanded instead. It came out sounding even angrier than intended. He winced inwardly at his own tone, then winced again at the vinegar in Molly’s.
    “You didn’t ask.” She said it to the ceiling.
    What she found so fascinating up there, Tyler wasn’t sure. He wanted her gaze on him , wanted to look into her eyes and see what was really going on in that beautiful head. Another bad sign because usually he did not want to know things like that. Women’s minds were weird places, in his experience. The less explored, the better.
    “I didn’t realize I needed to,” he countered. “What kind of woman reaches thirty today without ever having sex?” Nuns were the only kind he could think of, and Molly was definitely no nun.
    “The kind who’s spent years taking care of a man in a wheelchair.” Her eyes flashed to his, fully focused now, clear and cold as jewels. Blue-green ice. Whatever she’d been feeling before had been quickly masked by a layer of frost. The room’s temperature seemed to drop ten degrees with her stare.
    So did Tyler’s. His own gaze froze at the double-edged cut of her words, not just defending herself, but also accusing him.
    A low blow. He knew he should have been there, damn it. He should have been the one taking care of Steve. He didn’t need her to remind him.
    “That was hitting below the belt, don’t you think?” He asked with grim calm, and got an equally calm response.
    “Probably. But you deserved it.” Her gaze held his a moment longer, then shifted back to the ceiling, signaling the topic closed.
    Good, because Tyler couldn’t handle thinking about her and Steve right now. One torture at a time.
    He stayed propped up on his elbow, staring down at her, feeling his anger deflate and certain other sensations rising. The lady had spunk, he’d grant her that. Not that spunk was anything he’d ever found especially attractive in a female. They were difficult enough to manage without it. Carlotta had spunk in spades, and look how that had ended up. At least Molly wasn’t throwing things at him, wasn’t screaming, wasn’t even crying. Hell, if Tyler hadn’t already had undeniable proof of her gender, he’d wonder if she was really a woman.
    A chill crept down his spine. Something spooky had just been added to the “tender-possessive” mix. Something he’d felt for few people, and none of them sexually arousing. Something that could almost be called… Respect?
    Holy shit.
    The bed undulated as Molly dragged up to a sitting position and smoothed her skirt down. Aw, no. Genuine angst gripped him at the sight, or rather the lack thereof. What utter sacrilege to cover those hips and legs. He wondered, suddenly, if respect would detract anything from their future bed-sports.
    Molly spied her halter-top on the other side of him, and leaned across to grab it.