Free Rich Bitch: Everything's Going to the Dogs by Nancy Warren Page A

and lifted the receiver.
    What was she doing? Calling a cab? Cold sweat prickled at his neck. She couldn’t go like this; how could he protect her? “Who are you phoning?”
    “Gregory.”
    He rose, too. “You can’t call him. Are you insane? He’s trying to kill you.”
    She flapped her hand at him in a classic shut up move. He thought about yanking the phone out of the wall, but retained enough sense to realize that acting like a barbarian wasn’t going to reassure her about staying in his apartment 24/7. So he waited in frustrated silence for a few minutes.
    Her shoulders slumped after a minute, and she replaced the phone. “He doesn’t answer. The answer machine is not on.” She flicked a glance his way, and he knew he’d convinced her, at least halfway. If
 her insane ex wasn’t answering the phone, then where the hell was he?
    Vince strode to the window and looked out, but no lunatic wearing a chef’s hat and brandishing a shotgun appeared to be hanging out down at street level. Still, he was glad he had a gun of his own, and at least one dog he could count on in a crisis. He forced himself to relax and turned back to Sophie. “Let’s eat our breakfast,” he said.
 She nodded, but somehow the warm intimacy of earlier was gone. A stalker with a gun was hell on a budding romance.

Chapter 8
    “What are we going to do, then, stuck here all day?” Sophie asked him. She was so gorgeous and so vital, all he could think about was protecting her. Well, and some other things.
    “I have a few ideas.”
    “We can’t make love all day,” she said, shaking her head so her dark hair brushed her jaw and gesticulating with her hands, including the one that held bread spread with strawberry jam.
    In her agitation, she waved the bread about, and a dollop of jam toppled off the bread to land on her
 shirt, where it covered the upper slope of her right breast.
    “
Merde
!” she cried, dropping the bread onto her plate and picking up a napkin. He watched the jam, fascinated. It caught the light when she moved and glowed ruby. He took the napkin from her and said, “Let me.”
    He leaned forward. He watched her breasts rise and fall as she breathed, watched the patch of preserves. The scent of strawberry was as sweet as summer. He put his lips to the spot and sucked the jam into his mouth.
    She laughed. “What are you doing?”
    “I’m cleaning you up. I like to do a very thorough job,” he promised her. He was thinking he’d get her mind off her troubles for a while, but the minute he got close to her, he was lost.
    He looked down, and where he’d pulled part of her cotton shirt into his mouth, he’d left a crinkly round wet spot. There was still a little jam left, so he leaned forward and this time pulled more shirt into his mouth, and sneaky devil that he was, he managed to get her nipple this time.
    There was some kind of flimsy bra there as well, but he still made the most of his position, using his teeth gently but firmly to be sure she felt him through all that fabric. She sighed and pushed forward against him, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him tighter against that wonderful round flesh. He smelled her laundry soap, and her skin, and strawberries.
    He launched himself at the other breast until he’d made another patch of wet blouse and bra, and another nipple was hard on his tongue.
    When he pulled back, he was breathing heavily, and so was she. Sunlight spilled through the window, tossing bars of light across the sturdy pine table, the food, and the woman laughing at him breathlessly. Suddenly, he was filled with a lust so strong it was more need than desire.
    “I want you,” he said.
    “I know.” And she did. He could see his own desire reflecting back from her. Beneath the wet patches on her shirt her nipples were rock hard in the wet, wrinkled fabric—almost shocking against the elegant and unmussed rest of her.
    He scooted closer and kissed her mouth, thrusting his tongue