She's Got the Look (6 page)

Setup or not…he wanted her with a rush of attraction so completely overwhelming it turned his feet into lead weights until he couldn't take another step. He just stood there, a foot behind her, staring down at the top of her head.

Then she turned around again, as if aware of his presence. Slowly tilting her head back, she peered up from beneath the rim of her baseball cap, looking at him with those big baby blues.

He paused, studying her head-on. The glimpses he'd had of her as he'd made his way through the diner had only provided tantalizing clues. Now, under the full-frontal assault of that face, those wide eyes, that sexy mouth—now parted in surprise as she returned his stare—he realized he was already in deep.

He'd been attracted to her weeks ago. But now that the sadness seemed to be gone from her eyes, his attraction took a big leap forward. He
wanted
her. Sex with this woman instantly became number two on his list of personal goals for the year. Right after saving enough money to put a down payment on a house, but before getting his mutt Fredo to stop chewing his shoes.

“I think I'm supposed to be meeting you,” he murmured. He stepped closer until his thigh touched the edge of her table, coming very close to her hands, which were flat on the surface. “I'm Detective Walker.” He gave her a little smile, just to put her at ease since she still had that deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. Then, with an exaggerated shrug, he added, “You're the only person here wearing a red hat.”

Still nothing. Nada. Not one word, not one gesture. Not a smile. Certainly not a phone number and an invitation, which were, to be honest, the words he'd really like to hear coming out of her incredible mouth. But she merely sat there, frozen.

“Ma'am? Are you okay?”

And finally…
finally
…she blinked. Her mouth snapped shut. Her jaw visibly tensed. On the table, her hands curled into fists, as if she were suddenly feeling violent.

When she spoke, he realized she
was
feeling violent. Because in a low, shaking voice, she said, “You'd better arrest me, because I swear to God, the minute I find Rosemary Chilton, I'm going to
murder
her.”

 

U
NLESS
R
OSEMARY HAD
gone into the witness-protection program last night after she'd set up this outrageous meeting, she was dead meat. Because Melody was going to track her down and kill her for this.
After
she tortured her by throwing her entire collection of Manolo Blahniks into the Savannah River.

She'd been set up. Completely, totally, shockingly blindsided…by one of her best friends. She hadn't felt this taken for a ride since her divorce hearing.

It was humiliating enough to tell a cop that people might be getting killed because of a sex list she'd made as a joke six years ago. That was when she'd figured she'd be talking to some cuddly Father Bear of a cop.

This guy was no Father Bear. And cuddling was the
last
thing a woman would want to do if she got him into bed. Because Detective Walker was
him.
Her ultimate fantasy. Her marine from
Time
magazine. And oh, God, was he to die for.

“Why do I get the feeling we've been set up?” he asked, lifting one corner of his wide, drool-worthy mouth in a smile.

Melody had to swallow, not yet able to answer. Her throat was tight, her voice having dried up when she'd made the mistake of glancing at his jean-clad hips, mere inches from her arm.

Soft, slouchy, threadbare jeans were made for bodies like these. Made to ride low on lean hips, to bulge in the most interesting places, and to hug long, hard legs.

She jerked her attention up, trying to focus on his face. That move was just as bad…and every bit as dangerous. Because his face—those eyes, that intensity—had been what had drawn her to him the first time she'd seen him six years ago. And they hadn't changed a bit. She wondered if he was the real reason she'd always had a thing for dark-eyed men, up to this very day.

“You
do
think we've been set up, right?” he asked, obviously trying to pry her out of her silence.

“Yeah. Definitely a setup,” she finally muttered, already wondering if he'd chase her down and arrest her if she got up and ran for the door. They always arrested people who took off from the police on the TV cop shows. But only after patting them down.

Oh, Lord, she was better off sitting here with her face turning twenty shades of red and her butt feeling as if it were superglued to the chair than being patted down by this man. Being touched by him at all would be like throwing a lit match on a box of Fourth of July firecrackers. She'd start sparking and popping and two seconds later she'd be on the man like an actor on an Oscar statue.

“Can I sit down anyway?” he asked.

He didn't wait for permission. He simply moved to the other side of the table and slid into the seat, facing her.

Facing.
Goodness gracious, his face. The handsomeness she'd imagined behind the blood and grime in the magazine photo hadn't come close to the reality. His face was lean, his cheeks closely shaven, emphasizing the strength of his jaw. His lose-yourself-in-them eyes were the color of rich chocolate. He had a strong nose, and a mouth she wanted to suck on like a lollipop.

The body simply defied description. From the broad shoulders clad in a tight black T-shirt, to the thick arms bulging with muscle, the man personified strength. His chest was impossibly broad and she'd already gotten a load of what he could do for a pair of aged jeans. Delightful things. Sinful things.

Somehow, it seemed impossible that he should look exactly the same. Just as big. Just as masculine. Just as intense and brooding, but God, so incredibly
sexy.

He somehow seemed to have been plucked out of the field of battle and dropped right here into civilized Savannah, but hadn't quite caught up with his change of venue. Because he looked dangerous. From the thick, dark head of hair to the glitter in his eyes, to the coiled strength of his body, held so tight and aware, he screamed danger.

“My first name's Nick,” he said, breaking the silence.

Nick Walker. A good name. A strong name. Definitely
not
a cuddly, fatherly name.
Rosemary, you demon.

“And you are?”

“Call me Mel,” she mumbled.

So, there was the introduction. What happened next depended on how single he was and whether Melody decided her list was more than just a joke, like Rosemary had.

Of course, she didn't even know if he'd
want
to have wild, passionate, completely unexpected sex with her. She didn't know if
she'd
want to.

Liar.

“So, what story did Rosemary use to get you here?” His voice was low, gravelly almost, but in a few drawn-out syllables there was an unmistakable Southern softness. A bit of twang that she liked a lot. And, she had to acknowledge, she didn't like only the soft lilt in his voice, she also liked the way his mouth moved with every word he spoke. “I figure she made up some excuse for you to come down here and meet with a complete stranger.”

Before Melody could reply, the waitress appeared beside their table with a mug and a steaming pot of coffee. She quickly served the newcomer, giving him a warm look. Mel waved her fingers toward her own nearly empty, rapidly cooling cup, but was totally ignored by the woman.

For some reason, the smile on Nick Walker's face after the waitress breezed away without a single glance at Melody really annoyed her.
Cocky.
He was cocky. She hadn't seen that in his picture, though she shouldn't be surprised. A man as handsome and as obviously brave would have a lot to be cocky about, right?

But she didn't like it…she'd never liked arrogant men. Which was good. Because she
needed
to find things she didn't like about this man, and fast. She could start by amending the rules of the list, by adding a cocky out-clause. Otherwise, she could end up making a fool of herself by oh, say, asking him if he wanted to retreat to the nearest hotel.

He stirred his coffee. “Judging by the look in your eye, I'd say Rosemary told you who I really am.”

Melody closed her eyes and counted to three, clenching her fingers together in her lap. The man knew she knew he was the
Time
magazine hero. Meaning Rosemary had to have told him. But please, oh, please, God, she couldn't have told him about the list. She wouldn't have, right? Rosemary was her best friend. She
wouldn't
have.

If she had, Mel was going to die. Collapse right across the table and land face-first in his nice, hot, steaming cup of coffee and die.

“I guess we didn't get off to the best start, huh?”

“I've always thought it was the finish that mattered,” she mumbled before she thought better of it.

“Don't tell me you're leaving already.” With a boyish smile that suited the way a thick, dark lock of his hair fell over his brow, he added, “Can I confess I'm surprised you came anyway, despite my, uh, disreputable appearance the first time around?”

“Disreputable?” Shock made her eyes widen. “No, you weren't disreputable looking at all.” Heroic, admirable, determined and courageous were more like it. How could he possibly think a little dirt and some blood would make him look disreputable when he'd been holding three children whose lives he'd just saved?

“Not at all,” she repeated, not wanting him to think he had reason to be embarrassed. Lord, there went the whole cocky out-clause, because the man obviously had no idea how amazing that picture had really been. Or how it had affected her.

“You
do
know who I am, right?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes. Sure. I mean…who doesn't?”

His brow shot up in surprise and his head tilted to one side. “Really? You think I'm that easily recognizable?”

The man had been the hunk of the known universe six years ago on the cover of one of the most widely circulated magazines in the world. Of course he was recognizable! “Hate to break it to you, but yes, you are.”

Her answer didn't seem to make him feel any better. He rubbed a hand across his smooth jaw and muttered, “I must be losing my touch.”

Goodness, he really was feeling bad about that. As if he wasn't happy being recognized as a national hero.

And suddenly, she thought she understood. Hadn't she hated being recognized for one photograph that didn't represent the real person she was inside? The journalist who'd taken this man's picture and circulated it around the world had caught only one moment, one selfless act. There was a lot more man here to be seen. A
lot
more man.

Like there was a lot more woman to Melody than was revealed in that horrid peacock-feather ensemble. Not
physically,
since almost all of her body had been revealed. But emotionally.

“I think I understand,” she said, wanting to comfort him, to let him know he really wasn't alone in what he was feeling. “We all project an image for the world to see. It can be a little disconcerting when someone sees the person behind the mask.”

“Or the person beneath the dirty clothes,” he said with a rueful laugh. “For the record, I do bathe regularly.”

Huh? He was embarrassed because he hadn't been able to bathe in the middle of a war-ravaged battlefield? Good Lord, her first instincts had been
way
off base. Far from being cocky, this man had hardly any self-confidence at all!

“You really don't have to make any excuses to me, Nick.” Almost unable to help it, she reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. She'd meant to be consoling, comforting. That would have seemed strange if she were reaching out to the big, strong, larger-than-life man who'd been on the cover of the magazine. But she was reaching out to the nice, low-confidence guy she'd been speaking with.

Somehow, though, she realized that the big, sexy stranger was the one she was touching the moment their hands connected. Because as soon as her fingers brushed against his skin, something snapped and sparked a reaction, surprising her. She suddenly got all hot and flustered, though the room was cool enough.

He was so warm, that was it. The electric warmth of his skin had just taken her by surprise. But his next move nearly made her come right out of her seat. He turned his hand a bit, so he could scrape the tip of one finger on the fleshy pad of her palm, and the touch was so unexpected, so…personal, somehow, that she could barely remember to breathe.

She finally pulled her hand away, reaching for her water glass in a stall for time. After swallowing, she admitted, “You should never make excuses for doing something heroic. Something wonderful. You stepped in and helped when others wouldn't.”

Looking at him, she noticed the confused expression on his face. As if he couldn't quite figure her out. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “It wasn't that big a deal.”

“Yes it
was
a big deal.” Hadn't the whole world thought so?

“I mean, it wasn't like it was that heavy a load.”

Three small children might not have weighed a lot in terms of pounds, but the responsibility for them must have been an enormous weight. “I don't agree with you there.”

He sipped his coffee. “I've lifted more at the gym.”

“Well, of course you have,” she said, “but nothing that was so important. So
critical.
”

He frowned and his jaw tightened. Suddenly he looked more the dangerous marine and less the guy-next-door. “It really was that critical? Was it all you had?”

She didn't follow.

“I mean, I don't know the whole story, but did you really end up with nothing but a couple of mattresses and some chairs?”