"I'm not," Charmaine said in a huff. "I'm a Christian, and I refuse to-"
"Good Christians-good Christian women-are supposed to please their husbands." Krystal smiled and hit the remote. "And believe me, this'll please the hell out of Darnell."
Chapter Fourteen
When Annabelle returned to the cottage shortly after midnight, her cheeks were still flushed from watching the film, and her sundress clung to hot, damp… very damp flesh. Seeing the light shining through the front window filled her with dismay. Maybe he'd left it on as a courtesy. Please don't still be waiting up. She absolutely could not face him tonight. Even without watching a dirty movie, she could barely keep her hands off him, but after what she'd just seen…
She tiptoed up to the porch, slipped off her sandals, and let herself in as silently as the squeaky screen door and wobbly doorknob would allow.
"Hey."
She gasped and dropped her sandals. "Don't scare me like that!"
"Sorry." He lay sprawled on the couch, a sheaf of papers in one hand. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of faded black athletic shorts. His feet were bare, his ankles crossed on the arm of the couch, where light from the floor lamp turned the hair on his calves golden. Her eyes returned to the gym shorts. After what she'd seen on the screen, he was criminally overdressed.
As she tried to get her breath back, he lifted his head and shoulders, which, of course, contracted his abs into the gold standard of six-packs. "Why's your face so red?" he said.
"S-sunburn." She knew how vulnerable she was, and she should have thrown herself in the lake to cool off before she came back here.
"That's not sunburn." He swung his feet to the floor, and she noticed his hair was damp. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing!" She began inching away. It meant taking the long route around, but she wasn't turning her back on him. "You took another shower."
"So?"
"You showered after you swam. What are you, some kind of clean freak?"
"Ron and I went for a run after dinner. Why do you care?"
Oh, God, that chest, that mouth… those green eyes that saw everything. Except her naked. They'd never seen that. "I'm… going to bed now."
"Was it something I said?"
"Don't be cute. Please."
"I'll do my best." He gave her a crooked smile. "But me being me…"
"Stop it!" She didn't intend to quit moving, but her feet went on some kind of labor strike.
"You need warm milk or something?"
"No, I definitely don't need anything hot."
"I said warm. I didn't say anything about hot." He set down his papers.
"I-I know that."
She might be standing still, but he wasn't, and he took in her damp, rumpled dress as he approached. "What's going on?"
She couldn't take her eyes off his mouth. It brought to mind all the mouths she'd seen on that small television screen so recently and exactly what they'd been doing. Damn Krystal and her movie. "I'm just tired," she managed.
"You don't look tired. Your lips are sort of puffy, like you've been chewing on them, and you're breathing hard. Frankly, you look turned on. Or is that my one-track mind taking over again?"
"Let it go, okay?" He had a small scar on one rib, probably a knife wound from a spurned girlfriend.
"What the hell did you women do tonight?"
"It wasn't my idea!" She sounded guilty, and her flush deepened.
"I'll find out. One of the guys will tell me, so you might as well fill me in now."
"I don't think the men will be talking about this. Or maybe they will. I don't know. I have no idea how much you men talk."
"Not as much as you women do, that's for damn sure." He inclined his head toward the kitchen. "Do you want something to drink? There's a bottle of wine in the refrigerator."
"Oh, yeah… Wine's exactly what I don't need right now."
"A mystery just waiting to be solved…" He'd clearly begun to enjoy himself.
"Leave it alone, will you?"
"Exactly what a nice guy would do." He leaned down and picked up his cell. "Janine'll tell me what happened. She seems like an up-front lady."
"She's at the B &B. She doesn't have a phone in her room."
"Right. I'll ask Krystal. I talked to Webster not half an hour ago."
Annabelle had a pretty good idea what Krystal and Webster were doing about now, and they wouldn't appreciate being interrupted. "It's midnight."
"Your powwow just broke up. She won't have gone to bed yet."
Don't bet on it.
He rubbed his thumb over the number pad. "I've always liked Krystal. She's straightforward." He pressed the first button.
Annabelle sucked in air. "We watched porn, okay?"
He grinned and tossed the phone down. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"Believe me, it wasn't my idea. And it's not funny. Besides, it wasn't really porn. It was erotica. For women."
"There's a difference?"
"That's exactly the kind of thing I'd expect a man to say. Do you think most of us get off watching a bunch of women with collagen lips and soccer-ball implants go at each other?"
"From your expression, I'm guessing not."
She needed something cold to drink, and she headed for the kitchen, still talking because she had a point to make. "Like seduction. Does your average porn film even think about showing a little seduction?"
He followed her. "To be fair, there's not usually much need. The women are pretty aggressive."
"Exactly. Well, I'm not." As soon as the words were out, she could have kicked herself. The last thing she'd wanted to do was bring the subject back to the personal.
He didn't pounce on her misstep, not the wily Python. He liked to play with his prey before he struck. "So did the film have a plot?"
"Rural New England, virginal artist, studly stranger, 'nuff said." She pulled open the refrigerator door and stared inside without seeing a thing.
"Only two people. That's disappointing."
"There were a couple of subplots."
"Ah."
She turned on him, her damp palm still curled around the refrigerator door handle. "You think this is funny, don't you?"
"Yeah, but I'm ashamed of myself."
She wanted to smell him. His hair was nearly dry, his skin freshly showered. She wanted to press her face against his chest and inhale, to burrow in, maybe find an errant tuft of silky hair and let it tickle her nose. She nearly whimpered. "Please go away."
He cocked his head. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
She grabbed the first cold thing she touched and pushed the door shut. "You know the way I feel about this. About… us."
"You were pretty clear last night."
"I'm right, too."
"I know you are."
"So why did you argue with me?"
"Jerk syndrome. I can't help it. I'm a guy." His lips curved in a lazy smile. "And you're not."
Enough bolts of sexual electricity charged the air to light up the planet. He stood between her and the bedroom, and if she passed too close, she'd be tempted to lick, so she headed for the porch and nearly stumbled over the mattress he'd dragged out there last night. He'd tidied the sheets, stacked the pillows, and folded the blanket in half, doing a better job of it than she'd done with the double bed.
He ambled out. "Do you want a sandwich with that?"
She couldn't figure out what he was talking about until she followed his gaze to her hand and saw ajar of French's mustard there instead of a can of Coke. She'd stared at it. "Mustard happens to be a natural sleep aid."
"Never heard that."
"You don't know everything do you?"
"Apparently not." A few beats of silence ticked by. "Do you eat it or apply it?"
"I'm going to bed."
"Because if you apply it… I could probably help with that."
Her redhead's temper ignited, and she slammed the jar down on the farmhouse table. "Why don't I just hand you my panties and be done with it?"