Cry Wolf by Tami Hoag Page A

tattersall shirt he wore. It was Savannah's nature to shock. Overreacting only pushed her to be more outrageous, like a naughty child seeking attention. So he settled himself and looked his fill, knowing he would see anyone intruding on the moment quickly enough to act before they could be caught.
    “Maybe later,” he drawled. “Tonight, perhaps.”
    She pouted, staring at him from under her lashes. “I don't want to wait that long.”
    “But you will. That'll only make it better.”
    He reached out again, slowly, casually, and drew his fingertips up a few smooth inches of leg, meaning to tug the skirt down out of her grasp, but she caught his hand and guided it between her thighs.
    “Touch me, Coop,” she whispered, leaning against him, pressing her cheek down on top of his head. She wound her right arm around the back of his neck, anchoring his face against her breasts as her hips began to move automatically, rhythmically against his hand. “Please, Coop . . .”
    She was hot and silky, her body instantly ready for sex. She moved against him wantonly. Cooper had no doubt that she would have straddled him on the spot if he would have allowed it, without a care as to who might walk in on them. The idea held a strong fantasy appeal, he thought, grimacing, as desire pooled and throbbed. But he wouldn't follow through.
    He thought that might be the only thing that set him apart from the sundry other men Savannah had cast her spell over—that he somehow managed to maintain the voice of reason in the face of her overwhelming sexuality, instead of losing himself in it.
    “Please, Coop,” Savannah breathed. She traced the tip of her tongue along the rim of his ear, panting slightly as need gathered in a knot in the pit of her belly.
    The need swirled around her like a desert wind, heating her skin. She wanted to tear her blouse open and feel his mouth, wet and avid, on her breasts. She wanted to impale herself on his shaft and go wild with the pleasure of it. She wanted . . . wanted . . . wanted . . .
    Then he pulled his hand away and stood, disentangling himself from her, and the want congealed into a hard ache of frustration.
    “You're such a bastard,” she spat, jerking her skirt down, straightening her top. A strand of hair fell across her face and stuck to her sweat-damp cheek. She tucked it behind her ear.
    Cooper pulled his glasses off and began cleaning the steam from them, methodically rubbing the lenses with a clean white handkerchief. He looked at her from under his brows, his gaze as blue as sapphire, as steady as a rock. “I'm a bastard because I won't have sex with you in a public place?”
    Savannah sniffed back the threat of tears, furious that he had the power to make her feel shame. “You wouldn't even look at me across the goddamn room! You wouldn't even give me a civil ‘Good afternoon, Miz Chandler.' ”
    “I was concentrating,” he said calmly.
    He settled his spectacles back in place, folded the handkerchief, and returned it to the hip pocket of his khaki pants. That task accomplished, he gave her a tender look, the corners of his mouth tilting up in a way that was, despite his fifty-eight years, boyish and unbelievably charming. “I'm a sorry excuse for a man if my work can so involve me that I miss one of your entrances, Savannah.”
    He reached out a hand and touched her cheek with infinite gentleness. “Forgive me?”
    Damn him, she would. That low, cultured drawl wrapped around her like silk. She could have curled up beside him and listened to him talk for a hundred years, glad just to be near him. She sniffed again and looked at him sideways.
    “What are you working on? A short story?”
    Coop picked up the notebook as she reached for it and closed it, forcing a grin. “Now, darlin', you know how I am about letting anyone read my work. Hell, I don't even let my agent read it until it's done.”
    “Is it about me?” The storm clouds gathered and rumbled inside her again. “Or is