Millionaire Husband by Leanne Banks Page B

question he would ask her tonight. Which of her many questions about him would she get answered tonight? After waiting several moments, she leaned back on the sofa. Forty-five minutes later she awakened, but Justin was nowhere in sight.
    Both disappointed and peeved, she returned upstairs and saw the light under his door. Burning with questions and curiosity, she lifted her hand to knock. She stopped just before her hand connected with the wood. It was better to keep a little distance, she told herself. She needed to rein in her fascination. He might be her husband, but it was in name only.
     
    Justin avoided Amy the following morning. Her eyes might be saying yes, but he knew what her mouth would say. No. And if he weren’t careful, theidea of changing her no to a yes could become an obsession. Could? he thought with a mocking chuckle. Who did he think he was fooling?
    Hearing the blessed sound of footsteps departing the house and the door closing, he headed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Spying a bag lunch on the counter, he wrestled with his conscience, then grabbed it and darted out the front door.
    Amy was buckling Jeremy into his car seat.
    “You forgot something,” he said, running to her side.
    She glanced at him and the bag, then shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”
    Confused, he looked at the bag. “Isn’t this a lunch?”
    “Yes,” she said, sliding into the driver’s seat of her Volkswagen.
    “Who’s it for?”
    She met his gaze and her lips tilted in a smile so sexy it affected him the same way it would if she were dragging her mouth across his bare abdomen. “It’s for you,” she said and pulled her door closed. “Gotta go. Have a nice day.”
    Justin managed, barely, not to gape as she pulled out of the driveway and the kids waved at him. He glanced down at the bag lunch in amazement. Amy couldn’t know that no one had ever prepared a bag lunch for him before.
    He opened it and looked inside to examine the contents. Turkey and cheese sandwich on wheat, granola bar and banana. And a note. No cookies until I know your favorite. Peanut butter or chocolate chip?
    That red-haired witch, Justin thought and felt an itchy, impatient sensation crawl over his nerve endings. He’d gone to bed hard and wanting every night since he’d said his marriage vows to Amy. Ever since “I do” had meant “I don’t,” he’d been burning in his bed. He hadn’t known Joan of Arc could be such a tease.
     
    Both. Thanks, J.
    For the third time, Amy looked at Justin’s bold scrawl answering her cookie question and couldn’t help smiling. So, she had more than one cookie monster living in her house. She slid the note back into her pocket and stored the information in her brain.
    The kitchen timer dinged and she pulled the second batch of cookies from the oven. The aroma of fresh-baked sweets filled the air.
    “Is it your mission in life to torture me to death?” Justin asked from the doorway.
    Amy turned around to look at him and stopped short. His hair attractively damp and mussed from his recent shower, he wore no shirt and a pair ofcotton lounging trousers that tied at the top and rode low on his hips. The sight of his bare torso and abdomen short-circuited her breathing.
    “Well, is it?” he asked, moving toward her.
    Amy swallowed and shook her head. “No. How am I torturing you?”
    “Too many ways to count,” he muttered under his breath and nodded toward the cookies. “The smell is distracting.”
    “They’re a thank-you gift.”
    “For who?”
    “For you.”
    He blinked, then shrugged his impressive shoulders and reached for one of the cookies. “I’m not going to argue, but why?”
    “Because you picked up the kids for me and I heard your car sustained damage.”
    “You’re welcome,” he said and took a bite of the still-hot cookie.
    His chest was extremely distracting.
    “What are you staring at?”
    Embarrassment rushed through Amy, and she swung around to avoid him.