No More Mr. Nice Guy by Jennifer Greene Page A

Caro.”
    “This old thing?” The black sweater was new, cashmere with a low cowl neckline. The off-white wool slacks were also new, and the outfit was marvelously flattering to her figure. Misleadingly so, as she was only now beginning to realize. When she took off her clothes later, he’d find out exactly what needed to be hidden and what didn’t. She should have worn a sack.
    In the meantime, her heart refused to stop thumping in her chest. Hiding behind half-lowered lashes, she found she couldn’t take her eyes off Alan. Candlelight played on his strong features, glowed on his beard, added a flame and mystery to his eyes. He was a gentle man, but these past two weeks she’d had delicious, frightening, exciting, enticing glimpses of the passionate lover he could be. And because of him, she was just beginning to understand that she was much more sensual than she’d ever believed. Please, Alan, couldn’t we completely forget about dinner and just…
    He leaned toward her. Her breath stopped altogether. “You’ve got to try the cactus paddles,” he urged.
    “The…oh. I will, I will.” Her eyes dropped to the small plate he’d just filled for her.
    “I had to look pretty far and wide for something I knew you’d never tried before.”
    “You didn’t have to do that,” she said softly, and entirely truthfully. By that time, she’d had a taste. “Really different,” she equivocated between gulps of tequila. Well? You didn’t cut a man down who’d spent an afternoon in the kitchen just to please you.
    He refilled her glass, and then leaned forward to brush the bits of salt from her upper lip. His thumb lingered, loving the texture of her mouth. That slight touch made her tremble, almost imperceptibly. It made every ghastly hour between sink and oven that afternoon worth it.
    His mind groped frantically for something else. The dinner was going fine, but unfortunately it was just a dinner. Any man could have made her a romantic dinner. There had to be something more he could do, some completely new experience he could offer Caro…
    “Alan?”
    “Hmm?”
    “Would I know the name of the artist who did your painting?”
    He shook his head. “I doubt it. Her name’s Jennifer Spencer.”
    The mushrooms were close to edible, but suddenly wouldn’t go down. “You know her well?” Carroll asked casually.
    “Used to.” He considered capturing Caro’s expression on film, but didn’t have a camera handy. Her smile would have cut butter, but her eyes were sparklers. Jealousy, he thought contentedly. Rusty wheels turned in his head. “Old lovers—we all have them, don’t we, Caro?”
    “Yes, of course, we do.” Which she abruptly discovered was fine for her, but not at all for him. Who was the witch? Carroll glanced again at the painting, then flashed a demure smile at Alan. That oil was going to liven up a garage sale someday soon. “Did you know her long?”
    “Hmm.” He leaned back and switched the stereo on low. The speakers in the far corner moaned the faint sound of a rushing surf, as if the ocean were just out of reach in the dark room, bearable, smellable, tastable. Other men had undoubtedly played her plain old music. “Remember the first boy you went out with?” he asked idly.
    Since it was obvious she was no longer hungry, Alan pushed aside the tray, readjusted the pillows and drew Caro closer. She tucked her head willingly in the curve of his shoulder, her face lifted to his. She was waiting for him to kiss her, he could feel it. The pulse in her throat had a life of its own.
    He touched that pulse with a fingertip, felt a fierce answering chord of desire from deep inside him, and fought to control it. It would be so easy to make love to her now, but it was more than willingness he wanted from Caro, and for Caro. “Your first date?” he coaxed again.
    “Mmm…a boy named Kirk Polansky,” she said absently, barely aware of what she was saying. The candles and the dark room and the