John opened his front door and sized up Georgeanne in one quick glance. At ten in the morning, she looked fresh and perfectly flawless. She’d brushed her dark hair into a twisted bun on the back of her head, and diamond studs adorned each earlobe. She wore one of those awful female power suits that hid her deep cleavage and covered her to her knees. “Did you bring them?” he asked, and stepped aside to let her into his houseboat. When she walked past, he raised his arm a little and took a quick sniff. He didn’t smell too bad, but maybe he should have taken a shower after his run. Maybe he should have changed out of his jogging shorts and ratty gray T-shirt.
“Yes, I brought several.” Georgeanne walked into the living room, and he shut the door behind her. “Just make sure you keep your part of the bargain.”
“Let me see the goods first.” As she dug into her beige briefcase, his eyes slid down her body. The severity of her hair and the blue and white pinstripes made her appear almost sexless-almost. But her eyes were a little too green, her mouth a bit too full and a shade too red. And her body… well, hell, there wasn’t a damn thing she could wear to conceal her breasts. Just looking at her made a man think evil thoughts.
“Here.” She shoved a framed picture at him.
He took the photograph of Lexie and moved to the leather sofa. It was a school picture, with Lexie giving the camera a real cheesy smile. “What kind of grades did she get in school?” he asked.
“They don’t give grades in kindergarten.”
He sat with his knees wide. “Then how do you know if she’s learning what she needs?”
“She’s had two years of preschool. She reads and writes simple words really well, thank God. I was so afraid she might struggle.”
When she sat next to him, he looked at her. “Why?”
Georgeanne pushed up the corners of her mouth. “No reason.”
She was lying, but he didn’t want to argue with her-not yet. “I hate when you do that.”
“What?”
“Smile when you don’t mean it.”
“Too bad. There are a lot of things I don’t like about you.”
“Like what?”
“Like you stealing that awful picture from my office yesterday and holding it for ransom. I don’t appreciate blackmail.”
He hadn’t intended to blackmail her. He’d taken the photograph because he liked it. No other reason. He liked to look at her beautiful face and her pregnant belly, huge with his baby. When he looked at it, his chest swelled with pride, nearly choking him with good old-fashioned testicular machismo. “Georgie, Georgie,” he sighed. “I thought we’d cleared up these ugly accusations last night on the phone. I told you, I simply borrowed that picture,” he lied. He’d never had any intention of giving it back, but then she’d called and yelled at him about it, and he’d decided to use her emotions to his advantage.
“Now give me the photograph you stole.”
John shook his head. “Not until you replace it with something of equal or greater value. This one is kind of cheesy,” he said, and set the school picture on the coffee table. “What else ya got?”
She handed him a portrait taken in one of those glamour studios in the mall. He stared at his little girl, looking like a tart in heavy makeup, long rhinestone earrings, and a fluffy purple boa. He frowned and tossed it on the table. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s her favorite.”
“Then I’ll think about it. What else?”
She scowled and bent forward to dig deeper into her briefcase. A slit in the side of her skirt parted and slid up her thigh, gracing him with a glimpse of bare flesh above tan hose and powder blue garter. Holy Mother of God. “Where are you going dressed like that?”
She straightened. The skirt closed, and the show was over.
“I’m meeting a client in her home on Mercer.” She handed him another photograph, but he didn’t look at it.
“Are you sure you’re not meeting your boyfriend?”
“Charles?”
“Do you have more than one?”
“No, I don’t have more than one, and I’m sure I’m not meeting him.”
John didn’t believe her. Women didn’t wear underwear like that unless they were planning on showing it to someone. “Do you want some coffee?” He stood before his imagination sucked him into a fantasy of soft thighs and blue lace.
“Sure.” Georgeanne followed him into the kitchen, filling the room with the sound of her heels tapping the hardwood floors.
“Charles doesn’t like me, you know,” John informed her as he poured coffee into two navy mugs.
“I know, but I wasn’t under the impression that you liked him either.”
“No. I don’t,” he said, but his dislike of the man wasn’t personal. The guy was a real dickweed, true enough, but that wasn’t his primary objection. John hated the thought of any man in Lexie’s life-period. “How serious is your relationship?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Maybe, but he was going to press the issue anyway. He handed her the mug. “Cream or sugar?”
“Do you have Equal?”
“Yep.” He dug in a cupboard for the little blue packet and gave her a spoon. “Your boyfriend is my business if he spends time with my daughter.”
Georgeanne’s long fingers emptied the sweetener into her coffee and she slowly stirred. Her nails were mauve, long, and perfect. Sunlight poured in through the window above the sink, catching in her hair and earrings. “Lexie has met Charles twice and she seems to like him. He has a daughter who is ten, and she and Lexie play well together.” She set the spoon in the sink and looked up at him. “I think that’s all you need to know.”
“If Lexie has only met him twice, then you haven’t known him very long.”
“No, not long.” She pursed her lips a little and blew into her coffee. John rested one hip against the white tile counter and watched her take a sip. He’d bet she hadn’t slept with him yet. It would explain why the man had been so hostile toward John. “What is he going to say when he finds out that you and Lexie are coming to Cannon Beach with me?”
“Easy. We’re not going.”
He’d spent the previous night figuring out a way to coerce her into agreeing with his vacation plans. He would appeal to her emotions; God knew she had those in spades. Everything she felt was right there in her green eyes. Even though she tried to hide her feelings behind bland smiles, John had spent his life reading the faces of tough, coolheaded men. Men who reined in emotion while uncorking haymakers with detached precision. Georgeanne didn’t stand a chance. He would appeal to her maternal side. If that didn’t work, he’d improvise. “Lexie needs to spend time with me, and I need to build a relationship with her. I don’t know a lot about little girls,” he confessed with a shrug, “but I bought a book written on the subject by a woman doctor. She writes that the relationship a girl has with her father could determine how she relates to the men in her life. Say, if a girl’s father isn’t around, or if he’s a jerk, she could really be fuc-ahh… messed up.”
Georgeanne looked at John for several long moments, then carefully set her mug on the counter. She knew from personal experience that he was right. She’d been messed up for a lot of years. But his being right didn’t persuade her to spend a vacation with him. “Lexie can get to know you here. The three of us alone would be a disaster.”
“It’s not the three of us you’re worried about. It’s the two of us.” He pointed at her and then himself. “You and me.”
“You and I don’t get along.”
He folded his arms across his wide chest, and the worn collar of his gray T-shirt dipped, exposing his clavicle and the base of his throat. “I think you’re afraid we’ll get along too well. You’re afraid you’ll end up in my bed.”