Her Mistletoe Husband Read Online Free Page B

squeezed her throat like a vise. She despised the man, but some basic womanly instinct sent a ripple of appreciation through her as she saw what a marvelous male specimen he was.
    â€œOh? Too bad.” He appeared thoughtful. “I thought you might have apologized for barging in. My mistake.”
    Her face was flaming and had to be the same color as her hair. She attempted to speak, knowing she should atone, but no sound would come.
    His lips curving in the vaguest smile, he slowly cocked a hip. Elissa caught the movement and stared, experiencing a lurch in her chest. With the lazy, calculated move, the ends of his towel separated nearly all the way up his thigh, leaving only his masculine essentials to the imagination. Unfortunately her imagination decided to go there with a vengeance. Pulling in a deep breath she belatedly forced her gaze to his face. She was appalled to see that his grin had grown shrewd. “Been a long time, huh?”
    Her jaw almost hit the floor when she realized what he meant. Had she been obviously devouring him with her eyes? It was true that she hadn’t dated anyone in a while. But running her inn was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. Her lack of male companionship was her choice. Was he suggesting she was a poor, deprived old maid, lusting after him? Him! Of all people in the world! Realizing her mouth was open, she pressed her lips together and counted to ten. “I beg your pardon!” she finally demanded in a raspy whisper.
    He straightened, deftly tossing the shaving kit from one hand to the other. “I accept your apology, Miss Crosby.” His gaze taunting, he took a step back and closed the door between them.
    She didn’t know how long she stood there scowling, wishing looks could drill through doors and vaporize arrogant interlopers in their tracks. Her body fairly vibrated with fury. The man was impossible! How long could she bear to have him underfoot, acting so superior, so smug while insisting he owned her inn?
    The click of a door opening made her start and she was mortified to be caught still rooted there like a potted geranium. When Mr. D’Amour came out of the bathroom this time, he was wearing a pair of gray shorts. He glanced her way, a sparkle coming to life in his eyes. “How nice—company,” he said, without even a hitch in his step. It was as though he expected her to be there waiting for him. “What can I do for you now, Miss Crosby?”
    He began to remove cushions from the sofa, preparing to open it up into a bed. Elissa watched him, noting the play of muscles along his arms and shoulders, the tautness of his belly as he bent over. Not an ounce of extra flesh bulged over the elastic waistband of his shorts. Blast him! As her mind began to wonder about how many sit-ups it might take to create a belly like his, he straightened. Holding a cushion, he gave her a rather amused, speculative look. She frowned. What had he asked?
    Laying the cushion aside, he indicated the sofa. “I bet you stayed to help me open the bed.” His eyes were challenging.
    Her emotions jangling with embarrassment and indignation, she planted her hands on her hips. “Mr. D’Amour, the only thing I’d care to help you open is an artery.” She jerked her head toward the bathroom. “There are clean sheets and blankets in the linen closet.” In an icy monotone, she added, “Just so you’re perfectly clear on this, I do not consider you a guest, I consider you an intruder.”
    His unwavering gaze disconcerted her. After a few ticks of the clock he nodded, then bent to tug open the bed. With a high-pitched creak, it unfolded revealing the thin mattress that covered the springs. When he straightened and looked at her again, he propped his fists on his hips in a gesture that was plainly mocking. “And just so you’ll be perfectly clear, Miss Crosby, I do not consider myself a guest, either. I consider myself a