The Colors of Love Read Online Free Page A

realized with a shock that he didn't want to let her go. "My car," he said, deliberately busying himself with picking up the flashlight, retrieving his umbrella. He sheltered her with the umbrella, though she was so wet now he didn't suppose it could make any difference. "We'll take my car."
    He grasped her elbow and shone the light ahead for her. He felt her head twist as she looked at him, forced himself not to turn his head. How the hell could her provocative scent rise to his nostrils with rain pelting down all around them?
    "I think my sister can take the cat," he said, although it must have been four in the morning by now, a hell of a time to go pounding on anyone's door.
    "I'll take him," she said. "It's my responsibility. I'll look after him."
    As they rounded the corner of the building, the streetlights took over the job of Alex's flashlight and he switched it off. "Have you got litter? Cat food?"
    "I'll stop at a convenience store." She gestured toward an elderly hatchback. "Here's my car."
    He wondered about the brakes, the battery, the tires. Any woman who didn't think to bring an umbrella out onto the street wasn't likely to worry about maintenance schedules, although perhaps she had a husband who did that for her, or a lover.
    "You can't drive that."
    "Of course I can." She shifted the cat, reaching into a pocket he hadn't realized was concealed in the soaking folds of her shirt. He couldn't see colors under these lights, but knew the red of her lips must be almost purple. He was certain he could see her body trembling with cold.
    "You can't hold the cat and drive at the same time. Some cats panic in a moving car. It's not safe to drive with an uncontrolled cat freaking out all over your car. My car's down here. I'll take you to my place, get you dry—"
    "My place. I live just across the Ballard Bridge."
    "You're wet. You need to get dry, get some hot liquid inside you, or you'll—"
    "I'm not a child." She sounded tense, or perhaps tired, but she followed him to his car. "You're obviously used to managing people, Dr. Kent, but I'm not accustomed to being managed anymore."
    Anymore. He wondered about that as he unlocked the passenger door of his BMW. Then he searched through his trunk, hoping for a forgotten blanket to put over her shoulders. He couldn't find one, and knew it probably wouldn't help much anyway. She needed to get those wet clothes off. He stowed the umbrella in the backseat, slid into the driver's seat, and started the car.
    "We'll have heat in a minute," he said.
    The cat in her arms began to meow plaintively. "Easy, Squiggles," she murmured. "I'll have you home in five minutes, then I'll wrap you in a big towel and get you dry."
    She was the one who needed a big towel, thought Alex as he pulled out of the parking space. Unfortunately, his imagination immediately provided a vivid visual and tactile image of wrapping a naked Jamila in a giant, absorbent towel, then gently rubbing and stroking her soft flesh through the towel until she was completely dry. Until she breathed his name with desire as he—
    "Darn," she muttered. "I left the tuna in the alley. Can you drive around?"
    "What?" Bloody hell! He had to stop this. She was soaking wet, her passionate hair hanging in dripping ringlets around her face, her green eyes a dark mystery in the muted light from his dash, and for once he couldn't seem to smell the scent that had stirred him so easily earlier. So why the hell couldn't he stop thinking about touching her?
    "It'll take only a minute," she said. "Just around the corner."
    The car was a mistake. Alone in the car with her, it was worse, far worse. He pulled a U-turn in the empty intersection and headed for the Ballard Bridge, telling himself grimly that he should have used his cell phone to call a taxi for her. He should have—
    "You missed the turn! The tuna. I don't want to litter the alley. We'll have to drive over to Twenty-eighth Avenue now and loop back."
    "You're going home."
    "We