The Colors of Love Read Online Free Page B
Author: Vanessa Grant
can't leave it there. I don't want to litter the—"
"We're not stopping." He heard the fury in his voice and deliberately calmed himself. What was it about this woman that seemed to erode his sanity? "You're cold. You're wet. You need to get dry." He needed to get her out of his car, into her own home and behind a locked door.
"But I—"
"For—Let's try this conversation without the argument. Who used to manage you, Jamila?"
"Jamie. Everyone calls me Jamie."
For some incomprehensible reason, Alex felt an insane urge to stop his car and shake her. It must be chemistry, basic incompatibility. She certainly wasn't his type, but some sadistic trick of nature made her stir his hormones although she was everything he didn't want in his life—impulsive, careless, undependable.
Alex made certain he always knew what he wanted, and exactly how he intended to get it. When it came to women, he preferred his relationships slow and calm, giving him plenty of time to evaluate. But tonight, with this woman—
"Dr. Kent?"
He swallowed hard and fought off the image of his name, Alex, breathed from her lips in passion.
"What?" His voice came out as a growl where he'd meant it to be neutral, detached. This had to stop. He had to stop it. He was a mature man, not a randy teenager. He had years of discipline and control, and he could damned well manage one temporary, insane reaction to one inappropriate woman.
Think of Diana, he ordered himself but her image wouldn't come. He softened his voice, offering, "I'll go back and pick up the empty tin later."
"Thanks." She shifted, somehow snuggling deeper into the seat.
He should have offered her his jacket for warmth, hadn't thought of it. Too busy imagining her naked, he thought grimly. That made him the sort of man the nurses complained about over coffee in the hospital cafeteria, and it made less than no sense. He'd been seeing Diana for weeks, was drifting toward an intimate relationship.
He needed more than a rest. A vacation, maybe a month in the sun, somewhere he'd never been before. Tahiti, or Paris.
Jamila said, "The officer who took my statement said you planned to talk to the social worker about Sara."
"If that were so, it would be confidential information."
Just ahead on the right, he saw an all-night convenience store. If he didn't stop to get litter and cat food now, he'd end up getting it afterward, then bringing it back to her. She'd be wet from her shower, or perhaps from a hot bath. She would open the door wearing something colorful around her nude body, a thin robe with splashes of color, tied with its lapels crossed to leave the beginning of her cleavage visible to stir his imagination.
Christ! His imagination was doing fine without help! He swung the wheel and stopped his BMW outside the front door of Harry's 24-Hour Mini-Mart.
"Cat food," he said.
"I'll get it."
"No. Stay with the cat."
The kitten in her arms lifted his head and let out a plaintive meow, and she said, "I'll give you money. My purse—Oh, damn! It's in my car."
"Don't worry about it," he said, keeping his voice deliberately cold, reminding himself they were strangers, thrown together for an hour because of a child's worry about a stray kitten. "It's my donation to Sara's stray waif cause."
She smiled, but he didn't return it. He opened the door and slid out, then he shrugged out of his jacket.
"Take this," he said. "Wrap it around yourself."
Then he escaped into the convenience store.
* * *
Jamie's shirt clung to her shoulders and back damply, and every few seconds a bead of rainwater trickled from her scalp, down her neck and under her collar. She hadn't minded the rain when she was busy looking for the kitten, had told Dr. Kent the truth when she said she liked it. Rain created such interesting shadows. Painting rain was always an interesting challenge, creating motion on canvas, nature freshening the world with falling water, the mystery of everything that could be concealed or muted
"We're not stopping." He heard the fury in his voice and deliberately calmed himself. What was it about this woman that seemed to erode his sanity? "You're cold. You're wet. You need to get dry." He needed to get her out of his car, into her own home and behind a locked door.
"But I—"
"For—Let's try this conversation without the argument. Who used to manage you, Jamila?"
"Jamie. Everyone calls me Jamie."
For some incomprehensible reason, Alex felt an insane urge to stop his car and shake her. It must be chemistry, basic incompatibility. She certainly wasn't his type, but some sadistic trick of nature made her stir his hormones although she was everything he didn't want in his life—impulsive, careless, undependable.
Alex made certain he always knew what he wanted, and exactly how he intended to get it. When it came to women, he preferred his relationships slow and calm, giving him plenty of time to evaluate. But tonight, with this woman—
"Dr. Kent?"
He swallowed hard and fought off the image of his name, Alex, breathed from her lips in passion.
"What?" His voice came out as a growl where he'd meant it to be neutral, detached. This had to stop. He had to stop it. He was a mature man, not a randy teenager. He had years of discipline and control, and he could damned well manage one temporary, insane reaction to one inappropriate woman.
Think of Diana, he ordered himself but her image wouldn't come. He softened his voice, offering, "I'll go back and pick up the empty tin later."
"Thanks." She shifted, somehow snuggling deeper into the seat.
He should have offered her his jacket for warmth, hadn't thought of it. Too busy imagining her naked, he thought grimly. That made him the sort of man the nurses complained about over coffee in the hospital cafeteria, and it made less than no sense. He'd been seeing Diana for weeks, was drifting toward an intimate relationship.
He needed more than a rest. A vacation, maybe a month in the sun, somewhere he'd never been before. Tahiti, or Paris.
Jamila said, "The officer who took my statement said you planned to talk to the social worker about Sara."
"If that were so, it would be confidential information."
Just ahead on the right, he saw an all-night convenience store. If he didn't stop to get litter and cat food now, he'd end up getting it afterward, then bringing it back to her. She'd be wet from her shower, or perhaps from a hot bath. She would open the door wearing something colorful around her nude body, a thin robe with splashes of color, tied with its lapels crossed to leave the beginning of her cleavage visible to stir his imagination.
Christ! His imagination was doing fine without help! He swung the wheel and stopped his BMW outside the front door of Harry's 24-Hour Mini-Mart.
"Cat food," he said.
"I'll get it."
"No. Stay with the cat."
The kitten in her arms lifted his head and let out a plaintive meow, and she said, "I'll give you money. My purse—Oh, damn! It's in my car."
"Don't worry about it," he said, keeping his voice deliberately cold, reminding himself they were strangers, thrown together for an hour because of a child's worry about a stray kitten. "It's my donation to Sara's stray waif cause."
She smiled, but he didn't return it. He opened the door and slid out, then he shrugged out of his jacket.
"Take this," he said. "Wrap it around yourself."
Then he escaped into the convenience store.
* * *
Jamie's shirt clung to her shoulders and back damply, and every few seconds a bead of rainwater trickled from her scalp, down her neck and under her collar. She hadn't minded the rain when she was busy looking for the kitten, had told Dr. Kent the truth when she said she liked it. Rain created such interesting shadows. Painting rain was always an interesting challenge, creating motion on canvas, nature freshening the world with falling water, the mystery of everything that could be concealed or muted
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