Mission: Irresistible (15 page)

He cleared his throat. He wanted to tell her they needed to leave. That it was important they get a few hours’ sleep so they could start looking for Adam again as soon as possible. But instead he said, “I’ll help reconstruct your collage. But you have to promise you won’t keep trying to kiss me.”

“Why not?”

“Be . . . because,” he sputtered.

“Because why?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

“Oh.” She considered that for a moment. “Do I have bad breath? I could go brush my teeth.”

He raised both palms. Would he ever understand the way her mind worked? “It’s not your breath. Your breath is minty fresh.”

“So it’s me? If I were someone else, then would you want to kiss me?”

“No. I don’t want to kiss anybody.”

“So it’s you?”

“Yes.” He would say anything to get the exasperating woman to stop talking about kisses. “It’s me.”

“You don’t like kissing? Is that the deal?”

“I like kissing.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Kissing leads to other things.”

“I know. That’s the general idea.”

This circular conversation was getting them nowhere. Not knowing what else to do to escape her chaotic reasoning, Harrison picked up a photograph of Cassie when she was about sixteen, draped all over some surfer-type dude on the hood of a station wagon. He was certain she must have made out in the backseat of that car. You couldn’t miss the lustful gleam in the guy’s eyes as he stared at her chest.

The jerkwad.

“Who’s this?” He hadn’t meant to ask that.

Cassie perked up and took the photograph from him. “Oh, that’s Johnny D. He wanted in my panties so bad I thought he was going to explode.”

“You didn’t sleep with him?” Why Harrison should feel so relieved over something Cassie hadn’t done a dozen years ago was beyond him.

“Are you nuts? The guy lived down by the river in his car. He had crabs like you wouldn’t believe. Or that’s what I heard from my pal Julie Ann.”

“Why’d you keep his picture?”

“He was sweet, and I liked the idea of hanging with a musician. He wrote a love song about me and everything. But then again, the song sort of sucked. It didn’t rhyme. He took me to a U2 concert when they came to Dallas back in the early nineties. If you see a U2 ticket stub, it goes in the frame with Johnny D.”

“Cassie, we gotta hurry this up. I hate to rush you; I know this is important, but finding Adam and the amulet is even more important. We both have a vested interest in the outcome,” he said, realizing the last thing he ever wanted to be was a memory on her collage wall. That’s why he’d circumvented her kiss with some fancy footwork.

She nodded. “You’re right. I got caught up in my emotions. I can finish assembling the collages later. It was considerate of you to even offer to help, Harry.”

He started to correct her, tell her to call him Harrison, but it hardly seemed worth the effort. If she liked calling him Harry, he could live with it for a few days.

“Good night,” she said and extended a hand. “What time are you picking me up in the morning? Although technically it already is morning.”

“Oh,” he said, “I’m not leaving you alone in this apartment. Whoever trashed it might come back. Especially if they didn’t find what they were looking for. We gotta get you out of here quickly, so pack a bag.”

“What do you suppose they were looking for?” She took a backpack from the closet and tossed it on the bed.

“Adam? The amulet? The papyrus? Who knows?”

“But why come after me? I don’t know anything.” She headed to the bathroom. Harrison moved to stand in the doorway. He leaned against the jamb, watching while she hurriedly scooped up her cosmetics and toiletry items.

“Maybe you do and you just don’t know it. One thing is for sure, it’s not safe for you to stay, and as far as I can see there’s only one solution.”

“What’s that?” She maneuvered past him to dump her makeup bag and toothbrush onto the bed beside her backpack.

He resisted making the suggestion. If he was smart he would just foot the bill and put her up in a hotel, but he needed to keep her close. Especially if someone was after her. Harrison took a deep breath.

“You’re staying with me.”

Harry’s place turned out to be much like Harry. Bland, boring, and colorless.

Or rather that was the general impression everyone had about Harry. She’d once thought that about him too.

But the more time she spent with him, the more Cassie realized he was much more interesting than he appeared on the surface. He might be color-blind, but Harry was far from bland and boring.

He was deeply private and intense. The curious adventurer in her wanted to dig past the surface, find out what he was truly like. The adage “can’t judge a book by its cover” certainly applied to Harry Standish.

His sterile, monochromatic white kitchen begged for a shot of color. Not to mention food. His pantry had a glass door, and all she could see were tins of tuna, boxes of whole grain cereal, and cans of tomato soup, all neatly stacked. The man was seriously in need of culinary intervention.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “that my apartment is so small. I’m rarely here, and I’ve converted my bedroom into an office.”

Cassie looked around and sucked in her breath. A bedroom converted into an office meant the narrow daybed in the living room was where he slept.

Whoo boy.

Why was she suddenly feeling out of her element? She rarely felt uneasy around men. What was it about Harry that rattled her cage? She wished she had something to calm the nervous flutters in her stomach.

“Let me just check my answering machine to see if Adam called,” he said and went to the telephone in the corner of the room. He shook his head. “No messages.”

“It’s looking darker by the minute, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

His expression was grim, and Cassie had an almost irresistible urge to wrap her arms around him and tell him everything was going to be okay, but something held her back.

“Got anything to drink?” she asked.

It was either very late or very early, depending on your definition, but a glass of wine or a bottle of beer was exactly what she needed to help her fall asleep. And to quell her inexplicable attraction to Harrison Standish.

“Sure. I have bottled water and milk and orange juice in the fridge.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said. “Do you have something serious?”

“You mean alcohol?”

“Ding-ding-ding.” She nodded. “Beer, wine. I’d even take a shot of tequila if you have it.”

Harry frowned. “I know you’re reeling from what happened at your apartment, but do you really think alcohol is the answer?”

“Yep, I sure do.” She sauntered over to the refrigerator and popped it open. She sank one hand on her hip and studied the contents.

Well, here was a dearth of choices.

A carton of skim milk that had expired two days ago. A quart of orange juice with pulp—
yuck
—and a six-pack of mineral water. There was also a package of deli-sliced turkey breast in the meat drawer, a jar of maraschino cherries and a bottle of ketchup in the shelf on the door, and in the crisper a chunk of brown iceberg lettuce.

Eew.

She slammed the fridge door closed.

“I have a bottle of peppermint schnapps that Adam gave me for Christmas a couple of years ago,” Harry said. “It’s never been opened. Would that do?”

“Now we’re talking. The schnapps sounds promising. Lead on, Poindexter.”

“Poindexter?” He swiveled his head to stare at her.

His expression was deadpan. He might have been insulted or he could have been amused. There was no reading this guy when he didn’t want to be read.

“Oops, sorry.” She cringed apologetically.

“Sorry for what?”

“Calling you Poindexter.”

“You do it behind my back all the time, why not go ahead and say it to my face?”

She opened her mouth to dispute his claim, but it was true. She had called him Poindexter behind his back. And Standoffish. And Egghead.

“May I ask why you call me that?”

Apparently it was time for truth or consequences. “No real reason. Don’t take it personally.”

“It’s because I’m a nerd.”

“Yeah, well, kinda.”

“Kinda?”

Way to go, Cassie. Pry that shoe out of your mouth.
She had just insulted the guy who’d taken her in. She crinkled her nose. “It’s not you, really. It’s the clothes.”

“Oh? What’s wrong with my clothes?”

Nothing like brutal honesty to quash any budding romantic attraction into pulp. “You don’t match, and everything you wear is out of style.”

“I’m color-blind,” he said.

“I figured.”

“And I don’t care about fashion.”

“I figured that too, but that’s what makes you a Poindexter,” she explained.

“Don’t forget the glasses.” He grasped the nosepiece and lifted his spectacles up and down on the bridge of his nose.

“Here. Let me see what you’d look like without those.” She stepped the few feet across the kitchen floor, reached up, and removed his glasses. That’s when she realized just how close they were standing.

He held his breath and so did she.

Cassie was acutely aware of his masculine scent, the warmness of his temples where her fingers grazed, the serious set to his intense mouth. She stepped back, tilted her head, and studied his face in the overhead lighting.

“You’ve got amazing brown eyes. You shouldn’t hide them behind glasses.”

“I have to see where I’m going.” He shrugged, acting like he was unaffected by her touch.

He was a self-disciplined guy, but Cassie was an expert at reading men. She recognized the subtle changes. His shoulders tensed up. His jaw muscles tightened. His fingers curled into his palms.

“You could get LASIK surgery.” She set his glasses down on the counter.

“Maybe,” he said. “But what’s the point? You can’t change who you are at heart. Guess I’ll always be a Poindexter.”

Cassie felt bad for having called him nerdy names. He really was a nice guy once you got to know him. And he was kinda sexy in a disheveled, absentminded-professor sort of way.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For calling you that.”

“Don’t be. I appreciate your honesty.”

Why did his compliment warm her from the inside out? He was giving her that serious, bookish look of his, which she’d thought was due to the spectacles. But his eyeglasses were resting on the counter beside a peppermill. His chocolate eyes glistened with expression, and she could almost read his thoughts.

You interest me.

And that was the true compliment. A smart guy like Harry interested in a ditzy chick like her.

Cassie shook her head.
Don’t get any funny ideas about this one, Cooper. With his brains, he’s way out of your league.

Yeah, but maybe he just needed someone to show him how to let loose and have fun. She was good at having fun, and Harry’s curiosity seemed to suggest he might be game for whatever intriguing things she cooked up, either out of bed or in it.

Stop it! He already told you, no more kissing.

Aw, but he hadn’t meant that. He just hadn’t known how to handle his sexual feelings for her. So he’d put a moratorium on kisses. As far as she was concerned, moratoriums were made to be broken.

“The schnapps?” she said, eager to drown the runaway voice in her head that usually led her into one mess or another.

He dragged a step stool from the pantry and positioned it beside the refrigerator. Climbing up on the bottom step, he opened the small cupboard over the fridge and took out the bottle of peppermint schnapps still wrapped with a festive red ribbon.

“Got any shot glasses?” she asked.

He just looked at her. Dang if he wasn’t downright cute without those pesky spectacles.

“Right. You’re not the shot-glass type.”

“I have coffee mugs.”

“That’ll do.”

He retrieved a mug from the cabinet.

She looked at the lone mug and pursed out her lips in a sexy pout that came as easily to her as eating. “You’re going to make me drink alone?”

“Cassie, it’s three-fifteen in the morning, and we’ve got to get up early. We need sleep for our brains to function properly. Can’t puzzle out a puzzle if your brain’s not game.”

“Cute.”

“It’s something my mother used to say.”

“So why do you think they call it a nightcap? To help you sleep. And you’ve got to admit we’ve had a rough evening. If the events of the day don’t call for a strong bedtime belt, then I don’t know what does.”

He hesitated and then said, “Aw, what the hell.”

“Attaboy.” She grinned.

Harry poured a finger of schnapps into each mug.

“Stingy,” she accused.

He added another finger’s worth.

“That’s better.” Cassie raised her mug. “Here’s to finding Adam safe and the amulet in mint condition.”

“To finding Adam and the amulet,” he echoed, and they clinked their mugs.

She swallowed the peppermint liqueur with a toss of her head. It burned nice and friendly all the way down.

“Whew.”

Glancing over, Cassie saw that Harry had taken only a tiny sip of his schnapps and was making a face like he was downing castor oil.

“No, no.” She shook her head. “You gotta shoot it down in one big gulp.”

“It’s going to burn.”

“But then you’ll feel warm and toasty inside. Trust me on this. Down the hatch,” she wheedled.

He made a face.

She could tell he didn’t want to shoot it, but the man needed to learn to relax. She gave him the college chant that had usually persuaded her to overindulge: “Chug, chug, chug.”

More to shut her up than anything else, Harry slung back the schnapps.

“Way to go.” She slapped him on the back.

She was leaning against the counter, her head buzzing sweet and easy, her breast just slightly grazing his arm. She hadn’t brushed up against him deliberately, but the results were the same as if she had. One quick glance down and she was honored to discover the bulge in his Dockers.

“You shouldn’t have any trouble falling asleep now,” she whispered.

“It’s not the falling asleep that worries me,” he muttered. “It’s the getting up.”