The Bachelor Chronicles. Lissa Manley
skirt wasn’t particularly short, it still displayed her legs below her knees. And what perfect, stunning legs they were, willowy and curved exactly the way he liked.
His heart began to beat heavily in his chest. Heat enveloped him. He looked back up and found her delicately licking pastry sugar from her fingers. He stifled a groan, unable to help watching in blatant fascination as her pink tongue came out and cleaned her fingers of sugar, one…by one…by one. Swallowing, he averted his gaze again, fighting for control, and repositioned his watch on his wrist.
Don’t go there, buddy. Don’t want what you don’t need. Getting hung up on a reporter would be the one, surefire way to expose little Allison to the rabid media, which had burned him before.
When he looked back at Ms. James, she had thankfully finished cleaning her fingers. She flicked on the tape recorder. “First, I’m going to ask you some questions, like your age and what you like to do. Then I’ll let you talk for a while, all right?”
He nodded tersely.
She scooched over on the couch until she sat just a foot from him. Her delicate scent—roses—floated over him, and he fought the urge to sniff the air and drag in more of the wonderful, feminine smell through his nose. The last time he’d smelled anything that good was while standing in the middle of his flower beds when they were in full bloom.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirty-two.” He tried to make his voice sound like her perfume wasn’t wreaking havoc with his senses.
“And have you always lived in Portland?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Soooo…what are your interests?” She licked at the sugary coating on her lips again.
He watched her tongue stroke her lip, and the heat in his body was stoked back to life. “Uh, interests?”
She pursed her sugary lips, then picked up her cappuccino. “You know, hobbies, likes, dislikes. That kind of thing.”
Jared ruthlessly forced his eyes, and thoughts, away from her mouth and how much he wanted to take care of that sugar himself. “Well, I like to ski and work in my garden—”
She stopped midsip and looked at him over the rim of the cup. “You like to garden?”
He lifted a brow and nodded. “Sure. I grow enough vegetables to keep me supplied all summer.”
“Oh, come on.” She put her cup down. “You grow your own vegetables?”
He gave her a stony glare, feeling his strange attraction being replaced by his earlier irritation and wariness. “Yes, I do, Ms. James. I also like to cook. Surprised?”
“Quite frankly, I am,” she said, tucking some stray strands of hair behind her ear. “Most men like you wouldn’t want to get their hands messy enough to garden or cook. I figured you’d be more interested in fast cars, wild parties and loose women in lingerie, stuff like that.”
He clenched his jaw and dropped his foot to the floor. Loose women in lingerie? Damn, how he hated what everyone expected him to be, the wealthy guy without a care in the world, tooling around in his hot car, chasing women day and night. Sure, he had nice things and a nice car, but he’d worked his butt off to make Warfield’s what it was today and to enjoy the perks that came with being a successful business owner. And, yeah, he’d had his share of chasing women in his younger days, but he was over that now that he had Allison in his life.
“I guess I’m not like most men, then, am I?” he said, just managing to be civil.
Her gaze flicked down and held on his wristwatch for a long, significant moment. “Well, most men don’t have trust funds to live on, do they?” Her mouth spread into a tight, judgmental smile.
He clenched his hands. His instincts about this interview had proved dead-on. The press was bad news. They’d ridden his back his whole life, always groveling for some kind of story about his famous family. And then, before he’d threatened one reporter with libel a year ago, they’d tried to do a hatchet job when his half sister, Carolyn, had died.
The media had been too damn eager to exploit the circumstances of the famous Janet Worthington’s daughter’s death. Not only had a slew of reporters hounded him for details of the motorcycle crash that had snuffed out Carolyn’s life, they’d jumped on him like a pack of wolves when he’d adopted Carolyn’s six-month-old baby daughter, Allison. The press had wanted to splash her picture across the front page. Man, how Carolyn would have hated that.
The familiar guilt for failing to save Carolyn jabbed at him, fueling his desire to cut this interview short. He knew he was overreacting, but this snooty reporter had managed to push his buttons, right off the bat. Ms. James might be really nice to look at but she was obviously nothing but a self-serving reporter out to dig up dirt.
He rose, staring her down. “Trust funds? How do you know what the hell I live on?”
She blinked and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Uh, well…” She hesitated, clearly unprepared for his sudden turnabout. Luckily he had been prepared for her ambush.
Jared didn’t wait for her to say more. “Your interview’s over, sweetheart.” He leaned down and deliberately placed his hands on the coffee table and bent in close. Her scent washed over him again, but his anger doused its effect. “For your information, I’ve worked damned hard to get to where I am today and I don’t need you turning your pert little nose up at my lifestyle.” He straightened and sent her a hard glare. “Go find someone else to insult.” He turned to walk away.
“Mr. Warfield?”
Something in her soft tone made him stop, his hands still fisted at his sides. He didn’t turn around.
“I chose you for this article because you have the kind of lifestyle our readers want to read about. Unfortunately, I guess, money is part of your life. It’s my job to write the story my editor wants.”
Unmoved, he swiveled back to face her. She might not have been technically out of line, but she’d implied that he was a lazy idiot who had nothing better to do than piddle away his inheritance. She’d struck right at the heart of one of his biggest pet peeves: people who assumed he’d ridden his father’s coattails to instant wealth. Her rude assumptions were so far from the truth that they would be laughable if they didn’t make him so angry. He hadn’t used one penny of the Warfield millions to build his business, which he was damn proud of.
Yeah, he would follow his instincts on this one. To hell with her story. He was out of here.
“Too bad.” He ignored how her pretty green eyes widened in stunned surprise. “You can go back to your editor and tell him this rich guy changed his mind. The interview’s off.”
He stalked off and left her sitting on the couch with her sugary mouth hanging open and her tape recorder still running.
Heart pounding, Erin watched Jared walk away toward a door at the back of the store, unable to resist taking one last peek at the rear view of his perfect male body. The guy had just told her to take a hike, yet she could still feel the pulse of her attraction sizzling through her body like an electric current. Who would have guessed a man could turn her on while telling her off?
But that didn’t matter. Her desperation was what counted here. What had possessed her to bring up loose women in lingerie? She’d blown it, big-time.
Nibbling a nail, Erin acknowledged she’d been thrown off whack ever since she saw Jared standing behind the counter. Had her neglected libido sent her good judgment flying out the window? That had to be the problem. What else could have caused her to alienate part of her biggest story opportunity in months, jeopardizing her only chance to pay off Brent’s debts and save her house in one fell swoop?
Shaking her head, she flicked her tape recorder off, fighting away panic. What now? She sat and munched on her turnover, but the sweet sugar and tart apples suddenly tasted like sawdust.
She