“I like your team,” she said, breaking the silence. “Am I going to have to worry about who has better wood?”
He spit out a laugh. Damn. How could such a reserved woman have a wicked sense of humor? It was a total contradiction. “No. I can’t promise you there won’t be outbreaks, but it won’t affect the job. You have my word.”
“I’ll need more than that. I don’t care if you beat each other up after work, just as long as we meet deadline and hold strict quality control.”
Embarrassment rushed through him. He hated that she had to be a witness to their dirty laundry, but it was his fault for losing his temper. He’d literally flipped out when Dalton offered to drive her. It wasn’t so much the words he said as it was the look of intention carved on his face. His brother loved to play, and females fell to their knees to worship him for some strange reason. Yeah, the guy was good-looking, but he went through women faster than those Hershey bars he was addicted to. Cal did not want him ruining this job by making a pass at Morgan just ’cause he was bored. She deserved more than that. Hell, if anyone was going to try to seduce her, he’d be first in line. At least he’d take more care than his brother. A lot of care. Preferably long, heated, naked hours spent in tangled sheets with a lot of screaming.
Not that he was interested in seducing her, of course.
He shoved the thought aside and concentrated on the road. “Trust me, it won’t be a problem.”
“Good.”
He drove and studied her from the corner of his eye. He wondered how many outfits she owned that were white. This was more a buttercream, but close enough. Tailored slacks that looked silky soft. Sandals with three-inch kitten heels. A sleeveless knit sweater molded to her high, full breasts, and the tiny V dip giving a tempting glimpse of smooth, pale skin. A delicate pearl pendant hung in the hollow of her neck. The truck smelled of lemons and wildflowers. Way too girly for him. But nice. Really nice.
“Is there a reason why you don’t get along with your brothers?”
Oh, yeah. Bucketloads. But he wasn’t gonna tell her. “Yeah.”
“What?”
“We got issues.”
She shook her head, but her lips curved in a half smile. “I bet you do. Get in line.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “At least we’re both mysterious. Always hated an open book.”
“You? Funny, I figured open books would be the only ones you wanted to read.”
“Ah, you got the wood references, huh? Now we’re using books for Freudian purposes? Cool. Let’s just say easy reads are good for quick entertainment and temporary satisfaction. Nothing wrong with it. Our culture thrives on such books.”
She straightened up in her seat as if getting ready to rise to his challenge. “Actually, I agree. I just think we enjoy those types of books while we search for a more complex, deeper read. Think Tolstoy.”
He gave a fake shudder. “I’d rather bring James Patterson to bed than old Leo. More fun.”
“Overdose on Patterson, and suddenly you can’t recognize the quality and classic taste of other . . . books. Then you can be ruined for life.”
He gave her a heavy-lidded sidelong glance. “Speak for yourself. Maybe I’m looking for a balance. A little of this, a little of that. A book that’s interesting, but not soul sucking.”
She crinkled her nose. “Like Shakespeare?”
He almost swerved off the road. “I’d rather get a root canal with no Novocain.”
She gave a delicate snort. “Dramatic, much? Guess you’re not a romantic.”
“Sorry, princess, but Shakespeare was a pansy and prolific at bullshit. I like a writer who’s more direct.”
“Got it. You’re looking for Stephen King.”
Her words were filled with pure satisfaction, like she’d figured out all his secrets. He opened his mouth to contradict her, then closed it with a snap. Holy. Shit. She’d nailed it. He hated admitting it, but even Cal knew a fair win needed to be acknowledged.
“How the hell did you know that?”
Morgan crossed her arms in front of her chest, her face smug. The motion pulled her jacket tight across her chest, outlining those full, plump breasts that had been on his mind way too much lately. He’d woken up last night wondering what color her nipples were. Dark peach? Pale pink? Or ruby red like a ripe strawberry? After that thought, it took him a long time to get back to sleep, and only after he’d taken care of business.
With her name on his lips as he came.
As if she sensed the subtle change in his thoughts, the sexual tension in the car suddenly crackled like a bowl of Rice Krispies. He heard a tiny pull of her breath, and just like that, he craved to pull the car over and slam his mouth over hers to swallow the sound whole.
Instead, he gripped the wheel tighter and focused his attention on the road.
Finally she answered. “King offers the perfect combination. He’s direct, incorporates real-life situations tangled with enough interesting fiction to keep the reader arrested. He delves into the human soul and isn’t afraid to go deep. He’s entertaining and avoids being called a literary writer or a hack. He’s everything you want in a . . . book.”
King was his favorite writer. And he’d never really thought about women relating to books, but suddenly all the pieces came together. Yeah, she was right. If he found a woman as good as a book from King, it would be all over for him. But of course, Morgan Raines didn’t read King and . . . wait. How would she know all that if she never read him?