Temperature's Rising by Karen Kelley Page B

turned and strode toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “I’m starved. Do you think they might have stocked the refrigerator?” Food? At a time like this? How could he think about TEMPERATURE’S RISING
    93
    his stomach? She braced her hands on her hips, staring at his retreating back. They’d be practically living as man and wife for who knows how long, and all he could think about was eating? She certainly had other things on her mind.
    She squeezed her eyes shut as the rug and a nude Conor invaded her thoughts. No, not that. She wasn’t thinking about sex. The burglars—that’s what had skipped across her mind.
    Right, and if a frog had wings he wouldn’t bump his butt when he hopped.
    Laughter came from the kitchen, drawing her attention. She hadn’t thought Conor the type of man who laughed. He’d been too serious the day he’d arrested her.
    So what did he find so damn funny all of a sudden? It certainly wasn’t a heart-shaped refrigerator. She’d seen the kitchen.
    Proceeding cautiously, she eased down the hall and through the open doorway. Her gaze swept the room. The kitchen was large with a long row of white cabinets. A wooden table and four matching chairs were by a window looking out into the backyard. Most of the house next door was also visible.
    In the center of the room was an island with a chop-ping block and small chrome sink. Above that, one of the guys had hung copper pans.
    Shivers ran up and down her arms. It felt too warm and cozy, too . . . homey, but it looked just as it had earlier. At least, nothing seemed out of place.
    The stove was to her left, then a span of counter. At the end of the counter was the refrigerator. Conor leaned against the open door with a smirky grin on his face. The kind of smile that said she wouldn’t like what he was looking at any more than she had liked the love seat built for two or the bearskin rug. Okay, maybe she hadn’t 94
    Karen Kelley
    minded looking at the bearskin rug—drooling, salivating, slobbering . . .
    So what had he found that could be so funny? She met his gaze. Laughter twinkled in his eyes. She had to admit, she rather liked this lighter side of him. As long as she didn’t have to shove his grin down his throat. She edged closer and leaned around him, peering inside.
    “I see they sent the staples,” she commented dryly.
    “Champagne, oysters, chocolate, and strawberries.” If she ever found out who did this . . .
    A frown wrinkled her brow as her suspicion grew. She reached past Conor and picked up one of the foil-wrapped chocolates, unwrapped it, and bit into the candy, taking half into her mouth.
    Wonderful. She closed her eyes for a moment of heavenly delight as she took pleasure in the burst of raspberry flavor that shot out. When Conor’s hand circled her wrist, her eyes flew open. Slowly he brought the rest of the candy toward him. Their gazes locked.
    Some of the creamy, soft center had dribbled down the side of her finger. His tongue licked, scooping the gooey, rich candy into his mouth. He closed his eyes as if savoring the taste.
    A slow, aching need started in her belly, trembled down her legs, and curled her toes.
    He opened his eyes, then brought her hand to his mouth again—and stole the rest of the candy.
    “That”—she cleared her throat—“was mine.”
    “But since we’re going to be living together, we’ll have to learn to compromise . . . and to share.”
    “I don’t like sharing.”
    He leaned closer. So close she could smell the raspberry on his breath. She had an incredible urge to taste him. She already enjoyed kissing him, but mix the flavor of chocolate and raspberries and man . . . you couldn’t TEMPERATURE’S RISING
    95
    ask for more than that, except maybe if you threw in a heart-shaped bed draped in silk sheets.
    Without thinking, she leaned a little closer, so close she could almost feel the heat of his lips against hers. His fingers lightly stroked hers, causing the embers inside