Ladies' Night by Andrews, Kay (popular books of all time .TXT) 📕

Grace lay on her side, gazing out the sliding glass doors at the deep-blue sky. At some point, Wyatt had opened the doors, and they could hear the waves washing ashore. He was spooned up against her back, his arm draped over her side, with his hand cupped against her breast, his thumb rhythmically brushing against her nipple. He was already aroused again. For that matter, so was she.

She rolled over to face him. “You’ve got to stop that, or we’ll never get any dinner.”

Instead, he bent his head and kissed her other nipple. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

“I’m starved,” she announced. He caught at her hand, but she neatly slid out of the bed. Still self-conscious, she groped around on the floor for her forgotten bath towel, finally crawling over to where Wyatt had dropped it, several feet from the bed.

As she fastened it, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him, propped up in bed, watching her with amusement.

She gathered up their clothes and went out to the laundry room to load them into the washer. When she’d started the wash, she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of the chilled white wine. Through the open bedroom door she heard the sound of the shower starting.

Grace found a large bowl—white pottery, of course, in one of the kitchen cabinets. She dumped in the bag of boiled shrimp, cut up a lemon, and arranged the slices around the edge of the bowl, humming as she worked. She rinsed the green grapes and placed them on a cutting board, next to the loaf of French bread. There was no bread knife in the scarcely appointed drawer of kitchen implements, so she simply tore the bread in hunks and heaped them beside the grapes along with the cheeses she’d picked up in the deli department.

She heard the clicking of nails on the tile floor and looked down. Sweetie jumped up, her front paws scratching at Grace’s bare knees.

“Ow,” Grace said, leaning down to scratch the little dog’s silky ears. “We’ve got to get you to the groomers to get your nails trimmed. In the meantime, thanks for reminding me. I actually did bring some dinner for you, too.”

She poured dog food into one bowl and water into another and set them on the floor, then went back to her preparations, loading all the food, along with the wine bottle and two glasses, onto a large wicker tray.

Wyatt was just emerging from the bathroom as she walked into the bedroom. He had a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, and, with a hand towel, he was rubbing his closely shaven head. His chest was muscled and his abs were not quite male-porn-star tight, but close enough. His skin gleamed darkly tan in contrast to the white towel. She stopped dead in her tracks, forgetting what she’d been about to say.

“You’re staring at me,” Wyatt pointed out.

“That’s not staring. That’s lusting.” Grace set the tray with the food on the nightstand. She wrapped her arms around his waist and backed him toward the bed.

He laughed, but offered no resistance.

When she had him right where she wanted him, she placed one hand on his chest and toppled him backward.

“You’re freaking gorgeous,” she said, looking down at him, spread-eagled across the bed. “I thought I liked you best dressed in your little Ranger Rick safari outfit, but that was because I’d never seen you naked. Or in a towel. I definitely like the towel best.”

She leaned forward and brushed her fingertips lightly across his chest. Wyatt caught her hand and pulled her down beside him. He pinned her arms to the bed and rolled until he was on top of her.

He frowned down at her. “That is not a Ranger Rick outfit. I’ll have you know it’s an official Jungle Jerry uniform. My grandmother had them made for everybody who used to work at the park. The one you’ve seen me wearing is the last one left. The rest are all in tatters, and that one is one rip away from the trash.”

She easily worked her hands free from his and ran her palms down his flanks. “You can never throw that uniform away,” Grace said sternly. “It’s what you were wearing the night we met.”

“Minus the parrot poop,” he reminded her. “But that wasn’t the first time we met. The first time was that day we both went before Stackpole. Remember? I have to confess, I have no idea what you were wearing either time. You looked so angry and intimidating, I was about to flee the premises.” He pointed at the tray. “Room service? I like your style.”

“There’s no dining room furniture yet,” she said. “And I still have to buy barstools for the island in the kitchen. And I don’t want to eat on that white sofa, not until I have a chance to spray it with a stain repellant. So … dinner in bed.”

She crawled onto the bed and propped herself up against the padded headboard. Wyatt handed her a glass of wine and took his own. He lightly clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to divorce camp.”

*   *   *

An hour later, they’d devoured every morsel of food on the tray and drained the bottle of wine. The towels were scattered about the floor, and after another longer, more leisurely session of lovemaking, they were spooned together on the big bed, Sweetie asleep on the floor beside them, moonlight pouring in through the open doors.

At some point, Grace was vaguely aware of her cell phone, which she’d left on the dresser, dinging softly to indicate an incoming voice mail, and then another, and then another. But she was still too drowsy, too warm and happy and overwhelmingly, bone-deep contented, to rouse herself and see what was going on in the rest of the world.

52

Driving back to the Sandbox the next morning, Sweetie sleeping on the front seat beside her, Grace finally took the time to check the