AFTERGLOW

Read AFTERGLOW for Free Online

Book: Read AFTERGLOW for Free Online
Authors: Catherine Coulter
face him. "They're always eager."
    "Last time I was eager, I got called a jerk."
    "Actually," Chelsea said, smiling at the memory, "I called you a nerd, but maybe that was just to George. Don't look so hurt. After all, you called me a tease."
    "Hey, Chels, where's my beer?" Angelo's voice carried extremely well.
    "Why don't you give Angelo the rest of the six-pack and send him home happy?"
    "Stop making out with that poor man, Chels!" Maurice yelled out.
    "Ah, come on, Maurice," Delbert said. "He hasn't lost more than twenty bucks."
    "Come on out, Chels," Maurice demanded in a louder voice. "We haven't checked this guy out enough yet."
    "Yeah, he could be a mad rapist!" Angelo hooted.
    "Hell," David said, "I'm never angry."
    "My family," Chelsea said. She picked up Angelo's beer and walked out of the kitchen.
    Lord, David thought, his eyes following her, she's got the cutest bottom.
    Two hours later, and fifty dollars poorer, David stood beside Chelsea as she bid good-night to the poker gang and listened to each of them tell her what to do if he got fresh.
    "You go for the lowest moving parts," Maurice said.
    "Naw," said Angelo, "you bite his neck. Go right for the jugular."
    When she closed the door she turned to face David and, for a moment, was taken aback at the look in his lovely eyes. Hero's eyes, she thought. Brilliant hazel. Very nice, all of him.
    "Are you sorry you came?" she asked, not moving from the door.
    "Will you loan me enough money for the toll back across the bridge?"
    "You could always sell your body on the streets of Sausalito."
    "You think I'd only get a dollar?"
    "It's Friday night. The toll's two dollars."
    "So that's what you think I'm worth, huh?"
    "Your worth, doctor," she said, moving toward the wrecked living room, "is still in doubt."
    He helped her clean up, grimacing at the black dregs of the guacamole. "That stuff does look disgusting. Next time use lemon," he said.
    "Is Elliot teaching you how to cook?" she asked, arching an amused brow at him.
    "Nope. I was just agreeing with Maurice."
    Chelsea stacked the dishes in the sink, then fidgeted a bit putting leftovers into the refrigerator, aware that David was standing in the kitchen doorway watching her every move.
    "I suppose," she said in a challenging voice, turning to face him, "that you want to neck now."
    "You've got a cute bottom."
    "I said neck, not bottom."
    "I expect I'd make my way south, eventually."
    She eyed him silently for a moment. "I suppose men think that if they've spent money on a woman the next step is bed. Let me remind you that you didn't spend a dime. You lost fifty bucks through lack of skill and cunning."
    "You won about forty of that fifty dollars. Wouldn't you believe me if I swore I lost that money to you on purpose?"
    "And that's the same thing? Do you know something, David? I don't even know if I like you."
    "You know something, Chelsea? I don't know if I like you, either."
    "Then why do you want to neck?"
    "Because I think you're sexy. Don't you think I'm sexy, too?"
    "Let me tell you something, Dr. Winter. I'm really very used to having the last word."
    "Do your heroines always best your heroes verbally?"
    She frowned at that. "Sometimes. Well, it depends. If the hero is a Mark I, my heroine gives him all sorts of grief verbally—" She broke off at his puzzled look. "A Mark I hero is the strong, macho, arrogant type. A Mark II hero is the witty, sexy, understanding, neat type."
    "Which do you prefer?"
    "Both."
    "You don't want much, do you, lady?"
    "We're talking about broad character types, David."
    "That's what I tried to tell you last week. The stuff you write just isn't real, any of it. Your hero's supposed to be a woman's prince, isn't that right? The ultimate man with no flaws, a man who doesn't belch like Angelo, doesn't wag his finger like Maurice and is at least a foot taller than Delbert the jockey. You write fairy tales. Admit it."
    "I will admit one thing," Chelsea said. "I write books to entertain.

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