Read Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) for Free Online Page B

sunlight slanting through the window struck her, she winced and shut her eyes.
    â€œNot a morning person, hmm?”
    Her stomach did a funny little lurch and she blinked at the figure silhouetted against the open back door. Wouldn’t you know the first person she’d seebefore she could even wash down a handful of pills would be Apollo in person. If he’d been wearing a fig leaf and shawl, she’d have run screaming off down the hill.
    Instead he was wearing the same faded jeans he’d worn yesterday, which were as good as a roadmap pointing out strategic points of interest. Her good-morning sounded more like the snarl of a pit bull.
    â€œIt’s probably the altitude,” he told her solicitously.
    She shot him a suspicious look, and he said, “Headache, right? Flying does it to me, even in a pressurized cabin. We’re not all that high here, but—”
    â€œThanks, I don’t need a diagnosis,” she growled. “Lack of sleep always gives me a headache.” With any luck, it would be gone before the first class started—and so would he.
    â€œMe, I slept like a log.”
    She shot him a saccharine smile. “Goody for you.”
    â€œWe’re on our own from now on.” Reaching inside a cabinet, he took out a box of sweetened cereal and frowned at the picture of tiny, pastel-colored shapes.
    Maggie had brought her own cereal. It was whole grain and probably not as tasty as the one he was holding. His arms and his hands were tanned. There was no lighter circle on his third finger, left hand, to indicate he had recently worn a ring.
    He said, “I checked the refrigerator. The kitchen’s stocked with basics, but they’re pretty, ah—basic. Eggs, bacon. Bunch of green stuff.”
    â€œDo you have to talk so much?” She winced as she crossed through the patch of sunlight again.
    â€œReckon not. Reckon we could just dance.”
    She goggled at him. No other word to describe it. She did her best to blot out the memory of the impressive creature with his undraped loins and his quiver of brushes, that had haunted her early morning dreams. The image was already losing the sharp edges, but she could still see those muscular calves and the flat, ridged abdomen where the shawl draped low on one hip before swinging up to his shoulder.
    â€œIf you don’t mind,” she said haughtily, “I’d rather not talk before I’ve had my morning pint.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. Better warn you, though—it’s pretty strong. You might want to water it down some. Be somebody along pretty soon to start the bacon and eggs.”
    She mimicked talking with her fingers. He looked suitably chastened and covered his mouth with his hand. And darn it, he really did have gorgeous hands. Maggie wasn’t entirely certain what an artistic hand was supposed to look like, but artistic or not, his long, square-tipped fingers were perfectly proportioned for the square palm.
    And if she’d ever even considered a man’s hands in that respect, she had to be plum out of her mind. What the devil was happening to her normally sharp-as-a-tack brain? She was here on a mission. She didn’t have time for this kind of distraction.
    She poured herself a mug of coffee and by the time she turned around, Ben had placed a jug of whole milk and a can of evaporated on the table, along with a sugar bowl, a jar of honey and a stack of pink packets of sweetener. He grinned as if he’d offered her the crown jewels.
    â€œThank you,” she croaked. Croaked because her voice was always rusty first thing in the morning. She was used to seeing her father off to work in silence and taking her pint of coffee into the ex-utility room she laughingly called her office, where she worked on her column until noon. If any calls came in, she let the machine take them.
    â€œReally,” she said when he continued to look at her as if she were something