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habit of keeping a mistress?” I snapped and snatched my hand away, shutting out the images of him coupling with hordes of nameless, faceless broads.
    He frowned. “Yes, of course. Although that doesn’t concern you.”
    “Oh yeah, what does concern me?”
    He appeared hurt, as if I’d insulted his dignity when I was the one being hired as a whore. “I’m monogamous in my relationships.”
    My outrage dimmed as he continued.
    “I didn’t think you’d come back. Otherwise I wouldn’t have left the door open.” He shook his head. “It was wishful thinking.”
    The electric charge between us blistered when he perused me from head to toe, touching on the tips of my breasts and the swell of my hips. “You’re especially lovely today.”
    See now, that’s what a woman wanted to hear, not that she was tarted up . “And you’re quite dashing, Mr. Boone. But, lovely? That’s real sweet, sugar, but surely y’all can be more creative.”
    He gathered me close, settling a hand low on my back. “I can be real creative, darlin’. After we go over the contract.” Escorting me to his office, his hand slid against the silky material of my blouse with every sway of my hips.
    “Won’t you have a seat?”
    I perched prettily.
    “Would you like a drink?” He fetched refreshments.
    While he was gone, I life-coached myself. I was A. a grown woman, B. a hot piece of ass, and C. in need of a salary and sexual tryst, so all the better to one-stop shop. Especially when the voltage between us gave South Carolina Electric and Gas–not to mention Berkeley Power–a run for its money.
    By the time he returned, I’d affected to be a cool, calm, collected redhead, not the redheaded stepchild I mostly was.
    My attempt at decorum didn’t last long. A mint leaf and inches of ice floated in the tall glass he set beside me. The tracks his fingertips left in the condensation put me in mind of his cool thumbs plucking my nipples toward his lips.
    I took a long drink in lieu of tearing open my blouse.
    His tumbler filled with a couple fingers of heady smelling bourbon, Reardon took his place behind the desk. Swishing the liquid into amber curlicues, he reached to his collar, undoing the top buttons, supplying me with the vision of his upper pecs shaded inside the V of cloth.
    “Curriculum Vitae?” he requested.
    I must’ve squeaked or something, because a black eyebrow shot up with the side of his mouth. Crossing my legs, I was delighted when his sight glided over my calves to the additional length of thigh on show.
    “ Bone fides .” Hell, if he insisted on the CV thing, I had no problem one-upping him .
    He flicked through the two bundles I handed over. “Duplicates?”
    “Not exactly, Mr. Boone.” He watched my lips pucker around Boone. I bet he wanted my lips puckering around Big Boone.
    Although I’d had a good giggle preparing the alternate version of my resume , I started sweating it. Or glistenin’ , as good southern girls were supposed to do.
    Much to my amusement, he stifled a yawn, scanning my professional details. I didn’t blame him one bit, it was all tickety-boo and totally boring.
    Once he’d tapped the first set of papers together and filed them into a slim drawer, he read the top line of my second offering. “And this is your?”
    “Alternate version.” I’d taken the liberty of sprinkling a few dirty details around the extra copy, making light of a situation I wasn’t sure I could control.
    I swirled my drink and listened to the chink of ice during the subsequent silence.
    Until Reardon lost his composure.
    I’d named the fool thing Boners and Infidelity because that’s what we were going to be about.
    First he sighed, slumping closer to the papers.
    Then he chuckled, possibly over Interests, which included: Gay boys and sex toys .
    When he leaned back in his chair and let out a deep laugh, I hoped he’d gotten to Goals: Make nice with the pretty man and line my bank account in the process of