Jackson restlessly shuffled his feet.
She shifted baby Rex against her body and then her eyes opened wider, her whole face brightening at the sight of what he held in his hands.
She sniffed delicately. “Coffee? Is that coffee?” Her eyes blinked once slowly, as if she was coming awake. She lifted her gaze to him. “I’ll pay you whatever you ask for one of those cups.”
What if he asked for a taste of her mouth? It sat there on her face, right below those morning-sky eyes and that perfect nose, bare and ripe for kissing. Tempting him. He shuffled his feet again.
“You’re welcome to come in,” she said. “As long as you bring that coffee with you.”
He followed her inside, kicking closed the front door with his foot. Then, as if she’d just expended her final energy reserves, Phoebe slipped bonelessly to the love seat in her living area. She flung out one arm, exposing the blue veins at the crook of her elbow. “I’m way too tired to drink it. Intravenously, please.”
He half smiled at her little joke, thinking he’d much rather put his mouth on that translucent, innocent skin. She would taste like she smelled, flowery and soft.
“Jackson?”
He approached her slowly, then sat beside her to set the cups on the small table in front of her. “Sugar? Cream? How do you take it?”
Her head moved from side to side against the cushions, spreading her hair against them. “I can’t remember. Black will be fine.”
He busied himself making an opening in the plastic top. “The night was that bad?”
Her eyes were closed. “Rex wasn’t happy unless I was jiggling him and walking. At one point I tried sitting on the couch and moving my feet, but he’s way too smart for that, my little guy is.”
My little guy, she’d said. Didn’t she know how dangerous it was to think that way? “Here.” Jackson nudged her free hand with the coffee cup. “Is Rex sick or something?”
She sat up a bit to take a sip of the coffee, carefully keeping the hot brew away from the baby. Her happy sigh at the first taste made the whole damn trip worthwhile. She took another sip, then looked over at him.
“Not sick, according to Melinda. Do you know that she’s a n—” At his quick nod, she continued. “I called and asked her to check on him, and he didn’t show signs of anything but indigestion. She suggested a change in his formula. We think he might be a lot happier from now on.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.” He reached over and ran a finger down the sleeping baby’s back.
Phoebe shivered, and he saw goose bumps rise on the bare skin of the arm that clasped the baby.
He frowned. “You’re cold? Do you want a robe?”
There was a little flush on her cheeks, from the coffee maybe. She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?” Sleepy and pink-cheeked, she looked vulnerable. Tempting.
Her gaze flicked toward him, flicked away. “Fine as I can be under the circumstances.” Then her body curved awkwardly as she went for another sip of the coffee without disturbing Rex.
Jackson frowned again. “Do you want me to put him down? He’s asleep.”
The decision looked like it was too much for her. He took the cup out of her hand and then slipped the baby from her. His knuckles brushed against the warmth of her nightgown-covered skin, but he gritted his teeth and ignored the sensation as he walked the baby to the small crib set in the corner of the room.
Rex settled down without a whimper, which was instead the noise Jackson wanted to make when he turned around and looked at Phoebe again. Still flopped on the couch, with Rex gone from her chest, Phoebe exposed to him more than she could possibly realize.
Her short gown came to just above her knees, revealing both bare feet, curving calves, the beginnings of her thighs. The nightgown was thin white cotton, and he could see just the hint of panties beneath it. He quickly jerked his gaze upward—then wished he hadn’t.
Where Rex had been snoozing, the gown was plastered to her skin. And with Rex gone, Jackson could clearly see the outline of her lush breasts and the dark pink of her nipples. He swallowed.
Thankfully, Phoebe’s eyes were closed and as he watched, she blindly felt around in front of her, muttering something about coffee. He sprang forward to place her cup in her hand.
Her eyes slitted open. “My hero,” she said.
She’d called him that before, he remembered, gritting his teeth. “Is going to his own apartment right this minute.”
Two little lines appeared between her arching brown brows. “Why?”
He hesitated, trying to decide how much to say.
Her eyes opened and her unguarded gaze ran over him, slowly and sleepily. He let himself look her over, too. All those slender limbs and smooth, smooth skin. He groaned.
“What?” she said, obviously too sleepy to be aware of what she wasn’t hiding.
He shook his head. “I need to get you a robe.” He strode toward her bedroom door without even waiting for her acquiescence or direction.
And groaned again. Her scent permeated her bedroom, too, that flowery, creamy smell that sent signals to his body he had no right listening to. Her bed was just steps away, a big brass one with rumpled white linens and five—five!—overstuffed pillows.
Without even closing his eyes he could imagine her hands gripping the brass rails, imagine himself shoving one of those fat pillows beneath her hips….
“Damn!” he muttered, whirling around, whirling away from the scene in his own imagination. There. On a hook behind the door he saw a silky, flowered kimono. Grabbing it, he took a step toward her living room.
To halt once more at the sight of Phoebe.
She’d abandoned the coffee and stretched out as best she could on the small love seat. Her hair was spread wantonly against the cushions and one foot had slipped completely off, spreading her legs. The nightgown’s round neckline had slipped too, revealing the pale rise of one breast.
She was fast asleep, with each breath the gown slipping more and threatening to completely expose her.
Jackson couldn’t breathe. He quickly choked in a breath, but air didn’t help.
He still couldn’t move.
And that was how their nosy and moralistic landlady found them as she pushed through the front door that Jackson apparently hadn’t completely shut on his way in.
Phoebe in what appeared to be sensual abandon. Jackson coming out of her bedroom, Phoebe’s lingerie in his hands.
A shriek jerked Phoebe from sleep.
She struggled to sit up, blinking quickly, her heart pounding. “Wha—”
“I never!” said Mrs. Bee, her tiny nose quivering in what was obviously outrage.
Phoebe blinked again. “Never what?”
A man cleared his throat.
Phoebe’s head whipped around. Jackson. That’s right, he’d brought coffee.
She appreciated the sight of him all over again—delicious and lord-of-the-manor handsome, his shirt partway undone. Heat kindled, melting her insides.
He closed his eyes. “Phoebe, that’s not helping.”
Right. Right. But not helping how? She looked back at Mrs.