Page 98 of Hot & Heavy

"You two are acting dingy. What's up?"

"Nothing," they both said at the same time.

"Maybe we'd better go," Cage said.

"Yeah," Pretty Boy agreed dolefully.

Ian noticed that they practically dragged their feet as they picked up their weapons and put them in special carry-alls that disguised their contents from any tangos watching the house. Finally, after dawdling for five minutes more, they left.

Ian took his beer and briefcase into the living room. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV, channel surfed till he found a ball game, then spread his papers out on the coffee table.

Where's Maddie? he thought as another ten minutes went by, and there was no noise coming from down the hall.

Maybe she's taking a nap. Yeah, that must be it.

He worked for another few minutes, then threw his pen down in disgust. J am not thinking about her on the bed. And I am definitely not thinking about a little Afternoon Delight.

He took a long swallow from the long neck, put his hands behind his neck, leaned back and contemplated the fireplace. She has a hell of a nerve cutting me off, demanding my help in exchange for sex. Like she's that special. Chicks are a dime a dozen. I could go down to the Wet and Wild, even now in the middle of the day, and chances are I could pick up a hot number. A one-nighter, that's what I need. Why that idea had no appeal, he couldn't say. Actually, he could say. He'd been sick of one-nighters long before Maddie came on the scene. Now that she had come, he felt sick to his stomach even considering such a thing.

Sam jumped up on the couch and sat next to him. He could swear the cat looked sad. Misery loves company, I guess. Ian closed his eyes and sighed. My life sucks.

He heard Maddie coming down the hall, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. His eyes flew open.

Clicking? High heels click. Not sandals or sneakers, which is all she has. Uh-oh.

Sitting up straighter, he watched as Maddie stepped onto the living room carpet. He was speechless.

That was all. Utterly, friggin', out-of-this-world speechless.

She wore the tightest pair of black jeans ever plastered on to a woman's body. She must have lain down on the floor to get them on. Even then, she had to have had help. Cage and Pretty Boy! I'll kill them.

On her feet were red, high-heeled, toeless shoes… stilettos, he thought they were called. Her toenails had been painted red to match. Where the hell did she get those shoes, and who painted her toenails?

Cage and Pretty Boy! I'll kill them.

Up top— be still my heart—she wore a black leather bustier that left her arms, shoulders and half her chest bare, right down to a pair of uplifted breasts that just might pop the laces. If those two jerks helped or watched her put this on, I'll definitely kill them.

Even her face and hair were different. Her hair was loose and mussed. In fact, it looked as if someone had curled the long strands. Where in God's name did those two men learn how to do that to a woman's hair?

She wore red lipstick, too. And makeup, he was pretty sure. At least there was dark stuff on her eyelashes.

All this passed through his mind as she paused in the doorway. She licked her lips nervously.

A Blue Steeler popped right up in his pants.

She walked over to the chair across from the sofa and attempted to sit down. He should have been laughing at how difficult it was for her to bend, but there was nothing funny when your erection was about to burst the zipper at your crotch.

Finally she perched on the edge, looked over at him and said, cool as you please, "What's up?" She must have learned that expression from her two bozo makeover artists.

In answer to her question, he looked down at his lap.

She had the grace to blush. Damn straight she should blush.

"What's up with you, Madonna?"

Her shoulders slumped. "You think I look like the mother of God? Pfff. Cage and Pretty Boy said…"

She let her words trail off as she realized she was revealing too much.