Warm Hearts by Barbara Delinsky

Author:Barbara Delinsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

2

“Oliver Ames.” She said it aloud, testing it on her tongue. It flowed without any effort at all. Just right for a model—or a playboy. “Is that your … professional name?”

His mouth twitched at one corner. “Yes.”

“And your real name,” she asked more softly. “What’s that? Or … is it off limits?” There were rules governing this sort of thing; unfortunately, she wasn’t well versed in them.

Oliver smiled openly, his lips mirroring the dance of humor in his eyes. Sitting forward now, he was fully attentive.… As rightly he should be, Leslie mused. Wasn’t he paid to be attentive? He was also paid to be attractive: bare chested, bare legged, large and vibrantly male—she found him disconcertingly so.

“No,” he allowed lightly, “it’s not off limits. As long as you don’t spread it around.”

“And who would I spread it to?” she snapped in response to the unsettling twist of her thoughts. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not too … comfortable with this situation. Not much of a chance of my running back to Manhattan shouting the name of the guy my brother bought for me.” She grimaced. “No woman wants to think she can’t find someone on her own.”

For an instant, when his dark brows knit, she feared that she’d offended him. Yet when he spoke, his voice held only curiosity.

“Can’t you?”

“I’m not looking.”

“And if you were? Surely there are men in New York who’d give their right arms for a Parish.”

Leslie’s lips grew taut, her expression grim. “If a man needed a Parish badly enough to sacrifice his right arm, I’d say he’s sold himself short. And yes, there are many men like that around. Funny how money can screw up priorities.” Closing her eyes, she slid lower on the pillows.

The creak of the rattan chair gave warning that Oliver Ames had moved. It wasn’t until the bed dipped by her side, though, that she felt alarm. Eyes flying open, she found him settled near her hip, his arms propped on either side of her, hemming her in.

“You sound bitter,” he observed. His voice was deep and kind and not at all taunting, as it might as have been, given the fact that it was a Parish who had dreamed up the very scheme that had brought him to St. Barts. “You’ve been hurt?”

She shrugged, unwilling to elaborate. For she couldn’t think of the past when the man before her dominated the present. What was it about him, she asked herself, as she stared into eyes the texture of warm chocolate, that made her want to forget that he was what he was? What was it that made her want to reach up and brush the hair from his brow, trace the firm line of his lips, scale the gentle swell of his shoulder? What was it that stirred senses on which she’d long since given up? What was it that affected her so, that even now, as she lay in bed with a stuffy head and clenched fists,

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