You Sexy Thing!. Tori Carrington

legs. Ragged breathing. Soft, needy cries. Slick, sweat-covered skin. A pulse-throbbing erection pressed against soft flesh, preparing to enter.

      Gracie’s breath caught as she swallowed against the saliva gathering at the back of her throat. She shakily patted her hair. Okay, the prospect of sleeping with Dylan clearly wasn’t offensive. She gave a feeble laugh. Who was she kidding? She was practically wetting herself just thinking about it.

      Trying to get a grip on herself, she considered that sleeping with Dr. Dylan could have some drawbacks. After all, he wasn’t a nameless, handsome face picked out at random in a neutral gaming zone.

      She put back the cucumber she held and picked up one of the larger ones.

      She would get the once-in-a-lifetime chance to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dr. Dylan Fairbanks and his ancient, out-of-whack philosophies were way off base.

      She added the cucumber to her basket, and couldn’t help noticing the suddenly rubbery condition of her knees, and the anticipatory searing heat that rushed through her bloodstream.

      Yes. Hunting Dr. Dylan was exactly what she needed to do…

      DYLAN OPENED THE DOOR to the small grocer’s, grimacing at the sound of the cowbell announcing his arrival. Right now he just wanted to blend in with the background. Carve out a little privacy so he could start thinking straight again. Not that the hokey cowbell prevented that. Rather the bright yellow V-necked sweater and olive-green cargo pants he had on pretty much ruled out blending in with the background.

      He tugged at the too-snug shirt material, telling himself for the fifth time since leaving the hotel that he should have left his suit on. But after the soaking it had taken in New York, then the wrinkling on the plane, he wasn’t sure it was salvageable, much less wearable. The morning’s mishaps had slid into a day full of disasters—the latest debacle being the loss of his luggage—and he had little choice but to allow Tanja to go shopping for him. Why didn’t it surprise him that the PR rep had completely ignored his express instructions to find something suitable, something he would buy for himself and instead bought him a temporary wardrobe more suited for a teenager than a responsible adult?

      He felt like a…break-dancer.

      He cringed. Boy, he’d just dated himself there, hadn’t he? In all honesty, he had no idea what a kid on the cutting edge of fashion was called nowadays. And he’d had no idea what to do when Tanja had given him a tart little wave and disappeared on him…again.

      At least one thing was going in his favor. The instant he’d discovered the kitchen in his hotel room, he found the perfect opportunity to temporarily place his budget and himself on a diet. Though it had been years since he’d had to worry about money, and weight had never been a problem, waste was something he’d never been very good at. A habit that stemmed directly from his parents.

      Finally freeing a pint-size cart from the one it was attached to, he turned the corner and promptly bumped into an older gentleman. He was rerouting a path around him when he realized the guy was eyeing the prophylactics section. He did a double take, not wanting to see the man who was old enough to be his grandfather read the back of a package that touted the words “colored,” “ribbed.”

      “Sorry,” Dylan said under his breath, and headed down the next aisle.

      He reminded himself that his foul mood wasn’t the result of what he’d just seen—although it hadn’t helped any. His foul mood had gotten worse when he’d taken his seat on the plane to Chicago and found himself sitting across the aisle and one row back from one Miss Hottie. A woman who not only hadn’t seemed to notice him, but kept crossing her long, long legs in a way that had been…well, downright distracting. He hadn’t checked, but he was certain he had a bruise from where the businessman sitting next to him kept elbowing him in order to get a better look.

      He checked the price for a box of shredded wheat, frowned, then put the box back. He pushed the crippled cart down the aisle, idly wondering what the sex doctor had on tap for tonight. And who those plans included.

      He slowed in front of the frozen food section. Only two freezers, but the essentials for the single professional on the move were all there. And a good deal more affordable than the box of cereal he’d just placed back on the shelf. Not that he didn’t have money. But given the way he was raised…well, he wanted to be frugal. On occasion that meant forgoing his favorite cereal for a cheap TV dinner.

      He reached in and grabbed the brand on sale and tossed it into his cart, telling himself he’d only succumb to buying it if nothing else popped out at him.

      He resumed warring with the uncooperative cart. It didn’t help matters that every time he moved, the metal thingies on the side pockets of the unfamiliar pants clinked. He glanced down, wondering how much damage he would do if he just ripped them off. Who wanted to make so much noise? A young woman with a small boy watched him as he passed. He managed a polite smile. Just barely. He wished something else would hurry up and grab his attention before he gave up and went back to the hotel to nuke the frozen dinner.

      He had turned the corner to the produce section when something grabbed his attention all right. More accurately, someone.

      He tried to pull the cart to a halt, only to have the front wheels fight him and end up crashing against a display for canned beans. Dylan hardly noticed. Despite the fact that Grace Mattias had her back turned to him, there was no mistaking all that red hair. Did the woman always dress like that when going to the market? While he couldn’t make out much of her legs, he’d recognize those shoes anywhere. And her white raincoat was cinched tightly at the waist, emphasizing her trim figure.

      He glanced around, trying to determine if she was alone. Judging by the basket she carried, and the absence of any hovering, panting male, he surmised she probably was.

      Though why he should care, he didn’t want to begin to explore. Lord knows, he was the last man who wanted to be hovering or panting over a woman like Gracie.

      Still, he found himself watching her as she picked up a pear, running her fingertips along the odd-shaped fruit, then lifting it to her nose. He swallowed hard at the thorough, thoughtful inspection, then opened his mouth, as if about to take a bite of the fruit she held himself. He caught himself and snapped his teeth together. She put the pear back on the display, then began to turn. Dylan quickly pretended interest in the items next to him. Peaches. Figured.

      There was no reason to think Grace would recognize him. Hell, he didn’t even recognize him. He couldn’t have looked more different from this morning had he tried. Which, of course, he hadn’t. But maybe Tanja’s bad taste had its advantages. The last thing he wanted was to engage in conversation with Gracie Mattias so soon. It was bad enough he’d have to appear with her tomorrow after what she’d said to him before leaving the elevator in New York. To have her see him here, alone…well, he could only imagine what she’d have to say about that.

      “Why, if it isn’t the world’s most prominent sex expert.”

      Dylan nearly crushed the overripe peach in his hand at the sound of Gracie’s voice. He fought the desire to play it off, glance around as if to question who she was talking to. But the way she’d addressed him left no doubt to whom she was speaking. And pretending otherwise would only make him look…more desperate.

      He turned his head, managing surprise. Which wasn’t difficult because a scene from an Al Pacino movie suddenly sprang to mind. Pacino had met the heroine-slash-suspected-serial-killer at a small market just like this one. She’d also been wearing a raincoat…and had nothing on underneath it.

      Something warm and wet dripped between his fingers. He glanced down to find he’d pulverized the peach.

      To his chagrin, Grace’s smile widened. “Don’t tell me. You have a kitchen, too.”

      “Kitchen?” he repeated dumbly, reaching for a handkerchief that wasn’t there. What good were so many pockets if they didn’t hold anything?

      She handed him a paper towel she’d torn from an overhead holder. “Yes. My hotel room