A Weaver Baby. Allison Leigh

sweet.

      She had another peppermint tucked in her breast pocket and wondered if it could melt because of the heat steaming through her. “With about a gazillion percent humidity.”

      He tipped the champagne bottle over the flute and shimmering, golden liquid bubbled forth. Then he held the glass toward her. “Maybe this will help you cool off.”

      She couldn’t help laughing. “I think I’ve already had too much of that.” The first bottle of bubbly had been opened at the track in New York. And it had been followed by several more on the flight in his personal jet that made the trips to New York and Florida and California easier on the horses.

      “Yeah, but you didn’t have Cristal,” Jake drawled. “Live it up, J.D. It’s just one night.”

      She knew she should decline. But she still closed her fingers around the smooth, delicate crystal, brushing against his warm fingers as she did so.

      Her heart skittered around. She couldn’t manage to look away from his face. “I’m not exactly a champagne kind of girl.” And not at all his kind of girl.

      “What kind of girl are you?”

      The kind who was getting out of her depth fast, and should be old enough to know better. Her fingers tightened around the glass. “Strong coffee when it’s cold and a cold beer when it’s not.”

      A faint smile hovered around his lips. “Not that I’m knocking either one, but this is a special occasion. Latitude’s won his first race. One of many, if all goes well.” He tucked his finger beneath the base of the glass and urged it upward. “Live it up. You might like it.”

      There were a lot of things she was afraid she would like, more than was good for her.

      Champagne was at the bottom of that list.

      Jake Forrest was at the top.

      All of which did not explain why she still lifted the glass to her lips and inhaled the crisp aroma as she slowly took a sip. And once she did, she couldn’t help the humming sigh of appreciation that escaped.

      The fine web of crow’s-feet that arrowed out from his eyes crinkled even more appealingly. “I knew you’d like it.”

      How could she not? It was like swallowing moonbeams.

      Then he lifted the flute out of her fingers and put his lips right where hers had been.

      He might as well have touched her with a live wire. But judging by the flare of his pupils as his gaze stayed locked on hers, he was perfectly aware of that fact.

      She swallowed, hard, and stepped away from the rail again. Some temptations were wiser left untouched. Jake might be divorced, but that didn’t mean he was available.

      So, she swept her hands down her jeans to hide the fact that they were shaking and kept her shoulders square. “It’s getting late. I’d better—”

      “Are you afraid of me, J.D.?”

      Her jaw loosened a little. Fear would be easier to deal with. “Of course not.”

      “Then why are you ready to bolt?”

      She opened her mouth to protest that, but how could she? She was ready to bolt.

      And yet, when he lifted the crystal glass and grazed the cool rim ever so faintly against her lower lip, she seemed frozen in place.

      His voice dropped another notch. “What are you nervous about?”

      If her face got any hotter, her blood was going to steam right out of her ears. “Nothing.” She snatched the glass from him and inelegantly chugged the remainder, then pushed the glass back at him. When he didn’t take it, she reached past his broad shoulder and balanced it on the corner post of Latitude’s stall. “Good night, Mr. Forrest. You should go play with your debutantes.” She turned to go.

      His hand on her shoulder stopped her dead in her tracks. “I’m not interested in any debutantes.”

      She sent up a breathless prayer for her fleeing common sense to get back where it belonged. But the light touch of his fingers on her shoulder didn’t move away, nor did her common sense trot on back to the barn. “Mr. Forrest—”

      “Most of the crew calls me Jake.” His fingers finally moved, sliding down her shoulder, grazing over her bare elbow beneath the short-sleeved shirt, only coming to a stop when they reached her wrist. He pressed his thumb against her frantic pulse. “But not you, not even after all these years. Why is that?”

      “I like to keep things professional.” Unfortunately, her low, husky voice sounded anything but.

      “You’re the epitome of professionalism.”

      She couldn’t help it. She looked up at him through her lashes. “Pardon me, but I don’t feel that way just now.”

      His coffee-brown eyes would have looked sleepy if not for the heat blazing from them. “Your job is secure no matter what. Miguel is in charge of the stable crew.”

      “And you’re in charge of Miguel.”

      “Miguel is in charge of Miguel,” he corrected wryly. He upended the rest of the champagne into the flute and lifted the glass again. “But if you insist on going, take this with you, at least. You, more than anyone, has earned some very fine champagne today.”

      “Latitude did all the work.”

      “Latitude ran for you. Miguel wanted me to sell him until you started handling him.”

      Jake wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. She took the glass. Felt her head swim as she sipped again at moonbeams.

      And somehow she found the toes of her scuffed boots boldly brushing the toes of Jake’s highly polished ones. She wasn’t even sure if his arm came around her waist first, or if it was her hand pressing against the solid warmth of his chest. But the crystal flute was suddenly caught between them, the glittering liquid spilling as their mouths found one another.

      Champagne moonbeams were no comparison at all when it came to the taste of Jake Forrest.

      It made her weak. Deliciously weak.

      And there was no earthly way she could convince herself that one kiss would be enough.

      Not when his splayed fingers were hard and hot against her spine through the thin knit of her shirt. Not when his other hand slid along her shoulder, cupped her cheek, fingers threading through her hair, urging her head back. Not when she felt the murmur of her name in his low, deep voice whispering along her neck before he pressed his lips against the pulse at the base of her throat.

      Her mind reeled, trying to find reason. Or justification. Jake was a worldly man. He wouldn’t expect anything later that she wasn’t capable of giving.

      Her fingers flexed against him, encountering champagne-damp silk and cool crystal. Then the glass fell, landing with a soft shatter when Jake lifted her off her feet until her mouth was level with his again. “Do you still want to run?”

      She could feel his heart thudding hard against her. Her fingers clutched his broad shoulders. Their faces were so close, she could have counted every one of the dark, spiky eyelashes that surrounded his gleaming gaze. “Do you want me to run?”

      He pressed her against the paneled wall next to Latitude’s stall and ran his hands along her thighs, drawing them up, alongside his hips. “What do you think?”

      Every unyielding inch of him from shoulder on south pressed into her and she had to choke back a moan. “Mr. Forr—”

      His mouth cut her off. “Jake,” he said against her.

      Her hands slid behind his neck. His thick hair was cool between her fingers. “Jake,” she obliged breathlessly. She’d have said anything as long as he didn’t take away the intense pleasure of his kiss. “Jake,” she said again