Terms of Surrender. Leslie Kelly

quickly explaining her thinking on the whole nylons-smoothing-things-out theory.

      Which, frankly, was just bullshit. Men definitely didn’t need panty lines acting as little arrows to guide the eye to the perfect female posterior. Maybe other chicks would notice and care. If he did see them, a guy wouldn’t be thinking about anything except pulling those elastic panty lines down. Preferably with his teeth.

      “I’m afraid ass-appreciation is just part of our genetic code,” he admitted. “Like flicking other naked guys with towels in the locker room, and our inability to ask for directions when we’re lost.”

      “Yeah, what’s with that?”

      He shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”

      “And one I’m not sure I want to solve.”

      “Some things you’re better off not knowing.”

      “Like men shouldn’t really want to understand why women go to the bathroom together?”

      He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It’s all prearranged, right? So you can compare notes on the guys you’re with, and escape together out the window if they suck, right?”

      “Busted.”

      Nodding, he said, “So I guess that means you’re in trouble today, since you’re flying without a wingman when we go out for lunch.”

      She smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming in anticipation. “You mean on your boat?”

      Growing still, Danny eyed her steadily, liking the idea, but also knowing she’d hesitated earlier because she’d been unsure. “We don’t have to.”

      She glanced outside at the beautiful late afternoon sky. “I’d love to.” Then she looked down at herself and sighed. “But unfortunately, I’m not exactly dressed for it. My only spare clothes are, well, you know…”

      Yeah. He knew. Her spare clothes were in her glove compartment and just the thought of her in nothing but them was enough to send an extra pint of blood toward his cock. Of course, knowing she was currently without them was doing a damn fine job of that already.

      “How about this,” he said, “it’s only three-thirty, hours until sunset. You go to the nearest store and grab a cheap pair of jeans, I’ll go take a shower. We can meet again at that Irish pub on West Street in exactly forty-five minutes. We’ll get to know each other. Then, if you’d like, we’ll go to the marina and take the boat out for a little while.”

      She nibbled her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’re sure? I mean, you didn’t rescind your invitation earlier because you’d changed your mind and don’t want to, right? Did I back you into a corner on this?”

      He held his arms up, gesturing to the wide-open space of the garage bay that surrounded them. “No corners. No arm-twisting.” Then, stepping closer—close enough that his boot-covered feet nearly touched the pointy tips of her sexy shoes, hiding what were rumored to be magnificent feet, he added, “Let’s just go for it and see what happens, okay?”

      “There’s that it again,” she mumbled.

      “What?”

      Shaking her head, she stared up at him, those big blue eyes softening. Her lips parted and she drew a slow, audible breath over them, as if she realized he was talking about going for a lot more than lunch.

      He didn’t mean sex. At least, not right away. What he wanted to go for was a chance. Just an opportunity.

      They’d clicked on sight. Now he wanted to know if that click could ignite something even more than a spark of sexual attraction.

      A kiss would be a good start. One slow, deep, wet kiss, just to see what happened.

      He wanted that—at least that—before this day was out. And if the kiss was as good as he suspected it could be, well, then they’d just have to see what happened.

      “Okay,” she finally said. “I think we’ve got a date.”

      3

      Saturday, 5/7/10, 03:45 p.m.

       www.mad-mari.com/2011/05/07/quickone

       Comment #21

      Mari here, checking in again. Yay for the iPhone!

      Glad you’re chatting w/out me. Yeah, I agree with all of you that the businessman from last Sat was not only a scum-bucket for committing bigamy, but was also trés stupid to let somebody videotape his crime. And Jan from Chicago—lol on, “Would rather see the video of wife #1 beating the crap out of him when she found out.” You & me both, sister!

      Can’t stay longer; there’ve been some interesting developments today. Real quick, tho, let me just say, the interviews went great. I think I might actually get the gig.

      And after the interview, something else happened. Something…surprising. Remember that sea of testosterone I said I was diving into? Well, I think I have come face-to-face with the great white. Let’s hope he doesn’t eat me up.;-)

      Bye!

      MARI HAD NO TROUBLE FINDING the small, downtown pub, which Danny said had an outside patio on which they could enjoy the warmth of the afternoon. And true to his word, he showed up exactly forty-five minutes later, his golden-brown hair still damp from his shower and his face clean-shaven. Marissa saw him arrive, and had to stand in the restaurant vestibule, watching him out the front window for a few moments. Because, oh, God, was he nice to look at.

      She’d known he was good-looking, had recognized that immediately. But he cleaned up utterly gorgeous. Trafficstoppingly, heart-poundingly, panty-dampeningly—and she was wearing panties now—gorgeous.

      Then there was the body. Wow.

      That deserved a repeat: Wow.

      Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, without the loose-fitting work clothes covering him up from neck to ankle, his entire rock-hard form was on perfect masculine display. And mercy, could the man do things for some Levi’s and oh, did his shoulders ever stretch out endlessly under that gray cotton.

      Aside from the broad shoulders, he was also lean-waisted, slim-hipped, long-legged. Built like he’d been molded out of clay by an artist trying to depict the perfect male form.

      Why in the name of God is he going out with you?

      She wasn’t being overly modest or highly critical of her own appeal. In fact, Marissa knew she was somewhat attractive.

      Not beautiful, by any means. Not with her funky ears and her too-thin hair—which looked particularly lank now that she’d taken it out of that bun and left it hanging loose. Then there was the hint of a belly she could never totally flatten, no matter how many death-by-sit-up sessions she endured at the gym.

      She’d cop to nice-looking, maybe a little sexy—she did have good legs and perky boobs that didn’t even need a Wonderbra—but she wasn’t drop-dead stunning. She might turn a few heads but no way would she ever cause gawking guys to step into traffic or obsessed secret admirers to send sky-banners into the air proclaiming her hotness.

      So why on earth would this hunky guy want to be with her? Unless, of course, he’d been telling the truth—that he just wanted to get to know the girl who’d ditched her underwear.

      That spoke of someone with a sense of humor. Someone who was interested in more than just physical appearance, and actually cared about personality. Someone she could like. A lot.

      But oh, did she ever hope there was some lust there, too.

      “Hi, see you found it,” he said as he entered the Irish restaurant he’d sent her to, a cute place that was more trendy than publike. He smelled clean and fresh and spicy, his subtle aftershave making her think of all good things male. “And I see you found something else to wear?”

      She glanced down at her new clothes. In popular Annapolis,