His Mother's Wedding. Judy Duarte

her lips and fiddle with her silverware. He made her nervous, in a sexual way—and he’d lay his last dollar on it.

      In spite of having no interest in dating someone like Molly, something tugged at him—chemistry, lust or whatever she wanted to call it.

      He didn’t want to be conceited, but most women found him attractive. Very attractive.

      And Molly didn’t?

      For a moment doubt niggled at his ego.

      “So,” she said, skipping right over his bruised pride. “Assuming you’re going to help me find my sister, how long do you think it will take?”

      It took him a moment to recover, to jump right back into the conversation they’d been having before his mom called, to ignore the fact Molly might not find him attractive.

      Hell, he knew they were total opposites and a breakup ready to happen. But what did that have to do with sex?

      Or attraction.

      She leaned forward, her breasts straining against the knit fabric of her dress. “You do think we’ll find her, don’t you?”

      Who? Her sister. “Yeah, probably. I’ll assign the initial footwork to Cowboy, one of my new associates. He’s already in the Los Angeles area working on another case, so he might be able to uncover something.”

      “Cowboy?” she asked.

      God, she had pretty eyes. He’d never seen a pair that green before, that expressive.

      “Is that his name?” she asked again. “Cowboy?”

      “No, it’s just a nickname. He’s from Texas and has one of those slow Southern drawls. But he’s a damn good P.I. and he’ll turn up something.”

      The waiter stopped by to take their dinner order. Molly chose the angel-hair pasta, Rico asked for the prime rib.

      “Thank you for helping me.” She cast him a smile that made his stomach wobble and his chest thump.

      They didn’t talk much after that, just watched the sun set over the lake, listened to the sounds of a baby grand piano playing a romantic concerto in the lounge.

      It was hard to ignore the ambience.

      Or the beautiful woman seated across from him.

      A couple of times, when she looked out the window, he stole a glance at her, studied the way the white-gold strands in her hair glistened in the candlelight.

      She turned, caught him staring, and their gazes locked. Something passed between them—that chemistry she said was lacking, he suspected.

      He sensed she’d been lying, so why had she said it?

      When their meals were served, they each dug into their plates, savoring the taste, the silence—and ignoring the sexual attraction that hovered over the table like a purple elephant with green hummingbird wings.

      After they finished eating, the waiter came by to ask if they wanted to see the dessert tray. “The tiramisu is a specialty of the house,” he said.

      Rico declined for them both, telling Molly, “My mom wants us to save room for coffee and brownies at her house.”

      “All right.”

      When the bill arrived, Molly tried to pay, but Rico refused to even consider it—and not because he was too macho to let a woman treat.

      It hadn’t started out as a date, but it had kind of evolved into something like that. And even though he’d never take her out again, he wanted to wrap the evening up right.

      No need for her to think of him as a jerk. Or as some guy who didn’t know how to treat a lady.

      He did.

      As they walked out of Antonio’s, Molly gasped and grabbed his forearm, sending a surge of heat through his bloodstream. “I left my purse inside.”

      Apparently the woman he suspected would forget where she parked her car at the mall couldn’t keep track of her personal belongings either.

      He tossed her a smile. “Wait here. I’ll get it for you.”

      “All right. Thanks.”

      He returned to their table and found her purse hanging by the shoulder strap on the back of her chair, so he picked it up and carried it back outside.

      She stood near a rosebush, gazing at a new moon.

      The black fabric of her dress hugged her body in a perfect, sexy fit. He was again struck by that damned “no chemistry” comment she’d made earlier, and his ego took another stumble. In spite of his better judgment, the rebel in him flared to life.

      “Hey,” he said as he sauntered toward her, the purse dangling from his hand.

      She turned and smiled. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.” He closed the distance between them until they were face-to-face. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

      Her eyes grew wide. “You do? Why?”

      “I don’t want you lying to my mom.”

      “What are you talking about?” Her furrowed brow and the indignant tone of her voice taunted him, tempted him. “I would never lie to her.”

      He slipped his hand around to the back of her neck, under the silky curtain of her hair. His thumb caressed the softness along her jaw.

      Her eyes widened, yet she didn’t flinch, didn’t push him away. “What are you doing?”

      He brushed his lips across hers once, twice.

      She sucked in her breath but didn’t move. Didn’t speak, didn’t stop him. Instead she placed a tentative hand on his chest, then slowly gripped the lapel of his jacket—to steady herself, no doubt. Or maybe to draw him closer?

      Her lips parted, and he boldly swept his tongue inside, tasting, seeking.

      He’d only meant to tease her, to taunt her as she’d been doing to him. But damn. She turned toward him, sliding her arms around his neck, heating up the kiss to a blood-pounding, head-spinning level.

      When a car turned in to the parking lot, flashing its headlights at them, Molly finally came to her senses and pulled away. “What in the world was that all about?”

      “You’re not my type either,” he told her. “So tell my mother that I’m rude or a cynical jerk. Tell her I’m a die-hard bachelor who never wants to settle down with one woman. That I’m stubborn and cocky and too damn set in my ways.”

      She merely stared at him, her lips swollen, a red flush on her cheeks and neck.

      “But don’t tell her there’s no chemistry between us,” he added, flashing her a rebel grin.

      “Because that, sweet Molly, would a be bold-faced lie.”