Renegade Player Read Free Page A

swim, she made herself a breakfast of shrimp on whole-wheat bread washed down with a mixture of orange juice and Perrier— hardly orthodox, but nourishing, for all that—and then she climbed into a pair of brief cutoff jeans that had lost all but the two bottom buttons on the fly, leaving her stomach bare to the bikini line. She left on her halter, loosening the neck strings, which were beginning to chafe, and wandered out onto her roofless porch.
    Here she had all the sunny privacy she could ever want, plus an almost constant breeze that sometimes faltered at ground level, and she intended to sleep in the sun until lunch, take another dip, cook herself something exotic and then, if she felt like it, sleep until dinnertime. Drowsily, she half-decided to hunt up Richy later and see if he was game to go out to a new Greek restaurant she had seen advertised.

    The first awareness that she was not alone came gradually, just a vague, uneasy feeling that the sun-induced redness behind her eyelids had changed from reddish to a dark gray-brown. She felt the cold prickle along her spine that told her someone was staring at her and she was suddenly afraid to open her eyes.
    In spite of all she could do, her unnatural rigidity must have revealed her alarm, for he spoke. A deep, chocolate-smooth voice with a hint of grit told her not to be alarmed, and she opened her eyes and gazed up what seemed an inordinate length of extremely masculine body to encounter a dark, speculative gaze. He openly scrutinized her half-naked body, making her burningly aware of her thousand or so freckles.
    “I’m your new neighbor,” the man informed her in a tone meant to reassure, “come begging.” He extended a plastic measuring cup and Willy allowed a small, nervous laugh to escape her. “Sugar?” she asked, feeling some of the tension drain away, to leave her curiously limp.
    “Actually, dry sherry, if you have any,” he replied apologetically, and at her look of surprise, he elaborated, “I’m trying out a new seafood recipe—scallops and shrimp in a sour-cream, cheddar and sherry mixture—and I discovered I’m fresh out of sherry. My ... the man who packed for me must have considered all opened bottles perks of the job.”
    Her interest was thoroughly piqued, and not only because of the recipe. Who would have thought such a strikingly masculine-looking man would be interested in cooking? She led the way to the kitchen, hastily tying her straps as she went. She was only too conscious of the fact that her hair, which she had braided earlier to get it out of the way, showed an untidy tendency to escape its confinement and she tugged surreptitiously at her gaping jeans.
    Reaching her topmost cabinet, she shuffled her few bottles until she emerged triumphant, waving a dark bottle with a Spanish label. She handed it over and he studied the label, looking up at her with what she thought was a surprised look of respect.
    “I was afraid you wouldn’t have anything except créme,” he admitted with a crooked smile that revealed one slightly chipped tooth among a lineup of strong, straight white ones. He held up the measuring cup and pulled the cork, inhaling appreciatively.
    “Take the whole bottle,” she offered generously, still perched on the stool she had knelt on to reach the cabinet. Her face was flushed from her nap in the sun and there was a new crop of freckles emerging, none of which, had she but known it, marred her unorthodox appeal one whit as she coiled herself carelessly into a graceful twist. “I know I can never depend on a recipe for the right amount of seasoning. Only taste will tell.” She smiled openly. “What do you do with it?”
    “Do with it?” the man repeated with a lift of heavy black brows.
    “Bake it? Broil it? Chill it?”
    “Oh.” He grinned. His face relaxed some of the oddly watchful austerity to give her the first hint of what a devastating effect he might have on an unsuspecting female under