Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Not Quite Cold (Sneak Peek)

Chapter One

"So, I just realized this is our third date. Are you expecting anything special, Mr. Mayor?" Despite my teasing tone, the nerves in my stomach engage in an energetic rumba.

Beau's green-gold eyes sparkle as they slide from my face, over my throat, and linger on my carefully plotted cleavage before sweeping all the way to my sandals. Flames lick my body from head to toe by the time his gaze finds its way back to mine.

He raises an eyebrow. "I want to know how you're calculating these so-called dates. Because we've been alone together more than three times."

I tuck my legs underneath me, the chocolate leather of his den sofa doing its best to cool my overheated skin. His reply sends my mind back over all the time we've spent together, and how much has been eaten up dealing with my crazy in one form or another. A quick perusal of the past two months reveals only two actual dates, like I thought. And one of those is marginal at best.

Making out in order to assuage the pain of losing Gramps probably shouldn't count.

I'm surprised to find a smile on my lips at the memory of my grandfather, as opposed to a lump in my throat. It's a good thing, remembering his life and not his death, but almost two months later, the latter still aches.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I fake apologize with a sugary voice and wide eyes. "Should we count you getting shot as a date? Or us hanging out at the hospital after a crazy voodoo witch kicked my ass on the riverbank? I don't think so, Mr. Mayor. If you're not cooking or paying, it's not a date."

"Is that right?" He purses his lips. "I never took you for a traditional woman, Graciela Harper. You keep surprising me."

"I guess that's a good thing." It's hard to be sure. My life is a series of land mines and half-decomposed skeletons lurking in cluttered closets—and some of them aren't just in my head.

"I consider it a pleasing addition to the rest of the picture, yes," Beau murmurs, his voice husky.

Our eyes meet, and the heat swirls lower, pooling between my thighs. There's no doubt my desires are written in my gaze, probably something like, Dear Lord take my clothes off and show me what you've got because I'm about to leave a wet spot on your fine leather.

Hopefully my insecurities over not having had sex with anyone new in five years aren't lurking anywhere visible.

My past dissolves like smoke in a gust of wind, one strong and scented with aftershave and sweetness and man, as his hands close on my biceps and pull me onto his lap. Third date or fourth or first, I have wanted to taste Beauregard Drayton even while chanting the reasons I shouldn't.

He's hard under my thighs, shifting and throbbing, leaving no doubt that he's hungry for me too. I twist until I'm straddling him and bite back a groan at the feel of him against me. His hair runs thick and silky between my fingers, and I resist the urge to tug on it.

"So we're clear: Tonight counts as date number three," I murmur, my voice breathless and foreign in my ears.

"Well, I did pay for dinner at the Wreck, and we strolled along the river afterward. I'd say your reputation as a lady can remain intact."

"What if I don't want it to?"

Hunger darkens his eyes as they flick to my mouth. He licks his lips and I'm lost, tired of the talking and flirting and drama and ghosts and injuries and death that have kept us from exploring the flame that's been burning hotter and hotter for weeks.

I dive in, grabbing his lips with mine. His hands push my skirt up to my hips, then trail over my bare thighs until I sigh and open my mouth. Our tongues connect and spark, sizzling warmth drips down my throat and into my belly like liquid gold. Beau tips his head back, as though he's drinking me in as fast as I'm offering. His fingertips brush my legs as his tongue strokes mine, leaving me desperate for him to touch other parts of me—every part of me—the same way. We need to get out of these damned clothes.