Heart of Dixie - Tami Hoag (1) Read Online Free PDF

your way to help me."

    His attention focused on the curve of her mouth, and the jolt of attraction that hit him was as strong as anything he'd ever felt. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her curvy body and plant a kiss on her little bow of a mouth. The way she was looking up at him made him feel overwhelmingly male and strong, yet tender. She drew out the strongest emotions in him with just a look or a word. It was amazing.

    "I don't want you to think I'm just another crass city dweller," he mumbled, staring at her lips. "I really do appreciate the effort. You're a good sport."

    "Oh," Dixie said flatly, her foolish hopes deflating like a pricked balloon. Her cheeks colored with embarrassment as she stepped back from him. Of course he wasn't going to kiss her. She had grease on her nose and smelled like a diesel engine. It was a wonder he'd even touched her. Not that she'd wanted him to touch her, the blasted, meticulous perfectionist.

    Good sport. Criminy. That was almost as flattering as being described to a blind date as having a nice personality.

    She ground her teeth and mentally argued with herself. What did she want? She couldn't have her cake and eat it, too. She didn't want the interest of a perfectionist, no matter how handsome he was, so she should be relieved that he'd called her a good sport, shouldn't she? The fact that she wasn't made her as ornery as a wet cat.

    "I mean it," he went on. "Aside from pulling that gun on me, you've been very nice."

    "Don't mention it," she said. "I've got a soft heart, is all."

    That wasn't all about her that was soft, Jake thought as he watched her move toward his car, hips swaying, rear wiggling in her snug jeans. He shook his head as lust tightened like a knot in his groin. This wasn't like him at all. His passions were normally sane, civilized, controlled. He wasn't the type of man who got turned on just by a well- rounded behind in a tight pair of jeans. He was obviously suffering from a kind of temporary insanity induced by the loss of his car.

    They stripped the Porsche of his personal possessions. Jake was careful to take charge of the box of files on Devon Stafford. It wouldn't do for Miss La Fontaine to discover the stacks of photographs and reams of notes and articles he had accumulated. Even if she wasn't related to his quarry there would still be the matter of explaining himself to Dixie and her friends--Smith and Wesson, he thought with a smile. She had a lot of spunk. He couldn't help but like that. He placed the box on the floor of the Bronco behind the passenger seat and stacked his portable typewriter on top of it.

    "What's left?" he called to Dixie.

    "Just a couple of weights."

    "I'll get those."

    "No, no, I can manage," she insisted, adding under her breath, "I'm such a sport, you know."

    Jake watched as she staggered across the pavement like a wind-up toy gone out of control. A dumbbell weighed down each arm, throwing her off balance in one direction and then another. She hefted the weights into the back seat, breathlessly cursing the founder of the fitness craze. The weights bounced off the hard side of a suitcase and bounded back toward her. She gave a squeal and jumped, just managing to dodge them as they plummeted to the ground. She glared at Jake to keep away and wrestled the dumbbells back inside, then slammed the door before they could leap out at her again.

    "There," she said, gasping for breath, giving Jake a determined, brittle smile. "I've been meaning to pump me some iron. I feel like a new woman. Tomorrow maybe I'll bench-press a Toyota."

    Jake bit back a grin. He decided to keep to himself the fact that the dumbbells were only ten-pounders. She could still get to that gun if she really wanted to.

    He went around the nose of the Bronco as Dixie pulled on a battered leather bomber jacket and climbed into the driver's seat. The front seat was a disaster area, littered with junk-food wrappers, potato chip