“This plan of yours doesn’t sound very fair to Winifred.” “Yes, I realized that.” He flung aside his unbuttoned waistcoat and pulled his damp shirt over his head, tossing it on the heap. “I was on the verge of sending her home when the girls doused me with”—he swept his hands down his muscled, glistening torso—“whatever this is.” “Leftover bathwater.” “Whose bathwater?” She bit her bottom lip at the corner. “Mine.” He laughed bitterly. “Of course. Of course it would be yours. I knew I smelled orange-flower water.”
