The Dare Affair: Summer In Savannah Anth. (Dynasties: The Danforths Book 6.5

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Clay couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe he should have gotten you drunk.”

  She laughed at that. “Maybe. Am I drunk, Clayton?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid you are.”

  “Hmm.” She pondered her state of inebriation for a moment. “I’m not sure I like it. I feel sort of sad and happy all at once.”

  “I’ll get you some coffee.” He headed to the kitchen, unsure of what else to do. He couldn’t imagine Katrina being staid in bed. He’d always imagined her a little naughty, a prim-and-proper heiress who let her guard down at night, who whispered fantasies in her lover’s ear.

  He turned on the faucet and wondered if she and Andrew would reconcile, the way Jenny had indicated.

  A few minutes later Clay removed his jacket and loosened his tie. Then he stared at the coffeepot. The liquid dripped like tonight’s rain, painstakingly slow.

  Finally he returned to Katrina with a cup of the hot brew, doctored with milk and sugar. She seemed like the milk and sugar type. Sweet, he thought. Creamy.

  “Thank you.” She took a sip, leaving a lipstick mark on the rim of the cup. “I can see your bed.”

  He squinted. “So?”

  “So you don’t have any walls in this place. I can see where you sleep. I can be a voyeur.”

  Clay thrust a hand through his hair. The wrought-iron frame was a piece that he’d ordered from an Italian designer. Strangely ornate, it fit his emotions, the entanglement of his life.

  “Sexy man. Sexy bed.”

  He frowned at her. “Stop saying that.”

  “But it’s true.” She discovered a set of glass coasters on his end table and made use of one, placing her cup on it. Even drunk, she adhered to her Beaumont breeding.

  More or less, he thought. The wine was making her uncharacteristically chatty, even if she wasn’t slurring her words.

  “Can I sleep in your bed? I want to snuggle up with your blanket.”

  The air in his lungs whooshed out. “I’m supposed to sober you up and take you home.”

  “But it’s lonely at my house.”

  He glanced at the verandah, then shifted his gaze, studying her lost expression. He had the notion to run his thumb across her cheek, to feel the softness of her skin.

  She sighed. “Can I stay here, Clayton? I’m over twenty-one.”

  “I know how old you are.”

  “Twenty-nine,” she said for effect. “An old maid.”

  Why did she have to make him smile? Why did he have to like her so damn much? “What are you going to sleep in, Katrina?”

  “Kat. You can loan me something. Either that or I can climb into that big old bed of yours naked.”

  “What?” His heartbeat blasted his chest.

  She tossed him a sly grin. “I was just kidding.”

  Easy for her to say. Now he was fighting an arousal, an instant hardness that made him want her the way he’d wanted her when they were young, when he couldn’t control his hormones, when he used to lie awake at night and—

  “So, can I?” she asked.

  His mouth went dry.

  She gave him a pleading look. “Please.”

  Well, hell, he thought. He didn’t have the heart to send her home, to drop her off at her family’s estate like a drunk and disorderly orphan. He knew the Beaumonts had never seen their daughter in this condition. “Maybe I should call your parents. Let them know you’re all right.”

  She waved her hand, dismissing his suggestion. “They’ll think I’m with Andrew. They’ll think we got back together.” She rose, teetering on one high heel. “I’ll change in the bathroom. It has walls, doesn’t it?”

  “And a door with a lock, too. But let me give you something to wear first.” He moved across the massive apartment to an antique armoire and pulled out an old button-down shirt. She followed him, losing her shoe along the way. “Here.” He handed her the garment and pointed her in the direction of the bathroom.

  She emerged a few minutes later, wearing his shirt and a pair of thigh-high hose that stayed up all on their own.

  Damn, he thought. Damn.

  “I couldn’t get this off.” She tugged at the delicate choker around her neck.

  “So I see.” She hadn’t buttoned the shirt properly, either. It gapped in spots and the tails were uneven. “Turn around. I’ll take off your necklace.”

  When she presented him with her back, he leaned in to inhale her perfume. She smelled exotic, like orchids blooming at dawn. There was no way sex with her could be boring. He moved her braid out of the way, wishing he could nuzzle her neck, seduce her into a slow, seductive kiss.

  The clasp on the choker seemed too small for his fingers. He fumbled with it, holding his breath, curbing his urges. “Got it.” The chain fell into his hand, the shimmering stones pressing his skin.

  “Thank you.” She spun around. Her bright blue eyes were cloudy and her lipstick was gone. But she was still pretty, her features refined.

  He placed her necklace on his dresser. “Let me fix your shirt.”

  “It’s your shirt,” she reminded him.

  “Then let me fix my shirt.” He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but he didn’t give a damn. He was using any excuse to touch to her, to make the moment more intimate.

  “I’m sleepy,” she said.

  He undid the first three buttons. “I’ll put you to bed. But not this second, first I need to…” His words drifted. He could see her bra, the small swell of cleavage. He kept going, releasing all the buttons. Her panties were black lace, just like the top of her hose.

  “Can I go to bed now?”

  “What? No.” He snapped out of his trance and rushed to cover her, nearly missing the buttonholes the way she’d done. “Now you can. Come on.” He led her to the wrought-iron bed and turned down the heavy maroon quilt.

  She sank onto his pillow. “Are we still friends?”

  “We were never friends.”

  “Yes, we were. We had a crush on each other.”

  “For all the good it did.” Suddenly the past slammed straight into his gut, punching him like a set of brass knuckles, making him feel young and poor again. “You never went slumming. You weren’t the type.”

  She blinked at him, confused, light-headed, mourning her ex-fiancé, the guy who’d jilted her. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then prove it.” Hurt, frustrated, he leaned over her. “Prove what you meant.”

  For a moment she didn’t move. She just looked up at him. Then she reached out to touch him, to skim her hand along his jaw, to make him more aroused. Warmth flowed through his veins, settling beneath his fly.

  Cupping her face, he kissed her.

  She closed her eyes, and he tasted the wine she’d drunk, the coffee she’d barely consumed, the sweet, lazy intoxication. Milk and sugar.

  He deepened the kiss, taking more, sipping her flavor, filling his senses. Her lips were soft against his.

  Too soft, he thought, as she pressed closer. Too vulnerable.

  He pulled back, let a shiver roll down his spine. He couldn’t do this. Not here. Not like this.

  “Go to sleep, Kat.”

  Her hand fell, the hand that had been caressing his face, delving into his hair. “Don’t you like me?”

  Was she wounded by his rejection? Too drunk to know that he was trying to respect her? “Of course I like you.” He settled onto the bed and offered her his arms, giving her a safe place to cuddle.

  With a sigh, she accepted the invitation, and he sensed how much she needed a friend, someone she could trust.

  The boy from the wrong side of the tracks, he thought. Picking up the pieces, protecting the broken chips of her heart. It made him hate Andrew Winston. But it made him envy the other man, too.

  She shifted against him, and when she drifted into a soundless slumber, he brushed his lips across her forehead and listened to the intermittent rhythm of the rain, wondering what tomorrow would bring.

  Chapter 2

>   Katrina squinted at the light filtering through a nearby window. She rubbed her eyes and winced. She’d never had a migraine, not like this.

  She sat up and looked around, then realized where she was and why her head hurt.

  She wanted to crawl under a floorboard, die a thousand deaths. She’d gotten drunk last night. And she’d slept in Clay’s bed.

  She fingered her shirt—Clay’s shirt—vaguely recalling him buttoning her into it. Or had he been unbuttoning it? She moved her legs and wondered why they felt so tight, so restricted. Kicking at the covers, she peeked under the blanket and saw that she still wore her hose. She’d slept in a pair of thigh-highs? Like some sort of Victoria’s Secret diva?

  “What are you looking for?” Clay’s voice shot out of nowhere, sending Katrina’s heart into a tail-spin.

  Mortified, she dropped the covers, wondering how he’d sneaked up on her. Then again, who could hear footsteps above the noise in her head?

  He gave her serious study, and she wished she could remember exactly what had happened. Had she made love with Clay last night? Naked with nothing but her hose? Had he redressed her in her underwear? Buttoned her into his shirt afterward and tucked her into bed?

  No, she thought. No way. Her memories weren’t that jumbled. Sex wasn’t something she could forget, not with a man like Clayton Crawford.

  He moved closer to the bed, and she squinted at him. He looked much too refreshed, his hair damp from a recent shower, his jaw cleanly shaven. He wore faded jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Lazy elegance. Masculine beauty. She imagined she looked a fright, with mascara smears raccooning her eyes and a night-tousled French braid. Suddenly she stalled and reached for her hair. It was loose, tangled around her shoulders.

  “I undid your braid,” he said.

  “When?”

  “Last night, after you fell asleep, after it stopped raining.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to touch your hair.”

  Her skin went warm, much too warm. She didn’t need him creating romantic images. “I appreciate your hospitality.” She smoothed the hair in question and did her darnedest to sound polite, practical. Unaffected. “But I shouldn’t have stayed here.”

  “You wanted to.” He smiled a little. “You wanted to cuddle up with my blanket.”

  Katrina caught her breath. How was she supposed to respond to that? She couldn’t remember half the things she’d said to him last night. “I should get home.” She paused, looked around for a clock. “What time is it?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Eleven forty-five.”

  Almost noon? She tried to get out of bed, then reached for the headboard to brace the dizziness. His bed was a work of iron-forged art, scrolled and twisted into a unique design. But at the moment, it wasn’t helping her cause. Her hand slipped on one of the scrolls.

  “Sit still,” he ordered. “I’ll get you some breakfast. Something to revive your strength.”

  Her stomach roiled. “No food.”

  “Dry toast and a cup of tea.” He left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen without waiting for her to reply.

  She sat back and cursed herself into oblivion. A second later she cursed the vintner who’d cultivated the wine. Then she decided to curse Clay for sending the bottle to her table, for encouraging her to drown her sorrows.

  Clay returned with a wicker tray and placed it in front of her. “Eat, drink and be merry.”

  Was that his idea of humor? She battled the dryness in her mouth and reached for the tea. She wasn’t about to ask him where he’d slept. Not when she had a hazy recollection of dozing off in his arms.

  Had they kissed, too? Or was that her imagination? A dream her befuddled mind had conjured?

  “How’s the tea?”

  “Fine.” She sipped cautiously. “I told you about Andrew, didn’t I?”

  “That he was disappointed in your love life?” Clay sat on the edge of the bed. “Yes, you told me.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

  “It’s no big deal. You didn’t talk about your ex all night.”

  Her breath rushed out. “I didn’t?”

  “No.” His voice was thick, as slow and Southern as his exaggerated drawl. “You kept telling me how sexy I was. Me, my apartment, my bed.”

  He was sexy, she thought. But that was beside the point. “I was intoxicated.”

  “Uh-huh. And now you’re indisposed. And wearing my shirt.”

  She nibbled the toast, taking birdlike bites, trying to ease the burning sensation in her stomach. “I’ll have it cleaned and returned to you.”

  “You can keep it. A memento,” he added, “of your first hangover.” He leaned forward and drew her attention to the pills he’d left on her tray. “Don’t forget to take those.”

  “Are they for my headache?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Kat.”

  She nearly dropped the medication. “Kat?”

  “No one calls you that, but I can.” He grinned like a bandit in a bordello. “You gave me permission.”

  Katrina popped the pills into her mouth, washing them down with mint-spiked tea. Kat was her alter ego, her secret childhood name for herself. She’d chosen it because it sounded casual, fun and airy, much more relaxed than her upbringing had allowed. In her family, appearances were everything. The Beaumonts didn’t misbehave; they didn’t garner gossip. She’d come from a long line of Savannah royalty. And in spite of her alter ego, Katrina had always been Mommy and Daddy’s proper little princess.

  She looked up to find Clay watching her. His grin was gone, his eyes dark and indiscernible.

  “Where are my clothes?” she asked.

  “I hung up your dress.” He motioned behind him. “It’s in the armoire. Your purse and shoes are there, too.”

  “Thank you.” She wished he hadn’t unbraided her hair. The thought of him touching her while she slept made her uncomfortable. “I guess you’re an expert at this sort of thing.”

  “Why? Because I own a club? Or because you think I’m a drinker?”

  She didn’t know, not really. She wasn’t privy to details about his life, not anymore. “Because you offered to take care of me.” She paused, sipped the tea. “You don’t have a lady friend, do you? Someone who might misunderstand this situation?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t have brought you here.” He roamed his gaze over her. “Joe called you my lady friend.”

  “Joe?”

  “A bouncer at the club.”

  She prayed his staff wouldn’t gossip about her, start rumors about her affiliation with their boss. “I wonder what made him say that.”

  “I think it was the way I’d been looking at you.”

  The way he was looking at her now, she thought. She wanted to ask him if they’d kissed last night, but she didn’t have the nerve. “I’ll never do this again.”

  “Do what?” He raised his brows. “Get drunk? Or end up in my bed?”

  Was he teasing her? Trying to embarrass her? Or was sarcasm his defense mechanism? “I already told you that I appreciated your hospitality.”

  He almost smiled. “Anytime.”

  Suddenly her limbs went weak, as mushy as oatmeal. Was holding her in his arms part of his hospitality? Lulling her to sleep? Touching her hair?

  “Cat got your tongue, Kat?” This time he did smile, a flash of teeth against bronzed skin.

  Her spine went stiff. “Stop calling me that.”

  He frowned at her. “You were more fun when you were drunk.”

  “And you were nicer when we were young.”

  “I’m still nice.” He snared her gaze, pinning her in place. “When I feel like it.”

  Self-conscious, she chewed the food in her mouth. Finally, she finished the toast and took one last sip of the tea. “I need to get dressed.”

  He removed the tray. “Be my guest. The bathroom is all yours. Feel free to help yourself to whatever you need.”

  Sh
e climbed out of bed and tried to maintain a semblance of propriety, but it wasn’t easy. Not while she was wearing his shirt and the lace-topped thigh-highs.

  She opened the armoire and gathered her belongings. Clay’s clothes weren’t in any particular order, she noticed. And his footwear ranged from boots to loafers to a pair of simple white sneakers.

  Katrina took a deep breath and headed for the bathroom. As she walked past Clay, she could feel him watching her, but he used to watch her when they were teenagers. So why would he stop now? Especially after she’d slept in his bed.

  Once she was inside the bathroom, she gazed into the mirror and sighed. Her appearance had never looked worse. Making use of Clay’s toiletries, she repaired the damage as best she could. Since he didn’t have a guest toothbrush available, she made do with his mouthwash and a paper cup from the dispenser above the sink. Finally, she put everything back the way it was and berated herself for feeling intimate about washing her face with his soap and taming her hair with his brush.

  Attired in the clothes she’d worn the night before, she emerged, Clay’s shirt in hand. He sat on the sofa, waiting for her, it seemed.

  She reached into her purse for her cell phone, flipped it open and discovered the battery was dead. “May I use your phone?” she asked. “I’d like to call a cab.”

  Clay studied her through those dark eyes. “What for? I can drive you home.”

  “It would be more appropriate for me to take a cab.” To keep her family from seeing him, she thought. To keep the night she’d spent with him a secret.

  He rose to his full height and came toward her. For a moment she wondered if he was going to touch her, tilt her chin, coax her into a kiss, prove that “appropriate” didn’t apply. But he stopped just short of getting too close.

  “You should go back to bed when you get home,” he said. “Sleep this off.”

  “I will.” She paused, adjusting his shirt over her arm. She still intended to have it laundered for him. “Thank you for your help, Clay.”

  He nodded and handed her a portable phone. She arranged for a taxi, and when it was time to leave, he escorted her down the elevator and out of the building, where he put her into the cab and turned away without saying goodbye.