by Mindy Neff
They all frowned at him and it took considerable control to keep from blowing the act by laughing.
“Ah, I can see you need an agent to attend to your best interests. Perhaps we can negotiate... say, one piece of candy each before bed?”
“Yeah!” the girls chorused, leaping off the couch and bobbing up and down like a couple of exuberant jumping beans.
“Really, Tony,” Chelsa admonished. “Sugar this close to bedtime isn’t such a good—”
“Nonsense. Any time is good for candy.” He stood. “Do not move an inch,” he said to the girls. Chelsa would forgive this one indulgence. If he gave away the hiding place they’d found for the bakery bag, it would be another matter.
* * *
Fortified with a small piece of chocolate, the girls went to bed with little fuss. It worried Chelsa that they’d insisted on Antonio coming along to tuck them in. Was she setting them up for hurt once it came time for her to go home and Antonio to go on with his life? That was a very real possibility, but for the time being, she selfishly hoarded his attention. Emily and Sophie were starved for male companionship and Antonio was more than willing to hand it out.
Now, without the buffer of the children, Chelsa grew nervous. Obviously, she was just as starved for male attention.
She felt Antonio’s gaze on her as she picked up scattered toys and straightened the clutter in the front room.
He surprised her by pitching in to help. This unorthodox prince definitely kept her off balance.
“Sit with me,” he invited once there wasn’t so much as a piece of lint out of place.
Oh, she wanted to do more than sit. The scene was set with soft lighting and the romantic sound of surf rolling against the shore. She reined in her runaway hormones, and complied, picking up her sketch book as a means of distraction, a means of occupying her mind so it didn’t wander to the fact that they were basically alone.
“So, you are having trouble with your stories?”
Evidently he wasn’t appreciating the intimacy of the setting as she was. Feeling foolish, she firmly squashed her thoughts.
“A little. Probably just the stress of the day.”
“Understandable.” He touched her hair, then drew his hand back as though the action hadn’t been intended. “Perhaps I can be of service?”
Absolutely, she thought. Oh, Chelsa, get your mind off the man’s zipper! “And will you demand royalties also?”
“I am as easily satisfied as Emily and Sophie. Something sweet, perhaps.” His gaze focused on her lips, his dark eyes so hot, she nearly melted.
“Tony...” she warned.
“Just a thought. Okay. Story ideas. How about a battalion of doodlebugs arriving in marching formation to save the water babies from being blown up by the evil octopus?”
“I don’t write about violence.”
“Ah, no violence. The doodlebugs will prevent the disaster and shame the giant squid in the process.”
Her mind working, she pictured the scene, automatically drawing a quick sketch of tiny bugs sporting antenna and armed with water cannons. “It could work,” she mused, feeling her creativity begin to flow. “It would show that the little guy can win over the big ones.”
“Yes.” His enthusiasm told her he was really getting into the spirit of things. “In the absence of ammo, you’re using water. The bad octopus won’t blow up the babies’ habitat because this particular species of octopi are disintegrated by water. The doodlebugs have the advantage because their squirt guns are scary and can reduce the tentacled creatures to inky puddles.”
She slanted him an arched look. “You’re sneaking up on the side of violence again.”
He grinned. “Can’t help it. As a kid, I was fixated on blowing stuff up.”
“Your poor mother.”
“Actually, she preferred my chemistry experiments to purloining a greenhouse full of her prized orchids.”
“A whole greenhouse full?”
His grin was sheepish. “Now that I think of it, that might have been a bit excessive.”
“A bit. What did you do with them?”
“Decorated my yacht. I was wooing a budding actress.”
She smiled and shook her head, sketching the evil octopi with artillery strapped to their stringy arms and masks over their dome-shaped heads.
“Now, that’s my kind of firepower,” he said, his shoulder brushing hers as he leaned closer to have a look.
“They’re duds,” she defended, her mind conjuring an entirely different kind of firepower. His breath was warm against her neck, and he smelled so masculine. The lines on the paper squiggled as her hand trembled and her heart pounded. He was so close. All it would take was a mere shift of her body and she’d be in his arms.
And she wanted that in the worst way.
To distract herself, she said, “You’re blowing my image of what royal families are supposed to act like. Was your brother as incorrigible as you?”
“Ah, no. Joseph had his moments, but duty was always uppermost in his mind. Until he met Briana.”
“He started blowing things up then?”
“No. But he outdid me in wooing techniques. Although he left mother’s gardens alone, he bought out nearly every flower shop from France to America.”
“That’s romantic.”
“Yes. I did not think he had it in him. But he fell in love and there was no stopping him. It has pleased me to see the change in him. They have just had a baby—Joseph Lorenzo II. And since it is a boy, he will be next in line for the throne.”
“Somehow that doesn’t seem right. Does it bother you?”
“Not at all. I do not want any part of what Joseph has—at least in the respect of duty. Joseph is the ambassador of goodwill. I am content to be the ambassador of fun.” He scooted closer, his hand covering hers against the sketchpad, turning the tablet so he could get a better look at the armed octopi.
Chelsa had thought conversation would ease the sensual turmoil inside her. She’d been wrong.
With the slight touch of his hand, he set off tremors inside of her, ignited her fantasies.
She stood abruptly. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
He looked confused by her abrupt announcement, and she didn’t give him the opportunity to talk her out of it. That would be all too easy and entirely too dangerous.
“Night, Tony. Thanks for the inspiration.”
“My pleasure.”
And hers. Before her mind could stray even further, she fled.
Once in her bedroom, though, she was at loose ends. She wasn’t sleepy; her nerves were too tense. Anticipation shimmered in the balmy air of the room like the hum of a taut violin string. She longed to open the window and let the soft ocean breeze cool her overheated skin, but she didn’t dare.
Lord, she was lonely. And although Antonio was the wrong man for her, she could feel her resistance weakening, feel the ache rising like high tide, washing over her, making her yearn to throw caution to the wind, to go back in the front room and beg for what his hot eyes said he’d be more than willing to give.
Feeling as though she were a giant mass of ultrasensitive emotions, she switched on the portable disc player and adjusted the volume. Country-and-western music whispered softly from the speakers. Dear heaven, the chemistry between her and Antonio was unmistakable. And so electric, it sparked like sulfurous lightning whenever they got within two feet of one another. It had been so long since she’d let herself feel. For so long she’d had to be both mother and father to her girls; she’d had to be strong, to set aside her own needs.
Now she’d met a man who made her laugh, who kept her on her toes and ignited her deepest fantasies. Since the day Antonio Castillo had literally crashed into her life, she’d found herself thinking about sex at inappropriate moments and longing for steamier ways to work her major muscle groups other than pushing a shopping cart or chasing after her kids.
Restless, unsure what to do with the longing that nearly overpowered
her, she picked up Sophie’s teddy bear from the window seat. Button eyes stared back at her from the soft furry face.
Suddenly she longed to be young and carefree again, to dance and laugh and love. To not worry about dangers or deranged ex-husbands, or where the money for groceries was going to come from, or whether or not her creativity would dry up and send her career plummeting.
The soft strains of Wynonna Judd drifted out of the stereo speakers. Holding the teddy bear in a semblance of a correct waltz position, she began to move her feet to the sultry beat.
* * *
Antonio heard the music and paused outside Chelsa’s bedroom door. It wasn’t closed all the way, and after a brief tussle with his conscience, he pushed the door open. He was drawn to this woman in a way he couldn’t explain.
She moved across the hardwood floor, keeping a slow, three-step time, like a laid-back waltz. In her arms was a teddy bear.
His blood heated.
She should have looked silly. Instead, she looked incredibly erotic, her eyes closed, her hand holding the furry paw of the stuffed toy, her hips swaying, her bare feet caressing the floor. He could stand there all night and just watch.
No, he couldn’t. He wanted to participate. He wanted to hold her in his arms, to feel the press of her soft curves against his body, to have that dreamy look on her face be because of him.
Chelsa wasn’t sure what broke into her subconscious. But suddenly she knew she wasn’t alone. The feeling wasn’t one of fear or danger. At least not the danger she’d been living with for the past months.
She stopped abruptly and opened her eyes.
And couldn’t move a muscle.
Antonio stepped into the room, his stride purposeful, intent etched in his handsome features. She felt silly for being caught dancing with a stuffed teddy bear, but the fervid pounding of her heart washed away the embarrassment.
His gaze held her, softly, intensely, as he tapped the stuffed toy on its furry shoulder.
“Pardon me, sir, may I cut in?”
His Latin accent was even more pronounced with the very softness of his voice. His eyes never wavered from hers.
Barely aware of the movement, she nodded her head. Dear Lord, it was what she wanted, and at the moment, she was blinded to any valid reason why she shouldn’t simply indulge herself, to lose herself in his eyes and his touch and his easygoing, exquisitely thrilling essence, to let him breathe life back into her own battered spirit. Was that so wrong?
His arms slid around her, firmly, holding her against the heat of his body. There was no hesitation, only a male sureness that mesmerized, left little room for second thoughts. Their bodies touched from her breasts to her knees, sending desire on a raging course through her veins.
A perfect fit, she thought dimly, even though he was a good head taller.
Her feet moved in time with his as Wynonna sang of hopeless love and reckless passion.
And oh, she was feeling that passion. In the deepest part of her mind—the rational part—she knew she should question it, but she didn’t.
“You are so lovely,” he whispered. “Magnifico.”
“So are you.”
His brow arched. She might have laughed at the gaucheness of her statement if she weren’t so breathless. His palm seared her back, low on her waist, his fingers resting just above the swell of her buttocks. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her nipples aching with the need to be caressed.
Only with Antonio had she ever responded so wantonly.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Her voice was a mere breath of sound, yet her feet never paused in the beat of the music, nor did she draw away from his arms.
“We should be doing exactly this...and more.”
His lips pressed tenderly against her forehead, her nose, over her cheek.
Frustration built. Her own lips felt swollen from wanting. And he was moving entirely too slow, taking his time, savoring. An ideal man by most women’s standards, but she wasn’t feeling like most women right now. And a slow touch wasn’t what she wanted.
Taking matters into her own hands, she lifted her face, burying her fingers in his silky hair, urging him to taste, to take, to give and to receive.
The touch of his lips against hers was like fire and ice, shocking her to her core. Oh, how she wanted, and the wanting was a fierceness that knew no conscience.
The tip of his tongue caressed the seam of her lips, asking for—and receiving—entrance.
And again she understood the draw of this playboy prince. Expertise was an understatement. He kissed her like she’d never been kissed before, tapping into emotions she’d never felt before. He wasn’t a man to stay, had indeed warned her to guard her heart, but right now she didn’t care. All she cared about was this—this feeling. This thrilling, exquisite feeling.
Her feet no longer moved to the plaintive rhythm of the country music. Instead, she moved to a beat of her own—the pulse of her femininity.
The yearning grew, gaining momentum, spiraling out of control. She wanted to climb right up his body. Her need to be one with him drove her. She couldn’t get close enough, and the frustration was almost pain.
“Easy, querida.”
She moaned, maybe even begged. At this point, she couldn’t be sure.
“Are you sure?”
His question seemed echoed her thoughts. Then she realized it was born of her actions. She’d already given him the go-ahead with her body. Now he wanted the words.
“Yes.”
Even as she gave the permission, he was backing her slowly toward the bed, lowering her to the mattress, following her down. The press of his weight made her ache all the more. The cotton of her dress was so thin, it might as well have been nonexistent.
Her legs parted, making room for him, cradling him in the juncture of her thighs. Through his jeans she felt his arousal pressing against the part of her that ached for fulfillment.
Antonio slipped the spaghetti strap from her shoulder, eager to taste her, raining kisses over each smooth inch of skin he uncovered. She smelled of citrus and tasted like a dream. Her breath was coming hard and fast, driving him on. He’d always prided himself on his control, but with Chelsa, he was fast learning that he’d given himself entirely too much credit.
Because she was shattering his control as easily as the rocky shoreline had shattered his boat.
Astonished, he noticed that his hands shook as he lowered the top of her dress, exposed her breasts.
“It drives me crazy when you wear these T-shirt dresses with no bra.”
“Don’t talk,” she said, breathless.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t concentrate.”
“Ah, bella, I will teach you.”
“I’m going to teach you in a minute if you don’t hurry up.” She fumbled with his shirt, popping another button.
He chuckled, surprised he had breath to do so. This woman astonished him with her avidness. “Good thing I have purchased additional shirts.”
“In that case...” She gave a tug and ripped the rest of the buttons, sending them scattering across the mattress.
For a moment he went utterly still, stunned. He could not recall a woman ever stunning him before...or charming him so.
“I’ve called Sophie the mermaid. I think I have it wrong. You are the siren.”
She placed her fingers over his lips, sending a wash of heat through his veins. And he knew it was no longer time for words.
So he spoke with his touch, and with his lips. Slowly. Though it was killing him to exercise the restraint. He wanted nothing more than to plunder, to test her inhibitions, then banish them. He wanted to find out how far and how fast he could take her—or she could take him.
With the bodice of her dress around her waist, bare skin teasing bare skin, he ran his hand along her thigh, inching her hemline upward, intensely concentrated on her pleasure, on their shared goal.
He felt her stiffen and his hand stilled.
She squirmed from beneath him. “Emily.”
“What?” Confusion colored the single word, yet he automatically moved off her, gave her room.
“Emily’s crying.” She snatched the straps of her dress back up to her shoulders. “I have to go to her. She has nightmares.”
Desire barely ebbing, he followed her out of the room.
Emily was crying and thrashing, yet her eyes were closed.
Chelsa eased onto the bed beside her daughter and gathered her in her arms. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Momma’s here. Momma’s here.”
Antonio hovered by the door, unsure what to do. He watched Emily’s skinny arms wrap around her mother’s neck. Her eyes were open now, wild and unfocused. Then clarity flickered like the click of a camera. “Don’t let him find us, Momma.”
“Oh, honey. You mustn’t worry. It was only a dream.”
“But you were scared, and I was scared, and so was Sophie.”
“It was only a dream,” she repeated, stroking Emily’s mussed hair. Dear Lord, these children were too young to know about fear. “No one is going to hurt us.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Please, God, don’t let me break that promise. Her throat ached with unshed tears, tears she couldn’t allow to fall. She had to be strong, had to be stronger.
Obviously she’d failed miserably in shielding her daughter. Sophie was young and in her own world, and appeared not to understand most of what was going on. Even now, she slept like an angel, blissfully unaware of her sister’s torment. But Emily had picked up on the unease, had overheard conversations no six-year-old should hear.
And for that, Chelsa had huge regrets.
She also had regrets for the way she’d behaved tonight with Antonio. Selfishly she’d thought to take something for herself, to appease a physical ache, to give in to passion and feel like a woman—not as a mother, or a career woman, or a fearful ex-wife on the run, but a woman. Feminine. Desirable. Carefree enough to seize the moment.