by Nancy Warren
He could do this. He could share a bed with a beautiful woman who wore sexy undies and not touch her. Fresh air, he reminded himself. Breathe. He kept up a fast pace until he barely had time to dress for dinner, then reentered their room through the French doors.
He was in time to see Chelsea poke her second earring in her ear, otherwise she was fully dressed, and every cell in his body yelled Wow. “You sure do have some nice clothes,” he said. She was wearing a simple black dress but it had a kind of attitude to it somehow. He didn’t understand women’s fashion, obviously, but he knew when a woman had style and Chelsea had it from the top of her sleek shiny hair to the soles of her black high-heeled shoes.
Of course, while he didn’t have X-ray vision, he did have a vivid imagination, and based on the lingerie he’d seen in her suitcase earlier, she was wearing some sinful confection underneath that dress.
She looked down at herself as though she might have forgotten what she was wearing. “Thanks. Clothes are my weakness. I think it’s because I’m cooking or preparing food all day, in a uniform and aprons. When I get a chance, I love to dress up.”
“Lucky me,” he said, and he realized how true that was. Also, she wasn’t one to keep a man waiting, another quality he admired. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”
The dinner was exactly what he would have predicted. A private room, good food and a partner a man could be proud of.
They’d barely walked in when Piers’s wife, Helen, gestured them over to a table. “Come and join us. I’ve got something to show you.”
She sounded so excited that his heart sank. Not more romance. He couldn’t take it.
When they reached her, Helen pulled out a brown envelope and opened it, spilling out an array of photographs of a wedding. “These are some of the pictures from my niece’s wedding. Not sure if you’ve booked a photographer yet, but if you haven’t, this company is excellent. He’s done a lot of the big society weddings, so he’s top-notch.”
“Wedding photographer…” He couldn’t even formulate a sentence.
The sight of that camera-perfect couple, the bride in her white gown and the groom tricked out in a monkey suit, made him feel like he couldn’t get enough air. They’d studied photographers, he and Suzanne. They’d planned to get married at her mother’s house, where the grounds were bigger than a park and there were sixteen bedrooms to accommodate overnight guests.
The elegant invitations had even been printed, and then Suzanne, who was as cool and organized about details as she was about running her family’s business, kept forgetting to put them in the mail.
Two weeks later, she told him she’d made a mistake and was going back to her former boyfriend.
A guy who hadn’t even been on the invite list.
Pick another wedding photographer? Not in this lifetime. David had no idea what to say.
Luckily, Chelsea picked up the dropped ball.
“These pictures are amazing,” she said, flipping through them. “Oh, I like the one here, by the fountain. And your niece is gorgeous. Where did she get that dress?”
And soon he found the women discussing wedding details. Amelia joined in and the women talked about everything from engraved glassware to bridal headgear as easily as if Chelsea and he were actively pursuing a union. He didn’t know what he’d do without her.
Afterward the evening was free; some headed to the bar, some to their rooms and some to other parts of the lodge. Knowing he didn’t want to expose Chelsea and himself to any more scrutiny than necessary, he challenged her to a game of Ping-Pong, which she laughingly accepted.
The games room wasn’t very busy and one of the two Ping-Pong tables was free. He slipped off his jacket, she stepped out of her shoes and they faced each other across the green table.
“I remember we used to play this game in my parents’ rec room,” he said, surprised at how clear the memory was of teenage Chelsea and him battling it out. His sister, even then, hadn’t seen the point in wasting time on games, so if no one else was around he dragged Hermione into the rec room where they enjoyed some spirited competition.
Of course, he usually won, but she always put up a good fight.
“I haven’t played in years,” she said, laughing as they volleyed to get into the swing of things.
“Then I guess I’m going to kick your butt,” he informed her.
“A gentleman would give me a head start.”
He grinned at her. “If you see any around, challenge them to a game.”
She shook her head at him. “You know, you really haven’t changed.”
“Oh, you have,” he said softly, glad that the bouncing plastic ball covered his comment. Watching her move and sway, jump forward and back as they began the game for real, he wondered when shapeless, studious, not at all stylish Hermione had turned into one of the sexiest, most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
He got so carried away watching her body move in that dress that she’d scored six points to his two. Clearly it was time to focus.
In the end, he won, but it was a squeaker.
“Best of three?” she asked and he said, “Sure.”
He suspected she was as anxious as he was to drag the evening out so they wouldn’t be stuck spending too much time in that huge bed pretending they didn’t want each other.
Or maybe that was just him.
AFTER HE WON THE first two games, she surprised both of them by winning the third. It had helped that a few of the other people from David’s company had wandered in to see the match, and after watching for a few minutes, Helen Van Horne had bet her husband five dollars that Chelsea would win the last game.
In spite of Chelsea’s horrified protests, Piers had taken the bet and suddenly you’d have thought they were laying bets on the Super Bowl. All the women got behind Chelsea, which she really appreciated since she was obviously the weaker player, and then Helen had insisted the guys “man up” and support David.
Maybe it was the support of a group of women she was starting to really like, or maybe it was simply the heat of competition, but Chelsea decided that David wasn’t going to win the third match, and concentrated all her energy on the little white ball.
She knew all of David’s weaknesses from playing against him so often in the past, and she exploited every one of them. He liked to stand back from the table and smash balls so they bounced too far for her to return them. But he wasn’t very good when she dropped the ball softly just inside the net, so that’s what she did whenever possible.
His backhand was also a little weak and he wasn’t as agile as she, all of which she exploited ruthlessly until they were both panting with effort.
Finally, to a chorus of feminine cheers, she won the game.
She felt like an Olympic gold medalist. David, a drop of sweat rolling down his hairline, leaned across and shook her hand, giving her his crooked grin. “Nicely played, Hermione. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Come on, don’t be a sore loser, kiss the girl!”
As their gazes connected, she saw the heat spark and felt the answering burst of passion within her. She leaned in, kissed his lips. She tasted sweat and felt the warmth of his mouth, the thickness of his hair as she cupped her hand around the back of his head. Suddenly, he pulled her in to his body and she was so startled she dropped her paddle so it clattered to the table.
Oh, he felt so right against her, so hot and gorgeous and hers. She felt as though he’d always been hers, he simply hadn’t known it.
Sadly, she thought, as she eased carefully away amid the laughter and catcalls, he still didn’t know it.
They turned the table over to the next challengers and decided to turn in.
Now was the moment she’d dreaded. How would she ever resist him if he picked up where that kiss left off?
The rules, she reminded herself.
She simply had to remember the rules.
Once in their room, however, David didn’t turn on the charm.
Instead, he politely asked her if she’d like the bathroom first. She deferred to him with equal politeness, and after he disappeared into the bathroom, she clicked on the news.
David emerged a few minutes later wearing pajamas that were so obviously never worn she had to assume they were a gift he’d never before used or that he’d bought them specially.
They were navy cotton with tiny white stripes, slightly stiff where they’d never been washed and still bearing the crisp creases where they’d been folded.
He looked adorable.
She disappeared into the bathroom on the same task, brushed her teeth and slipped into her much more worn pajamas. Also cotton, but purple and covered with printed recipes written in French.
“Great pj’s,” David said as she flipped back the covers and eased herself into her side of the bed, leaving at least an acre between them.
“Thanks. Philippe bought them for me. He said I was so passionate about food that I should wear it to bed. It was kind of a joke present.”
“You must miss him.”
She thought about Philippe and how they’d laughed and helped each other stay sane through the rigorous training program. They called and e-mailed to give each other advice and support, but it wasn’t the same as talking in person. “I do. I miss him every day.”
David got into his side of the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. “Okay, then, good night. If I snore, just punch me.”
If he snored, she’d lie awake all night listening to him, but she didn’t say so, merely nodded. “I don’t think I snore, but if I do you’re welcome to punch me, too.”
“You don’t look like a snorer, but you can never tell. Okay if I turn out the light?”
“Yes.”
He plunged the room into relative darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she realized there was a sliver of light slipping between the curtains from the outside lights of the hotel.
She turned away so her back was to David and tried not to think about the man she’d reconnected with. She still had a terrible crush on him, and he still had no clue.
11
SHE’D BEEN EYEING that beautiful, deep soaker tub built for two since they’d arrived yesterday. It was the most decadent tub she’d ever seen, with a view to a private garden area outside and candles and bath products galore.
She’d had a surprisingly fun day, beginning with a strenuous walk after breakfast with several of the wives. The two husbands of female execs and a couple of the women who golfed had taken to the greens, but she’d preferred the hiking.
After lunch, they’d been given the option to choose among the spa services and she’d gone for a facial and a body wrap involving seaweed.
After another group dinner, she was in need of some alone time. David and the other execs were safely off doing some kind of team-building exercise, so she skipped the movie-and-popcorn social and slipped away.
Oh, this room was nice. Imagine if she and David were really a couple in love. How much fun they could have.
Oh, well. A nice decadent soak in a tub was all the fun she needed right now. She poured herself a bath, watching the steam billow into the air, and, after she dumped a jar of bath salts into the tub, the scent of lavender filled the room.
They’d shoved the champagne in the fridge, and she didn’t think that she and David were going to have a romantic champagne breakfast together or anything so she might as well sample it as let it go to waste. Besides, she figured David owed her for making her come with him for an entire weekend of fakery.
She undressed slowly, putting her clothes away as she did so, and drawing on the oatmeal-colored linen bathrobe and slippers the hotel provided.
She lit the candles around the tub, lovely fat beeswax candles, and flipped off the lights. The French doors were open to the forest outside, fading in color as evening advanced.
She eased off the champagne cork and poured herself a bubbling glass of wine.
Then she slipped off the robe and stepped into the bath, sliding down into the scented water that felt like undiluted pleasure. She sighed. The candlelight danced off the water, gilding her body and the champagne. She sipped, approved. Tilted her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
For a woman who spent so much time on her feet, this was pure bliss.
DAVID WAS MORE THAN happy to have been let off tonight’s event early. Since he wasn’t officially a VP yet, he’d been perfectly willing to take the hint offered by Piers, who suggested he’d probably be more interested in spending a Saturday evening with Chelsea than in spending hours with the board. He understood and appreciated Piers’s tact.
He nodded. “Can’t complain about spending more time on that romance package.”
The older man chuckled, delighted with his surprise. “That’s the spirit. I envy you, you know. A beautiful woman, your entire future ahead of you. Make some memories, son. I’m not saying you won’t still be making them at my age, but those early years…” he said with fond nostalgia. “Well, I wouldn’t give up those memories for anything.”
He’d never had such a personal conversation with his boss and he was mildly uncomfortable to hear anything even this close to the details of Piers and Helen’s sex life. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He didn’t have much choice but to head back to the room when Piers so obviously expected him to. He couldn’t hang around in the lobby or bar without arousing suspicion, but he thought that an entire evening in a room that had been designed with sex in mind was going to be torture when he was cooped up with a woman who seriously could have been designed with sex in mind.
And he’d promised not to touch her.
What a cruel, cruel joke.
At least she was off on some movie-night thing. He’d throw on sweats and head to the gym for a couple of hours, work off some of the lust that had kept him wakeful and longing in the night.
He opened the door with his key and walked in, and then stood stupidly rooted to the spot.
It was like somebody had opened up his brain and looked into his fantasy vault and pulled out a good one. There, naked and golden in the bath, was the most glorious woman he’d ever seen. Candlelight licked lovingly at her wet skin, making him want to follow suit. Her breasts seemed to float, begging him to put his mouth on them. Even as he stared, dumbfounded, her nipples puckered, making his mouth water.
Their gazes caught and held. She was so beautiful, her eyes dark and huge, her hair pinned back to reveal that long, beautiful neck and the perfect round breasts. All this happened in the space of a couple of eye blinks and then they both reacted like actors in a bad farce.
“Hell,” he said, shielding his eyes from paradise. “Sorry, I should have knocked.”
He caught her movement as she dragged her knees up and pulled her arms in front of her glorious breasts. “I thought you were in a meeting.” Water sloshed and candles flickered.
“I was supposed to be.” He turned back to the door. “Look, I’ll go get a drink or something. I’ll come back later.”
“No…” He heard an edge of laughter in her voice. “It’s okay. This is just the most ridiculous situation. Whoever heard of putting a bathtub in the middle of a bedroom?”
“The folks who brought you the romance package.” He didn’t even let himself think about how much he wanted to shuck his clothes and climb into that tub with her. He’d show her a romance package all right.
“Give me a second to put on my robe and—”
“Are you sure? I could go to the bar and come back in an hour or so.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve been in here long enough—I’m turning wrinkly. Besides, we don’t want them thinking we had a fight. I don’t think I could handle a lot of well-meaning advice from all those matchmakers out there,” she said, sounding mildly panicked. “Yeah.”
He heard more water dripping and sloshing and tried very hard not to think of her standing up, naked and wet and fragrant. He heard her feet running
across the slate floor and then the sound of the bathroom door. “It’s safe to come in,” she called out.
“I am so sorry about that,” he said again when she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, wearing soft sweats, her damp hair brushed off her face.
She looked mildly embarrassed and he knew they were both picturing the moment when he’d walked in and seen her naked. He wasn’t sure if she was more embarrassed about being caught in the buff, or if it was that strange moment before they both panicked when the pull of attraction had been too strong to ignore.
Maybe he’d gone into this thing by not telling the truth, but other than telling a little white lie to get ahead in his career, he tried to be an upright guy. If she didn’t want to sleep with him while they were living together, he had to respect that. And now he’d learned there was another man in the picture, he knew he’d try even harder.
This arrangement, he reminded himself, was strictly business. It wasn’t personal.
If seeing a fantastically gorgeous woman naked in the bath in his hotel room felt kind of personal, he supposed that was his problem.
“So,” she said, “do you want some champagne?”
“Might as well.” He got up and poured himself a glass, topping hers at the same time. “I thought we might watch an in-room movie.” He caught her expression and grinned. “Not porn. I’m thinking something highbrow and depressing that will not make me think about sex. Especially, since—” he glanced significantly at the huge bed dominating the room “—you know, we have to sleep together, but not, ah, sleep together.”
He knew his honest admission had done the trick when she laughed and seemed to relax.
“Good plan.”
So they put on a movie that had been a big award contender even though it had done poorly at the box office. Neither of them had seen it and after forty minutes, he could see why. He was crammed in a chair and she was very carefully on one side of the king-size bed.
“If one more person offs themselves in this movie, I’m seriously going to need therapy,” he said.