She didn't want hearts and flowers. She was way beyond all that. But something personal… That wasn't too much to ask, was it? Some little something that indicated she was special, not interchangeable with any other woman he could find who wasn't after his money?
"Speak of the devil," Shelley murmured, her soft tone drawing Holly from her thoughts.
She followed their gazes across the dining room to the lobby, where Tom stood amid a pile of luggage that would do her justice. She'd known he was coming for the weekend—he'd booked the suite during their phone conversation the night before—but he usually traveled light. One small bag was all he'd ever needed, along with his laptop computer, of course, and his briefcase. So what was up with all the rest?
"Excuse me." Holly stood, letting her napkin fall to the floor, and went to the lobby, stopping a few feet behind him. Once Janice finished her usual welcome-to-McBride-Inn spiel, Holly cleared her throat, and Tom turned to look at her.
She didn't want hearts and flowers, but she was a sucker for butterflies and shivers and long, lazy looks from incredibly dark eyes. Her mouth went dry, her palms grew damp, and her temperature rose a few very warm degrees. She opened her mouth, and her suspicious question about all the luggage disappeared, to be replaced by a sappy, silly, "Hi. You're here."
"You sound surprised. Did you forget I was coming?"
Janice snorted indelicately, and Holly shot a warning look that her employee pretended not to see. "No, I didn't forget. I just didn't expect you until sometime this evening … and I certainly didn't expect all this luggage."
"I told you I was staying awhile, didn't I?"
"You said through the weekend."
"Hm. I guess I didn't specify which weekend."
Her suspicions doubled. "I guess not. Why don't you do that now?"
"Actually, I don't know. Your assistant,"—he nodded toward Janice—"and I agreed it would be best to book the suite for a month, then go from there."
A month? Holly tried to shriek, but her voice wouldn't work. She swallowed hard, cleared her throat, and took a few quick breaths to stave off the panic that tightened her chest. Aware of Janice watching from behind the desk and all her friends from the dining room, she clenched her jaw and forced a smile and a few words through her teeth. "Let's go someplace private and talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about. I've already paid for the first thirty days."
"I don't like renting my rooms by the month."
He grinned, something he rarely did, and it didn't please her that it was in response to her annoyance. "You're a smart businesswoman, Holly. You like renting your rooms any way you can. Now, where's the bellman to help with the luggage?"
Instead of calling the handyman, who doubled as a bellman when he was available, Holly shouted Bree's name with enough force to make the air vibrate. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of a crash in the library. To Tom, she said, "I hope she manages to set it all on fire between here and your suite—and don't laugh. She could do it." Then she stalked away—through the kitchen, into her own apartment, out the back door, and toward the woods. She knew he was following her, but as long as he was willing to be ignored, she was perfectly happy to do the ignoring.
That lasted … oh, maybe three minutes. Then Tom caught up with her, grabbed her arm, and pulled her to a stop. "What are you so upset about? We agreed that I would spend some time in Bethlehem."
"Some time," she agreed, none too gently jerking free. "Not a month. Not living in my house."
"Where would you suggest I stay?"
"You have a perfectly good home in Buffalo. How about there?"
He studied her a long time as if she were something foreign to his experience. She felt foreign to herself. Why should she care that he planned to spend the next month at the inn? She should be glad. Seeing him was infinitely better than not seeing him. Being able to talk to him in person was much more satisfying than relying on a telephone. And as for seducing him … well, it might be difficult in person, but it was downright impossible long distance.
But a month seemed so long. So serious. So unexpected. Yes, he'd said he would spend time in town, but, after all, this was the man who'd turned down his boss's request that he move to Bethlehem with the rest of the company because he preferred the city. The man who'd persisted for months in describing her town in a sardonic voice as a little burg, who had tolerated his time there and always looked forward to returning to the city.
Until he'd gotten the crazy idea to marry her. And suddenly there he was, willing to spend an entire month there, maybe even longer. For her. Because changing her mind about marriage was damn near impossible long distance.
He truly was serious about this marriage thing. Which meant she truly had to get serious about this seduction thing.
"Do you want me to go home?" he finally asked.
She turned her back to him, filled her lungs with the pungent, woodsy scent, then exhaled loudly. "No."
"I've got to tell you, your managerial style leaves a little to be desired. I've stayed at hotels all over the world, and this is the first time the owner or manager wished for my luggage to catch fire, then ran away."
She faced him again, stepped closer, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Is it also the first time you've been greeted like this?" Rising onto her toes, she brought her mouth into contact with his, but before she could go any further, he did, sliding his tongue between her lips, slipping inside her mouth, greedily, insistently stroking, exploring, tasting.
She'd been kissed countless times by countless men, but not like this. Sensations spread through her with every thud of her heart—heat and need and an ache that threatened to become unbearable. She was grateful for his hands at her waist, because without them, she thought she just might collapse at his feet, weak, dazed, needy. It was just a kiss, but oh, what a kiss. The start of a slow burn that could consume them both.
Too soon Tom ended it and caught her hands, holding them firmly between his. She hoped she didn't look as shaken as she felt—wished he didn't look so damn smug. He knew that kiss had turned her on more than any kiss should have, and he was amused by it.
She would teach him to be amused. Leaving her hands in his, she moved seductively against him, using her sexiest, sultriest voice to suggest, "Let's go back to the inn."
"And finish this in private?" Grinning, he unplastered her could from his and pushed her away again. "Not yet. Not until the time is right."
Backing away, she folded her arms across her chest. "What's to stop me from saying the time is right, then admitting in the morning that I lied?"
"Trust me. When it's right, we'll both know." He watched her for a moment, then gestured in the direction they'd come. "Still want to go back?"
She shook her head. "You go ahead if you want. I've been inside all week. As long as I'm out here, I might as well take a walk."
"Then I might as well come with you."
She looked him over, from his well-worn leather jacket to khaki trousers to deck shoes that had probably never seen any deck. "Have you ever taken a walk?"
"Of course."
"In the woods?"
"Never."
"We could get lost," she teased.
"You've never been lost a day in your life. Go on. I'll follow."
She found the narrow trail that led to the pond and set off, considering how wrong his last words were. She'd been lost plenty of times. In fact, she was feeling lost right at that moment. Years ago she'd set a path for herself, one consisting of shallow friendships and shallower affairs, without commitment, love, or trust. In the past few years she'd found herself making real friends, but the affairs had remained meaningless. Now Tom wanted more. She'd told him there wasn't any more, but there he was, trying to prove her wrong. And there she was … hoping to be proven wrong.
She was crazy. Sex had stood her in good stead for her entire adult life. She shouldn't tamper with what worked, on the slim chance of finding somethi
ng better. She should be satisfied with what she'd had. She always had been.
"Do you like flowers?"
Holly needed a moment to collect her thoughts before tackling the slope that would reveal her lake. "Yes, I like flowers," she said as if it weren't an odd question. "That's why I spend so much of the inn's profits at Melissa's Garden."
"Do you like chocolate?"
"Of course. I'm breathing, aren't I?" She started up the slope, her loafers slipping on the bare dirt. With his hand on her bottom, he gave her a boost to the top, where she stood motionless for a moment to let the peace start to seep in.
"What about jewelry?" He joined her at the top and apparently found the view quite interesting, because he certainly wasn't looking at her.
"Well, let's see … I'm wearing one emerald pendant, two emerald earrings, one diamond and emerald ring, and one watch. And that's just for an average day at work. Yes, I think it's safe to say I like jewelry. Why do you ask?"
"I believe it's called getting to know you, and it was one of the requirements you put on marrying me."
She gazed from him down the hill to the water's edge. "Don't give me cause to push you in the water," she warned. "The fact that we don't know each other very well was one of the many reasons I gave for refusing to marry you. And we agreed not to discuss that any more, remember?"
"We didn't agree. You suggested it, and I ignored you." He slipped his arm around her waist. "And you can push me in if it'll make you feel better, but I'm taking you with me."
In need of a subject change, Holly indicated the pond with one hand. "Welcome to Holly's Lake."
"You named it after yourself?"
She elbowed him in the ribs. "My father named it for his favorite daughter."
"Who also happened to be his only daughter."
"I was also my mother's only daughter, but I wasn't her favorite, by any means. This place holds a lot of memories. I caught my first fish here, drank my first beer, and even lost my virginity right over there." She pointed to a clearing on the far shore. "I was fifteen. He was sixteen and clumsy, and the sex was a disappointment."
Tom watched her gaze at the clearing and wondered if she had a clue how vulnerable she looked. He'd never seen quite that expression on her, and it made him feel … inadequate, because he didn't know how to make it go away.
"I was probably twenty before I found out that sex could be good for the girl, too. I'd already finished with the high school and college boys and had started on the grad-school boys. They knew a lot more tricks than the younger guys did."
"If it wasn't good, why did you keep doing it?"
She smiled faintly as she moved away from him. "Because the sex wasn't the point for me. What I wanted came before. Sex was just the trade-off for it."
The kissing, the holding, the affection. Her mother had been a miserable, abusive drunk; her father had been gone a lot, and dealing with his own unhappiness when he was home. Maybe they had loved her and simply hadn't shown it, or maybe they'd had no emotional energy to spare for her. Either way, she'd gone looking for affection elsewhere, and she'd found it with every boy willing to trade a few kisses and embraces for sex.
You want to go out with me, spend time with me, get to know me, she'd said, but you don't want to have sex with me. Well, you're the first male in twenty-two years to say that. At the time, he'd thought she was referring only to the sex part. Now he knew she meant all of it—the going out, spending time, and getting to know her.
"What about you?" she asked as she made her way to a rock near the water. There she sat down, then drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. The defensive posture made her look even more vulnerable.
He leaned against a boulder near her. "I was seventeen. We went to school together, and her family attended the same church my mother had." He didn't mention that he'd been in church every Sunday, too, for his first sixteen years. "She was the youngest of six daughters, and her parents, having failed to produce a son for the priesthood or to get a single nun out of the older five, were determined that she would dedicate her life to the church. She was equally determined to be the first girl in our school to have sex with every guy in the school. She succeeded, too."
"What became of her?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought of her in years. A lot of the kids I grew up with aren't around any longer. Some are dead, some are in prison. All are pretty much forgotten."
"Except you. You made a name and a few fortunes for yourself."
"I did okay."
"Did your mother have great hopes for your becoming a priest?"
"If she did, she never mentioned it. It was all she could do to get me in church once a week. I was never much interested in following other people's rules, soul searching, or doing penance."
"What were you interested in back then?" He gazed across the water, watching ripples spread from where some creature had broken the surface, and considered all the things he'd wanted—escape, freedom, power, wealth, success. They could all be summed up in one word. "Survival."
"Me too," she agreed softly. She gave him a weak smile. "Who would ever have thought we'd have something in common?"
It was ironic. Holly, with her privileged upbringing in a storybook town and her prestigious family name, and Tom, raised poor in a hellish neighborhood, with his nothing name. For her, survival had meant feeling wanted, even if only for the length of time it took an eager young man to finish the sex act. For him, it had meant getting everything in great measure.
And they'd both succeeded—too well, in fact. She couldn't imagine a man who would want her for anything besides sex, and he couldn't find a woman who wanted him for anything besides the success.
"What's your favorite color?" he asked.
"You tell me."
He glanced at her clothes—black trousers and red sweater under a tan jacket—then remembered the dresses she'd worn each time he'd seen her in recent weeks. "Green." It flattered her in all its shades, played up the creamy tint of her skin, and highlighted the red in her auburn hair.
"What's your favorite color?" she asked.
"Green."
She grinned. "I should have guessed. The color of money."
"The color you look best in," he corrected. The green dress she'd worn to his birthday dinner. The flashy, sexy dress that Saturday night in Buffalo. The deep, dark green she'd chosen for the dance.
"Smooth answer," she teased. "What's your favorite holiday?"
"You and your holidays. Just because you never outgrew them doesn't mean other people didn't."
"What does that mean? You can't think of any to name? Let me help you. There's Christmas and Easter and the Fourth of July. That's when the town fathers blow a small fortune on fireworks in the sky. Come on, your favorite holiday," she prodded.
It was easier to think of the ones that weren't his favorites. He'd outgrown Halloween pretty quickly. Valentine's Day was just an excuse for people to expect expensive gifts. Even with a good Irish name like Flynn, St. Patrick's Day wasn't noteworthy. Christmas and Thanksgiving were family holidays that left him feeling nothing so much as alone. "Fourth of July," he said, choosing the answer by default.
"Why?"
"Because I like fireworks, and I don't mind the risk of getting burned."
She smiled seductively at his answer, but went on with her questions. "What's your favorite word?"
"Oh, come on. No one has favorite words."
She got to her feet and came to stand in front of him, hands in her pockets. "Sure they do. Think about it. What one word do you like to say? To hear? What word makes you feel good?"
Looping his arm around her waist, Tom pulled her close, ducked his head, and murmured his answer before kissing her. "Yes."
For a moment she held herself stiff, then abruptly she melted against him, bringing her could into full contact with his. The rock behind him was hard, her could soft. The air was cold, the kiss hot. Hungry. Demanding. Greedy. Better than the
last.
When he pulled away, she blinked and whispered, "Wow."
"Thank you."
"No," she said, dazedly shaking her head. "That's my favorite word. Wow." She moved away as if she didn't want to, then gave a final shake of her head to clear it. It didn't make her sound any more alert, any sharper, or any less well-kissed. "It's snowing. We'd better head back."
It was a light snow, tiny flakes that melted before they hit the ground, but Tom didn't argue with her. He followed her up the embankment, then back down again. When the trail widened, he moved to walk beside her, then slid his arm around her and tugged her closer. After a moment's resistance, she came willingly, even going so far as to put her arm around him.
But only until the inn came into sight. Then she pulled away, putting distance between them. Was she worried that someone would see them and think she was softening to him and his proposal?
He wanted to think she was, but he wouldn't bet on it yet. Sure, she'd been perfectly willing to kiss him out there, but her kissing him wasn't the problem. She'd been willing to do that practically from the day they'd met. It was all part of her goal—seduction. Which conflicted with his goal of abstinence until marriage.
Then he looked down at her—her hair glistening with melted snowflakes, her cheeks pink from the cold, and her mouth kissed free of lipstick and looking damned inviting—and amended the statement of his goal. Abstinence was fine up to a point.
The point where she said yes.
* * *
Margery sat alone in the lobby, staring at the family portrait on the wall, and wondered why the hell Holly had chosen to display that particular photograph. It wasn't as if she hadn't had other choices. The farmhouse had been filled with portraits of dead McBrides when she and Lewis had moved in—dead, judgmental McBrides, who'd stared down at her with condemnation. For a time she had believed that they'd known how much she hated their house, their town, even, at times, their descendant.
On one of Lewis's countless trips away—his stupid, more-important-than-her trips—she'd ripped every family portrait from the walls and tossed them into boxes and corners in the attic. He hadn't even noticed for a month, and then only because she'd pointed it out to him in a fit of pique. He hadn't cared.
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