FIRST KISS

by Marylin Pappano

  She forced a smile even though she felt more like crying. "But I don't want to marry you," she said gently, and for the first time, it felt like less than the honest truth. "I don't want to marry anyone."

  "Why not?" he demanded.

  "I told you the other day—"

  "That you're easy. So what? I've been told I'm difficult. It'll balance out."

  Holly forced her hands free, forced the jewelry box back into his hands. "Please don't do this. I don't want to fight with you. I—I—" She smiled ruefully. "I've waited too long for you to come back."

  He stood motionless for a very long time, his head tilted to one side, studying her as if she were alien to his experience. After a time, he blinked, gave an impatient shake of his head, and tossed the box on top of his overcoat. "I can't figure you out."

  "Join the crowd," she said with a smile that was unsteady.

  "I've given other women jewelry, the more extravagant, the better."

  "But I'm not other women. I'm certainly not like your other women." She sipped her wine, then returned it to the table. "Dance with me."

  He took her into his arms without hesitation, and Holly rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the tension drain from her neck and shoulders. For the first time all week she felt peaceful, satisfied. All the world faded away, leaving just the two of them, the music, the comfort. She could stay alone with him like this forever, with no need of or concern for the inn, her guests, her friends, her mother. Just Tom and this closeness. That was all she wanted.

  They were well into the fourth song when he quietly spoke. "If I can't give you diamonds, what can I give you?"

  Eyes closed, she hid her smile in his suit coat. He was one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the country, and he truly didn't understand why she couldn't accept the necklace, truly didn't have a clue as to what kind of gift would be appropriate. "Flowers," she decided.

  "What kind?"

  "Roses. In any color. And orchids. I love orchids. Or chocolate would be appropriate."

  "What kind do you prefer?"

  "Anything from Hershey's Kisses to Godiva to the most incredible champagne truffles from a little shop on Madison Avenue. A book would be nice, or a CD." Anticipating his next question, she went on. "Anything with a happy ending and anything we can dance to." Then, lifting her head, she opened her eyes to find him watching her. "You," she whispered. "That would be most appropriate."

  "Me?"

  "All those women you've given extravagant jewelry to… You made love to them before giving them the gifts, right?"

  "We had sex," he agreed guardedly.

  Interesting that he would make that distinction. He'd told her he wasn't sentimental, and yet he wanted to make it clear that his relationships with Deborah and the others were purely physical. As opposed to the relationship he had with her, which was purely confusing. And sweet. Frustrating. Pleasing. Frightening. "So have sex with me, and maybe I'll consider keeping the necklace." She grinned wickedly. "At the very least, I'll wear it and nothing else while we're having sex."

  For a moment he cradled her hips to his, rubbing the beginning swell of his arousal against her, but she didn't believe for an instant that his answer was going to be yes. Considering that it was his favorite word, he certainly didn't use it often.

  "I'll make love to you," he replied evenly, "when the time is right."

  "But only you get to decide when that is."

  He gazed down at her for a long while before softly disagreeing. "No, darlin', only you get to make that decision."

  And what went into making that decision? She had to admit they had a serious relationship. She had to admit that she wanted more than just sex, that she wanted him, in her life as well as in her bed. She had to admit she cared for him. She had to open herself to the possibilities. To commitment. To marriage. To getting her heart broken.

  She wasn't ready for that. No matter how much she wanted an affair with him, she didn't want it enough—didn't want him enough—to lay her heart on the line … did she?

  "You're asking for the impossible, Tom."

  "Nothing's impossible. I'm living proof of that." She couldn't argue with him. And it gave her an odd feeling in her chest to think she would be his first failure.

  "Sex doesn't even mean anything to you," she said, returning her head to his chest. He slid one hand up to stroke her hair, his gentle touch encouraging her to close her eyes. Every breath she took smelled of his cologne, a scent that she would forever associate with power, sexuality, arousal … and security. "It's a physical act that brings you pleasure, nothing more, nothing less. You do it with women you hardly know and care nothing about, and yet you won't do it with me. It's not fair."

  "I won't do it with you because it does mean something to you. You use it as a way to keep men at a distance. If you keep busy having meaningless sex with every guy who comes along, then you don't have time to care about any of them. If I sleep with you, you're going to write me off just like all the rest. But I don't intend to be written off, Holly I intend to marry you."

  She made a rueful face. "I used to say that I liked a man who knew what he wanted. Now I'm not so sure."

  His low laughter tickled her ear and sent a shiver down her spine. "Sex is easy, darlin'. But having sex with someone you care about… That scares you to death, doesn't it?"

  Lifting her chin, she stopped dancing and met his gaze. "Not at all," she lied. "I've done it before and I survived."

  "When?"

  "The first boy I had sex with," she said airily, as if the memories had no power to hurt, "and the next and the next. They kissed me and held me and told me they loved me, and when I gave them what they wanted, they walked away No big deal. I survived."

  He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, sending a slow, lazy heat through her. She wanted to arch against him like a cat, to lean in to him so he could reach other parts of her could, but she held herself still. "And if I have sex with you, that's what you'll expect from me," he said quietly. "That I'll walk out of your life and leave you alone. But it's not going to happen, Holly. One time with you isn't going to be enough. A hundred times won't be. And having sex with you, knowing I'm no different from every other man who's been there before… That's not going to happen, either."

  He sounded so sure of himself, so absolutely convinced of what he wanted, that Holly envied him. She had tremendous faith in her sexuality, but very little in herself. Maybe that was because she'd spent half her life cultivating the sexuality and all of it hiding herself. She'd been hurt too many times, had been disappointed too many times.

  After refilling her wineglass, she sat down in one corner of the overstuffed sofa, kicking off her shoes, drawing her feet beneath her. "Why marriage, Tom?"

  "I told you—"

  "That you'd accomplished all the goals you'd set for yourself so now it's time to find a wife. But that's not a reason to get married."

  "Then what is?" he asked as he settled at the other end of the sofa.

  "Frankly, I can't think of any reason besides children. If you're going to have kids, then you should be married. Other than that…" She shrugged. "And since we've already established that neither of us wants kids…" After a moment, purely out of curiosity, she asked, "Why don't you? Want kids, I mean."

  Tom gazed at his wine, watching it respond to the slightest movement he made, and considered her question. For years his answer to such personal questions had been simple and true—no time. He'd been too busy fulfilling his goals to waste one moment on relationships he couldn't sustain or pursuits that did nothing to further his success. He couldn't recall ever making a conscious decision not to marry or not to have children. They were just things that he'd known instinctively weren't going to happen. Of course, he'd changed his mind about getting married. But he wasn't changing his mind about kids. The only kids he could relate to were ones like he used to be, and he neither needed nor wanted that kind of headache.

  "Raising children should
be left to those whose lives wouldn't be complete without them," he said. "Like Ross and Maggie, the Bishops, and the Graysons. I never wanted a daughter to worry about or a son to carry on my name. I never wanted to be that unselfish. From the time I was sixteen, I had a plan for my life, and it didn't include the sort of sacrifices children require." Listening to his own words, he smiled faintly. "I sound like a self-centered bastard, don't I?"

  "Not at all. I think my parents felt the same. They just didn't realize it until I was already here." She smiled, too, as if it didn't bother her in the least, but underneath the cool disregard was a hint of wistfulness. Somewhere inside, he suspected, there was a part of her that still craved her mother's love. Why else would the woman she claimed to dislike so thoroughly still be in residence?

  "I feel the same," she went on. "I don't have a maternal bone in my could. I enjoy my friends' kids from time to time, but I have zero tolerance for crankiness, tears, messy diapers, sticky hands, sibling rivalry, or temper tantrums—unless they're mine, of course. I feel no desire to pass on some part of myself to some poor, unsuspecting child. I don't need a legacy other than the inn."

  They fell silent for a time. Tom finished his wine and set the glass on the table, then studied her. She was dressed in ivory this evening, wool slacks and a sweater that fell below her hips. With her matching pumps and her auburn hair sleekly styled, she'd looked elegant. With the shoes off and her hair mussed where he'd stroked it, she looked vulnerable. Appealing. Innocent.

  "What about love?" he asked without thinking about it. "Is that a reason to get married?"

  "Love is a fantasy."

  "And some fantasies come true."

  "Some people fall in love, and it's the real thing. Some people fall in love, and it isn't. Others never fall."

  "Or maybe it just takes them a long time because they're too stubborn to recognize what they feel."

  Her smile was broad, her voice edged with mockery. "And how does love feel, Mr. Screw-'em-and-leave-'em? For twenty-four years you've devoted every single bit of your passion and energy to building a power base and earning a fortune. You haven't had a serious relationship in your life. You use women to satisfy your sexual urges and pay them well before discarding them. You have one friend—one—and that's more a testament to Ross's ability to offer friendship than your ability to inspire it. You've never been in love with anyone, and no one's ever been in love with you. So tell me, Tom, what do you know about love?"

  He knew that if he didn't feel something for her, he wouldn't listen to her talk like that and keep coming back for more. He wouldn't feel that odd, empty pang in his gut. He wouldn't be so sensitive to her words, or so susceptible to her contempt.

  If he didn't feel something for her, he would take her to his suite, screw her brains out, then forget she existed. Like all those men before him.

  He also knew it was fear that made her say things like that. Fear of emotions she couldn't control. Fear of coming to care more for him than she already did. She wanted him. She missed him.

  Now he needed her to need him. He wouldn't ask for her love. Those things would be enough.

  "I'm coldhearted, Holly, not blind," he said quietly. "The first and last person to give a damn about me was my mother. But I see people. I know things. I understand emotions." Some of them, at least. Desire, hunger, anger, determination. Since meeting her, he'd become well acquainted with frustration, and since his birthday, he'd had a few run-ins with jealousy, greed, impatience, longing, and tenderness.

  He didn't change his tone at all. "I know you want to be with me, and at the same time, you're afraid of being with me. You're trying hard to convince us both that all you want from me is sex, because sex doesn't involve emotions. But your emotions are already involved, and that scares you, too. You're afraid of caring too much, of falling in love with me."

  For a moment she stared at him, speechless. The laugh she finally choked out sounded phony as hell. "Lack of confidence has never been a problem for you, has it?"

  "No."

  "You think I'm falling in love?"

  "No." He felt a stab of regret as he answered. He wished she was falling in love with him. That would be … incredible. "I think you're afraid of falling in love with anyone."

  "I choose not to fall in love," she said sharply. "I don't want any messy emotional entanglements."

  It wasn't so long ago that he'd thought the same thing. He'd actually worried whether Holly's emotional needs would be a burden he couldn't meet. He'd never imagined the day would come—and so quickly—when he would want that burden, would feel cheated without it.

  "You never answered my question," he said, his tone mild, empty of all he was feeling. "Is love a reason to get married? If two people fall in love and want to spend the rest of their lives together…"

  "Why not just live together?"

  He shrugged. "There's no commitment. It's too easy to leave if you get upset."

  "You think a marriage license will keep someone around who doesn't want to be there? For an intelligent man, Tom, you can certainly be naive."

  He couldn't argue that point, so he didn't try. "Living together is no big deal. At least getting married requires a bit of effort and thought. And it's a hell of a lot more respectable. I'd much rather introduce you as my wife than as the woman I'm currently living with."

  She rose onto her knees and slowly, sensuously, moved the length of the sofa until she was straddling his thigh and leaning close to him, with one hand planted on either side of his shoulders. "Why, Tom Flynn, are you saying that you care what people think?"

  "I care what I think," he said awkwardly. He couldn't breathe without taking in the sweet, exotic fragrance of her perfume, couldn't move without touching her—and, God help him, he wanted to touch her. "And I think you deserve better than to shack up with someone you don't trust not to leave you."

  And, yes, when it came to her, he did care what people thought. He already knew the looks she would get from everyone who knew him and the assumptions they would make—that she was just like all the others, that her place in his life was temporary, that he didn't care enough about her to marry her.

  "Your concern is sweet," she murmured between kisses to his jaw. "Misplaced, but sweet." She lowered herself, bringing her could into aching, throbbing contact with his, and brushed her mouth tantalizingly across his. "You see, I don't care about effort and thought, or respect, or what other people think. I don't care about being shacked up, or what I deserve. What I do care about is getting what I want, and not getting suckered into a marriage that's doomed from the start, and not letting other people influence my decisions. What I really care about is you … and me … naked and doing all kinds of wicked things. It would curl your toes, Tom, and make you forget all about love and marriage and other such nonsense."

  The slow, easy way she was touching him was almost enough to curl his entire could into one tight, hard knot. It was more than enough to make him impossibly hard and relentlessly hot. But it couldn't make him forget. Nothing could.

  He slid his fingers into her hair as she left a trail of wet kisses down his throat, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, pushing the fabric aside. When her mouth found his nipple, he groaned, held her there for one moment's torture, then gently forced her away. "Oh, Holly," he said with a chuckle, "whoever said you were easy couldn't have been more wrong. You're the most difficult woman I know."

  Her smile was satisfied and erotic and taunting. "And you're the hardest man I know. Why don't we slip upstairs and lock the door and—"

  When he shook his head, her amazing mouth settled in a pout that disappeared the instant he kissed her. It was a hard kiss, demanding a response that she was happy to give. He thrust his tongue in her mouth, tasted her, filled her with a familiar rhythm that made his blood hot, that made him throb where her hips cradled him. When, with a sigh, she went all soft and weak against him, he sent her tension level skyrocketing by sliding his hands underneath her swea
ter. Her skin was warm, soft as the finest silk, and her breasts were bare. He ended the kiss so he could watch her face as he pressed his palms to her breasts, then teased her nipples to aroused peaks. Her eyes were closed, her lips kissed free of color, and her breath came in short, shallow puffs. When he gently pinched one nipple, she gasped, then gave a great groan.

  "Has anyone ever told you you have incredibly talented hands?"

  "Most women aren't particularly interested in my hands." He moved, easily lifting her until she was reclining at the opposite end of the sofa, until he was leaning over her. First he gave her a kiss, a simple one, just lips, no tongues, then he kissed his way along her jaw. Her ear was sensitive. The kiss there raised goose bumps, and there was a place behind the ear that made her shiver.

  He took his sweet time, caressing, exploring, teasing. He felt her skin grow hotter, felt her tension increase, then ebb, then increase again. He watched her eyes flutter shut and her nipples pucker under his touch, and saw the soft, warm skin of her stomach ripple when he tasted it, and he listened with satisfaction to her uneven breathing, her helpless gasps, her wordless pleas for more.

  And then he stopped. "You like that?"

  "Yes." The word was breathy, damn near soundless, erotic as hell.

  "Good. We can finish when you give the word."

  Her eyes popped open, and she sent him a look that should have cut him off at the knees. "Wh-what—? Don't stop— You can't—" Understanding set in, and she scrambled up, tugged her clothes into place, then glared at him. "That's not fair! You can't start something like that, then just stop! You—you—"

  "All you have to do is say yes, and I promise, I won't stop." Not for a few days, judging from the tension humming through his could.

  Grabbing a pillow, she swung it with a frustrated cry and smacked him, but he easily pulled it away, wrapped his arms around her, and drew her close. "I'm glad I'm back, Holly. I've missed you."

  She breathed deeply a few times, and the tension slowly seeped from her could, leaving her soft and warm against him. Eventually she rested her head against his shoulder and admitted, "I've missed you, too."