He huffed out another breath. Damn, it was true. He'd expected to enjoy her in bed, but he hadn't anticipated enjoying her just as much out of bed. Over lunch they'd discovered a mutual love of Bond flicks, mystery novels, jazz, the zoo, the Metropolitan Museum of Art's latest exhibit, and spicy Thai food. They'd held hands across the table and laughed over high school and college memories. Traded work war stories. Shared favorite Christmas memories.
He wasn't sure how it had happened, but somewhere between the pasta and his second cup of coffee, this weekend with her had entered a very scary place—a danger zone marked by huge, red neon signs that alternately flashed Be Careful, Proceed At Your Own Risk, and Warning: Heartbreak Ahead.
Good God, he really was a doofus. Any other guy would think he'd hit the lottery with this sweet deal he had going—a weekend of mindless, no-strings-attached sex with a woman who could melt bricks. But was he happy? Noooo. Well, yes, he was—but not as happy as he should be. Because, unfortunately, Jilly had engaged a hell of a lot more than his body. And he needed to nip that in the bud. Needed some time away from her to put things back in perspective, because any perspective he'd possessed had gotten shot to hell making love to her, and as he'd realized over lunch, that same perspective got shot to hell just talking with her. Yeah. Some time away from her was needed. Just a quick breather. An hour or so would do it.
After pulling out his cell phone, he punched in the number for Chateau Fontaine. One minute later, the proud owner of two spa reservations, he disconnected and blew out a long sigh of relief, assured that he was once again in control.
Seconds later, Jilly reappeared. When she slid into the booth across from him, he said, "I have a confession to make."
Mischief sparkled in her eyes. "Hmmm. Will this one be as good as dropping your old boss's fancy fishing pole overboard when he brought you out on his boat?"
He shot her a mock glare. "I knew I shouldn't have shared that moment. So I'm not a fisherman. Besides, the pole was slippery, and the water was rough."
"Of course it was," she said, patting his hand, and unsuccessfully hiding her grin. "So what's the big confession?"
"While you were freshening up, I called the resort and arranged for spa time for each of us. At four o'clock I'm scheduled for a massage, and you're in for a deluxe facial."
One brow hiked up. "Facial? You trying to tell me something? Like maybe I'm looking haggard?"
"No way. A guy would have to be insane to tell a woman who's a black belt that she looks haggard. I just thought you might like it."
Something that resembled annoyance flashed in her eyes. She drew a long breath, then said in a cool tone, "Thank you, but I'm perfectly capable of scheduling my own facial, if I decide I want one."
Matt instantly recalled last night's dinner conversation and he mentally slapped his forehead. Jilly would resent any behavior she'd perceive as taking care of her and any man attempting to exert that control. He clasped her hand. She tried to pull away, but he sandwiched her hand between his palms. "I guess I overstepped my bounds by arranging the facial for you, but I meant no offense. I only meant to be polite. I wanted a massage and thought it would be rude to schedule something for myself and leave you out—sort of like opening a box of chocolates and not sharing. Believe it or not, I do have some manners." He offered what he hoped was a peacemaking smile. "We can cancel if you'd like, or if you'd rather have a massage, we can change the reservation." He leaned forward. "But I thought I'd give you a massage. Later."
The annoyance drained from her gaze. "So, you weren't being bossy and controlling, you were being nice?"
"I'm sure you don't mean to sound so shocked. But yeah, nice was my intention."
"I see. And I'd be getting a facial and a massage."
"That's right."
She leaned forward, and the smoky look in her eyes tightened his groin. "In that case, I'll have the facial. Especially since I probably do look a bit haggard—which, I must point out, is entirely your fault. I didn't get much sleep last night."
"Sweetheart, there is nothing the least bit haggard about you, and you're not going to get much sleep tonight, either."
Their gazes locked, and Matt swore that something passed between them. A warmth, an intimate understanding, that went far beyond the reaches of a casual-sex relationship.
He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her soft palm. "Would you get all mad at me if I offered to pay for lunch?"
"Mad? No. Would I let you? No."
"I like to pay for my dates."
"I'm not your date. I'm your … co-worker. Besides, we're here this weekend on business. This lunch should be charged to our Maxximum corporate account."
I'm not your date. I'm your … co-worker. She was right, of course. Still, an unpleasant sensation hit him at those words. Because, just like dinner last night, this felt very much like a date. And she was more than just his co-worker—she was, for the remainder of the weekend, his lover. His inner voice tried to chime in with a reminder that taking Jilly as his lover had been a baaaaaaad idea, but as it was too late now, he shoved the irritating voice aside.
"Okay, we'll charge lunch to Maxximum," he agreed. "Ready to do our shopping?"
"Lead on, Marshmallow-condom boy."
"Hey, that's Marshmallow-condom man to you."
"You sure you want to argue with a black belt?"
His gaze drifted down to her luscious lips. "Yup. Among other things."
* * *
Jilly sat in the soft, leather passenger seat of Matt's Lexus, and flipped through the guide to Long Island's wine country. She'd picked up the pamphlet on the way out of the candy shop where she and Matt had each purchased huge boxes of chocolate-covered marshmallows.
"Can't wait to play connect-the-dots with mine," he'd said with a grin that whooshed heat through her.
While Matt drove along Route 25—slowly, due to a heavy volume of cars along the one lane road—Jilly said, "According to this brochure, there are nearly thirty wineries out here." She looked up at him, noting his handsome profile as he watched the road. "That's just amazing. How is it possible that I've lived in New York my entire life and never visited the North Fork?"
"Same for me. The only time I've ever been to this part of Long Island was one summer when my family drove out to Mattituck—I think I was about ten or eleven. One of my dad's bosses had a summer cottage near the beach. I remember we caught clams and steamed them for dinner."
"So I guess you're better at catching clams than you are at catching fish," she teased.
He laughed. "Yeah. Clams don't swim as fast—and you don't need a slippery pole to catch them." He braked for a red light, then looked over at her and smiled. "Would you like to stop at one of the wineries on our way back?"
A perfectly normal smile, and a perfectly simple question. So why did they set her heart to racing? Because it's Matt's smile. And it's Matt asking the question, her inner voice sneered.
She ruthlessly pushed the voice aside. Fine. So Matt made her heart go pitty-pat. Next week, she and Kate would find another handsome, intelligent, amusing, sexy man who would affect her in the same way. No problem.
Smiling back, she said, "I'd love to stop at one of the wineries." She forced her gaze back to her brochure. After quickly scanning their choices, she suggested, "How about Galini Vineyards? According to the guide, it's only about a mile up the road. They offer a good selection of wines, and they bottle two different sparkling wines as well. I wouldn't mind picking up a few bottles for myself, and maybe some as Christmas gifts."
"Sounds like a good idea."
They continued the short distance along Route 25. Older houses, set close to the road, their lawns covered with pristine snow, bespoke of Victorian charm with their turrets, porches, and twinkling holiday decorations. A few minutes later, Matt pulled into the gravel driveway marked by a rustic wooden sign entwined with grape leaves proclaiming Galini Vineyards.
"Quaint-looking place," Jilly
remarked, peering out the windshield. "It looks more like a farmhouse than a winery."
"You know what they say about looks being deceiving," Matt murmured. "C'mon. Let's check it out."
Hand in hand, they crossed the parking lot, then stomped the snow from their boots, laughing as they tried to see who could stomp the loudest. When they opened the door, bells tingled overhead, and they looked up.
"Hey," Matt said, pointing above the door as he closed it. "That's mistletoe." He waggled his brows. "You know what that means."
Jilly heaved out a put-upon sigh. "I suppose it means I have to kiss you."
"It certainly does."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're a very high-maintenance guy?"
"No one who lived to tell the tale."
Wrapping an arm around her waist, he drew her close, and covered her lips in a warm, friendly, delicious, teasing kiss that kindled a desire for more.
"Ah! I see my mistletoe is working," came a cheerful, Italian-accented voice from behind them.
Arms still around each other, they turned in unison. A robust man whom Jilly judged to be in his mid-fifties smiled at them from an archway leading into another room. He wore faded denim overalls over a cambric shirt, and tan work boots. Gray marked his thick, ebony hair, and his amusement-filled dark eyes regarded them over the rim of a pair of wire-framed reading glasses, which rode the end of his nose.
"Working very well," Matt said with a grin, dropping a quick kiss onto her forehead.
"Every Christmas I hang mistletoe above the door chimes," the man said, walking toward them, wiping his hands on a rag, "and every year I catch dozens of couples kissing. It does my heart good."
Tucking the rag into his pocket, he extended his hand. "Welcome to Galini Vineyards. My name's Joe."
Matt shook the man's hand, then Jilly did the same, noting Joe's firm handshake and work-roughened, callused hands.
"Are you looking for anything in particular?"
"We understand you have several varieties of sparkling wine?" Jilly said.
"Some very fine varieties," Joe said. He indicated a long, highly polished bar along the left wall. "Would you care for a tasting?"
Jilly smiled. "That would be great."
Joe crossed the room, and Matt and Jilly followed. While Joe readied tulip-shaped glasses and removed bottles from the refrigerator, Jilly looked around the large room.
The rustic theme carried through to the inside of the building. Wood plank floors, paneled walls, and a high, beamed ceiling were made to feel warm and cozy by the stone fireplace nestled in the corner where a fire cheerfully crackled. Attractively framed photographs of the vineyard during various seasons and stages of harvesting lined the walls.
An eye-catching display of wines and handmade ceramic pieces decorated a long table beyond the bar where they now stood. Looking out the huge picture window that took up the entire back wall, Jilly noted that the scenery was identical to that at Chateau Fontaine—row upon row of bare, snow-covered vines, held in place by thick wooden stakes and horizontal cables.
"Incredible to believe that so much of this land where the wineries now are, used to be potato farms," Jilly remarked.
Matt's brows raised. "Potato farms? I didn't know that."
"It's true," Joe said, in his accented voice. "In fact, this very building is a renovated farmhouse. The owners wanted to keep the rustic feel of the place."
"It's terrific," Jilly said, smiling. "Very warm and cozy and friendly."
"Grazie. On behalf of the Galini family, I thank you." Joe poured some bubbly into the two glasses. "This is our bestselling sparkling wine. It's crisp, dry, made mostly from pinot noir grapes."
The delicate bubbles burst on Jilly's tongue. "Delicious," she said, and Matt agreed.
They tasted two other sparkling wines, then sampled a merlot and a chardonnay, while Joe related a brief history of the vineyard.
"All the grapes at Galini Vineyards are picked by hand," Joe said, and there was no mistaking the pride in his voice. "We have eighty acres, and grow mostly cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay, merlot, and pinot noir. Five acres are devoted to sangiovese, the grape of—"
"Chianti," Jilly said, with a smile.
Joe beamed at her, his dark eyes filled with pleasure at her knowledge. "Yes. You are a student of wine?"
Jilly laughed. "More like a new recruit. I recently did some research on the subject because a client I'm hoping to win over enjoys wine, and I must admit I find it fascinating." She felt the weight of Matt's gaze and purposely kept her attention focused on Joe. "You must be busy pruning the vines at this time of year."
Joe nodded. "Yes. It is a long, painstaking task. Each individual vine must be pruned manually, and unfortunately not everyone can do it."
"You need to have the feel for it," Jilly guessed.
"That is correct. A full day's work will prune less than half an acre."
"But the hard work is worth it," Matt said. "The wines are delicious, and this merlot…" he swirled the last swallow in his glass, "is exceptional. And the chardonnay we tasted has a very distinctive oaky flavor."
Joe practically preened from the praise. "Grazie."
"That's from aging in oak barrels," Jilly said. "I read all about it. The oak imparts flavor to the wine while it ferments and ages, and because oak is slightly porous, it lets water and alcohol out, and small amounts of oxygen in which helps the wine to 'integrate'…" Her voice trailed off and she laughed at herself. "Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away."
Joe waved his hand. "Nonsense. Your enthusiasm is enchanting."
The bells above the door tinkled as a trio of young men entered. Joe excused himself, and Jilly turned to Matt who regarded her with a look she couldn't decipher.
"You clearly did your homework to prep for this weekend with Jack," he said.
"I'm certain you did the same."
"True, but the Missionary Position Virus problem ate up a lot of my time."
A smile tugged her lips. "Hmmm. Yes, I imagine that the ol' missionary position problem could use up a lot of time. Especially if one were to apply themselves to solving that particular problem by coming up with alternate solutions."
"Absolutely," he murmured. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, and her pulse jumped at the intimate gesture. "Have I mentioned that I am an extremely adept problem-solver?"
"No, but you didn't need to. Actions speak louder than words." Sliding her arms around his neck she stood on her toes, leaned into him and lightly bit his earlobe. Feminine satisfaction filled her at the low growl that rumbled in his throat. "So what does this action tell you, big guy?" She pressed herself more fully against him.
"That it's time to get out of here."
She leaned back in the circle of his arms and smiled at him. "See? That's one of the things I like about you, Davidson. You're smart."
An undecipherable look flashed in his eyes. "Smart. That's just one of the things I like about you, Jilly."
Jilly's heartbeat stuttered. Uh-oh. Once again their lighthearted conversation seemed to veer onto a serious side street. She didn't want him to like her. She didn't want to like him. She just wanted to use him for sex until tomorrow and then forget he existed. Yeah, that's what she wanted.
A frown tugged down her brow. But it was probably okay that he liked her and she liked him. People who engaged in sex should like each other—right? Of course! And like was a very noncommittal, lukewarm, unintimidating emotion. She liked corn on the cob. She liked daisies. She liked the color green. She liked Matt. No big deal. As long as she didn't do something really stupid and more than like him, everything would be great.
Stepping back from him, she slipped her hand into his and pulled him toward the table where the colorful handmade ceramic plates, bowls, and cups were displayed.
"What are we doing?" he asked.
"Shopping."
"I'd much rather drag you into that back room and have my wicked way with you behind an oak b
arrel."
She pushed aside that tempting image and shot him a mock frown. "I'm sure that would be very damaging to the wines. Probably disrupt their tannins."
"Whatever they are."
She adopted her most prim, schoolmarm voice. "Tannins are a class of chemicals found in the skins, seeds, and stems of grapes. They're important to wine because they react with oxygen and protect against premature oxidation which is one of the main sources of wine spoilage."
He nuzzled her neck with his warm lips. "Yeah. Premature oxidation. I hate it when that happens."
A giggle erupted from her. "You're distracting me from my shopping." Yet even as she said the words, she turned her head to give him easier access to her neck.
"I can solve this shopping problem in five seconds flat," he said, his breath whispering against her ear. "Let's just buy one of everything and get out of here."
She leaned back in the circle of his arms and shot him a mock frown. "Clearly you know nothing about living on a budget."
"You're right. Let's go get naked and you can tell me all about it."
"And I thought I was insatiable."
"Didn't I tell you? Insatiable is my middle name."
"Ha. Since when?"
The amusement drained from his gaze. "Do you really want to know?"
She stilled under the regard of his suddenly serious expression and husky tone. Even as her common sense yelled No!, her lips said, "Yes."
"Ever since I walked into room 312 on Friday night."
His answer stalled her breath, as did the intensity in his gaze. It was what she'd been terrified to hear—yet precisely what she'd wanted him to say. Because she felt exactly the same way.
"You feel it, too," he said softly, his gaze searching hers.
Panic fluttered through her, and her mind screamed at her to lie, to run, to plead the fifth. But what was the point? He'd know she was lying. Besides, she wasn't a liar.
Lifting her chin, she said, "Yes. I feel it, too."
Was that relief that flashed in his eyes? Before she could decide, he cupped her face in his palms and brushed his thumbs over her cheeks. "Question is, what are we going to do about that, Jilly?"
A SURE THING? Page 12