"All right. But let's try not to make it a totally obvious getaway. How about I plead a headache and leave, and then you can make your escape about ten minutes later?"
"Fine."
She made to move past him, clearly intent upon returning to the table. Extending a hand, he snagged her arm. She looked at him with that same cool detachment, an expression that filled him with an uncomfortable sense of loss he didn't like one bit.
When he remained silent, she raised her brows. "Did you want something, Matt?"
Yes. I want you to stop looking at me with that dismissive expression, and look at me with that smoky, aroused look I love. Drawing a deep breath, he said, "Yes. I want you to know that I realize you don't play those sort of games with clients, and if you thought I implied otherwise, I'm sorry." He took a step closer to her, inhaling her clean scent, the backs of his fingers brushing against the warm, outer curve of her breast. With his gaze steady on hers, he said, "And I want you to know that if Carol was putting a move on me, I'm definitely not interested."
"Not that it's any of my business, but I think you'd be insane to risk it, what with Jack sitting right there."
"Jack has nothing to do with my disinterest in Carol."
Something indecipherable flashed in her eyes. Good. At least she didn't look quite so impassive anymore. "Anything else?" she asked.
"Yeah. When you return to the room, don't get undressed. I want to discover for myself what you are, or aren't, wearing under that skirt."
* * *
Bumping the door to room 312 closed with her hip, Jilly tossed her clutch purse onto the dresser and paced to the widow. She only had a few minutes before Matt arrived, and she badly needed a precoital pep talk.
Okay, it didn't matter that Carol had most likely known damn well whose leg she was exploring. And it wouldn't have mattered if Matt had taken the blonde up on her offer. He was attractive and single, and after tomorrow, no concern of Jilly's.
Of course, that didn't explain her profound relief that Matt hadn't found Carol attractive, or the unpleasant sting of jealousy that another woman had touched him.
"Argh," she moaned. "Listen, you ding-a-ling," she muttered to herself. "Suck it up and deal with reality. After tomorrow, he's not yours." An ache she couldn't name invaded the area surrounding her heart, and her breath caught.
"All right," she whispered. "But tonight he is mine. And I'm going to make the most of it."
No sooner had the words passed her lips, than the phone rang. Grabbing up the receiver, she said, "Hello?"
"Miss Taylor?" asked a perky, feminine voice.
"Yes."
"This is Maggie at the front desk. We have a delivery for you. Could you please come down to the lobby to sign for it?"
"Delivery? What is it?"
"I couldn't say. It's in a box."
"Can someone bring it up?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Taylor, but deliveries must be signed for by the recipient in the lobby. It's required by the resort's security policy."
"I understand. I'll be right down." Probably some work-related papers from Adam. She scribbled a quick note to Matt, then exited the room. When she arrived at the front desk several minutes later, Maggie greeted her with a smile.
"Your package is in the back room, Miss Taylor. I'll be just a moment."
Jilly waited, and waited, and waited, barely resisting the urge to climb over the counter and storm the Employees Only door through which Maggie had disappeared nearly ten minutes earlier and shout, A very sexy man is waiting for me. Could we please hurry this up a bit?
Snatching up the house phone, she dialed room 312, but Matt didn't answer. Curious. He should have been in the room by now. Her gaze drifted toward the restaurant. Was Matt still in there with Jack and Carol? If so, it was taking him a while to escape. She stilled as a nasty suspicion curled through her. Maybe he wasn't trying to escape at all. Maybe he was in there making the most of his solo time by selling Jack on his ideas for ARC.
"Here you are, Miss Taylor." Maggie's breathless voice yanked her attention back. "I'm so sorry for the delay."
Jilly stared at the long, gold rectangular box Maggie held out to her. "What is this?"
"Your delivery," Maggie said with a laugh.
"It looks like a florist's box," Jilly murmured, taking the package, and admiring the intricate red and green bow.
"It does," Maggie agreed, with an unmistakable envious sigh. "It seems you have an admirer."
Jilly tried to ignore the quickening of her heart, and failed completely. After scribbling her name on the ledger Maggie slid across the desk, Jilly moved to the end of the counter and slowly lifted the lid.
Two dozen pure white roses lay nestled in a bed of red tissue paper. A single sprig of bright green mistletoe sprang from the center of the bouquet. The heady floral scent wafted up to her, and she breathed deeply, her eyes closing with pleasure. She couldn't recall the last time a man had sent her flowers. Her senior prom, maybe?
A small, white envelope rested in a fold of the tissue paper, and she slid it out with hands that weren't quite steady. Pulling out the card, she read: I bought white roses as a memento of things that remind me of you—snowballs and marshmallows. Let's make the most of our last night together. I thought the mistletoe might come in handy. I'm waiting…
Jilly's insides turned to mush, and she heaved out a gushy, feminine sigh. A slap of shame immediately followed on the heels of that sigh for thinking Matt was still in the restaurant schmoozing Jack when he'd been buying her flowers—a sweet, thoughtful, romantic gesture that touched her in ways she didn't dare examine too closely. Because they scared her. And because, as he'd written himself, this was their last night together.
After tucking the note back into the tissue paper, she closed the lid, then carried the box toward the elevator. It was time to make the most of their last night together.
As she approached room 312, she drew a deep breath in a futile effort to calm her jittery insides. More than mere anticipation jangled her nerves. Where had this sudden nervousness come from? Her irritating inner voice coughed to life. It comes from the fact that more than just great sex awaits you in room 312. That man and his roses have heartbreak written all over them.
Her gaze drifted over the floral box she cradled. She suspected her inner voice was right on target, giving Jilly the sudden sinking sensation that she stood with a big bull's-eye painted, on her heart—right in front of an ammo-laden Matt.
Self-directed annoyance straightened her spine and lifted her chin. She simply wouldn't allow her heart to turn this weekend into more than it was—a fun, no-strings romp. So what if Matt had turned out to be much more than she'd expected? Her expectations of him had been so low, anything he said or did of a nonheinous nature would appear disproportionately good. Next week she and Kate would find her a man who wasn't her coworker or rival. And who didn't possess the take-charge chromosome. Yes indeed, they'd find her a better man. A sexier man. Okay, that would present a challenge. But, hey, she thrived on challenges. Challenges were good. Challenges built character. She loved challenges. Yup, she sure did.
Drawing a final, bracing breath, she slid her key card into the door and entered. And halted.
Matt leaned against the desk, his ankles casually crossed, but there was nothing casual about the desire burning in his gaze. Her heart stuttered at that heated look. Forcing her feet to move, she walked slowly toward him, desperately searching for some levity in a situation that didn't feel at all like a lighthearted romp. It felt intense, leaving her weak-kneed and vulnerable in a way she hadn't anticipated, and didn't like.
She swallowed to find her voice, then forced a smile. "Someone sent me flowers," she said lightly. "The card wasn't signed. I think maybe they're from the guy in 311—"
She halted as the bed came into view. White rose petals were scattered over the forest-green bedspread. The night table had been cleared, and now held a large silver platter filled with grapes, strawberries,
and two dome-covered plates. Two champagne glasses sat next to the platter, as well as a silver ice bucket with the slender neck of a dark green bottle peeking over the rim.
Before she could locate her missing voice, he walked toward her and said, "The flowers are from the guy in 312."
Yanking her gaze from the bed and tray, she asked, "What's all this?"
"Dessert. Since we didn't have it in the restaurant, I ordered it to go. Thought you might enjoy a picnic—in bed."
Surely there must have been, at some point over the course of her life, an event that she'd enjoyed more than the prospect of a picnic in bed with Matt, but darned if she could think of what that event might have been.
When he halted in front of her, she said, "You went to a lot of trouble."
"I don't consider it 'trouble' to make our last night together memorable."
"I think it would have been memorable even without all this."
"True." His lips curved upward, but his smile looked tight and didn't quite reach his eyes. "But I like to be a tough act to follow."
No problem there. In fact, she very much feared Matt would prove an impossible act to follow. "I see." She nodded toward the dessert tray. "How do you know I'll like what you ordered?"
"I know what you like, Jilly," he said in a low, deep voice that shimmied heated awareness down her spine. "Would you like me to prove it?"
Probably she nodded. She certainly meant to, but the anticipation brought on by his question, and the desire emanating from him, rendered her immobile. Clearly she gave him some sort of affirmative gesture because he gently took the floral box from her, and set it on a chair. Then he wrapped one strong arm around her waist, tunneled his other hand into her chignon and, before she could utter a sound, kissed her with an unrestrained passion that liquefied her knees. Hot, hungry and demanding, his mouth slanted over hers, his tongue rubbing against hers with a delicious friction that pooled desire low in her belly.
Jilly circled her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, reveling in the hard ridge of flesh pressing against her stomach, and his restless hands cruising down her back and over her buttocks. Yes, he did indeed know what she liked.
She felt him inching her skirt up her thighs, and delight shivered through her. When the material reached the top of her thighs, his hands still. Breaking off their kiss, he looked at her. She splayed one hand against his chest, absorbing the hard, heavy beat of his heart, the rise and fall of each ragged breath, exhilarated that she had such an effect on him. He skimmed his hands underneath her bunched-up skirt and cupped her bare bottom.
His eyes briefly slid closed. When he opened them again, the heat in his gaze nearly scorched her. "Do you have any idea how the thought of you sitting across from me, close enough to touch, wearing nothing beneath this skirt, drove me insane all evening?" He pushed her skirt higher around her waist, and his fingers played lightly over her buttocks, gently squeezing, tickling, delving, rendering her incapable of speech.
"I couldn't think of anything but you," he whispered against her lips. "Touching you. Tasting you."
He stepped forward, urging her back until her legs hit the mattress, then he pressed her gently down until she lay on the cover, her upper body supported by her elbows. He sank to his knees on the floor.
"Spread your legs for me, Jilly. Let me touch you. Taste you."
Heart pounding, she splayed her legs wider. She watched him arouse her with his fingers, caressing her with a slow, drugging, circular motion that had her undulating her hips in a silent plea for more. He kissed and nibbled and licked his way slowly up her inner thigh. The sight of his dark head nestled between her legs, his silky hair brushing over her skin, his magic touch against her sensitive, aroused flesh, all conspired to steal what remained of her control.
When he slid his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her to his mouth, a long moan of unrestrained pleasure escaped her. She collapsed onto her back, and her eyes slid shut as she reveled in the incredible feel of his tongue and lips and fingers gliding, caressing, driving her past the edge of reason. An intense orgasm throbbed through her, wave after wave of deep release that left her breathless, limp, and utterly sated.
Matt raised his head, and stilled at the heart-stopping sight of Jilly, flushed, mussed, skirt pushed up to her waist, thighs splayed, eyes closed, limp from pleasure. With the taste of her lingering on his tongue, he rose and quickly undressed. After rolling on a condom, he loomed over her.
"Look at me, Jilly."
She slowly opened her eyes. With their gazes locked, he entered her in one long, smooth stroke, burying himself in her silky, tight heat. He clasped her hands, entwining their fingers, then moved slowly, deliberately, withdrawing nearly all the way from her body, before gliding deep again. Her eyes darkened, then glazed with renewed passion. His mouth teased hers, licking, circling, his tongue imitating his slow strokes inside her body. He concentrated on every nuance of her body against his, her wet, velvety heat surrounding him, her heart beating against his.
He felt her tension slowly build, and he broke off their kiss, gritting his teeth to prolong their pleasure, but the battle was lost when she wrapped her legs around his hips and groaned his name. His strokes increased in pace, his hands gripped hers tighter. Burying his face against her fragrant neck, he tensed. His release shuddered through him, ripping a long, ragged groan from his chest.
A good minute passed before he found the strength to lift his head. When he did, he found himself looking down into her serious eyes. Eyes that reflected the same question that he knew shadowed his own: How were they going to ignore this when they returned to work on Tuesday?
He wanted to make a joke, lighten the mood, but he couldn't possibly. Not when he was still buried deep in her body. Not when he could feel her heartbeat pounding against his, when their fingers remained entwined, and her legs still gripped his hips.
"Wow," she finally whispered, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "So, um, what's next on the dessert menu?"
"You can have anything you want."
Her eyes darkened. "That's the second time you've told me that."
"And you still haven't claimed your prize from our snowball fight."
"I haven't forgotten. I'm just waiting for the perfect moment."
He shifted inside her, then groaned when her inner walls squeezed him. "This feels pretty perfect to me."
"Is there a statute of limitations on claiming my prize?"
"No."
"Good. Then I'll hold off." She grinned and stretched beneath him. "Maybe wait till you trade in your Lexus for a Mercedes."
"I think you're forgetting the 'within reason' part of the deal."
"Maybe." She wriggled her hands free, then stroked her fingers down his back. "Now, about this offer that I can have anything I want next from the dessert menu—I do have a craving."
He lowered his head and ran his tongue over her plump lower lip. "If it's anything like what I'm craving, I think we're both in for a treat. Tell me what you want."
"I want you and me in the bathtub, the bubble jets massaging us with warm water, while we feed each other the offerings from that lovely dessert platter and drink that chilled champagne. Whaddaya say?"
"I say we want the same things."
* * *
Chapter 11
« ^ »
Jilly came awake slowly. She lay on her side, the comforter pulled up to her chin. Peeking one eye open, she noted the digital numbers on the alarm clock glowing 11:43 a.m. Thanks to the heavy velvet drapes, the room remained dark, but she didn't need to see—not when she could feel so much.
Matt, lying behind her, his body touching the length of hers, his legs pressing against the back of her thighs, one strong arm wrapped around her waist, his palm cupping her breast. His deep, even breaths brushing across her nape, and his chest hair tickling her shoulders.
Her eyes drifted closed, and she remained perfectly still, drinking in the sensation of his wa
rmth pressed against her. Images of last night danced behind her eyelids, indelible images she knew would haunt her for a very long time. Of her and Matt laughing in the jet tub, feeding each other grapes and strawberries, sipping chilled champagne, then making love while the heated water swirled around them. Then moving their indoor picnic to the bed where they indulged in the delights hidden under the silver-domed plates. She was quite certain the chef at Le Cabernet Bistro hadn't meant for his exquisitely rich chocolate mousse to be enjoyed in the ways she and Matt discovered. They'd talked and laughed and loved until they'd finally fallen asleep.
And now that Monday had arrived, their interlude was over.
This was the last time Matt would ever hold her like this. The last time she'd ever feel his skin next to hers. An aching, heavy loss filled her. Did he feel that loss, too? Her throat tightened at the prospect of pretending he meant nothing to her when she saw him at work tomorrow. Was he dreading it as well? Or would he be able to forget the intimacies that had passed between them and be "business as usual" at the office? She somehow doubted it. The way he'd looked at her, touched her, and made love to her, indicated he, too, felt some of this regret—or whatever this thing she was experiencing was called. He hadn't said so, but the emotion was there. In his eyes. In his touch. Wasn't it?
She hadn't asked. Was afraid to know. Was afraid his answer might be no, and then she'd feel like an idiot who'd let a weekend fling touch her heart instead of just her body. And if he said yes, he did feel the same things she did, well, that was just as frightening and unacceptable and definitely better left unsaid, for there was nowhere for such feelings to go. Nothing had changed. Once Jack Witherspoon made his decision, either Matt would be her boss, or she'd be Matt's boss. An interoffice affair under such circumstances was out of the question. Besides, their personalities just didn't mesh. Matt was definitely a take-charge guy, and she wasn't about to let any man have that power over her. What hope was there for two people equally determined to win the same prize? None. No, this was it. The end.
A SURE THING? Page 15