After something like that, how could she possibly do anything wrong? So screw it. She was going to see what the minibar had in the way of drinks. She could use one.
Twenty
She opened one of those teeny, tiny bottles of champagne that probably cost a fortune and drank it in two gulps. Luckily she wasn’t paying for the minibar. And on that note, she took out the other teeny, tiny bottle and sipped it more leisurely. In three gulps.
She needed them for tranquilizers. Okay?
Although she supposed that was the oldest excuse in the book—like I need a drink to calm myself down or make my very bad day better, or some other lame reason for over-imbibing.
But in her case, it was true. A tranquilizer was crucial.
Because she didn’t get a chance to be with Johnny Patrick or a Johnny Patrick type every day of the week—or, honestly… ever.
Champagne or not, though, she was still wired. Needing distraction, she flicked on the TV and ended up watching Sky News because it was the only channel besides CNN in English. Even better, they were airing a program on Scottish architecture. Was this her lucky night—in more ways than one—or what? She loved Scottish architecture.
After raiding the minifridge a couple more times—chocolate was her comfort food when she was stressed—she was eating the last truffle from the pretty box tied with a blue ribbon when she practically leaped from her chair at the knock.
Could it be that she needed a really heavy-duty pharmaceutical-grade tranquilizer to calm her?
Better planning would be her mantra in the future. Bereft of that pharmaceutical option at the moment, however, her only choice was to at least give an appearance of calm. She smiled pleasantly but not effusively as she opened the door, holding her hands behind her back to hide their tremor. “Jordi must be sleeping.” Oh, Christ, was that a vacuous remark, or what?
He seemed not to notice. “Yep. Fast asleep. Vernie, too.” He smiled. “I’m free for the night.”
He shouldn’t have said that “free for the night” line in that soft, husky tone. It was an instant trigger for a flood of highly creative, salacious images to inundate her mind. All of which she resolutely tried to ignore. But a couple of the better ones wouldn’t disappear—like the one with Johnny’s powerful, nude body poised over hers just before—STOP! GET A GRIP!
Oh, shit—he must have said something. He was looking at her expectantly.
“Sorry, I was thinking about the great dinner we had,” she lied, the bedroom scene in her head resisting her best efforts to dismiss it.
“I was just asking if you wanted to go somewhere for a drink?”
He was leaning against the doorjamb looking sexy as hell, and his cool, wolfish eyes were asking something else entirely. That look suddenly brought her to one of those forks in the road— you know… where one made moral choices (the increasingly compelling nature of the bedroom scene in her head putting her at a disadvantage).
Where questions of virtue had to be addressed. (Ditto, above.)
On the other hand this wasn’t the nineteenth century, women were liberated what with birth control and credible professions and salaries. Thank God for a voice of reason. Although, liberated or not, she still wasn’t completely off the hook—morality wise.
What the hell, she decided, if she had to worry about virtue, he might as well, too. “It’s up to you,” she said, throwing the ball back into his court.
“Then I’ll come in.”
The man had no trouble making decisions. “Be my guest,” she said, waving him in, giving herself points for handling things with her usual evasion. So it was a bad habit. She’d deal with it tomorrow.
As he eased past, he leaned over and lightly brushed her lips with his.
Was that one of those casual European hellos, or was that an actual kiss? she wondered. Her body apparently preferred the kiss option, because it instantly began revving up—every little cell sending out heated, passionate messages of anticipation.
“Mind if I order a cognac?” he asked, moving toward the phone on the desk in the sitting room.
It was a question that obviously didn’t require an answer. It also suggested he wasn’t in a big hurry, which meant she would be wise to discipline her sexual synapses to show a tad more restraint. “I’ll have one, too,” she said, like she drank cognac every day, like she drank it at all. Like she might actually have sexual restraint.
Tossing her a smile over his shoulder, he punched the room service button and ordered a bottle.
While she was debating where to sit and what to say, as well as seriously trying to curb her restive desires with his kiss still tingling on her lips, he sat down on the couch, leaned back, and spread his arms along the top in a relaxed pose. “This is the first time I’ve been able to kick back since we took off from San Francisco. Come on over.” He patted the back of the seat. “Sit down. Talk to me.”
He’d been here before, she was guessing. That was definitely not the hard sell.
She didn’t have to worry about resisting a sex fiend from the looks of it. In her current mood, she wasn’t sure that was entirely good. Although, a man like Johnny probably didn’t have to come on too strong. All he had to do was sit back and wait.
She should probably attempt an equal maturity and not fling herself at him like some groupie. Which meant stanching her baser impulses.
“What movie did Jordi watch?” she asked, sitting down, leaving a comfortable space between them, pleased to hear herself sound calm as a cucumber. Maybe she could play hard to get, too.
“She started watching Fantastic Four for the umpteenth time. But she fell asleep pretty fast.” He smiled faintly. “She was worn out.”
“After three martinis, I don’t suppose Vernie put up any fuss about going to bed, either.” Nicky wasn’t sure how long she could remain calm when the heat from his body was bombarding her senses. Smile politely and think good thoughts, her voice of reason suggested, loosely paraphrasing the advice Queen Victoria had given her daughter on her marriage—“Lie back and think of England.”
“Vernie was out before Jordi.” He offered her a sympathetic look. “You must be tired, too.”
“I’m okay,” she managed to say. “I slept last night.”
“I didn’t, but I’m too psyched about having Jordi back to be tired.”
Was that a hidden clue; was he saying he was good for all night? Did that mean he wouldn’t take offense if she jumped him? “It’s great how everything worked out with Jordi,” she said, feeling the weight of virtue on her shoulders as she responded responsibly.
“The understatement of the century,” he murmured. “Getting her away from Lisa’s crowd was a relief. Those guys my ex knows have fathers who launder more money than Enron ever did.”
The thought of actual criminal activity was mega-sobering. “They don’t sound like nice characters,” she said, a jolt of apprehension partially mitigating her lust.
“No shit. They’re way the hell out of Lisa’s league. But she likes the drugs, and they have it by the truckload.”
Funny how actual fear could raise havoc with sexual desire. “These guys aren’t run-of-the-mill street dealers, are they?” she asked, nervous now.
He shook his head. “This is big-time worldwide traffic.”
“Jesus.” Her heart did a nervous pit-a-pat. “Like in the movies.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not the movies,” he said, ultra-calm, like they were talking about the weather. “No way do you want to fuck with these people.”
“No kidding?” She could feel the hairs rise on the back of her neck. “Maybe we should find another hotel. Or another country. Black Duck didn’t prepare me for stuff like this.”
“We’re out of here soon. It’s not a problem anyway.”
She must have seen too many movies about drugs that had bad endings. “You’re way more cavalier about this than I am.”
“In my business I run into big money that isn’t always on the up and up.
People like that are always looking for legitimate investments. They like the glitz and glamour of the entertainment world; they can get rid of some money legitimately and also rub shoulders with—” He glanced up at the knock on the door. “Excuse me,” he said, coming to his feet. “The cognac’s here.”
Or maybe drug dealers with guns, Nicky thought, the knock on the door ultra-discreet like maybe it was some cunning artifice, and seconds from now she’d be blown away by an automatic weapon with a silencer.
But as Nicky was bracing herself against the worst-case scenario playing in her head, Johnny opened the door to a young waiter with a dusty bottle of cognac. After politely bon soiring them, he set about opening the bottle and pouring them each a glass of an obviously very old liquor.
Johnny handed the man a large bill, then glanced at Nicky. “Tell him we appreciate the quick service.”
She did, the man told her to tell Johnny how much he liked his record label, and after a few minutes more of translating a conversation about specific artists the waiter favored along with a ton of effusive praise for Johnny, the man left.
“I suppose you get that a lot. Adulation.”
“More than I need, that's for sure,” he said, sitting down again and handing her a cognac. “I’m only the producer. I don’t make the music. Cheers.” He lifted his glass. “This is usually good.”
It was, in a slightly fruity, high-octane way. Her previously heated senses revived, her close proximity to a man who no doubt featured in thousands of women’s dreams was not without its potent effect. And since no killers had materialized, her morbid fears had been dispelled. Also, he smelled divine, not something she usually noticed—then again, maybe the men she dated didn’t buy their cologne in the same high-end shops as Johnny Patrick.
She found herself thinking she’d like to lick him all over he smelled so good, the fragrance kind of vanilla-ee with a hint of— really… she had to say chocolate. Was that possible? If she hadn’t had wine at dinner, two small bottles of champagne, and now cognac, she might not have said, “Is that chocolate I smell in your cologne, or am I crazy?”
“Dunno,” he said like a guy would. “I get it at a shop in San Francisco. It’s French, though. I forget the name.”
“I adore chocolate.” Oops, that was open to a possible subtext, and she’d warned herself about openly drooling over him. “I mean I eat it all the time. Oh, shit,” she muttered, flushing pink at his smirk. “Strike those last inanities. I just like your cologne, that’s all.”
“Don’t get bent out of shape. I like a helluva lot more than your perfume, or I wouldn’t be here.”
That was nice. Succinct, yet sweet. “So this isn’t any port in a storm.”
“No storm here, babe. I know what I’m doing.”
“It’s good one of us does. I’m not so sure.”
His brows rose. “Of?”
She blew out a breath. “Celebrity types like you.” Her anxieties about assassins giving way to more basic, everyday doubts.
He grinned. “That’s all bullshit. I’m as ordinary as the next guy.”
“Puleese.”
“Okay, so I know a few more people than you.”
“A-list people who are all infinitely familiar with the red carpets of the world.”
“What’s that got to do with this?” His dark gaze was suddenly intense. “Seriously?”
She held his gaze for a moment, then melted under his boyish smile, which appeared like sunshine after the rain and effectively obliterated the red carpets of the world in one fell swoop. He looked like a kid from some small California town.
“So can we dispense with the celebrity shit?” he murmured.
“Yeah, I guess.” It was incredible how he could transform himself with that fucking sweet smile.
“And we’re not going to get hung up on anything more than having a good time?”
“I guess.”
He laughed. “You’re gonna give me a complex.”
She grinned. “Maybe it’s about time someone did.”
“So, you’re gonna take me on?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“Not as long as I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Betcha.”
“Since I first saw you,” he said smoothly, not an amateur with women.
“Okay… we’re even. You looked damned nice in that Speedo.”
“Jordi liked you right off, too.” That at least was true—as for him… maybe he had noticed her and just didn’t let it register.
His daughter was that important to him. Christ, she felt like crying or at least breaking into one of those songs from a family movie like The Sound of Music. “So are we done with this cognac?”
“Are you asking?”
“I guess I am.” Shit, she wasn’t going to.
“I’m glad. Being a gentleman is really fucking hard.”
His gratifying candor along with his smile went a long way toward assuaging her moment of guilt. Setting his glass down, he took hers and placed it next to his. “You can still change your mind,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “But five minutes from now,” he added with a grin, “I can’t give any guarantees.”
“Back at you. I’ve been restraining my carnal impulses. Be forewarned.”
“Nice,” he murmured, drawing her in to his body. “An assertive woman. I like that.”
“Not as much as I like this,” she whispered, moving her hips against his blatant erection. “You’d better have protection.”
“No problem.”
“We’re good then.”
“One small caveat.”
Uh-oh, here’s where he’ll say, I need you to sign a release. No stories to the tabloids. “What?” She leaned back a little to meet his gaze.
“I just don’t want this to screw up Jordi’s tree house.”
“This one-night stand, you mean.”
He wasn’t sure of her tone of voice, but he was sure about what he needed from her long term. “I just don’t want you to be pissed later and shelve our deal.”
“So you piss off a lot of women?”
That ambiguous tone again, but he answered honestly because there was no point in not. “Once in a while,” he said.
She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away.
Fuck, he thought. He’d blown it.
“Sex is sex in my world. Tree houses are tree houses”—she smiled—“and never the twain shall meet. How’s that?”
“You made my day, babe.” He pulled her back.
“Just so long as you make my night, honey, everything will be kick-ass.”
He grinned. “Now I’m feeling the pressure.”
“You mean the tabloids have been wrong—you can’t satisfy five women in one night?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Arrogant man.”
He smiled. “It ain’t braggin’ if you can do it.”
“Now I am looking forward to the night.”
“Kidding aside,” he said softly, “so am I.”
He led her into the bedroom like he’d been there before, but she wasn’t about to quiz him on his understanding of the hotel floor plans when she had better things to do. Her libido was focused on short-term goals in the form of instant gratification.
And who wouldn’t be with the quintessential stud Johnny Patrick—of five women in one night fame—drawing her toward the bed. Not to mention, he was so handsome, you could practically come just looking at him. A shallow assessment, perhaps, but true. Which brought her senses all aquiver, her pleasure centers revving up for action and “AN-TI-CI-P-A-A-TION” singing big-time in her brain.
“Sit for a minute,” he said, lifting her up on the canopied bed. “I’ll open the curtains. We’re high enough up to see the Eiffel Tower from here.”
She felt like saying that she didn’t know if she had a minute—if she could actually put two words together in a coherent sentence.
He seemed not to notice—women ber
eft of speech perhaps a given in his life. “You’ll like the view,” he said.
She smiled and nodded, although the view she was looking at right now was more than fine, thank you. One could willingly drown in those sexy eyes, his smile was capable of melting the polar ice cap, while his hard, muscled body… “Could the view wait,” she said on a suffocated breath.
A quick, flickering assessment, then a flash of a smile. “Not a problem,” he murmured, reaching down to push her skirt up over her thighs. “You need some instant gratification, right?” It was a question that didn’t require an answer, because he’d already slipped his middle finger under the crotch of her panties and was running his finger down her silky wet cleft. “Ummm, nice…”
Hard-up, impatient, she shivered at the sexually explicit male appreciation in his rough/soft tone.
“You wouldn’t have lasted if we’d gone for a drink.” Sliding his finger up her vagina, he whispered against her mouth, “How about we get you off?” As he kissed her, he added a second finger to the first, then with slightly more difficulty, a third. “Hey, hey, relax,” he soothed, gently pushing her down on her back with his other hand. “We’re gonna take this slow and easy…”
He didn’t really expect a reply, with her eyes going shut and her hips arching up into his hand. Although if he needed a go-ahead, her soft, breathy moan was as good a one as he’d heard.
And he’d heard a bunch.
Oh-oh-oh-oh-God!! In the grip of a feverish delirium, a hot, seething rapture flooded her senses as Johnny’s slender fingers moved inside her with a right-on-target, done-this-before incredible sensitivity. Delicately stroking and massaging, he forced his way in re-e-al-ly slowly, pressing gently on that little rough spot on the roof of her vagina both coming and going-over and over again, retracing his route with the kind of virtuoso concentration and expertise that was going to take her over the edge real, real, real soon.
Especially when his thumb was on her clit at the same time, his doing-the-tango combination a sure winner.
“A pussy this wet is gonna last for hours,” he whispered, a smile underlying his low, husky tone.
Okay—that did it. Not that she had much farther to go—but the thought of hours in bed with Johnny Patrick’s great hands and hard cock, not to mention his sweet fuck-me talk—was all she needed to push… her… overthebrink!
French Kiss Page 10