She threw him a doubtful look. “Walsh—”
“I’ll prove it to you. Get out your tablet or a notepad or something.”
Moving away from the doors, she headed for where she’d left her laptop bag. “Why?”
“I’ve come to a big decision.”
From the soft-sided case she extracted paper and pen. “And that is…?”
“I’ve decided it’s time I marry.” He watched the water, each wave rolling in calm and steady. Like he wanted his life. “So I need you to help me make a list.”
She coughed. “A list of what?”
“A list of the sensible qualities I want in the woman who will be my wife.”
Chapter 5
Honey had never slept naked. That must be the cause of her restless night, despite the steady and dulcet lullaby the waves sang as they washed upon the sand. She’d climbed between the sheets wearing the terry robe she’d found hanging in the bathroom, but after five minutes and three turns, it had put her into a full-body strangle.
So she’d struggled free from it and then spread out, flesh-to-cotton.
But slumber still didn’t come. Instead, her mind replayed on a continuous reel those moments on the airplane after Walsh’s mouth touched hers.
Staggered by that near-death experience—she’d been convinced the end was just seconds away—she’d responded without thinking, her mouth pressing hard to his. The tip of his tongue had brushed her bottom lip, and she’d opened to allow him to dive inside. The possessive, aggressive nature of it had electrified her.
She’d pressed closer, held back only by her seat belt, and as if he sensed her frustration, he’d found the buckle and released her. Then she’d been in his lap, the feel of a hard erection beneath her both satisfying and titillating.
His kiss had ground harder and hotter, and then his hand had cupped her breast with that same possessive intent.
Her body had jolted, the pleasure searing, almost overwhelming. Then his touch changed. His hand still caged the globe of her breast, but his thumb had strummed gently over the aching nipple. Moaning, she’d melted into him, wanting more of that tenderness and more of the forcefulness too, both at once.
From far away she’d heard a voice. Then Walsh tore his mouth from hers and reality had smartly slapped her in the face.
She’d been practically climbing him! In the airplane!
Though she’d quickly returned to her seat, she’d felt overwrought and too hot and completely humiliated by her unrestrained responses to him.
All these hours later, her heart still hadn’t slowed. Her skin still felt too tight.
No wonder she couldn’t sleep.
She squeezed shut her eyes and willed away all thoughts of those crazy moments on the plane. Tuning in to the sound of the surf, she synced her breathing with the slow movement of the waves.
The sound of her bedroom door snicking open brought her instantly alert. It wasn’t fear that made her muscles tense, however. It was awareness. She knew the identity of the dark shape standing in the doorway, recognizing him on an instant by his distinctive shape. His shoulders nearly scraped the jamb, and she saw that his hands gripped the sides of it, as if he was attempting to hold himself back.
Her throat tightened, so she couldn’t speak and could barely breathe.
“Honey,” he said, low and slow.
She scooted to a sitting position, holding the sheet to her bare breasts. “Is there…” She swallowed to loosen the words. “Is there something you want? Need?”
“Want?” His rough laugh tickled her jangling nerve endings. “Need?” He prowled closer. “Yeah.”
His chest was uncovered. Honey didn’t dare drop her gaze below that slab of rippled muscle. Surely he hadn’t come to her without clothes?
Now he stood beside the bed, and she tilted her head to gaze into his face. In the dim light, his eyes were dark, unreadable pools.
“Drop the sheet,” he said.
Her fingers clutched the material. “W-what?”
“You let me touch them. Now I want to see them.”
Her breasts. They swelled, the tips tightening to an ache that was equal parts pleasure and pain. Honey’s skin flamed everywhere, and she felt a rush of moisture between her thighs. Every fine hair on her body rose.
“Honey.” His voice dropped even deeper. “Show me.”
At the authoritative tone, her fingers went nerveless and the sheet slithered to her waist.
He sucked in a quick breath.
She lost hers.
Even in the shadows, she knew his gaze ran over her swollen breasts and tingling nipples. Her bottom squirmed and her thighs clenched as restless yearnings raced through her. Pooling heat settled low in her belly and she knew only Walsh could assuage the emptiness that accompanied it.
Supremely conscious of the place that a man would fill, she’d never felt more like a woman.
One of his big hands reached out. She tried to hold herself still, but her body trembled in anticipation.
“Are you afraid?” he whispered.
Yes. No. Yes.
But she didn’t move as his long fingers continued to advance. Her teeth bit down on her bottom lip, and she dug her nails into the sheet beside each hip. Any second they’d be skin to skin. Another fire flashed over her body and—
Beep-beep-beep-beep.
Honey bolted upright, her gaze wildly searching the room.
Where was Walsh? What was that noise? Why hadn’t he—
Flopping back against the pillows, she groaned and closed her eyes against the room’s brightness. It had been a dream. A scary, sexy dream. Her hand reached to the bedside table, and she shut off her alarm.
Mexico, she reminded herself. Morning.
Groaning again, she crawled out of bed and wrapped herself in the discarded robe. Then she walked to the room’s sliding glass doors and peeked behind the filmy draperies. The sand gleamed gold in the sunlight and the blue Pacific stretched endlessly―a sight that should have buoyed her mood.
Instead, she could only think of the awkward situation between herself and Walsh. How she wished they hadn’t shared those hot and heavy kisses!
And then there was that list he’d wanted her to help him make…
The instant he’d said the words “sensible qualities I want in the woman who will be my wife,” she’d pretended a sudden headache and took to her bedroom with a hasty excuse about travel lag. Once behind the closed door, she’d used the house phone to call the front desk in hopes of moving to a single room. No way did she want to be caged with her boss when he was embarking on a wife hunt.
But the resort was full up.
To continue her streak of bad luck, she was also told that the airlines had left her a message. Her suitcase might take another day or more to catch up with her.
Still behind her locked bedroom door, she’d made do with a dinner of packaged crackers and cheese that she found in a basket atop the room’s mini-fridge. Grateful that Walsh let her be, she’d read until her eyes were tired enough to try sleep.
Now she was still tired, but it was time to face her boss—and find coffee. Remembering she’d seen a DIY set-up on the bar in the living area, she tightened the tie of her robe, drew in a bracing breath, and poked her nose out her bedroom door.
The silence that greeted her carried its own message.
“I’m alone,” she said, testing out her hypothesis. “I’m alone,” she said again, louder, as she ventured into the room.
Convinced he was gone, she went straight for the coffee maker.
With one cup guzzled, she felt marginally better. She stood with the second cup, nose to the glass of the rear door, and took in the spectacular view of sand and sea once again. The beach in front of their villa remained empty, but she spotted a couple in the distance, walking toward a point of land covered with lush greenery.
Everything looked so beautiful and healthy and clean…and she had only her travel clothes to put on in order t
o hit the resort shops for something else to wear. The thought didn’t appeal at all.
A knock on the door brought her head around. She padded to the entrance, and through the peephole spied a young woman dressed in a short white skirt and a shirt with the resort’s logo embroidered on the breast.
Turning the knob, she put on a smile. “Good morning.”
The stranger had a dark braid, deep dimples, and fingers curled around two huge shopping bags.
“Good morning,” she repeated, her English perfect but with the slightest of exotic accents. “Mr. Hopkins sent these over from the boutique.”
Honey’s eyes rounded. “He picked out clothes for me?”
“Some, for the size. Then when I had a good idea of what would fit, he asked me to finish up.” Her practiced eye ran over Honey. “I think they will do well.”
Peering into the tops of the bags, she saw bright blues and greens and pinks. “I don’t know…”
“Let me show them to you,” the other woman said. “May I come in?”
“All right,” Honey said, standing aside. What else could she do?
“I’m Mariana.” The brunette strode toward the bedroom where Honey had slept. The door to Walsh’s was open, and a pair of black-and-gray running shoes were tumbled on the floor. The covers on the mattress were tangled, as if he’d struggled with sleep himself.
“Señorita?” Mariana called. “Are you ready to inspect your new things?
They were laid out on the long dresser at one side of the room. Honey gaped at the stuff―piles of transparent lingerie, a jumble of colorful scraps of fabric that could only be swimsuits, shorts in tangerine and turquoise, a stack of tank tops fanned like a rainbow, a pair of flip flops, and some sturdy athletic sandals.
Swallowing hard, Honey lifted a pair of scandalous panties with her pinky. “You picked these, Mariana?”
“Mr. Hopkins,” she said, hanging a garment bag over the bathroom door.
“Mr. Hopkins?” The matching demi-bra would barely cover her nipples.
“Such a handsome man, yes?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Honey agreed, her voice faint.
Walsh had selected these little items of frilly lace? And had he pictured her wearing them? A little dizzy at the thought, she dropped the underwear and put her hand to her temple.
Now the brunette drew from the plastic three skimpy sundresses, more suited for...for someone else, that was sure. Honey had never worn anything so tight fitting and flesh-baring in her life. “Are there any business clothes in the boutique?”
“Business clothes?” The other woman cocked her head, as if “business” was a word she didn’t quite understand.
“Or if not that, what about a muumuu?” Honey rounded her arms outside her body to indicate a tent-like garment.
Mariana clucked her tongue. “These will fit you perfectly.” Stepping back, she regarded a blue dress with skinny shoulder straps and a low neckline. “Perhaps this would be better in red…”
“No, no,” Honey said. “I’m sure it’s fine. I’m sure all of it’s fine.”
Not that she’d be parading around in a single one of those garments. The robe would have to do until her suitcase showed. It contained outfits that the Rock Royalty girls had barely approved—“You’re not a grandmother going on a cruise,” one had groused—but that would suit the tropical clime.
And her undergarments were of the sensible variety, too. She edged farther away from the little-nothings Walsh had chosen.
“There’s something else…” Mariana fussed with two pairs of strappy sandals she’d extracted from the last bag, “Mr. Hopkins said to tell you he’d see you in forty minutes.”
Honey tightened her belt again. “Um, here?”
“No, no. He’ll meet you at the breakfast reception for your group in the main hacienda.” With a last approving look at the new wardrobe, the other woman bustled toward the exit. “You can’t miss it.”
She left Honey with the colorful attire and a set of new questions.
Now what?
He’d practically ordered her out of the cottage and to the reception.
But putting on yesterday’s clothes seemed unbearable, and slipping into something from the boutique didn’t seem right, either.
Might it send the message that she’d slipped into a new persona? Would it remind him that beyond being his competent admin, she was his enthusiastic co-kisser as well?
And did he expect more of the same? Her imagination went wild, and she thought of more hot kisses, hard hands, arousing caresses. Shivering, she stared at the pile of filmy fabric on the dresser. His choice of underwear seemed to be telling her something, right?
Crossing to it again, she picked up a matching set the color of lemon sherbet. The panties were not a thong, but close to it. The bra strapless.
She bit her lip. Was she wrong? Maybe Walsh’s choices meant nothing. In his experience, likely all women wore decadent lingerie.
Her fingers fisted the diaphanous fabric. That was the truth, wasn’t it?
She’d bet a billion he’d never seen a pair of cotton panties in his life.
Meaning there was no ulterior motive or underlying message behind his selecting sexy lingerie. She was his admin, her clothes were missing. He needed her in something besides terrycloth if she was going to do her job for him. And from what he knew, females as a rule wore undergarments fashioned out of butterfly wings.
So get dressed, she told herself. You have work to do.
Her stomach swooped as she remembered, once again, that list. The task he’d wanted her to begin last night.
Her boss had decided to marry.
And he was planning to go about it in the most cold-blooded manner possible, starting with a list of sensible qualities that he expected Honey to itemize.
The man wanted his admin’s assistance in picking a wife!
The idea set a match to her blood. After kissing her and touching her and looking at her in that intense way of his, only a few hours later he had the nerve to direct her to help him select his life-mate.
Starting with a list.
A list!
Fine, then. Fine.
She grabbed up the first clothes that came to hand.
If all he wanted from her was her efficiency, then she’d make it clear she wanted nothing more from him than a paycheck.
On the hacienda’s second-floor terrace where the buffet breakfast had been set up, Walsh glanced at his watch. A minute had passed since the last time he’d checked. Shoving both hands into the pockets of his slacks, he paced away from the tables. Leaning against the balustrade, he looked upon the resort’s extensive grounds, his gaze running over the fountains, waterfalls, and massive terracotta pots trailing flowers of all colors. Through a stand of palms he could see the sand and beyond it the glistening water and the lapping waves.
He’d listened to the sound of them rushing in and sliding out all night long, wondering what the hell Honey was doing and thinking behind her closed bedroom door.
She’d claimed a headache, and he’d actually been glad to give her peace.
Because he’d thought it would give him some, too.
Instead, he’d spent the night staring at the ceiling, taking the occasional break to punch the pillows. Honey had been on his mind. Those kisses. The list. Well, no, not that. Just those deep, addictive kisses.
Honey.
He’d been hard until dawn.
Now it was a new day, however, and he needed to get his mind back on track. Glancing around, he scrutinized the new arrivals to the terrace. None were his admin, but several casually dressed people wearing adhesive name tags like the one he’d slapped on were now filling their plates from the platters of fruit and pastries and the chafing dishes filled with eggs, meats, and potatoes.
York Featherstone wasn’t among the group—he was known for his distinctive silver hair, which wasn’t in evidence—but once the man showed, Walsh would find the right time and the r
ight way to make contact. Their collaboration was going to be a great business move.
A young woman carrying a pair of crystal flutes filled with an orange liquid approached. Her name tag read “Dayna.”
She held one out to him. “Mimosa?”
He took the offered drink. This weekend was supposed to be about socializing, after all. “Walsh Hopkins,” he said, tapping his glass to hers.
“Dayna Featherstone.”
He smiled. Featherstone? “Great to meet you.”
“And you, too.” She had brown hair and eyes and a confident attitude. “MadSci?”
He nodded. “And you work for…?”
“My uncle.” She sipped from her glass, gazing at him over the rim.
It wasn’t a seductive look, but assessing, which he appreciated. “I’m looking forward to getting better acquainted with the members of the group this weekend.”
More people were gathered around the banquet tables, lining up to make their breakfast selections.
He nodded in that direction. “Shall we?”
“Sure.”
They joined the others queued up for food. Beyond the banquet tables were smaller round ones, and staff stood nearby prepared to serve cold and hot beverages. Waiting to fill their plates, he and Dayna small-talked, commenting on the tropical surroundings, the perfect weather, their home bases. While he was L.A. born-and-bred, the Featherstone family lived and worked in Seattle.
When they were loaded up with food, he followed Dayna as she threaded through the tables to find empty places.
“I’ll need a chair for my assistant,” he murmured.
“There looks to be plenty of spaces around my uncle,” she said.
Walsh followed her gaze. He must have missed the man’s entrance. But there at the corner table sat a silver-haired man. His back to Walsh, he still managed to give off the impression of strength and vigor. In his late forties, York Featherstone was known to be a fitness enthusiast, engaging in running, biking, and hiking.
As they approached, Walsh congratulated himself on his luck. Making contact so early with Featherstone felt like a good omen for the rest of the trip. After the near-disaster he’d come to by kissing his admin, this meeting would put his personal train back on the right rails.
Wishful Sinful (Rock Royalty Book 5) Page 7