Philip stirred beneath her. “Hey,” he said softly.
“Mmm hmm.”
“Do you hear that?”
Sleep tugged at her. “Hear what?”
“It’s raining.”
Carrie listened for the telltale sound against her slate roof and a soft smile curled her lips. “The total package,” she murmured, then drifted off to sleep, safe, sated and warm in the perfect comfort of his arms.
PHILIP FELT Carrie’s breathing level off into the rhythmic pattern of peaceful sleep. She lay snuggled against his side, her head pillowed on his chest, her small hand slightly curled but open in a curiously trusting gesture which somehow had the power to completely undo him.
Candlelight flickered across her face, played over the moonbeam waterfall of hair cascading over his chest and barely illuminated the pale green bottle of truffle oil she’d absently set on the bedside table. She’d tugged a sheet up until it barely covered her beautifully rounded rump, and the soft swell of her womanly frame lay outlined underneath.
Philip had slept with more women than he’d ever thought to count. He’d had sex in a train, on a bus, in an airplane, the bathroom of the Louvre, and in a small knot garden in a Benedictine abbey outside of Kent. He figured if the Almighty had struck him down on the spot for that, he had a fairly decent shot at making it into heaven.
He’d dated waitresses, attorneys, supermodels and salesclerks. Even twins and one unique set of Japanese triplets. He’d had extensive sexual experience with a variety of women and yet nothing in that vast repertoire could come close to what had just happened to him with Carrie.
The sex hadn’t just been good—it had been…phenomenal.
There were no words to describe what he’d felt, the absolute rapture of perfection he’d experienced when he’d finally slid into her. It was as though his very organic makeup had shifted and changed, realigned and reassembled…and he’d come out better.
For the first half second inside her body, he’d been unable to breathe, cognitive thinking had ceased and he’d felt a quake in his chest that had made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. An overwhelming sense of peace and security had washed over him—of love, God help him, when he knew it wasn’t possible—and he’d been hit with the strangest urge to laugh, then weep.
Weeping wasn’t an option—it hadn’t been since his sister had passed away. His parents had forbid it. Apparently they hadn’t wanted a reminder of their own grief and, furthermore, the two of them had been so emotionally wasted after Penny died, he knew they didn’t have it in them to comfort him. He’d just lost a little sister, a future friend. He smiled bitterly. Why would he need any comfort?
Philip shoved the unsettling memories aside, refused to let them taint what had been a singularly life-altering evening. At any rate, since weeping had been out of the question, he’d focused his energies on her.
On having her, specifically.
Philip had instinctively known that things would be different with her. Even when he’d been locked in the little padded cell of sexual insanity, he’d realized that she was special, that she was someone he could easily have feelings for. Hell, asking her if he could spend the night had been a huge leap for him. He wasn’t accustomed to asking anyone for anything.
But the idea of going home when he could be with her…Well, it had been worth the risk.
She had been worth the risk.
So much for coming over here to apologize for kissing her and putting the brakes on their budding relationship, Philip thought, idly doodling figure-eights over her slim back. He’d spent the entire drive over here planning that very conversation, had planned to offer an olive branch to simply get through the rest of the week, and yet one look into those light-purple eyes and he’d completely forgot ten his original agenda.
Ah, hell, Philip thought. He’d been grasping at straws to think it would work anyway. Snapping this afternoon and kissing her should have told him that.
What sort of a moron thought “kissing” was the right sort of punishment for anything? What sort of twisted logic had brought him to that conclusion?
He’d just latched onto any reason to justify haul ing her into his arms and that had been it. In the end, she could have been the world’s most accommodating host and he would have kissed her anyway, simply because he couldn’t not kiss her.
Which brought another potential—only one of many—to mind. Keeping his hands to himself to morrow while they were on camera was going to be a serious exercise in restraint. Not that it hadn’t been up until this point. His self-proclaimed CHiC—he still couldn’t get over that, Philip thought with a fond smile—had been on a personal mission to make him sexually miserable via those skimpy outfits she wore.
Technically she’d been wearing them for him, but after tonight, he was relatively certain the sentiment behind the action would change significantly. Take on a whole new meaning. She would be more than the Negligee Gourmet—she’d be his Negligee Gourmet.
He rather liked the idea.
But what he didn’t like was the idea of men all across America sitting in front of their TVs ogling her and whacking off. Hell, he’d done it. He knew what men were like. Bloody animals, the lot of them.
Oh, shit, Philip thought. He really wished he hadn’t thought about that. Something entirely Neanderthal—like jealousy—was suddenly twisting his guts into helpless knots of he-man rage. Call him crazy, but he didn’t want anyone looking at her. The only person who should be granted access to seeing her delectable breasts was him, dammit.
Something had to be done about this, Philip thought. Aside from the fact that he knew she hated wearing those outfits—intuition, of course—she deserved better than being treated like a damned sex object. She was so much more. Furthermore, with the exception of himself, there wasn’t a single host employed by the network who had more talent. Carrie was a natural at all of it. She made it look easy.
Why had she agreed to it? Philip wondered again. What had made her sign that contract when he felt certain she could have held out and gotten a better deal? Funny how he’d had this odd connection to her from the beginning—that nagging sense of knowing her, recognizing her—and yet there were still so many things he didn’t know about her.
He felt her stir against him, causing an inexplicable rush of tender emotion to wash through him. Her soft breath fanned against his chest and he looked down and caught sight of that sweet hand, the gentle shape of that plump, soft palm. Odd how he should find it so endearing. It was just a hand after all. Most everyone had them. And yet something about hers made his stomach clench with unwarranted affection.
Philip yawned, shifted her more snugly against him. A small crack of thunder rumbled in the distance and the soothing sound of rain tapped against the windows, lulling him in the quiet cozy comfort of her room. Would that he never had to go home, Philip thought sleepily. In her arms, he’d never…be lonely…again.
11
ON LEGS THAT WERE STILL a little shaky—quick, hot sex on the floor of a dressing room would do that to a person, she thought with a grin—Carrie hurried into Madame LeBeau’s for her dress fitting. She was twenty minutes late, but since the seamstress could work on the other bridesmaids first, she didn’t think it would be a big deal. A slow smile curled her lips.
She’d already had The Big Deal.
Philip had followed her into her dressing room when their show was over this morning—under the pretense of looking at tomorrow’s breakdown again, of course—and had shut her door with a purpose that had sent a thrill whipping through her all the way down to her silver toe ring.
She wasn’t the only one who got points for efficiency, Carrie thought as a smile bloomed around her heart. He’d unbuttoned his pants with one hand and, rather than waste time removing her panties, he’d simply nudged the slinky fabric to the side with the other. Mouths locked in a hot kiss, hands groping wildly, they’d half fallen onto her small couch, then ultimately tumbled to th
e floor.
Carrie hadn’t cared.
There was something downright thrilling about a man who couldn’t wait. Who wanted her so much that seduction and finesse became secondary to the attraction. She’d locked her legs around his waist, met him thrust for thrust, and by the time he’d collapsed on top of her, she’d had a hard, back-clawing orgasm, her hair had been in tangles and she was sporting carpet burns on the small of her back.
Despite the mild discomfort now, she’d do it again in a heartbeat. Getting through the show today after everything that had happened last night had been difficult to say the least. She couldn’t look at him without mentally stripping him and recreating the truffle oil fantasy. The smallest crook of his mouth into that sexy little smile made her belly hot and muddled, made her organs practically vibrate. Undoubtedly she’d had a ridiculous smile on her face throughout their entire show…but she simply hadn’t been able to contain herself.
For the first time in years, she’d was experiencing something which had been genuinely lacking in her life—happiness. Her friends made her happy, of course. But this was a different kind of joy—the romantic sort that seemed to make her vision brighter and clearer. Made her want to twirl around and sing The Sound of Music and listen to every circa 1980s big-hair-band ballad.
Curling up next to Philip last night, falling asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the soft falling rain of a summer storm, his warm body next to hers had been a singularly fantastic experience. She couldn’t imagine anything more perfect. The rest of the world had simply fallen away and she’d been safe in the cocoon of his curiously restful company.
And when he’d asked if he could spend the night, her silly heart had simply…melted. There’d been something so cautiously hopeful about his question, a hesitancy which told her that A.) he wasn’t accustomed to asking for anything, and B.) at some point in his life he’d been hurt deeply. She’d caught a glimpse of some inner turmoil, a pain so old and stark that she’d felt it, too.
It was the haunted look of a wounded, lonely man, Carrie thought, wondering what had happened to put that sort of ache in his heart. Something—or someone—had made him vulnerable. She knew it. And she also knew that opening himself up to her last night had been a huge step for him.
And he’d taken it for her.
“Well, well, well,” Frankie drawled, arms crossed over her chest. “Is she not a walking picture of glow ing sexual happiness or what?” her friend joked in a voice loaded with ooh-la-la innuendo.
Carrie’s step faltered as she entered the back room of the upscale boutique and a smile broke out over her mouth. “Frankie,” she admonished.
Presently standing on the dais having her dress altered, Zora gave Carrie a slightly critical look, then grinned. “As usual, you’re right, Frankie. She’s definitely got the Orgasm Aura.”
Madame LeBeau smiled around a mouthful of pins and shook her head. “Oy. Young people.” She glanced at Carrie. “You should put on your dress. I’ll need you in a minute.”
Eyes twinkling, April chuckled under her breath.
“Well?” she prodded. “Are the sex sleuths correct?
Did you and Philip finally—”
“—bump uglies?” Frankie supplied helpfully. “Do the horizontal mambo, play mattress Olympics, scr—”
“Ignore her,” Zora said, shooting Frankie a fondly exasperated look. “Just give us an update.”
“With lots of details,” Frankie added, raising her brows significantly.
“After you put on the dress,” Madame LeBeau said firmly, shooing her off. “Room four. It’s on the hook and don’t worry about zipping it up. I’ll take care of it when you come back out.”
Carrie hurriedly rushed to the back, quickly disrobed and shimmied into her gown. It was a beautiful sleeveless tea-length organdy in Victorian lilac. Frankie had chosen a gorgeous shade and timeless feminine style which would complement each bridesmaid’s coloring and figure. Even the very pregnant one, Carrie thought with a wry smile.
“What’s the holdup?” Carrie heard Madame LeBeau call in brisk carrying tones. “Does it not fit? Have you locked yourself in the dressing room?”
“I’m coming,” Carrie told her, rolling her eyes. Honestly, she might be the most renowned dressmaker in the area, but the woman was an absolute pill.
Carrie met Zora in the hall. “Too bad New Orleans’ Golden Needle has the personality of a pit bull,” Zora whispered dryly as Carrie hurried past.
Madame LeBeau gestured for her to stand upon the dais. “Excellent,” she said, eyeing the fit of Carrie’s dress. “Very little alteration.” She bent at the hem and started working.
“Well?” Frankie demanded again. “What happened?”
Carrie struggled not to grin. She should have known Frankie wasn’t going to let it drop. She poked her tongue in her cheek and tried to think of the best way to sum up what had happened between her and Philip.
Various images from last night and this afternoon shot rapid-fire through her mind—her back against the refrigerator, Philip driving into her. Hanging from her shower rod—literally—her legs hooked over his shoulders while he fed at her. Male nipples and truffle oil, carpet burns and melting orgasms. Renewed heat muddled her womb and, embarrassingly, her nipples pearled beneath the thin fabric.
Naturally, gimlet-eyed Frankie who’d been not-so-patiently waiting for her to explain noticed. She stared pointedly at Carrie’s breasts. A slow dawning smile slid across her face and she beamed at Carrie as though she were a difficult pupil who’d finally mastered her multiplication facts. “Never mind,” she said. “I see evidence that you took our advice.”
Carrie blushed. “Yes,” she finally admitted. “I like cooking with something besides gas.”
Struggling to flatten her smile, April cleared her throat. “And how was your meal?”
“My meals were outstanding.” She resisted the urge to rock back on her heels. Somehow she didn’t think Madame LeBeau would appreciate her moving around. “As were my appetizers, main courses, side dishes, desserts and after-dinner mints.”
Zora waddled back into the room, paused and rubbed her back. An uncharacteristic wince marred her usually serene brow.
They’d all noticed, but April was the first to respond. “Zora? Are you okay?”
“Sure. It’s just a little back pain. I have it all the time now.”
Frankie studied her closely. “Are you having contractions?”
“They’re Braxton-Hicks. They’ll, uh…They’ll go away soon.”
Zora certainly sounded like she knew what she was talking about, Carrie thought, but she couldn’t help but be concerned. Technically she wasn’t due for another couple of weeks, but babies sometimes had their own timetables. “You’re sure?” Carrie asked.
Zora nodded confidently, let go a breath and leaned against the arm of the couch. “I’m sure. It’s just getting closer, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”
Madame LeBeau, who’d been trying to pretend as if she wasn’t hanging onto their every word, suddenly stood. “I’m done with you,” she said. She turned to Frankie. “Everything will be ready on Friday. You can pick up your gowns then.”
Still staring concernedly at Zora, Frankie nodded absently. “Okay.”
“I’m fine,” Zora insisted to Frankie. “Really. It’s nothing to worry about.”
Still looking somewhat unconvinced, Frankie finally nodded and let it drop. The four of them made their way out onto the sidewalk. After going over some last-minute details, April walked with Zora to her car, leaving Frankie and Carrie in front of the store.
Frankie watched Zora go, her brow still knotted in a worried frown. She plucked her cell from her purse. “I’m calling Tate anyway,” she said. “He needs to keep an eye on her.”
That sounded like an excellent plan, Carrie thought. Better safe than sorry, and she knew her friend well enough to know that she’d keep the incident from her husband. Zora always thought she knew w
hat was best for everyone, but had a lamentable tendency to forget what was best for her.
“You look happy,” Frankie said matter-of-factly, turning that shrewd gaze back in Carrie’s direction.
Carrie bit her bottom lip, looked away and pushed her hair behind her ear. She nodded thoughtfully. “For the moment I am,” she admitted.
Frankie cocked her head. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
She hoped she was right, Carrie thought. She wasn’t ready for his-and-her towels by any stretch of the imagination, but she had to admit there was a small tender sprout of hope lurking in her heart that Philip could be The One.
Speaking of which…Carrie glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run.”
Frankie arched a brow and a meaningful smile slid around her lips. “Plans?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Philip’s helping me with your cake tonight.”
Frankie grinned and turned to go. “Do me a favor, would you?”
“Sure.”
“Have your appetizers, meals, side dishes, desserts and after-dinner mints somewhere besides the kitchen. I’ll take my cake sans sex, please,” she quipped, then laughing, turned and made her way across the street.
Carrie chuckled. She’d have her cake and Philip, too, thank you very much.
“SEX IS EXCELLENT for your disposition,” Rupert drawled with a smile that claimed responsibility for Philip’s recent happiness. His agent currently leaned against the doorjamb of his master bath, watching him with a curiously speculative look. “You’re in an excellent humor, better than I’ve seen you in more than a year. I take it The Negligee Gourmet was able to…cook up a remedy?”
Philip leaned forward and carefully ran a razor over his jaw. She’d certainly remedied something, he thought, remembering the exquisite perfection of her hot body clamping around his this morning after their show. Considering that he’d come dangerously close to bending her over the kitchen island while on camera, Philip thought he’d done a remarkable job exercising the restraint to wait until they’d finished taping.
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