by Lisa Jackson
“No.” She was insistent. “I mean, please, I feel like an idiot. The least I can do is pay for this.” She motioned feebly to the red stain on his shirt and the drips still clinging to his jacket. “If you take it to the cleaner’s you can send me the bill—” No, that wouldn’t work. Even though she was a little tipsy, she knew she couldn’t give out her real name or address; he’d catch her in her lie. “Or better yet, why don’t you just give me the suit and I’ll have it cleaned here at the hotel and get it to you tomorrow.”
“Great idea. Let’s go.” He was on his feet in an instant. His fingers circled Gina’s wrist as he dragged her with him. She wanted to argue, but when she started to protest, she saw the light of challenge in his eyes, the lift of one of his cocky eyebrows, the absolute belief that she wouldn’t take him up on the offer.
“Lead the way,” she said, fighting back all her rational instincts that told her she was not only flirting with the man but danger, as well. “If that’s what you think we should do.”
He sent her a glance that was pure sexual energy. “Oh, yeah. I do think.” He said to the barkeep, “Put it on my tab.” Then with Gina in tow, her head spinning from too much wine, he made his way to the elevator. Once in the car, he punched a button for the penthouse floor.
Her stomach knotted. What was she doing? Alone with him as the elevator sped to the top floor, she felt her feet beginning to chill. By the time the elevator car landed on the uppermost floor and the doors opened, Gina had a severe case of cold feet. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“I know it isn’t.” Still pulling her, he led her into a suite with a panoramic view of the city. The lights of Dallas blazed. Stars twinkled. Her head spun.
What am I doing here? she wondered, and nearly fell into one of two small leather couches angled around a glass-topped table that held a basket of fruit and an ice bucket with a bottle of chilling champagne. A gas fire hissed from a marble-faced fireplace and through double-glass doors she caught a glimpse of a king-size bed. Soft music played through hidden speakers.
Get out of here, Gina. Get out of here before you do something stupid!
“Pour yourself a drink. Anything you want.” He motioned to a minibar tucked inside the wall unit as he walked into the bedroom.
“I think I’ve had enough. Done enough damage to your clothes.”
“Suit yourself.” He was already unbuttoning his shirt and rather than even be tempted to look at him, she walked to the windows and stared out at the city, where the traffic hummed and a few clouds dared venture across the moonlit night.
Just get out, Gina. As fast as you can! Take his clothes, send them down the cleaner’s and then go back to your room and forget him. He’s a client, or more precisely, the object of a client’s quest. Don’t forget it. It was crazy that she was anywhere near his hotel room, especially considering how she felt about him, the mental picture she’d drawn of him, the way she empathized with his rebellion and felt pride at what he’d accomplished on his own terms.
She had to leave and fast.
She heard him emerge from the bedroom and turned to find him in a clean pair of slacks and polo shirt. Barefoot. He strode to the table and without saying a word, opened the bottle of champagne and as it popped and foamed, poured two glasses. Carrying one in each hand, he walked to the bank of windows where she stood. She hoped she didn’t look like a frightened doe caught in headlights.
Her pulse quickened with each of his steps and she forced her eyes away from the neckline of his shirt and the dark chest hairs springing from the open collar.
“Another bad idea,” she said when he held out a long-stemmed glass.
“I guess I’m just chock-full of ’em.”
“Appears so.”
Reluctantly she accepted the glass. “How about a toast?” she suggested, intending to take one sip and bolt.
“You go first.”
“Okay. How about, ‘Here’s mud in your eye’?”
A smile touched the edges of his mouth. “I expected something a little more original.”
“Such as…?”
“To chance meetings.” He touched the rim of his glass to hers and her heart did a silly little flip.
They both sipped and she managed to stare into his erotic blue eyes. “Or how about, ‘To the art of dry cleaning’?”
“Why not?” Again he tapped his glass to hers. Again they sipped.
He didn’t stop there. “Or to—let’s see—how about ‘To women who aren’t always what they seem’?”
“Are you talking about me?” she asked, ignoring the increased tempo of her heartbeat.
“If the shoe fits…”
“Easy for a barefoot man to say,” she teased, and he chuckled deep in his throat. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
One eyebrow elevated and the hint of a dimple creased his cheek. “Try me.”
“I don’t think so. Just trust me on this one.” She was warm inside from the wine but feeling guilty for the lies she’d so glibly told him. But there was no way out of them now. That was the trouble with lies; one bred another and another and so on. She set her half-drunk glass on a side table where a vase of irises, birds of paradise and lilies overflowed. “I think I’d better leave. Where’s the suit?”
“In the bedroom.”
“Maybe you’d better bring it out.”
She half expected him to invite her to go get it herself, but he nodded curtly and, leaving his glass beside hers, walked through the open doors again and returned with the black suit and shirt. “You don’t have to do this,” he admitted.
“Of course I do.”
“It was an accident.”
“I know, but I’d really feel better if you’d let me take care of it.” She didn’t want to argue, just make tracks.
“Why?” he asked. “Why would it make you feel better, since we both know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Accident or not, it was my fault.” Oh, this argument was stupid.
He shook his head, tossed the suit onto a couch, cast a guilty glance at Gina and then out the window. “Maybe I should be honest with you.”
Gina cringed inwardly at the words. “You haven’t been?”
“Nope.”
“You’re not really a millionaire, is that it?” she said, though the joke fell flat and she already knew it was the truth.
“Nah, that’s not what I was talking about.” His blue eyes met hers with such an urgent honesty she nearly gasped. “I wanted an excuse to get you up here.”
“Oh?” She swallowed hard.
“The dry cleaning was just a ploy. I don’t give a damn about it.”
“And once you got me up here?” she asked, sweating a bit, her heart knocking. Was it her imagination or had the temperature in the suite just gone up about fifteen degrees?
“I just wanted to get you alone.”
Her heart began to jump now. “Why’s that?” she asked, but she saw the passion in his gaze.
“Because, darlin’, I think you’re the most interesting woman I’ve seen in a long, long time.”
“You…you don’t even know me.”
“But I’d like to.” His expression was sincere, but she warned herself not to believe him.
“I bet you say that to all the girls who pour wine on your clothes.”
His lips twitched. “You’re right. All of them.”
She felt an unlikely stab of disappointment.
“And all of them are right here.”
“Imagine that. All the klutzes in one suite. Gee, Mr. Remmington, how did you manage that?”
“I’d like to say it was skill, but it was probably just dumb luck.”
She giggled despite all her reservations. What was there about him she found so damned alluring? So sensual? Intriguing enough that she would cast down her natural defenses and throw all caution to the wind? She could r
ationalize from now until eternity, tell herself that it was because she “knew” him from everything she’d read and researched about the enigmatic bastard son of Larry Kincaid, but there was more to it than that. She was smitten with this stranger. Felt a bond with him he didn’t even know existed. She was a fool, that was it. And she had to leave now.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “You could stay.”
Her heart nearly stopped. She was tempted, but no, she couldn’t.
“I don’t spend the night with strangers.”
“You could get to know me first.”
“I think, Mr. Remmington—”
“Trent.”
“Okay. I think, Trent, it would take more than a couple of hours to get to know you.”
“I can be very charming.”
“Oh, please. Good night.”
To her surprise and chagrin he didn’t try to stop her.
He lifted a shoulder. “Whatever you think’s best, Celia.”
That name again. Reminding her of her duplicity. “Just don’t tell me I’m missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime,” she said, scooping up the soiled suit, shirt and tie.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He didn’t so much as take a step closer to her. Again that ridiculous stab of disappointment. “Well, thanks for the drink, the conversation, and the champagne. I’ll see that these are delivered before you check out.”
“Thanks.”
Feeling suddenly silly, she started for the door, then crossed the room and stood in front of him. Still holding the bundle of clothes, she said, “It’s been interesting.”
“Amen.”
Impulsively she kissed his cheek. “Good night.” That was the mistake.
He grabbed her then. He wrapped his strong arms around her, dragged her close, slanted warm, possessive lips over hers and kissed her so hard she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only hear her own heartbeat thudding in her ears.
Gina felt dizzy. She dropped the suit on the floor. His hands splayed across her back as if he owned her. Her mouth opened and he groaned as the kiss deepened. Somewhere music was playing and the room seemed to shrink. He tasted of Scotch and champagne. Her knees went weak, her resistance fled, and before she knew what she was doing she was kissing him back, molding her body into the tight fit of his, her knees turning to jelly.
Don’t do this, Gina. This is pure madness. Get out. Get out now. While you still can!
But the alarms in her head went unheeded. She wrapped her arms around his neck and heard him groan as he lifted her off her feet and carried her through the French doors to the bedroom.
He didn’t ask.
She didn’t protest.
They kissed and touched and she remembered hearing the hiss of her zipper as it slid down her back, feeling a cool breath of air against her bare skin, discovering the wonder and strength of his body as her fingers explored the ridges and planes of hard, sinewy muscles.
She knew she was making an irreversible error, but she didn’t care. She’d always been so cautious when it came to men, but this time, for this one night, she flung her reserve and distrust aside. She knew him, she rationalized as he kissed the crook of her neck and she began to ache inside. Strong, calloused fingers slipped her dress down her body and his mouth and tongue followed, his hot lips brushing her breasts, his warm breath blowing against her abdomen as he slid the silky fabric quickly off her body.
She sighed as every nerve in her body tingled expectantly.
She felt the corded strength of hard muscles pressing against her; reveled in the feel of her fingers playing in the soft matt of hair on his chest; kissed anxious lips that couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Through the panes of the French doors, firelight sparkled.
She heard him kick off his pants, felt the strong muscles of his legs against her own, and experienced a wanting heretofore unknown to her. He breathed against her ear, the soft whisper of air tingling her ear, and as his fingers dipped past the lace of her bra, she wanted more. Everything. To discover what it was to be a woman—fully loved, if only for one night.
Closing her eyes, she moaned softly as his tongue and lips caressed her, seeking out each dimple in her skin. His hand parted her legs. She ached inside. Her back arched and she clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He touched her intimately, expertly, finding a place that stopped her breath.
Heat sang through her bloodstream and she’d never in her life felt such fever. She’d never known such want, such hunger.
By instinct she moved beneath him, swallowing against desire, needing the feel of him within her.
Hot. She was hot. Dots of perspiration broke out on her skin as he stoked heat in the most intimate part of her. She was clinging to him, gasping, opening. Desire thundered through her veins, throbbed in her brain. The room seemed to spin, or was it her soul? “Trent,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, unrecognizable.
“Right here, darlin’.”
“I—I want…”
“I know.”
Desire pounded through her brain. She moaned—or was it his low, raspy voice she heard? He shifted, slid upon her and, kissing her hard, thrust deep inside her.
She gasped as she felt a jab of hot pain. But as he began to move, pain quickly became pleasure. He was everywhere at once, moving within her, kissing her neck, her eyelids, her lips, his hands caressing her as her mind spun out of control and the center of the universe existed in the spot that fused them together.
Faster. Harder. Hotter. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, caught his rhythm, moving furiously with him. A billion stars flashed behind her eyes. Her mind spun with wild, erotic images and she cried out as the world seemed to shatter into brilliant shards of light. Body and mind convulsed.
He threw back his head and with a primal cry spilled into her, releasing himself. Letting go. He fell against her and sighed, his fingers twining in her hair as he kissed her cheek. “Celia.”
The alias hung in the air.
Her lie.
Her deception.
She opened her mouth, determined to set the record straight. He kissed her again and all her good intentions fled. For this night, she would give in to the desperate urges of her body and when it was over, she’d leave. He’d never know the truth….
Until now, she thought as she stared at the broad expanse of Montana sky. High above, the moon gilded the Kincaid ranch with its pearlescent light. Somewhere far off a coyote cried and Gina rubbed her arms. How could she ever explain what happened? To Trent? To herself?
Was it possible?
“What’s going on?” a deep male voice asked, and she visibly jumped.
Whirling around, she found herself face-to-face with Trent Remmington. Moon glow cast his face in silvery shadows and yet she was able to read his harsh expression and knew that whatever he had to say, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“Nothing. I—I just couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe some fresh air would help.”
“Did it?”
“Not so far.”
“I couldn’t get any shut-eye, either,” he admitted as he walked to the fence and leaned against it. “I kept thinking about the night we met in Dallas and how you lied to me.”
Here it comes, she thought, expecting him to lambaste her for keeping her identity a secret. Instead, he blindsided her.
“I didn’t realize it until the next morning,” he admitted, obviously irritated with himself. “But that night we were together, it was your first time, wasn’t it?” He sounded disgusted. With himself? Or her?
“I don’t understand…” She let the sentence drift into the shadows.
“Sure you do. You’d never been with a man before, had you?” His lips compressed. “You—Celia, or Gina, or whoever-the-hell you are—were a virgin.”
Five
“Excuse me,” she said, and even in the moonlight he saw the blush staining her cheeks.
“You neglected to tell me you wer
e a virgin.”
“You didn’t bother asking.”
She met his gaze boldly, almost daring him to make some inane comment about being over twenty-five and saving herself. For what? Him? He doubted it and felt like a heel.
“Did it matter?”
“To me?” He shook his head. “But I thought it might to you.” She lifted a shoulder beneath the white terry-cloth of that short little robe thing in what he considered measured nonchalance. Any woman who’d held off that long didn’t take going to bed with a man lightly. And yet she was the one who had disappeared before dawn.
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“What about Jack?”
“What?”
“The guy you were talking to on the phone. What about him?”
She snorted. “My sex life isn’t any of his business.”
He digested this, listened to the sounds of the night—a horse snorting in a nearby field, frogs and crickets competing for air space while a bat swooped from a hidden roost. “So what’s your relationship with him?”
“If you want to know the truth…”
“Well, that would be a nice change of pace.”
Her lips flattened together for a heartbeat, then she added, “Jack and I are very close. Extremely. He would understand. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better try and get some sleep.” She started to march away, but he was tired of her flouncing exits.
“No way, lady,” he said, grabbing hold of her wrist, spinning her back to face him and feeling how small the bones were beneath his fingers. “I think I deserve some answers.”
“Why?”
“Because the ones I got in Dallas weren’t exactly on the up-and-up.”
“Maybe you just asked all the wrong questions,” she fired back and jerked her arm away from him. He watched as she huffed off toward the house in a blaze of self-righteous and, as far as he was concerned, undeserved indignation.
“Women.” He wanted to dismiss her, but somehow she’d gotten under his skin. She had from the instant he’d seen her sitting across the dance floor, alone, at a table, sipping wine and dressed to kill. At first he’d assumed she was waiting for someone. A knockout redhead like Gina wasn’t likely unattached, but when the date he’d thought she was waiting for didn’t show up, he’d taken a chance and sent over a drink.