by E C Sheedy
Monk's was Friday-night jammed, and as noisy as a jet-test center. Hardly the place to discuss business. Kent looked around, eyes narrowing—unless it was monkey business. This place was definitely a singles hangout. He hated places like this. He hoped this wasn't an effort on Packard's part for some male bonding of the pick-up-chicks-and-party variety. If it was, he'd made a strategic error.
After they'd shouldered their way through the crowd, taken their seats, and ordered pre-dinner drinks, Packard left to find a quieter place to take a phone call. The waiter brought the drinks, and Kent nursed his, trying to figure out a way to cut this evening short and get back to Beachline. He had work to do. Most of which was Con's. He should damn well leave it for him. Do him good.
Kent imagined Con returning to Beachline from Hawaii and finding a stack of files on his desk high enough to obscure the view of the first tee. Every time he thought about Con his gut clenched, a knotted blend of anger and regret. Anger about the work Con didn't do, sure, but he also missed how it used to be when they'd bought the place. They'd worked together then, side-by-side in a effective partnership, and it had been great. Much as he hated to admit it, he missed the guy.
Kent made idle circles on the table top with his glass. Maybe when he came back, he'd talk to him, try to work things out. Or buy him out. He closed his eyes briefly. The thought of handling Beachline alone gave him pause. Which made no sense at all, because that's exactly what he'd been doing for months. But he had no desire to make it a permanent condition. He took a swallow of Scotch, shoved Con out of his mind, and leaned back in his chair.
He had pleasanter things to think about, like a certain quirky, one-of-a-kind woman with the maternal instinct of a rabbit, who, in a matter of days, had so turned him on that his wake-up condition was painfully predictable. Waking up aroused was okay when a man could do something about it, but when his only something was an icy shower, he was in a bad way. Yeah, if it was just good old-fashioned lust, he'd have alternatives He glanced disinterestedly around the packed room. More than one opportunity in this place. He stifled a yawn.
His nose picked up on a scent. Something from the kitchen. Clove. Cinnamon. Both. He swiveled in his chair.
Rosie. She hadn't spotted him yet, even though she was only about three feet away, sitting with Jonesy. His whole body straightened, and his hand fell away from his drink. He couldn't believe he'd missed her on the way in. Maybe because she looked so... different. Her brace was gone, exposing a pale, delicate neck, and her hair was swept back and up in a wild head-topping arrangement that would baffle a NASA scientist. She was spectacular.
And a man's arm was draped casually on the back of her chair.
She was with someone.
A blast of unexpected jealousy effectively halted all normal thought processes in his brain. By the time it cleared, he found himself calmly evaluating two courses of rational action. Either doing the cave man thing—which involved bludgeoning her date with a steel-studded cudgel and dragging Rosie from the room by her copper hair—or heeding the sage advice of an old deodorant commercial: "Never let 'em see you sweat."
Still undecided, he got to his feet. They led him directly to Rosie.
Chapter 8
"That's nice. That's real nice," Rosie said, trying to widen her eyes enough to appear somewhat interested. Not that it mattered. Roland was a lot more interested in Roland than conversational feedback.
What the heck had Jonesy been thinking of to set her up -with this guy? She looked at her watch. The way she had it figured, she'd been here about six weeks, and they hadn't even been served dinner yet. There had to be a way out of this date. She massaged her newly accessible throat and clamped her teeth over a welling yawn. Maybe she could convince ole Roland to FedEx his ego to her place. She'd stroke it a few hundred times and send it back. Easier for all concerned. While Roland droned on about Roland, she tried to come up with an escape plan.
She couldn't risk kicking Jonesy under the table again, or the woman would be going home in a wheelchair. Obviously Jonesy liked her own date. Sheesh!
Should've brought my own car, darn it. If Jonesy reneges on her promise to drive me home, I'll—
"What are you doing here, O'Hanlon?"
The voice came from behind her, cool and unfriendly. Rosie looked up and into the last pair of eyes she expected to see. And of course she was immediately warm all over, glad, mad, and befuddled.
"Kent?" she questioned, hitting a high note on the dumb response-o-meter.
"Last I checked," he said mirthlessly, nodding in Jonesy's direction and giving her a smile that looked as though it had already been used. Jonesy raised a brow and grinned back. Without acknowledging the two men at the table, Kent turned his gaze back to Rosie and positively glowered at her.
"Shouldn't you be home in bed?" He gestured toward her naked neck and glared.
She stared, certain she looked like an owl on Prozac. Kent hadn't so much as glanced at Roland, and Rosie knew she should be angry at his high-handedness, his surly tone, and his lack of good manners, but she was either too stupidly pleased that he'd shown up or too leaden with boredom to drum up the necessary fire. She'd figure out which later. A golden opportunity knocked.
She reached down, gripped her bag as if it were a life preserver, and stood. "You're absolutely right. That's precisely where I should be. And you're the perfect man to take me there." She shot a quick glance at Roland, who was blinking so fast he couldn't work his mouth. "You'll excuse us, won't you? Thanks so much."
It was Kent's turn to blink. But to his credit, he didn't hesitate. He took her arm and steered her through the crowd as if he were Moses and Monk's was the Red Sea. He stopped briefly to speak to a man sitting at one of the tables, and the next minute they were outside waiting for the parking attendant to bring his car around.
Rosie breathed deep of the cool evening air. She'd been unforgivably rude, but she doubted she'd so much as scuffed Roland's sacred selfhood. She was just happy to be free and standing next to the man she lov—.
Her knees threatened to give out. Trembling, she tried to stuff that scary thought back in the dream bag it had escaped from. Lust, she reminded herself, it was only lust. Not that there was anything "only" about it. Not if the object of said lust occupied your thoughts every waking minute and had you consumed with curiosity about... all kinds of things.
Like what he'd look like naked, what his hands would feel like against your skin, if his lovemaking would be teasingly gentle or erotically rough, if he'd want the lights on or off, what his first words would be after making love...
She slipped off her jacket and pressed her fingers against her chest bone. Her mouth was dry.
She realized that Kent hadn't said a word since they left the restaurant.
"Kent, I—"
"Here's the car," he said abruptly.
The attendant opened the door for her, and she slid in, seconds before Kent took his place in the driver's seat. Without a word, he peeled away from the curb.
It took a few minutes for Rosie to get courage enough to try again. "Thanks for the rescue," she said.
"You're welcome." He gave her a quick, hard glance, then said, "What were you doing in that place anyway?"
"I'll be gracious and not ask you the same question—"
"Business. Strictly business."
"Whatever you say, Summerton."
"I said it was business. Now it's your turn."
"I think it's obvious I had a date."
"Some date."
"Yeah, it was kind of a disaster. First of many, I guess." She cringed inwardly. She couldn't believe it. After her first night out, she'd already lost enthusiasm for her daddy hunt. She was beginning to think becoming a nun and working with kids in the Third World would be easier than finding the right man, a man who wanted what she so desperately desired.
No. Needed.
Kent went quiet again, then said softly, "Why, Rosie? Why that guy instead of me?"
&n
bsp; Rosie's tummy tumbled. "I think we've already talked about this, Summerton. And agreed to disagree."
He nodded, looking weary. "The family thing."
He drove on in silence until they reached the turn into her driveway. He made it smoothly and pulled up in front of her stairs.
Rosie couldn't make herself get out of the car. Lady Brain was AWOL, leaving Hormone to conjure and imagine...
What would he taste like? Feel like pressed into her body in the moonlight? Would he whisper in her ear when he camel Would he smile and kiss her throat when they'd both had enough? Could there ever be enough?
Kent neither moved nor spoke. He rested his hand along the back of the seat and played with her hair. He appeared thoughtful, speculative.
"Rosie, what if I changed my mind? What if I said I'd consider making your dream mine?"
Her heart lifted, then skittered, then fell. "You'd give up your ninety-hour work week and your smarty-pants smartphone to make time for me and a row of runny-nosed kids? I don't think so."
He stroked her neck, and she let him, shifting so she could feel his fingers glide along her hair line. Her skin was maddeningly sensitive there and dangerously susceptible to his touch. She leaned against his hand, capturing it between her shoulder and chin. "You should stop."
He didn't stop, but pulled his hand free and moved it to the other side of her neck.
"Why wouldn't it work?" he asked quietly.
She tried to concentrate, to ignore the play of his fingers on her skin. "Because you'd be saying it to get me into bed, and you'd change your mind later. After you got what you wanted."
His hand stopped, then started again. "What we both want, Red."
She felt him tug her closer, didn't try to resist. When he drew her face to his, questioned her with his eyes, she nodded. "What we both want."
He kissed her—so completely she was sated with it. And as her universe shrank to encompass only the blissful space filled by their bodies, the hot link of their mouths, she knew she was perilously near to letting Hormone rule and possibly making the biggest mistake of her life.
She wasn't completely sure, but she was pretty sure she was about to have sex with Kent Summerton.
She refused to call it making love. No point to that. Love was forever. Love included the kids she wanted to have, and a man who'd be a husband and dad first, and a business tycoon second. Kent Summerton was a classic workaholic with scarcely enough time to eat, let alone nurture a dozen kids. Well, maybe a dozen was a bit much.
"Are you going to invite me in?" he murmured against her throat, his breath warm enough to melt a steel chastity belt. Rosie was sure she heard Hormone's garters snap. Kent nuzzled her just under the ear.
Her insides turned syrupy and warm.
Lady Brain, come in please. Mayday. Mayday.
He kissed her neck, effectively sabotaging all communication. His low voice with its implied wonders tugged at her heartstrings—along with a few other strings attached to more sinful parts of her female anatomy.
Oh, hell. Why couldn't things ever be easy. Invite him in... His question was definitely the line in the sand. Cross it and she risked her heart. She wasn't so far into her sexual fantasy she couldn't see that. Resistance. That's what was needed here.
He ran a slow finger from her ear to her shoulder, pushing aside her stretchy top as he went. And followed it with his mouth.
On the other hand, it was a chance to test all her wild imaginings. He cupped her breast, grazed his thumb over her nipple. She closed her eyes.
"And if I do?" Her words came out on whispery, wimpy breath. She wasn't pleased with herself. She forced herself to look up at him, wanting to see what his eyes said.
"We'll just... talk. If that's what you want." He grinned, as if the idea held merit as a practical joke, then sobered. "I want you, Red." His gaze intensified, darkened. "And I care about you. Enough to complicate your life and mine. I'm not promising anything—" he traced an imaginary line across the swell of her breasts "—except a good time, but I'd like you to give us a chance."
A chance. Could there be one? She doubted it, but the idea made her heart leap like a crazed dolphin. She was hopeless. Utterly hopeless. And she was too turned on to care. If this was a mistake, it wouldn't be her first one. But the rock-bottom truth was, if she didn't make love with this man, she'd regret it the rest of her life.
"Rosie," he said, lightly kissing her ear. "I really do like kids."
She laughed, pulled away, and touched his cheek. "You're shameless, Summerton. Completely shameless. But liking kids isn't enough to get you into my bed."
"Damn. I figured that was my best shot." He smiled and raised a brow. "So what will get me into your bed?"
Rosie took a long, steadying breath and sent Lady Brain for pizza. "Actually, I'm kind of intrigued by that good time you promised."
* * *
They stood facing each other in Rosie's bedroom, an indoor garden of color caught in the day's last light. Pinks, greens, and brushstrokes of yellow blended to a gay and inviting harmony. A brass bed sat near an open window, its metal sending glittery winks into the room with each rise of the breeze-tossed curtains.
They held hands, and Kent leaned down to kiss Rosie's forehead. It was a soft kiss, cool and gentle, before he freed his hands from hers and gripped her shoulders, pulling her close.
Her insides quivered, half in anticipation and half in horrendous nervousness. It had been a while since she'd done this. A long while. And because it was nothing like riding a bicycle, she was pretty sure a person forgot how. Not that she had much to remember. There been a few gropes and fumbles along the way, but mostly she'd messed them up. She expected a complete botch-up on her part, a nightmare of adolescent awkwardness, yanked hair, and teeth collisions.
"Thank you, O'Hanlon," Kent said somewhere close to her ear.
"What for? We haven't done anything yet." She rested her head against his heart, listened to its beat. Strong, but none too steady. She took satisfaction in that.
"I know. I just wanted you to know it means something to me. Being here. In your room."
"Oh, well then, you're welcome. I guess."
"You're nervous."
"No, I—" Her head came up, clipped him hard on the chin. You could have heard his teeth rattle from the kitchen. "I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry." She knew she'd blow it. She just knew it. A sex goddess, she wasn't.
"You are nervous."
She stepped back, the better to look him in the eyes—and avoid inflicting further wounds. She was pretty sure he'd function better if he hit the bed in one piece. "You're right, Summerton, I am. I'm a bedroom klutz. Think of your worst nightmare of a sex partner; gauche, bumbling, inept and I'm it. And—" Lord almighty, she was going to cry "—and I don't want to be that way with you. The truth is I'm a big mouth with more sass than brass. If you know what I mean."
With reckless disregard for his own safety, he pulled her to him. "O'Hanlon, you're something. Really something." He ran his hands along her shoulders, up her neck and past her ears to sink his hands deep in her hair. "Why not relax and leave it to me? I'm the one who promised the good time."
"True." She wrapped her arms around his waist and hung on. She sniffed. "Okay, how about I pretend I'm one of those inflatable doll things and just lie back and let you have your way with me."
He leaned back and laughed, and his laughter soothed like a cool compress on a nasty fever. She giggled against his chest.
Still laughing, he picked her up as easily as though she were made of gossamer and cobwebs, and carried her to the bed. But when he stood over her and started to undo the buttons on his shirt, and she caught her first glimpse of his satiny chest hair, she sat up immediately. Her fervid imaginings were about to become reality, and she didn't want to miss a thing.
"Hey, this is a two way street, you know."
He might have been complaining, but, thankfully, he didn't stop—until he was down to his slacks and an undone zi
pper. Rosie couldn't take her eyes off that strip of metal. He flicked open the button on his slacks and arched a brow. "Rosie?"
She lifted her arms high above her head. "I'm a rubber doll, remember?" The idea of letting him do all the work was more appealing by the minute.
No hesitation and no awkwardness, he just pulled her cotton tee over her head and joined her on the bed. Then he hooked his fingers under the spaghetti straps of her bra and dropped them over her shoulders. "Turn around," he instructed.
She turned, lifted her hair, and he undid her bra. The instant it fell away, he replaced it with his hands, lifting her breasts as if savoring the weight of them. He kissed her back, played his thumbs over her already hardened nipples. "Perfect," he murmured between kisses. He cupped her again. "Exactly right."
Rosie couldn't breathe. Her vision blurred. Okay, this would be a first. She was going to faint before the good part. "Kent, I think you'd better stop doing that," she mumbled.
Thank heavens he didn't hear her.
He caught her nipple gently between two fingers and rolled it. Using his other hand to lift her hair away from her neck, he kissed her nape and shoulders, a hundred nipping kisses that made her body as soft as summer butter.
She was definitely going to faint.
Kent stopped, rested his head on her shoulder, and groaned softly against her skin. His hands idled below her breasts. "Rosie?"
"Hm-m?"
"Your neck. Is it okay? I mean really okay? I don't want to hurt you in any way."
Hurt? All she could think about was pleasure and those lazy, mind-bending semicircles he'd started making under the point of her breast with his thumb. She put a hand over his. Sucked in some air. "Headstands are out. That's about it."
"Good, but I'll be careful anyway." He gave her one more kiss on the neck, turned her to face him, and cradled her until she was stretched out on the bed beneath him. Supporting himself on one elbow, he stared at her, eyes glittering and dark. A hank of his rich brown hair fell forward and Rosie reached for it, stroked it back. Thick and lively, it resisted her attempt to contain it, and she was glad because she loved the feel of it gliding over her palms, slipping through her fingers.