Fortune's Perfect Match

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  “They’ll be too big, but at least I can promise they’re clean.” Max’s voice preceded him back into the room and Emily quickly stuck the picture frame back on the mantel.

  But not quickly enough, she realized as she turned toward him.

  His gaze immediately cut to the picture, but all he did was extend a bundle of faded gray toward her. “The shorts have a drawstring so you can tighten ’em up. Bathroom’s down the hall.”

  Emily took the bundle from him and almost asked about the baby in the picture. But he was already sliding open the arcadia door next to the television and she saw the outline of a covered gas grill on the small outdoor terrace.

  Clutching the clothing, she quickly found the bathroom and closed herself inside. There was nothing fancy about the finishes there, but everything looked scrupulously clean and the light bar was unrelentingly bright. It clearly showed off her flushed cheeks in the mirror behind the sink vanity.

  Looking away from herself and the dress—which looked worse than she’d expected it to—she pulled down the side zipper hidden beneath her arm and let it fall to the floor. She kicked off her pumps and stepped out of the dress, then reached for the clothes he’d left her.

  Only when she slid the washed-soft T-shirt over her head did she think about the fact that all she’d worn beneath the dress had been a thin pair of lace panties. The lined dress possessed a built-in bra and Emily had eschewed wearing nylons because of the warm weather.

  She inhaled slowly and looked at herself in the mirror, chewing the inside of her cheek. Not even the fading Texas Rangers logo on the front of the cotton knit shirt could disguise the clearly visible points of her nipples that had drawn up tight the second she’d pulled on his shirt.

  The only saving grace was that the shirt was so large on her, she was practically swimming in it.

  She pressed her hands over her breasts, imagining Max’s hands doing the same.

  Then she shook her head sharply and dropped her hands.

  What was wrong with her?

  Yes, she was attracted to Max. But she felt like she was about ready to melt from the inside out and she could feel her pulse pounding dizzily through every inch of her body. Head to toe and all points in between. She’d never felt so ridiculously out of control before.

  She quickly turned on the faucet and ran cold water over her wrists. Then she grabbed the gray gym shorts and pulled them on, fiddling with the drawstring inside the waistband until it was tight enough not to slide down past her hips. The loose-fitting shorts probably reached Max’s knees, but on her, they extended well below.

  There was nothing remotely sexy about the too-large getup. And she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt more aroused than she did just from wearing clothes that he’d obviously worn.

  She quickly gathered up her dress, going through the motions of soaking the stained portion in the sink even though she doubted it could be saved, before leaving the bathroom.

  As soon as she reached the living room, she could smell the steaks, already on the grill. But a noise from the kitchen had her turning that direction.

  Max had changed, too, exchanging his button-down for a white Redmond Flight School T-shirt that had the sleeves ripped out. She carefully kept her eyes from staring too long at the roping muscles revealed by the shirt as she slid onto one of the bar stools. “This is a nice place you have.”

  “It’s a place to sleep.” He barely glanced at her as he slid a tall glass of ice onto the bar in front of her. “I’ve got tea and water, too, if you don’t want soda.”

  “Water works.” Dr. Grace had lectured her more than once how important it was that she drank more water.

  He pulled out a bottle of filtered water from the fridge and filled her glass and with a minimum of motion, rotated to put the large bottle back in the fridge.

  She blindly wrapped her hand around the glass, staring at his backside. All too quickly, he was facing her again, and she could feel her cheeks getting warm all over again. She sipped at the water with one hand and below the breakfast bar surreptitiously plucked the front of the shirt away from her aching breasts. “How, um, how long have you lived here?”

  “Little less than a year.” He pulled the tab on a can of cola and took a long drink. “I was living with my sister before that. And you? What do you call home?”

  Watching him swallow that long drink was better than any commercial she’d ever seen. He could have been selling deep-fried worms and she’d want to stock up.

  She moistened her lips, feeling parched despite the water. “Red Rock feels like home lately,” she replied faintly.

  His lips tilted. “You like the live-in babysitter role that much?”

  She shifted on the padded seat. Everywhere the clothes hit, her skin felt hot. Strangely, sensually tight. “Actually, I love babysitting MaryAnne. I never get tired of it.” A thin vein of remaining common sense had her shying away from the topic of babies. Any baby. “But Wendy and Marcos are still newlyweds and their house is barely big enough for them.”

  “Cramping their style a little?”

  She nodded, lifting the glass to her lips again and drinking thirstily as she looked toward his living room. “I’ve begun investigating finding a place of my own,” she said when she set the glass down again. “Do you know if there are any units available here?”

  He leaned down over the breakfast bar on his bent arms, his hands only inches from the one she had clenched around the sweating water glass. “This place would be slumming for you, wouldn’t it?”

  She nudged up her glasses and angled her chin, giving him a look. “I live in a two-bedroom, one-bath apartment back in Atlanta.”

  “Which you probably own.”

  She couldn’t deny that. The loft-style condo had been a very good investment. “If you have such a problem with my family’s money, why did you even ask me out tonight?”

  “I told you I found you interesting.”

  “The front page of the newspaper is interesting.”

  “And because I can’t look at you without wanting you.”

  Parched hadn’t even begun to describe things. Her lips parted, but her suddenly addled brain couldn’t begin to frame a response.

  “But that’s just about sex,” he added after a moment.

  “Ah,” she said faintly. “Sex.”

  “And the hitch isn’t just your money,” he went on, sounding dogged.

  “My family’s money,” she corrected. She earned a very nice salary but she still supported her own expenses.

  “You’re also my boss’s sister-in-law,” he finished as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “So, like it or not, sleeping with you isn’t…smart.”

  “Put that way, I suppose it probably isn’t.” She picked up the glass and took a gulp. When she set the glass down, her knuckles bumped his fingers.

  And she froze when he slid those blunt-tipped, warm fingers over the back of her hand, then slipped to the inside of her wrist, pressing right against her rocketing pulse.

  “Problem is—” His voice dropped a notch. His fingers slowly inched upward from her inner wrist until they reached the crook of her elbow. “I usually make a habit of doing things that aren’t smart.”

  “Like what?”

  He just shook his head, though. His gaze was locked on hers.

  There were only inches separating her arm from the side of her breast. If she moved at all, his fingertips would brush against her. She inhaled slowly, unconsciously deep. “Max.”

  “I really can’t afford not being smart anymore, Emily.”

  Common sense warred with desire. She’d been the one to suggest coming back to his place. “Do you want me to leave?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but quickly slipped off the bar stool. “Never mind.” Maybe he felt like he couldn’t honestly answer, considering everything. “I never meant to put you in an awkward position, Max.”

  He gave a low, choking sort of laugh. “Too late.”

  She could feel heat cre
eping into her face again. “I’ll just, um, get my dress. I left it soaking in the sink.” She headed around the breakfast bar for the hallway.

  But he moved quickly, his arm catching her around the waist, hauling her up against him. “If I hadn’t wanted you to come back here, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Her hips were squared off against him and there was no mistaking his arousal. She pressed her palms flat against his chest, staring fiercely at his jaw while she struggled with her own. It would be so, so easy to give in. But at what cost?

  He’d end up considering it a mistake. Another one of his not-smart moves.

  And she’d be left with his regret.

  “We just take it out of the equation,” she said abruptly.

  “What?” His fingers flexed against her waist. Slid around to the small of her back.

  She ruthlessly cut off the wish that his hands would slip even lower. Grip her even tighter against him. “Sex.” Her throat felt tight and she had to force out the word. “We take sex off the table.”

  His head lowered. His mouth brushed against her temple. Burned against her cheek. “I think sex on the table sounds pretty sweet.” His whisper was rough and hot near her ear.

  Her knees turned to gelatin, her overactive mind conjuring the feel of him laying her back against that round table, shoving the chairs out of their way—

  She grasped for her rapidly dissolving common sense. “And we could just—” she broke off, inhaling sharply when she felt his teeth close over her earlobe, tugging slightly “—just…ah…just be friends.”

  He shifted slightly, his leg nudging between hers as his hand slid beneath the loose T-shirt. Grazed up her bare spine and dragged slowly down again, sliding right over the curve of her rear and pulling her in even more tightly. “Right,” he drawled. “That’s gonna happen.” He kissed the point of her chin. The corner of her mouth.

  She pulled her head back, staring up at him. “You just said this wasn’t smart.”

  His eyes looked nearly black. “And I also said I was good at doing what wasn’t smart. Welcome to my world.” He slid his hand along her jaw. “Take off your glasses.” His fingertips found the nape of her neck and his thumb brushed over the corner of her mouth. His thumb pressed gently, slipping between her lips.

  If it hadn’t been for his hard thigh notched between hers and the arm he still had around her, Emily’s legs would have simply given way. She mindlessly pulled off her glasses, tossing them carelessly on the breakfast bar while the tip of her tongue pressed against his thumb. Tasting salt. Tasting him.

  She felt the breath he sucked in, and then his fingers dug into her nape, tilting her head back even more and his mouth covered hers.

  His lips were surprisingly soft. His taste sweet. Like his soda. Only so much more appetizing.

  Then he made a sound low in his throat and lifted his head only long enough for them both to catch their breaths before kissing her again. Deeper. Harder.

  Her hands slid out from between them, going behind his neck. Sliding up into his thick, tantalizingly silky hair. Her breasts felt crushed against his hard chest and she reveled in it. And then his hands were moving again, finding her hips, rocking her against him; sliding down, underneath the waistband that she’d tightened with the string; down, beneath the lace of her panties, his fingertips burning against her bare derriere as he urged her forward, forward.

  She dragged her mouth from his, pressing her head into the curve of his shoulder, gasping his name as everything inside her seemed to tighten, spiraling higher and higher. “Max. Please. You’re going to make me—” She broke off, hardly believing what she was doing, much less what she was saying.

  “Good.” In a swift motion, he yanked her T-shirt over her head. She heard the faint ping of hairpins as they came loose and her hair unraveled. “I want to make you come.” He clearly had no such verbal reservations. “Again.” He caught one breast in his hand, his fingers taunting her exquisitely rigid nipple. “And again.” His lips found the other.

  Her fingers jerkily tangled in his hair, her head falling forward. She couldn’t help the sobbing moan that rose inside her when his other hand slid between them, arrowing straight between her thighs.

  It took a while for the sound of chimes to penetrate. At first, she thought it was only inside her head. The twenty-first-century version of hearing violins as she hovered on the brink of the orgasm he was driving her straight toward.

  But then Max lifted his head. He sucked in a deep breath. “Damn it.” His hand left her aching breast. Slipped even more slowly away from the moist lace.

  The chimes repeated. Insistently.

  He set her aside, yanked his shirt over his jeans and stepped around her.

  He was heading for the front door.

  Only then did she realize the chiming had been the doorbell. She snatched up the Rangers T-shirt and clutched it against her bare breasts, turning to lean back against the short kitchen wall where she’d be out of sight of the front door.

  She sucked in a shaking breath and fumbled with her eyeglasses, putting them back in place.

  “Hello, Mrs. Sheckley,” she heard him say in greeting. “What’s up?”

  “Max, dearie. I wanted to see if you were all right.”

  “Perfect, Mrs. Sheckley. Why?”

  “Well, honey, something’s burning on your grill.”

  Emily pressed her face into the T-shirt. Of course. The steaks. She soundlessly pulled on the shirt and peered cautiously around the corner of the wall. Mrs. Sheckley looked about five feet tall and ninety years old and she was looking up at Max as if he were her favorite person in the world.

  Max glanced over his shoulder, catching Emily peeking. He gave her a wry grimace before turning back to his visitor. “Thanks, Mrs. Sheckley. Guess I got distracted. I’ll pull ’em off.”

  Mrs. Sheckley patted his cheek, then pushed a plastic-wrapped plate into his hands. “I brought you some of those cookies you like,” she said. “But you be sure to eat something else, too, now,” she instructed before she disappeared from Emily’s view.

  Emily stepped out of the kitchen once Max closed the door.

  “Sorry about that,” he told her.

  “Maybe you should be saying ‘saved by the bell.’” She still felt like an inferno was burning her up from the inside out, but the interruption had at least allowed her common sense to rear its head once more. “I don’t want anything to happen that you’re going to regret.”

  He shoved his fingers through his hair as he crossed the room to the terrace, dumping the plate that Mrs. Sheckley had left him on the coffee table in front of the couch along the way. Outside, he transferred the steaks from the grill to a plate but left them sitting on the small table next to the grill. “What I regret is answering the damn door,” he said when he came back in.

  Emily smiled slightly. She shook her head. “You don’t mean that.”

  He gave her a long look. “Steaks weren’t the only thing burning. I’m still hard and I know exactly how I want you to help me deal with that.”

  An ache twisted through her. Her legs actually shook. “None of the reasons why you said this wasn’t smart have disappeared in the last few minutes.”

  “Hey.” His lips twisted wryly. “Give a guy some credit. Twenty minutes.”

  She felt a smile touch her own lips. “I kind of felt like time was standing still, actually.”

  His eyes darkened. He took a step toward her.

  Her pulse seemed to stutter, then bolted past the starting gate all over again.

  She knew if he touched her, she’d lose that moment’s grace of common sense. Was afraid that his touch might not even be necessary for her to lose it. “I should go.”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  “No.” She lifted her shoulders, feeling torn. It wasn’t a sensation she was particularly familiar with. “But it’s probably smart.”

  He exhaled noisily. “Fine. I’ll take you home.” Then he p
icked up the plate that Mrs. Sheckley had left and his lips tilted crookedly. “But first you’ve got to help me eat these things. She’s a sweet lady. I bring in her paper for her every morning and she returns the favor by baking for me. But she can’t bake worth squat. Everything comes out burnt.” He peeled off the plastic wrap and plucked a dark-edged cookie off the pile to take a bite. “Oatmeal-raisin. I think.”

  She studied him for a moment. “You could just throw them away, you know.”

  “Could. But it’d hurt her feelings if she knew.” He extended the plate toward her.

  He’d eat burnt cookies just to save his neighbor’s feelings.

  She smiled, and slowly reached out for one of the cookies. But she was shaking inside.

  Fireworks she could handle.

  This strange ache inside her heart, though?

  That was another matter entirely.

  Chapter Seven

  “Turn sharper,” Max said urgently. “You’re going to run off the cliff again.”

  Emily jerked the wheel in her hand, her attention glued to the action on Max’s big television. Her character—an ape named Priscilla—went spiraling off the edge of the animated mountain, landing with a splash in the rippling water at the base.

  Emily tossed the gaming wheel onto the couch between her and Max and leaned back. “I’m done. Finis. I’ll never get the hang of this stupid game.”

  Max tsked. “Is that negativity I hear actually coming from your lips?”

  Emily grimaced but there wasn’t a lot of heat in it.

  Once she and Max had polished off Mrs. Sheckley’s half-dozen cookies—helped copiously by the glasses of milk that Max had poured—he should have driven Emily home. Instead, they’d somehow found themselves sitting side by side on the couch, pitting their skills against a computer video game and each other.

  She still wasn’t quite sure how that had come about.

  And now, well past midnight, there was an opened box of half-eaten pizza sitting on the coffee table in front of them. “I’ve killed off poor Priscilla five times on that curve,” she told Max. He was steering his own character—an unlikely androgynous dragonlike beast named Julio—to the finish line of the race. “It’s time I stopped torturing poor Priscilla, don’t you think? It’s not negativity if it’s just plain fact.”