HIS DOUBLE, HER TROUBLE

by Donna Sterling

  As he'd pointed out, she didn't belong to Evan. Evan had broken up with her. Their relationship was over. Strangely enough, she felt no pain or anguish; only a sense of loss.

  She had to move on. She owed it to herself now to overcome whatever mental block she'd developed because of Jake—the one that had led to her breakup with Evan.

  "Brianna?" He watched her with concern. "Are you okay?"

  "Yes. Yes, I'm fine." More than fine, she realized. Nervous though she was, she felt surprisingly free.

  "I'm not trying to upset you or make you uncomfortable," he swore. "You're helping me and my family with this impersonation. I think it's only fair that I help you."

  Shyness weighted her tongue. She struggled against it, forcing herself to speak words that came out agonizingly slow and halting. "Thank you, Jake, for your offer. I'd be very grateful for any … help … that you could give me."

  At first she thought he hadn't quite understood what she was telling him. He moved not a muscle, blinked not an eye. The only response she detected was a subtle flush that illuminated his tan. He reached for his wine and took a drink of it, his dark blue eyes never leaving her face. When he set down his glass, he murmured, "You understand that I'm talking about helping you overcome your sexual inhibitions."

  Without breaking their stare, she nodded.

  Jake felt his soul rise up from his body and hover someplace above it. He saw his hand clench around the wineglass, sensed the slow intake of breath that seemed necessary to cool the throbbing in his skin. She was saying she'd make love to him.

  The enormity of that fact filled him with an almost spiritual awe. He'd waited so long, he'd wanted her so badly. He hardly dared to believe she'd be in his arms, in his bed.

  "We'd have to be discreet." Her shy, trembling voice somehow helped him believe she meant to go through with it. "Our business would have to stay our own. You'd have to promise me that."

  "I promise."

  "Our personal relationship couldn't interfere in any way with my career. I'd need your word on that, too."

  "You have it."

  She dropped her gaze from his and reached for her fork, as if his promises had sealed the deal to her satisfaction, freeing her to carry on with supper as usual. But once the fork was in her hand, poised convincingly over her plate, she seemed to forget how to proceed from there.

  He didn't bother to pick up his own fork. The hunger growing in him had nothing to do with food. He wanted to touch her, to hold her.

  He reached across the table and intercepted her hand as it hovered aimlessly above her plate. Her surprised gaze met his. He took the fork from her, set it aside and drew her hand into his own. "Let's dance."

  "Dance! Here?"

  "Yes, here."

  She glanced around. "There's no dance floor."

  He stood up and pulled her with him. "If I'm going to help you," he whispered as he brought her into his arms, "you have to trust my lead." She didn't argue, but he felt her hesitation. He ran his hand up her back, beneath her stiff suit jacket, and molded her soft, warm body to his. Pleasure coursed through him in a current so strong he had to close his eyes to contain it. With his lips against her ear, he managed to say, "Promise to trust my lead?"

  "I promise." Gradually she yielded, moving with him to the slow, subtle gyrations of the love song.

  "I'm not just talking about dancing," he whispered.

  "I know."

  He pressed his chin against her temple and swept her into a turn, thoroughly intoxicated by her. The fragrance of her hair, the feel of her skin through body-warmed silk, the knowledge that he'd be making love to her soon, crested over him like waves breaking against a shore, each one lifting him higher.

  Tonight. He'd take her home tonight.

  It seemed too good to be true. Was it? Was she acting on impulse? Would she come to her senses and stop, or even worse, blame him afterward? No! This time was different. She knew exactly who he was and she'd asked for his help.

  His help.

  He tightened his hold on her. He knew how to help her, didn't he? He knew how to kiss her—God yes, he remembered their kisses—and how to make her shiver and cry out loud.

  But she'd said she'd been faking it.

  Apprehension invaded his euphoria. She'd been lying, he knew. And even if on some slim chance she hadn't been, that didn't mean he couldn't make her happy now. The inhibitions she'd mentioned in her letter wouldn't stop him from pleasing her, couldn't possibly stop him from pleasing her.

  Could they?

  The song ended and he slowed their movements to a standstill but kept his arms around her, unwilling to let go. Whatever the problems were, they had to be serious, or she'd never have turned to him for help. Only an egotistical fool would discount the possibility that his desire and expertise in the art of lovemaking might not be enough.

  The music changed to a faster tempo. He didn't move or free her from his embrace. She pulled back enough to gaze up at him, her eyes wide and golden and dazed with the same drugging sensuality he'd felt only moments before.

  And he knew. Beyond a doubt, he knew. He'd find a way to reach her, to fan those sexual embers that smoldered so beautifully within her, until every inhibition she'd ever had burned away in the flames.

  But he'd have to go slow. Take his time. Let her desire build beyond any she'd ever known. A dozen ways immediately leapt to his mind. He could redefine the term "teasing" for her, by God…

  But could he himself stand it, when just the thought of waiting was making him crazy; when he wanted her so badly right now?

  In a whisper low and rusty, he asked, "Do you want to finish dinner?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Let's go."

  He paid the bill, helped her into her coat and ushered her out of the restaurant, into the frosty October night air, where their breath clouded and tiny snowflakes danced. Hurrying to his car, he huddled her against him, marveling at his freedom to do so, marveling at how much he wanted to kiss her.

  As he opened the car door for her, their eyes met. Tension crackled like lightning between them. The ten-minute drive to her house took forever. Neither of them said a word. With each passing mile, the need in him intensified.

  He could spend the night loving her. The knowledge burned within him. But look at the bigger picture, an inner voice warned. She needs your help. Take things slow. If you move too quickly, you may never get another chance.

  And one night of her would never be enough.

  He parked the car in the driveway of her snowy-roofed bungalow and escorted her up the walkway. She searched her purse until she found her keys. He took them from her and opened the door.

  In the lilting shadows of the porch, she turned her face up to his. Hesitantly she whispered, "Do you want…?"

  It was all the invitation he needed. Bracing her face in his hands, he kissed her—deep and slow and with all the chaotic longing inside of him. He could allow himself this much tonight—a kiss, only a kiss, to kick start her desire. But when she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself over to him with sweet, thorough abandon, desire ripped through him like wildfire.

  "Yes," he whispered between hot, intricate kisses, shouldering the door further open, "I want."

  * * *

  7

  « ^ »

  They stumbled sideways into the entry foyer, their kisses evolving into voluptuous full-bodied explorations. The pleasure, the sweetness, grew sharp and intense, and the only thought left in Jake was to love her.

  Without disrupting their kisses, he unbuttoned her coat, her blouse, her skirt, pushing and tugging them off her. She fumbled with his jacket, his shirt, his zipper. Clothing hit the floor in a direct path to the bedroom.

  He claimed each new exposure of her with greedy, questing hands. When her curvaceous warmth became too much to savor with his hands alone, he broke away from their erotic tongue play to lave her breasts—tiny tastes, then succulent swirls, until he'd filled his mout
h with her.

  A soft groan, a cry. Her fingers in his hair…

  Urgency overtook him. He swept her onto the bed and yanked the last barrier of white lace down her legs. Long legs. Velvet skin. Beautiful, beautiful… Fire in her gaze, igniting his blood.

  Brianna … his. He loved her in earnest, as he'd dreamt of for so long, thrusting himself deep within her. Her vibrant heat closed around him with an awesome tightness, a virtual suction. Sublime pleasure. He wanted to prolong it, to share it, but he couldn't hold back. His passion surged out of his control, raging and bucking, then exploded into a rapture that stunned him.

  He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Held her tightly, his insides quaking.

  It wasn't until later, much later, as she lay with her face against his shoulder, that rational thought filtered through to his brain.

  And he realized he'd been an animal. Worse than an animal, because he'd known better. He'd torn off her clothes, thrown her across the bed and taken her in a savage rush.

  "Brianna?" he breathed, brushing a hand that still trembled over her silky, fragrant hair. "Are you okay?"

  She nodded. With her cheek pressed against his shoulder, she was obviously hiding, refusing to lift her head and meet his gaze.

  Self-recriminations flooded him. He was supposed to be helping her. If any of her inhibitions had cropped up along the way, he certainly hadn't noticed. His attention had been focused entirely on his own driving need.

  But even as he mentally cursed his caveman behavior, awareness of her invaded his senses. She lay naked in bed with him, the woman he'd fought so long to have, her lush, slender body still hot and moist from loving. If she moved her hip to the right, she'd know how much of an animal he really was.

  Because he wanted her again.

  "I'm sorry if I was … uh … rough, or too rushed," he uttered. "I don't know what came over me. I don't usually … I mean, that wasn't the way I—" He stopped, unable to explain, even to himself, how desperately he'd wanted her.

  A lame excuse for forgetting the reason she'd brought him to her bed—to help her overcome inhibitions. What if he'd made them worse? What if he'd scared the hell out of her, taking away any chance for her to fully enjoy sex? He had to know. He had to set things right, at any cost.

  "Brianna!" He shifted around to look into her face, forcing her to lift her head. "Did I do anything that you didn't like, anything that upset you?"

  At first he thought she wouldn't answer, her hazel gaze unreadable in her flushed heart-shaped face. But after a moment, she replied in a voice hushed and throaty, "If you did, it happened so quickly I didn't have time to notice."

  He saw it, then—a glimmer in her eyes, a slight curl to her lips. Could she be teasing him?

  "I'd heard you like fast women." She stretched out beside him, her head propped up on one arm as her hair cascaded in shining waves. "Now I know why. A woman's got to be quick with you or she'd miss the action altogether."

  When he came to grips with his astonishment, he squared his jaw, acknowledged her wit with a grudging half smile and grabbed her.

  Merciless in his vengeance, he made her cry out in surprise, then shriek in laughter, as she fought to disengage his fingertips from the ticklish valleys between her ribs.

  "So you think I'm fast." He dragged her to him and trapped her body beneath his, thoroughly relishing their skin-to-skin skirmish. "Want a slo-mo replay?"

  "Stop! No more t-tickling," she begged, panting from laughter and the exertion of the fight … and then maybe from the sensation of his chest rubbing across her nipples, sharpening them into diamond-like peaks.

  Obligingly he moved his fingers from her rib cage, letting them wander to other sensitive places. He rained kisses across her breasts, then tugged at a nipple with his mouth. Her struggles turned to writhing, her laughter to moans. Desire picked up force, like a steam locomotive, until his insides burned with sensual hunger. He was man, she was woman, and he wanted to mate with her again, like the animal he was.

  He wanted her hot and wild this time. He coaxed her there with his tongue and his fingers until sobs sounded deep in her throat. Bracing his knees on the mattress, he captured her hips and penetrated with slow and shallow undulations, pushing ever deeper. She wrapped her legs around him and arched into his thrusts. The bed creaked and groaned. The headboard banged harder and harder against the wall. His rhythm quickened until the savagery surpassed even that of their first coupling.

  He climaxed along with her, their cries intermingling, then rode out the pangs of pleasure.

  Their energy spent, they collapsed into a tangle of limbs and bedsheets, an intimate cocoon, where they drifted off into exhausted slumber. Even as he slept, Jake knew he held Brianna, and pleasure radiated through him.

  He awoke at five in the morning. She dozed soundly beside him, her lashes thick and curved against her face. An odd feeling of awe overcame him, as if he were experiencing something cosmic.

  Something cosmic.

  With a little quirk of fear, he tore his gaze away from her and forced himself out of her bed. He had to get his thoughts together, put this whole thing into perspective. Keep it light. Everyday life had to go on. He had to get home to shower, shave and dress for work. Keep it light.

  Impatiently he searched for his clothes among the ones they'd strewn on the floor. When he found them, he dressed with quick, silent tugs in the early morning darkness.

  Nothing extraordinary had happened. Why should he feel that it had? He'd made love to a woman—a beautiful, desirable woman whom he'd wanted for a long time, yes—but lovemaking wasn't some mystical happening. The sex had been good; he'd admit that much. Better than any he'd had in a long time. Better than he'd believed possible…

  Keep it light.

  Had he given her what she'd wanted? He tried to remember any signs she might have shown of being inhibited. She hadn't hidden herself in shyness or stopped him. In fact, he'd never had a warmer, more responsive partner, or one who'd aroused him to the same incredible heights.

  Would she want him again? His life wouldn't end if she didn't. His heart wouldn't stop pumping or turn to stone. Keep it light.

  Dressed in yesterday's clothes, he scribbled a brief note: "Had to go. Didn't want to wake you. See you at the office. J." Then he strode out of her house without risking another look at her.

  If he hadn't pleased her, he would take it in stride. But not now. Not until he'd put it all into perspective.

  "Hurry, Brianna, we're late for a meeting."

  Theresa, her stout dark-haired secretary, held the elevator doors open as Brianna dashed through the front lobby, shrugging out of her coat on the way. She'd never overslept before. She'd never been late. Why today, of all days? She knew why, actually. Because no man had ever drained her so completely of energy or transported her to another galaxy, as Jake had the previous night.

  Then, he'd left her without a kiss or a goodbye. Only a note on her bedside table. Why?

  "Mr. Rowland buzzed me and asked where you were," said Theresa, her brown eyes wide with concern as she ushered Brianna into the elevator. "I was worried about you."

  "I'm just running a little late." Brianna draped her coat over her arm and tried to collect herself. As the floor numbers flashed at the top of the elevator, her nervousness grew. She'd be facing him soon, the man who had made love to her so thoroughly, then left before she awoke.

  Why was she feeling so anxious about seeing him? Just because they'd had a night of incredible sex didn't mean she'd fall under some dark spell of his. True, he had worked powerful magic on her last night. She'd never imagined, never dreamed that such passion existed, or that her body could so completely rule her. But why should she feel threatened by that? She'd never let sex get in the way of important things.

  "Thanks for waiting, Theresa," she murmured as they reached the third floor, where meetings were held. "I wasn't aware we were having a meeting this morning. Who called it?"

  "Mr. Rowland."
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  "Mr. Rowland! Are you sure?"

  "Yes, ma'am. It surprised everyone."

  It certainly surprised Brianna. Why on earth would he call a meeting? Did he even know how to conduct one?

  "You don't mean Mr. Cy Rowland, do you?"

  "No, our very own Mr. Evan Rowland," Theresa said with a grin. "He's been doing some unexpected things lately."

  Brianna's heart took a leap. Had their impersonation been blown? She searched the friendly face of her matronly secretary for any signs of suspicion. "What do you mean?"

  Theresa shrugged. "He moved your office upstairs without any notice. I know you said he'd been planning that for a while, but no one mentioned it to me."

  "I'm sorry. That was an oversight on my part. Your desk and filing cabinets should be moved sometime this week to the office outside mine. It's much more private up there. You'll like it."

  "Of course I'll like an office in the penthouse. Who wouldn't?" She flashed her usual good-natured smile, but soon a reflective look took its place. "Mr. Rowland has been acting strange, though. Yesterday, Millie in auto claims said he asked how her son is doing in football."

  "What's strange about that? Her son began varsity football last month, didn't he?" Brianna had mentioned that fact to Jake as they'd pored over photos of the employees.

  "Sure, but Mr. Rowland has never spoken a word to Millie before. She didn't think he even knew her name, let alone that she has a son in high school. And do you know what Mr. Rowland said to me when he was looking for you this morning?"

  Foreboding gathered in her stomach. "What?"

  "He said, 'Good morning, how are you,' in Italian."

  "So?"

  "How does he know I speak Italian?"

  "Your last name is Rosetti."

  "Pat's last name is DeLuca, and she doesn't know a word of Italian. Tony's name is Gianelli, and he wouldn't know the difference between Italian and Chinese."

  Brianna scolded herself for telling Jake too much. She'd mentioned that Theresa had moved to the United States from Italy when she was a child. After forty-some years in Chicago, her English held no trace of an accent. Brianna realized now that Evan himself probably didn't know anything about Theresa's background. He hadn't hired her; Brianna had, the previous year, when Theresa moved to Pleasantville.