TEMPERATURE'S RISING

by Donna Sterling

  Heat kindled beneath her skin. He virtually consumed her with his eyes, making her want to show him more. He affected her far too easily. "I'll get your key." She turned in subdued panic toward the French doors.

  He shifted his powerful body to block her way, but it was his entreating gaze that stopped her. "First," he whispered, "I want to collect the rest of my fee."

  Her breath hitched in her throat. "I don't know what fee you're referring to," she lied.

  "A kiss." A smile lifted one end of his mouth, but his gaze remained hot and serious. "You owe me a kiss."

  "I never agreed to that."

  "You did." His fingers skimmed along the curve of her face, then sifted through her hair, infusing her with a desire to feel more of his touch. "Not with words, but with your eyes." His thumb caressed a slow, seductive path beside her mouth. "Kiss me, Callie," he breathed. "Please. I've been thinking about it all night."

  Traitorous heat flushed through her. She wanted so badly to give in. But it wouldn't be just one kiss, and they both knew it. She had to force herself to remember the reasons she couldn't get intimately involved with him—the malpractice case, and her professional reputation.

  And past betrayals.

  She drew in a much-needed breath. "So … you think I'm beautiful now, Jack?"

  He closed his eyes and brushed his mouth lightly across her lower lip. "God, yes."

  "Because I have a few decent curves," she whispered, "and a fairly good haircut?"

  As the words permeated the warm, sensual haze clouding his mind, Jack paused into stillness, then slowly drew back to study her face. The question gave him the feeling he wasn't on solid ground.

  Not that he'd expected to be. She'd had a whole afternoon to talk herself out of kissing him again.

  "If you're asking why I think you're beautiful," he slowly replied, sensing that only the God-honest truth would do, "I'd have to say that I'm basing my judgment on a purely personal gut reaction." His gaze pressed deeper into hers. "I've never seen a woman more beautiful," he swore in a heartfelt whisper.

  Color bloomed in her cheeks, and she looked shaken.

  He knew he had to lighten the moment. "Not that I don't appreciate a few decent curves and a good haircut."

  She inhaled sharply through her nostrils and jerked away from him. The peach satin of her wicked little night slip shimmered in the moonlight, pulling taut across her breasts and rising higher across her panties as she planted a hand on her hip. "Did you say the same kind of things to Meg?"

  "Meg!"

  "Shh!" Callie lunged to cover his mouth with her hand as the light on the balcony above them flicked on.

  A murmur of voices sounded from directly above them. She warned him with widened gray-green eyes and urgent pressure at his mouth to stay silent.

  Hooking his arm around her slim waist, he opened the French doors, swung her inside and closed the doors. Her hand had fallen from his mouth and settled against his shoulder. She remained in the crook of his arm, close enough for her breath to warm his neck and chin.

  "Be very, very quiet," she whispered. "I don't want anyone to know you're here."

  He nodded. She cautiously backed away from him.

  He, personally, didn't give a damn who heard them, but he obligingly kept his voice low. "Now what the hell was your question about Meg?"

  Her chin lifted, and the militant light flashed again in her eyes. "Did you tell her the same kind of things?"

  "What kind of things?"

  "You know." She hesitated, glanced briefly away and blushed. "That you thought she was the most beautiful woman you've ever seen."

  "I didn't feel that way about Meg."

  "Isn't that odd? She thought you did."

  At a loss for words, he spread out his palms in a plea for enlightenment. "What are you trying to say, Callie?"

  "You broke Meg's heart."

  "I what?" He couldn't have been more stunned.

  "You used her, then threw her away."

  He sat down abruptly into the nearest chair, stared at her as he absorbed the impact of the accusation, then rubbed his hand over his eyes with a brief, silent laugh. "Used her," he repeated, lowering his hand to stare again at Callie. "And just how did I do that?"

  Her glare was nothing less than lethal.

  Jack's gaze narrowed. "Is that where you got all your hostility toward me?" He rose from the chair and stalked toward her. "From a delusional belief that I broke Meg's heart?"

  "Don't sound so surprised." She boldly confronted him, both hands on her hips. "She's my sister, Jack. You know how you feel about Becky?"

  "Yeah?"

  "That's how I feel about Meg."

  The magnitude of her anger finally hit home. Did she feel something similar to the sick, helpless rage that overcame him every time he thought about what Grant Tierney had done to Becky? He ground his teeth in frustration. He couldn't stand to have Callie think of him that way.

  He gazed at her in solemn earnestness. "I swear to you, Callie, there was never anything serious between Meg and me."

  "That's my point." A little catch in her voice refuted the coldness in her gaze. "You say there was nothing serious between you, but some women take things a lot more seriously than you do. Meg and I are two of those women."

  Understanding then dawned in a sudden, clarifying rush. "You think I had sex with her, don't you?"

  The question clearly caught her by surprise. "That's … that's none of my business."

  "Did Meg say I had sex with her?"

  "Of course not! Meg never told me things like that. I was her kid sister, for Pete's sake. But I'm not stupid. When a smooth-talking stud like you comes calling on a girl like Meg in the middle of the night, I doubt it's to gig flounders!"

  "Smooth-talking stud," he repeated in quiet affront. Her cutting tone had made it very clear she hadn't meant it as a compliment. He tightened his mouth and loomed closer to confront her point-blank. "You think I lured Meg out of the house, plied her with flattery and persuaded her to have sex, don't you?"

  "Well, didn't you?"

  He stared at her for a full, tense moment, angry that she thought he'd do that. But then he recalled his hormonal teenage self and blew out an explosive breath. "I tried," he admitted with an embarrassed laugh. "I damn well tried." Not proud of that fact, he paced away from her and rubbed the back of his neck.

  "Are you trying to tell me that Meg turned you down?" Callie scoffed, following him across the bedroom suite. "It won't wash, Jack. She was crazy enough about you to do anything."

  "Yeah," he agreed with a nod, turning to face her. "I always liked that about Meg."

  Callie's eyes glittered in warning.

  "I liked her eyes, too," he mused, studying Callie's. "They were shaped a lot like yours, except they weren't green." He thought back, trying to picture them. "I don't remember what color they were, but I know they weren't green."

  "Blue," Callie said, looking unsure of his point.

  He wasn't entirely sure of his point, either. But he kept on, trusting he'd eventually arrive at it. "I also liked her voice. Soft, throaty, feminine. She sounded a lot like you … at least, when you're being nice." He nudged her stubbornly squared jaw with his thumb.

  She cocked her face away from his touch.

  He recaptured her gaze with the force of his stare, intent on explaining how he'd felt about Meg. He hadn't quite understood it himself until now. "I liked her mouth best of all, Cal." A flicker of hurt darkened her eyes, and he suddenly knew the point he'd been trying to make. "Do you know why?"

  With a slight wince, she shook her head. "I don't think I need to know."

  His voice degenerated into nothing more than a husky whisper. "Because it made me think of yours."

  Dazed surprise replaced the hurt in her eyes.

  His gaze returned helplessly to her mouth, so smooth, lush and ripe-peach red that he had to clench his jaw to stop from tasting it. "The only problem was," he went on gruffly, "kissing
her wasn't the same as how I'd dreamed kissing you might be."

  She drew in an audible breath and seemed to hold it.

  "I never made love to her, Cal. We necked in the back seat of my car. Steamed up the windows. But when it came right down to it—" he shook his head "—I never went very far. Because I knew I wasn't being fair." His gaze burned into hers. "It wasn't Meg I was kissing."

  If any sound disturbed the silence, it had to be the slow, heavy pounding of his heart. And maybe hers.

  She sat down on the country sofa beside a quaint fireplace, folding her long, elegant legs beside her. "If you're trying to say you thought about me," she whispered, "I don't believe it. You barely noticed I was female."

  "You seemed to prefer it that way." He paced slowly across the small living room area, his thumbs lodged in the front pockets of his jeans, his gaze fixed on her. "You chopped your hair off short enough that you never had to comb it. You'd die rather than wear a dress. You never tried makeup or jewelry. You lived in T-shirts, jeans and a scruffy old baseball cap." He stopped before her and gave in to a reminiscing laugh. "You cussed as bad as the boys. At least, when you were showing off. Your knees and elbows were always scraped up from sliding into base, climbing rocks or falling off dirt bikes. And when a guy made you mad enough, you'd slug him in the mouth."

  "Yes, well…" She raised her chin but evaded his gaze, as if embarrassed by the charges but unable—and unwilling—to deny them. "That's what I mean. You saw me as one of the guys, so—"

  "I didn't say that." He sat down beside her on the sofa and shifted his body to face her, virtually trapping her against the curved arm. His knee pressed against her bare, folded legs, and he felt their softness and warmth clear through the denim of his jeans. "There were times," he uttered, "when I just couldn't help noticing you weren't one of the guys."

  She regarded him with an odd vulnerability. "Like when?"

  He hesitated, finding it surprisingly hard to admit secrets he'd once struggled to hide from her. "Like when you'd eat an ice-cream cone."

  "An ice-cream cone?"

  Inwardly smiling at her bemused expression, he relaxed against the cushions and extended his arm along the sofa back, near the nape of her neck, immersing himself in her scent, her beauty, her nearness. "You had a way of savoring that ice cream that just made me … mmm … stare." A reminiscent warmth rolled into his chest. "At your mouth, mostly," he whispered. "Sometimes I'd picture it all damn night. And I'd think about kissing."

  The color climbed into her face, as it always had when he'd stared at her. "Kissing … me?"

  "Absolutely." Images of her from the distant past returned with earthy eroticism. She hadn't been pretty then, not by any stretch of the imagination, but she'd nearly driven him crazy. "I remember when you used to wear those cutoff jean shorts," he gruffly recalled. "They kept fraying with every wash, and by the end of the summer, they only came to here." He ran his fingers across her bare thighs, daringly close to the lace edges of her peach satin panties. Heat rippled through him at the intimacy of the contact, and the taut, silky feel of her skin, and the memory of how her slender thighs had affected him back then.

  Her lips parted in clear response to his touch. Her breathing deepened, and in a throaty murmur, she inquired, "So then you didn't really mind my cutoffs?"

  "Hell, no. I didn't mind those jeans that fit so tight, either." He vividly remembered the smooth, alluring curve of her hips, and their scintillating swing when she walked, even when she'd been so set on acting tough. Just thinking about her unwitting sexiness made him long to run his hands up and over her curvaceous hips, then around to the shapely back side of those little satin panties.

  "My jeans were never that tight," she argued with a breathy little laugh.

  "Then maybe I just liked what was in 'em."

  Their gazes connected in a flash of heat. "You hid it well," she whispered.

  "I tried."

  "Even the times I caught you staring at me, you ended up making wisecracks about the freckles on my nose or the braces on my teeth, and ran off to be with someone else."

  He frowned at her take on his behavior. "I had to."

  "Why?"

  Because wanting you scared the hell out of me. Surprised by his own gut response, he glanced awkwardly away. "Damn, Callie, we were pals. Buddies. I felt like a jerk, thinking about you in that way." He paused, unable to explain how torn he'd felt. Instead, he tossed her a rueful grin. "I figured that if you knew, you'd slug me."

  Not exactly a lie, but not really the truth. The main reason he'd kept a safe distance from her was a strong conviction that if he didn't, he'd be lost. Seriously lost. Caught under some crazy spell. Robbed of control.

  Control had been important to him then, with his plans for college, med school and single-handedly saving the world's population. Now that he'd met some goals and modified others, control was still important—except he had more confidence. He'd learned how to maintain his control, no matter what.

  He exerted some of it now to stop himself from coming on too strong. "I probably would have risked the slugging," he reflected as lightly as he could, "if you hadn't been so naive."

  "Naive!" She gaped at him. "I wasn't naive."

  "You were a babe in the woods, sweet and pure."

  "Sweet and pure!" Astonishment sparkled in her gray-green eyes. Leaning casually against him, she cupped her hands to his ear. "Hello? Is Jack there?" He pulled away with a laugh. Her mouth twisted into a smirk. "The 'pure' part might have been technically true—might have been—" she stressed, "but the Jack Forrester I knew never thought I was sweet or pure."

  He grinned, thoroughly enjoying the Callie Marshall he thought he'd lost forever. "The 'pure' part was definitely true. You'd probably never even been kissed before you left the Point."

  She arched a charmingly coy brow. "You're laboring under a grave misconception."

  He stared at her in disbelief. "Are you telling me some guy kissed you?"

  She poked her tongue against her cheek and harbored her secrets.

  His heart took a ridiculous dive. "Who?"

  "None of your business."

  "You didn't even date."

  "As far as you knew."

  He squared his jaw, feeling unreasonably pissed that some guy—whom he must have known—had been dating her on the sly. Behind his back.

  Kissing her.

  She smiled, looking a little too satisfied. Vindicated.

  He laughed. "Yeah, well, despite all your vast experience, you were still naive. As green as they come."

  "What makes you think that?"

  "Little things." He tugged on a tendril of her thick, dark hair, savoring its silky texture and wildflower scent. "Like when I used to push you into the water. Did you know I did it on purpose?"

  "Of course. You shoved me off docks, for Pete's sake."

  "Did you know why?"

  Looking doubtful that he'd had any ulterior motive, she searched his eyes. "For fun?"

  "You could say that." His mouth quirked in a wicked grin. "You'd climb out of the water, all fired up and mad, charging at me, with your skin wet and glistening—" his voice caught "—and your thin cotton T-shirt clinging." He fell silent, stunned by the heat that coursed through him at the memory.

  His gaze drifted irresistibly to her breasts. Rising and falling in a slow, hard rhythm beneath soft satin, they were somewhat more voluptuous now, but with the same jaunty, pointed nipples that had poked through the wet cotton. His stare returned to hers, his insides simmering. "You got me so hard, coming up out of the water like that, Callie," he whispered. "I'd have given anything to feel you."

  Sensuality seeped like liquid heat into her gaze. "Know something?" she whispered. "I'd have let you."

  His heart paused. His breathing suspended. She'd have let him. All those nights he'd lain awake wondering. Doubting. Finally he knew. He could have touched her. Kissed her. Maybe even loved her. But the knowledge itself wasn't nearly as momentous as
the fact that she'd told him, here and now.

  A provocative confession.

  Why'd she tell him? His arousal pulsed to astonishing hardness at the possibilities. Did she mean she'd let him … now?

  Regardless of why she'd said it, she'd opened an important door—not to the past, but to the woman she'd become. He had no idea where that door would lead.

  It didn't matter. Wherever it led, he wanted to be there.

  "Callie." His breath hadn't fully returned, and his voice emerged as a gravelly rasp. He didn't touch her. Wouldn't risk it. Couldn't bear for the door to close before he'd wedged himself inside. "Callie." He shut his eyes, needing her with too voracious a hunger. "I want that kiss now."

  Electrified silence followed. His throat went dry and his pulse drummed as he waited for her response. He sensed movement beside him, as if she'd shifted forward to rise from the sofa. To walk away.

  He sat locked in place, his eyes closed, as he braced himself for her rejection. He'd have to work damn hard this time to find a way to lighten the moment.

  But then the womanly fragrance of her hair and skin filled his nostrils, and the inviting warmth of her body radiated from a stunningly close proximity.

  And her slender forearms slid around his neck.

  His blood warmed, his heart quickened. He opened his eyes.

  Her face, luminescent in its beauty, filled his vision, just as her scent and warmth clouded his mind. "Before I pay you that kiss," she whispered, "I want to thank you for reminding me of all those times you pushed me in the water."

  Her words crested over him like waves on the shore, ebbing and flowing while he concentrated on the sensual purr of her voice, the sulky swell of her lips and the understood promise of a kiss, all rendering him dizzy and hot and hard with desire.

  She angled her mouth to within a sultry breath of his. He leaned in to facilitate the kiss, desperately longing to taste and feel and indulge.

  She pulled back just far enough to dodge his mouth.

  He frowned and met her gaze in confusion.

  "I'll give you that kiss," she promised in a throaty murmur, "but only when I'm good and ready." His confusion grew.

  Tightening her arms around his neck, she pushed up higher on her knees, the satin of her camisole sliding against the coarse cotton of his shirt as she rose, until her head towered above his. "Until then, you'll have to be polite."