by Lori Foster
Frances had paused in front of her tree to straighten a plump Santa ornament. The delicate glass reflected the white twinkly lights, looking almost magical. But there’d be no magic for her this year. What she wanted most, Santa couldn’t put under her tree.
After working all day, she was hot and tired, and so when What-She-Wanted-Most knocked on her door, she almost jumped out of her skin. She knew it was Booker, because she knew his knock, just as she knew his laugh, his tone of voice when he was excited, and his scent. God, she loved his scent.
With her heart swelling painfully, she opened the door with a false smile. As usual, he looked dark and sexy and so appealing, her pulse leaped at the sight of him.
Hands snug in his pockets, his flannel shirt open over a white thermal and nicely worn jeans, he leaned in her doorway. His silky black hair was still damp from a shower and his jaw was freshly shaved. He had a rakish “just won the lottery” look about him and the way he murmured, “Hi” had her blinking in surprise.
Somehow, he was different. There was a glimmer in his dark eyes, a special kind of attentiveness that hadn’t been there only the day before. His gaze was direct and almost … intimate. Yeah, that was it. And he wore a funny little half smile of expectation.
Expectation of what?
Uncertainly, Frances managed a reply. “Hey, Booker. What’s up?”
He stepped inside without an invite, but then, they were friends and Booker visited with her a lot. Whenever he wasn’t working—or with Judith—he came by to play cards, watch sports, or just shoot the bull. Like he would with a pal.
Maybe it was the holidays making her nostalgic, but when she thought of being Booker’s pal for the rest of her life, she wanted to curl up and cry.
A stray lock of hair had escaped her big clip and hung near her eyes. Taking his time and stopping her heart in the process, Booker smoothed it behind her ear.
No way in hell did he do that with his guy friends. She gulped.
In a voice low and gentle and seductive, he said, “What have you been doing that has you all warm on such a cold snowy day?”
Unnerved, Frances backed up out of reach. Booker stepped close again. “I, ah …” She gestured behind her. “I’m moving my room.”
“Yeah?” He looked at her mouth. “Want to move it next door with me?”
She shook her head at his unfamiliar, suggestive teasing. “I’m switching my bedroom with my studio because the light is better in that room now.”
As an artist, she liked to take advantage of whatever natural light she could get. In summer, she used her smaller guest bedroom for sleeping so that the larger room could be filled with her canvases and paints and pottery wheel. But now with winter hard upon them, the light was different. More often than not, long shadows filled the room, so she was switching. If nothing else, it gave her a way to fill the time rather than think of Booker and Judith snuggled up in front of a warm fire, playing kissy-face and more.
Booker stepped around her and closed the door. “Maybe I can help. What else do you have to move?”
Now that was more like the Booker she knew and loved. “Just the bedroom furniture. I already moved the small stuff and my clothes.” She turned to meander down the hallway and Booker followed. Closely. She could practically feel him breathing on her neck. Neil Diamond’s Christmas album played softly in the background, barely drowning out the drumming of her heartbeat.
Today, even Neil hadn’t been able to lift her spirits.
As they passed the kitchen, they walked beneath a sprig of mistletoe hung from a silver ribbon. Because she was a single woman without a steady date—without any date really—Frances had put it up as a decoration, not for any practical use. She paid it little mind as she started under it, until Booker caught her by the upper arm.
Turning, she said, “What?”
Gently, he drew her all the way around to face him. He looked first into her eyes, letting her see the curious heat in his, then he looked at her mouth. His voice dropped. “This.”
In the next instant, Frances found herself hauled up against his hard chest while his hands framed her face.
Startled, she thought, He’s going to kiss me.
Just as quickly, she discounted that absurd notion. Booker was a friend, nothing more. He was involved with Judith. He didn’t see her as a—
His mouth touched hers.
She went utterly still outside, but inside things were happening. Like her heart hitting her rib cage and her stomach fluttering and her blood taking off in a wild race through her system …
“Frances?” He whispered her name against her mouth.
Dazed, her eyes flickered open. “Hmm?”
Booker held her face tipped up, brushed her jaw with his thumbs, and kissed her again. It was a gentle, closed-mouth kiss, but there was nothing platonic about it. His mouth was warm, soft, moving carefully over hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips with such enticing effect that her toes curled and her hands lifted to his hard shoulders. Booker groaned, tightened his hold—and Frances came back to her senses.
“Booker.” She shoved him away, suffused with indignation and hurt and an awful yearning. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Because she was nearly as tall, her push had thrown him off-balance. He caught himself, grinned at her, and said, “Something I’ve been thinking about doing for a long time.”
Frances touched her mouth, equally doubting and flustered. She could still taste him. “You have?”
“Yeah. I have.” He closed the space between them again. Frances inhaled the clean scent of his aftershave and the headier scent of his body. She could practically feel the heat in his unwavering gaze. He touched her chin, tipped up her face, and asked, “Haven’t you, Frances? Ever?”
Chapter Two
Frances swallowed hard. Think of him? Of course, she had. There were nights when she couldn’t sleep at all, fantasizing about Booker, about kissing him and touching him, feeling his weight on top of her, naked flesh to naked flesh. But all she did was fantasize because he was already with someone else and she would never, ever want to be blamed for breaking up a couple.
She couldn’t lie to him, but she wouldn’t be a party to him cheating either. “Yes, I have.”
His expression tightened, his voice went deep. “Tell me.”
God, he was potent in seduce-mode. “No. Because I’m not going to do anything about it.”
“Wanna bet?”
Oh, the wicked way he murmured that. “Booker Dean, have you forgotten that you’re already involved? Have you forgotten about Judith?” Damn, she hadn’t meant to sneer the woman’s name. It wasn’t Judith’s fault that Booker had fallen in love with her long before Frances had even moved into his apartment complex. She scowled. “You know you don’t really want to do this.”
“Oh, I want to all right.” He kept inching toward her, forcing her to back up. “You probably have no idea of all the things I want to do to you.”
Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut. “Let me rephrase that. I won’t let you do them.”
He reached out and brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. His voice was soft, mesmerizing. “Even though Judith and I aren’t together anymore?”
“You aren’t …” Her eyes narrowed. “Since when?”
With a load of satisfaction, Booker said, “About twenty minutes ago.”
Forget indignation. Frances was outraged. She stopped retreating and took a stand. Through stiffened lips, she said, “Judith breaks up with you twenty minutes ago and so you come tripping over here expecting … what? You want me to comfort you, Booker? Is that it? You want to use me to forget about her?”
Booker looked momentarily nonplussed, then annoyed. “No, damn it. That’s just dumb. Besides, she didn’t break up with me.”
That surprised Frances. “You’re the one who broke things off?”
He worked his jaw. “Well, not yet. Not officially. But see …”
Fr
ances threw up her arms. “I don’t believe this. Go home, Booker.” She turned and stomped down the hall to her bedroom. Not officially, she mimicked in her mind. Damn. She hit a pillow, but it didn’t help. She’d wanted Booker too long to play games like this.
Conflicting emotions wreaked havoc with her heart. She’d dreamed of Booker seeing her as more than a friend, but never would she allow him to use her to get over another woman.
She started to hit the pillow again, then Booker slipped his arms around her from behind. All along the length of her back, she felt him, hot, hard, most definitely male. Because he held a physical job, Booker’s strength was evidenced in lean, hard muscles. When Frances started to jolt away, he carefully restrained her, gathering her close against his body, enfolding her in that delicious scent. “Just hold on and let me explain.”
She’d melt if she stayed pressed to him like this. In a rasp, she whispered, “Let go.”
“No.”
His refusal gave her pause, then renewed her temper. She’d never known Booker to be a dominating-type man. “What do you mean no? I said to let me go.”
Instead, he immobilized her by kissing the side of her neck. Stunned, Frances registered the heat and firmness of his mouth, the soft touch of his damp tongue—and she registered his smile. “Honest to God, Frannie, you make me nuts. You’ve been making me nuts for a while now.” His arms tightened in a bear hug and he rocked her side to side.
Holding herself stiff against the urge to relax in his embrace, Frances said, “Well it wasn’t on purpose.”
“I know,” he soothed. “You can’t help it.”
“Booker—”
He interrupted her warning with another soft smooch, this one behind her ear. That small kiss, accompanied with the sigh of his breath, had her breathing accelerating and her temperature on the rise. She shivered.
“There, you see? You do it without even trying.”
“Do … what?”
“Make me crazy.” He pressed his nose into her hair. “With the way you smell—”
Smell? She tried for sarcasm to save her. “You mean like paint thinner and clay?”
“And woman and sex and you, Frannie Kennedy. I love how you smell.” He took another deep breath, then growled to show his sincerity. “And the way you dress.”
Now she rolled her eyes. “In paint-stained work clothes? C’mon Booker.” Since they couldn’t be more than friends, she’d made a point of not primping with him. In the last few weeks, he’d started coming over more often, staying longer when he did, and she’d come to appreciate how nice it was to be totally herself with someone. She could forget makeup and uncomfortably stylish clothes. She could laugh out loud without worrying if he found her inelegant. She could blow her nose when she had a cold or sniffle and cry at sad movies. She could cheer as loud as any guy when her favorite football team won, and she could even share a few dirty jokes with him without blushing.
Now he wanted to throw a kink in the works.
Booker’s hands opened over her middle. He had large hands, rough from working in his lumberyard and doing custom millwork. With his fingers splayed, he was only a millimeter from her breasts with one hand, and closer than that to her left hipbone with the other.
Anticipation held her in thrall. Would he touch her? Would she let him?
His warm breath brushed her ear. “In soft loose smocks that tease because they hide your breasts, making my imagination go wild.”
She didn’t know Booker had ever noticed her breasts. They certainly weren’t big enough to automatically draw attention.
“… and snug leggings that make your ass look great.”
Her ass? She tried to twist to see him, but he wouldn’t let her.
“… and thick socks that look so cute on your feet.”
Being almost as tall as him meant her feet were proportionate—and not in the least cute. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“Frannie, Frannie, Frannie. You’d be amazed at what appears sexual to the male mind, especially when it’s been deprived. Like the funny way you always pin up your hair.” He teased a twisted lock with his nose. “It’s sort of sloppy and casual, but I can see your nape and those baby-fine curls there and it makes me horny as hell.” To emphasize that, he took a gentle love bite at the side of her throat.
Frances swallowed down a gasp, both of shock and sexual spark. Against her behind, she felt the start of an impressive erection. She gave a small, nearly silent moan. It took all her willpower not to nestle up closer to that purely male reaction—to her.
But willpower was something she’d cultivated since moving next door to Booker Dean. When she’d first met him, she’d panicked because he was so appealing and she’d been a complete wreck, a typical state for her when she worked, and she worked almost all the time. But when she’d realized he was already taken and so off-limits, she’d given up and been herself and found a wonderful friendship that no matter how she tried wasn’t quite enough.
It still wasn’t enough, but she’d be damned before she got him on the rebound.
“So,” she said, forcing the word out while closing her hands around his wrists to ensure he wouldn’t move them up or down. “You’re not officially over with Judith, but you expect me to just say, ‘Hey, okay, let’s go to bed’?”
He shuddered against her, asking roughly, “Would you?”
“No.” She again started to lunge away but Booker held on and they stumbled into the wall.
“If you’ll just settle down and listen, I’ll explain.” Cautiously, he turned her around so she faced him. Then, before she could protest, he looked at her mouth, appeared drawn there and he started kissing her again, light, teasing kisses. “I swear, Frannie, you have the sexiest mouth.”
“In about two seconds, I’m going to unman you with my knee.” He released her and stepped back so quickly, she almost smiled. “Now, if you insist, you can explain while you help me move my stuff.” If he kept his hands busy moving her furniture, he couldn’t have them busy feeling her up, and she wouldn’t have to worry about resisting him.
He followed her to the bedroom, reacting to her antagonism with inexhaustible good humor. “Sure thing, Frannie.” Muscles flexed and his shoulders strained when he hefted a nightstand high and started out the door with it. “Hey, do you realize your room will be right next to mine now?”
Frances froze in the process of lifting a plant. Good God, he was right. Only a thin apartment wall would separate them now. He came back into the room, saw her stunned expression, and clicked his tongue. “What are you thinking, Frances Kennedy? Can I trust you not to put your ear to the wall? Will you drill a hole and peek at me at night? I sleep naked you know.”
Heat pulsed in her cheeks. “Booker …”
“In fact, if you actually want a peek, I’d be more than happy to—” He reached for the snap on his jeans.
Frances shoved the plant into his arms. “I was just wondering if I’d have to listen to you and Judith.”
He chided her with a look. “Nope. I told you, that’s over. Actually, it’s been over for a month. I just wasn’t sure how to finish it off.”
She desperately wanted to believe that. “So what changed?”
With great relish, he confided, “She wants Axel.”
“She what?”
Booker laughed. “Don’t sound so shocked. I haven’t met too many women who don’t want Axel.”
“Well, I certainly don’t.” Axel was a nice enough guy, and she could see why he’d be popular with the females. But it was this particular brother who pushed all her buttons. Not Axel. Not any other man.
“I’m really glad to hear that. He can have Judith, but I don’t want him to even look at you funny.”
Like a zombie, Frances moved to the end of her mattress and helped Booker lift it. Her thoughts were churning this way and that. “You don’t seem upset that she might want your brother.”
“No ‘might’ to it, and no, as I told Axe
l, I’m relieved.” He winked at Frances. “Leaves me free and clear for other … pursuits.”
Frances ignored that bit of nonsense for now. “Did Judith tell you she wanted Axel?”
“No.” Booker wrestled his end of the mattress into the other room. “From my understanding, she just caught Axel alone and tried to molest him.”
Frances snorted. “Yeah right. Like Axel ever needs to be coerced.”
Booker paused to give her a long look around the side of the mattress. “He’s my brother, honey. Whatever else he might be, he’s loyal to family.”
Somewhat chastened, Frances dropped her end of the mattress. “Meaning he wouldn’t go behind your back with Judith?”
“That’s right. She came on to him, he turned her down, but felt he had to let me know. Rightfully so because what man wants to tie himself to a woman who’s after his brother?”
“Only an idiot.”
“And I’m sure we’ll both agree I’m not an idiot.” He didn’t wait for her agreement at all. “But as it turns out, I’m pleased to have the perfect opportunity to end things.” He, too, let his end of the mattress rest on the floor. “I’d been working on that anyway.”
Frances bit her lip and tried not to sound too hopeful. “You have?”
“Yeah, I have. Only I’m a nice guy and I didn’t want to hurt her.” His voice lowered. “We haven’t been … close for a month anyway.”
It had been about a month that he’d been coming around more often, staying longer, teasing her more. But did he mean he hadn’t slept with Judith in a month? Her brows drew down in disbelief.
“Now Frannie, don’t look at me like that. Have I ever lied to you?”
“No. But you’ve never acted interested either.”
He sighed, lifted the mattress again and dragged it the rest of the way into the room. Frances thought he was going to let the subject drop until he said, “I’ve always been attracted to you, Frannie. From the first time I saw you, I knew I wanted you.”
She swallowed hard, frowned, then turned away. Booker followed her back into the bedroom where they tackled the bedsprings next. Unable to keep it in, she finally grumbled, “You hid it well.”