by Andre, Bella
Oh my God.
Chapter Twelve
And then he writes:
I’ve never seen you so vibrant. In command. You’re perfectly poised and professional. I just want you to know I’m proud of you.
Huh? This is the guy who spent two entire days of a conference berating me for using the wrong fork at dinner and now he’s saying this?
Shannon? He texts immediately, as if the handful of seconds have been far too long for me to pause before replying like an eager dog catching a bone.
I type back: Nice to see you, too, Steve. Jessica seems like a great woman.
Gag.
Another text, except this one is from an unknown number.
I have a cold spot on my thigh. It needs your hand to keep it warm.
I type back: Sorry, honey! I’m at a business meeting. The kids need a bath and Johnny’s homework needs to be signed. I’ll be home late! <3
And then texter’s remorse kicks in, because it seemed funny when I wrote it, but now, as entire nanoseconds stretch into cavernous eternity, I eye the exit and wonder if I can actually walk that far with four glasses of wine (it’s definitely four) and a heart that is attached to bungee cords that stretch two hundred yards with each adrenaline surge.
That’s fine, Declan texts back. I like to role-play, too. How about you wrap yourself in Saran Wrap and I’ll get a pound of chocolate-covered strawberries and we’ll see what we can do with that after the kids are in bed?
Dark or milk chocolate? I text back, heart now attached to the back of Evel Knievel’s motorcycle on a jump.
There’s only one right answer.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Both, he replies.
“Goal!” I hiss, like an Italian football announcer, only quiet.
“You okay, miss?” A waiter walks past me with a frown on his face, brow creased with concern.
I hold up my phone screen. “Just reacting to a business text. Clinched a deal I’ve been waiting to land for a long time.”
He smiles and walks away.
I look down to find a new text from Steve:
Can we do dinner tomorrow night? I’d like to catch up.
I don’t want to answer that, so I lean against the thick, oak-paneled wall and take a deep breath.
“How long?” says a warm baritone attached to a (near) billionaire.
“How long what?” My frantic mind rushes off to erotic places all too quickly. Bad girl. Good, bad girl…
“How long have you been waiting to clinch a deal…” Declan repeats, closing the space between us through sheer will. I swear his body doesn’t even move, but then it’s there, warm and pulsing against mine. “…like this?”
His lips taste like grapes and hope, full and respectful, pressing against my own with a lush connection that makes me eager for more. Stepping in to the kiss, his body meets every inch of mine from thigh to shoulder, one hand sinking into my loose hair, capturing the back of my neck as if I am about to fall, his other hand around my waist, splayed against my hip.
Instinct makes my own arms wrap around his waist, sliding under the fine wool of his jacket to find cotton as finely spun as silk, my fingers dancing on it as they ride up. His knee nudges my legs open as he pushes me into the wall, searching for every spot on our bodies that we could touch without being charged with a crime.
The feel of his cheek against mine, his hands everywhere, his groan mingling with my own gasps transports me. Nothing else matters. No one else exists. The insanity of the day, from how we met to our business meeting to this business dinner…
We are getting down to business, all right.
I break away and meet his eyes, wanting to see that this is real. Real. Not part of my imagination or something I read in a book and transposed onto my life. That Declan isn’t kissing me out of pity, or a cheap booty call, or for any of the rare reasons men used on me as their own drive and baser natures made them view me as a tool.
No. What I see in his eyes reflects what I feel, and then I am the one kissing him, reveling in the starbursts of ignited recognition that something truly unique—life altering—thrives between us, nurtured only by this shared joining.
Our embrace is so strong, so tight, the slant of his mouth commanding and fiery, tongues communicating through touch in a way his fingers had earlier, but with more urgency and so much passion I think we might break the wall if we push any harder against it.
“Shannon,” he murmurs, pulling away. The withdrawal of his mouth feels like a kind of mourning. He looks at my chest. “I crushed your corsage.” That’s not the only reason he looks at my chest.
I laugh, a throaty sound of delight, so genuine that my mind feels blank with a kind of clarity that seems unreal, even as it grounds me. I open my mouth and pure joy comes forth:
“You are the best prom date ever.”
He dips his head down and our foreheads touch. His eyes turn to green triangles with his own genuine smile. We must look like complete idiots, and the idea that this is a business meeting went out the window a long time ago. Actually, I think that idea was flushed from the start.
“What made you kiss me?” he asks in a low voice that promises to make coffee and bring it to me in bed in the morning.
“You kissed me!” I answer, my hands on his shoulders now. I bat him lightly with one hand.
“Why?” he insists. I can tell he won’t let me squirm out of this one. My phone is buzzing like mad and I imagine Steve is about to send a search party after us. Big deal. Who cares.
I look up, a few inches between us, and his eyes change. He’s taller than me, arms protective and he wants me. Wants. Not just desires me, not just likes me. Wants. Craves. I am irresistible, and the part of me that finds that laughable is sitting back in wonder, thinking she got it all wrong for many, many years.
I close my eyes and sigh. “You had me at ‘both.’”
***
Read what happens next in the Shopping for a Billionaire series in Shopping for a Billionaire 2 at major eBook retailers everywhere!
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New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent turned to writing contemporary romance after deciding that life is too short not to have fun. She writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken.
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Built to Last
Susan Mallery
Built to Last
Text copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Books S.A.
Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Books S.A.
Chapter One
Marissa Spencer liked to think she preferred quiet, average men who were kind and funny, and that she never found herself attracted to brooding hunks. But in this case, she was willing to make an exception.
Aaron Cross had the body of a male centerfold, the face of an angel—fallen, of course—and dark eyes so filled with pain they could rip out her heart at fifty paces. Her friend Ruby would say that a man like Aaron was nothing but trouble, and in this case Marissa would have to agree. Still, she indulged herself in a look-fest while he completed his phone call.
She’d arrived a few minutes early for their 10:00 a.m. appointment. Based on what she’d heard about the amazingly talented and reclusive Mr. Cross
, she’d expected a cranky old man. Sometimes surprise was a good thing, she thought when he hung up and turned to face her.
“Ms. Spencer,” he said as he moved toward her, holding out his hand.
He was tall and she was a woman used to looking men in the eye. He wore his dark hair long and shaggy and walked with a grace that nearly took her breath away.
When she shook hands with him, she felt sparks that were so predictable, she nearly giggled. Of course, she thought, holding in a grin. With Joe, the sensible guy who ran the hardware store and kept asking her out, she felt nothing. But with danger guy, she was all aquiver. So went her life.
“Marissa,” she said when she could catch her breath to speak. “Thanks for seeing me.”
He glanced at her, taking in the long wool skirt, cropped jacket and boots. It might be spring in the rest of the country, but here in Wisconsin, there was still snow on the ground.
“You said you had something unusual to discuss with me,” he said, motioning to a leather chair in the corner of his showroom.
She’d already looked around and admired the amazing furniture he made. The hand-carved pieces were both strong and elegant. The fabrics he chose were distinctive, while much of the leather was reworked from older pieces.
As she sank into the seat, she wished her budget allowed for this kind of indulgence. But alas, her needs were more easily met at the local thrift store.
He perched on a stool, forcing her to look up to meet his gaze. As their eyes locked, she felt a definite shiver low in her belly. Was her attraction to this stranger really that intense, or was it just her second Danish of the morning talking back to her?
“I’m here to beg,” Marissa said happily. “I could pretty it up for you, but that’s the unvarnished truth. I’m on the acquisitions committee for a charity auction. We’re raising money to buy books for our Motheread/Fatheread® program.”
Aaron didn’t blink as she spoke, which made it hard for her to judge his reaction.
“Are you horrified?” she asked. “I’m listening.”
She supposed that was something.
“I shouldn’t really be here,” she confessed with a grin. “While everyone agrees that your furniture is so amazing as to be brilliant, apparently you don’t have a reputation as a joiner.”
“I keep to myself,” he admitted.
“That’s what I heard. Everyone told me I was crazy to even ask, but hey, what’s the worst that could happen? You say no. Which would be sad, because the program is amazing. We’re teaching people to read— mostly parents.”
She leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “You can’t imagine how a person changes when he or she learns to read. There’s such pride. Watching parents read a story to their children for the first time would totally break your heart. Reading gives them a chance to participate in their children’s education—to be better parents. The purpose of the auction is to raise money to buy books.”
The woman kept on talking. Her energy filled the showroom until Aaron half expected to see mini bolts of lightning bounce off the ceiling and walls. Most of the locals knew enough to leave him alone, but not this one. She showed no signs of stopping.
“Who are you?” he asked, interrupting her in midsentence.
She frowned slightly. “I told you. Marissa Spencer.”
“Not your name. Who you are. Why are you doing this?”
“Oh.” She shimmied a little in her seat and smiled. “I moved here about two years ago. I’m a part-time bookkeeper, part-time librarian, and I volunteer a lot.”
“So you think you can change the world?”
“Of course.”
Figured. He knew the type. Those who still believed in happy endings and miracles.
“I don’t think so,” he said, standing.
She bounced to her feet. She was tall, blond. Pretty. “If this isn’t a good time, I can come back.”
He saw it then, what he’d missed at first glance. Behind the long hair and the easy smile was a spine of steel.
“What can I say to make you go away?” he asked.
“Aside from a donation?” He nodded.
“We could reschedule.”
He was only a few years older than her, but he felt tired and worn by comparison.
“You’re going to keep coming back, aren’t you?” She shrugged. “Sorry, but yes. I’m determined.
It’s a flaw.”
She made the statement with a cheerfulness that told him she didn’t consider it a flaw at all. Which meant the quickest way back to his solitude was to give her what she wanted and get her out of his life.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked.
Her blue eyes widened. “You mean you’ll donate something?”
“Sure.”
“Wow. That’s great. Really. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Pick something.”
He motioned to the contents of the showroom. She walked to a small upright chair and ran her fingers over the carved wood.
He liked the way she took her time to study the piece. She noticed the little details and then stepped back to look at it from a distance. When she turned over the price tag, she went pale, and for a second he thought she was going to pass out.
“Okay, then,” she said, straightening. “Maybe something smaller?”
He realized she had no idea who he was. To her he was a local recluse who made furniture. Not a man with a waiting list a year long and thousands of people willing to pay exorbitant prices for something made by him.
“I mean, it’s all lovely, but we’re talking a charity auction. We thought your piece would go for maybe five hundred dollars.”
“I have some shavings out back,” he said, holding in a smile.
She pretended to consider the possibility. “If we put them in containers, maybe. How about kindling from your workshop? I could sew up little bags and label them or something.”
She was so earnest, he thought, amused for the first time in ages.
“I’ll make a bookcase. It’s not the sort of work I usually do, so there’s no way to compare prices. It will be simple, but a good piece. How’s that?”
Marissa clapped her hands together and spun in a circle. “That would be amazingly cool. I don’t know what to say.” She stopped the twirling and grinned at him. “You’ll get a letter for tax purposes, of course.”
“I thought I might.”
“Maybe I’ll bid on the bookcase myself.”
He doubted that. She struck him as the type who never had two cents to rub together. No doubt she spent her spare time helping in a soup kitchen or working with sick kids at a hospital.
“Tell me when you need it by,” he said, ready to end the conversation.
She pulled a small notebook out of her purse and read off a date. “And then there’s the picnic next Saturday.”
His gaze narrowed. “What picnic?”
“The one where we thank all the donors. You’ll have to come because you’re the grand prize, so to speak. The last item to be auctioned. Everyone is very excited to meet you.” She bit her lower lip. “I sort of said you would be there.”
Events like that were his idea of pure torture. “I’m making the bookcase. Isn’t that enough?”
She sighed. “You’d think it would be, wouldn’t you? But there will be a lot of families at the picnic. You know, people who have completed the program, along with those just starting. And lots of kids. You’re a real inspiration to them.”
He doubted that. “Does anyone ever tell you no?”
“Oh, sure. Lots of times. At first anyway. It means
I have to keep coming back and asking.” Which sounded a lot like a threat to him.
He wanted to swear. He wanted to complain he didn’t have time and, more important, didn’t want to make time. He wanted to tell her to get out of his life and never come back.
She looked at him with her big blue eyes and trusting expression. As if she believed do
wn to her bones that there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to go to her picnic. In the past he’d always found it easy to tell people no, but for some reason, right now he couldn’t seem to speak the word.
“What time?” he asked.
Marissa beamed at him. “Eleven. You don’t have to bring anything. We’re providing the food. I’m making brownies and the Main Street deli is donating sandwiches. You’ll have a great time. I can’t wait.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Her gaze slipped past him to settle on something over his shoulder. She opened her mouth, then closed it.
He turned and saw Buddy standing in the doorway of the showroom.
The coyote still had much of his winter coat, making him seem bigger than usual. His dark eyes never left Marissa as he sniffed the air to catch her scent.
“A friend of yours?” she asked.
He liked the fact she didn’t call Buddy a pet. “He hangs out around here. When he was young, he got caught in a trap. I rescued him. He healed, but he’s got a bum leg and can’t survive on his own.”
“Is he tame?”
“Sometimes.”
She turned her attention from the coyote back to him. “Why do I suddenly think you’re not as mean and tough as you want the world to believe?”
“Think what you want.”
“I will.” She smiled. “Thank you, Aaron. For the donation and for spending time with me. I look forward to seeing you at the picnic.” She glanced again at Buddy, then left the showroom.
Aaron and Buddy watched her go. When they were alone, the coyote approached and Aaron rubbed his ears.
“What do you think?” he asked the silent creature. “Women like that are trouble.”
Buddy sniffed and Aaron grinned. “You’re right. She sure did smell good.”
Chapter Two
“He’s totally hot,” Ruby said as she unpacked supplies for the picnic.
“Maybe, but that doesn’t make him my type.” As Marissa spoke, she was careful to keep her left hand—and her crossed fingers—out of sight. She didn’t want to actually be lying.