by Anne Oliver
‘I...’ Her voice hitched, then trailed off as her breath rushed in and out. The traumatic ascent and the sight of all that masculinity had made her light-headed, and her whole body trembled.
‘Come on, sit down before you fall down.’ Sweeping her off her feet, he deposited her on the side of the bed, managing to drag the sheet around his hips at the same time.
His hand wasn’t steady as he switched on the bedside lamp at its lowest setting, surrounding them in halo of soft amber light. He drew a deep heartfelt breath and let it out slowly, watching her in a way that had her stomach twisting into knots again.
‘If you wanted to see me you could’ve tried the traditional method and used the door,’ he said at last.
‘It was a dare; I didn’t have a choice.’
‘Who the—’
‘I challenged myself. I figured you’d take more notice this way.’
He shook his head and she saw the tension in his features relax a little as a corner of his mouth quirked. ‘So is it Cat Woman, or Tropical Island Barbie?’ he asked, touching the flower she’d forgotten.
‘Barbie?’
‘Your hair’s just like that Barbie doll you had as a kid—of course that’s only the visuals,’ he hurried to explain. ‘Comes from working behind the camera.’ He leaned forward and sniffed, rubbing the tips between his fingers. ‘But the feel and scent’s your own.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
He cocked his head. ‘You’re like a young Goldie Hawn; all sleepy eyes and hair.’
‘I’m not sleepy now.’
She should have done something different with her hair. Barbie or Goldie was not the look she’d tried for, and both were decades older than her. She’d hoped to look like one of his models—sleek and sophisticated. Like Liana what’s-her-name. Impossible given Cleo’s generous breasts and lack of height.
But a week ago he had looked at her; he had kissed her.
He had wanted her.
And she’d wanted him. It had been sheer torture to step back before he did. A win for her.
Now all she had to do was keep that upper hand. Keep it light. She touched the zip tab lying between her breasts. Imagined Jack’s hand closing over hers...
He’d lower the zip an inch at a time and find the black lace bra. His long fingers would slide over the top of her breasts, then lazily back and forth before dipping beneath the lace. Taking it slow, driving her wild with wanting.
But she’d wait, because she wanted it to last. He’d find her nipple and she’d sigh as he rolled it gently between his fingers, pushing the lace aside to lower those hot, full lips and... Yes!
No. She bit back a moan of frustration. As if he’d read her thoughts, he leaned away, putting his weight on one hand on the bed behind him. Backing off.
‘So...’ he began. ‘You wanted to see me about...?’
‘Us, Jack.’ Ignoring the inner voice whispering that he wasn’t exactly falling into her plan, she forged on. ‘I’ve been thinking, for myself, and I’ve decided what’s right for me.’
She was going to seduce Jack. Oh, God, had she really been thinking that? Her stomach turned a double somersault. The Jack who’d be all too familiar with seduction, who’d had a string of beautiful women, who lived his life on his terms, as he chose.
The Jack who looked a little nonplussed right now as her presence in his room, her little speech—and the implication—penetrated.
His free hand crept up to rub at his neck. ‘I think—’
‘Don’t.’ She reached for the medallion, felt a rush of heat as her fingers brushed soft, masculine hair. Metal winked in the light and was warm from his skin. ‘Don’t think, don’t say anything. Listen. Why do you still wear this misshapen, unevenly forged scrap of metal?’
He opened his mouth to speak, but she tugged at the chain, bringing him closer. His breath whispered over her face. ‘I said listen.’
Eyes darker than midnight locked on hers as she placed the medallion over his heart. ‘Wherever you’ve been, I’ve been with you. Every woman you’ve slept with, I’ve been there, between you. Yet you still wear it, next to your heart. What does that tell you, Jack?’ She could feel its fast thud beating beneath her hand.
‘Cleo...’
‘I’m not done yet. I want you to think back to that last night.’ Those whirligigs in her stomach were spinning like windmills now, but it was a powerful feeling, having Jack at a disadvantage.
She leaned nearer. He leaned away. She could smell his soap, his skin, could see the muscles in his rock-hard abdomen straining as he struggled to remain upright. One gentle nudge and she’d have him right where she wanted him; on his back.
She laid her palm on that corrugated-iron belly and felt his muscles tighten as he sucked in air through his teeth. His eyes flashed a warning. She paid no heed as her hand crept higher, lightly over the ridge of newly healing scar tissue, then moving on to explore chest hair and one flat male nipple.
A sigh barely escaped his lips as she circled the soft areola with her fingernail. ‘Are you still thinking about that night?’ she reminded him. ‘I was waiting for you. Did you ever wonder who stowed the rug and champagne in your car, Jack? Who organised the “Slow Dance Favourites” CD when it was my turn to dance with you?’
‘I guess I know now,’ he said, fingers closing around hers so she could no longer touch him. His thumb chafed her palm, the sensation exquisite torture. ‘You decided Sam was a better option.’ There was more than anger and accusation in his tone.
‘I used Sam. Shamelessly. Stupidly. I realise that now. I wanted you to notice me.’
‘Oh, I noticed all right.’
She threaded the fingers of one hand through his soft hair and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. ‘I was trying to make you jealous. Did you even figure that out?’
‘I had no right to be jealous.’ The hand holding hers tightened on the last word.
‘Were you jealous, Jack?’
‘You were sixteen, Cleo, for God’s sake!’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
He released her hand to swipe at his neck. ‘You were sixteen; that is the answer.’
‘Dear Jack.’ She splayed a hand against his chest. ‘Stubborn as ever.’
And with that promised nudge he slid bonelessly back onto the mattress. In one quick smooth motion, Cleo flicked the sheet aside. And went weak all over. Her hand fell away. Her mouth dried, her pulse picked up as excitement stabbed through her.
He was all fully aroused, heart-stopping male. From the powerful jut of his thick sex, the broad chest, to the tight, stubbled jaw.
He projected an image of laziness, but she felt the lethal undertones, like a lion ready to spring into action. And...in this position, he was also vulnerable.
With fingers that shook annoyingly, she kept her eyes on his while she lowered her zip to her navel. Her lace-covered breasts spilled out. For all the good it did; his eyes didn’t leave hers—unreadable—but the muscles in his jaw were clenched, the tendons in his neck stood out and his breath was forced and harsh.
Slowly she lowered her upper torso to his, and, letting instinct guide her, moved against him. She rubbed her belly against his hip and watched the way his mouth moved. Silently, as if he was swearing. Or praying.
She caught his face between her hands, saw his eyes widen, darken. With a dizzying rush she felt an awesome female power she’d never experienced swell within her.
‘I’m not sixteen now,’ she breathed. And pressed her lips to his. They were warm and full and luscious and she was going to have him on toast for breakfast. The only barrier was her faux-leather suit, but as she moved against that hard wedge of masculine flesh she felt it buck. His hands fisted in the sheet.
He made no attempt to reciprocate, but neit
her did he push her away. Encouraged, she slid her tongue along the seam of his tight mouth and sampled his taste.
Jack didn’t budge. Didn’t dare. He’d left his retreat too late. Any movement would cause friction between their bodies and set off a chain reaction he didn’t want to think about. His rock-hard erection strained and chafed as that slippery catsuit tormented and teased. Every muscle in his body, every square centimetre of skin, every cell, burned.
She changed the angle of the kiss and rubbed up against him like an eel, her warm, slippery length sliding over his thigh, the soft pillow of her breasts a sinuous, torturous caress against his chest.
His angel in temptation’s clothing.
Her mouth was sweet sin, the kind that made a mere mortal man want to sin some more. A lot more. He clung to the hope that he had at least a shred of integrity left in his heat-ravaged body.
But the taste of her tongue as it explored the shape of his mouth was dark and rich and seductive. He felt the slow slide towards surrender as he drew it into his mouth to tangle with his in a slow, deep dance that had him straining for another kind of slow and deep.
Her hand left his face to trace a scorching path down the front of his body; over nipples, ribs, abdomen... His sex jerked at the first touch of her hand, then she slid her thumb over the moist tip and he teetered on the edge of madness.
With the strangled sound of a drowning man, he tore his lips from hers. ‘Cleo,’ he whispered.
Her hair fell in a silky curtain of moonshine as she lifted her head and leaned over him. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It’s me.’
With the practised art of a seductress, she brought those wet fingers to her mouth while she watched him. She licked them slowly with the tip of her tongue, one at a time, leaving them glistening. ‘You taste good, Jack.’
His mouth fell open; rational thought deserted him. Then, God help him, she enclosed him again in that sleek wetness. ‘Stop!’ A second longer and he’d embarrass himself into her hand. He lurched up.
She stopped. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No. Yes, no. Hell!’
‘I’m not doing it right. I don’t...I’m not...’ Her glazed, passion-filled eyes stared into his.
Innocent eyes. He grabbed her wrist, held it as far away as his trembling arm allowed. Had she lied that last night in his room?
They remained in that gridlock for several long, tension-filled seconds, their eyes fused. His body was ready to explode, his breath ragged and he knew his hand grasping hers was shaking.
‘All that self-control’s not healthy, Jack.’
‘But necessary.’ He cleared the sandpaper rasp from his throat. ‘A dare’s one thing; this...this is...’
‘What I want; what you want,’ she finished for him.
Fighting a battle he was rapidly losing, he shook his head. As soon as probate was granted and he was satisfied all was well, he was gone. He could give her that, if nothing else.
‘Goldilocks...’ He loosened his death grip on her wrist to soothe the satin-smooth flesh. Her face was flushed with anticipation, her lips rosy from the kiss. The kiss that shouldn’t have happened. Wouldn’t have happened if he’d acted sooner. ‘What I want has nothing to do with what’s right and fair,’ he said.
The passion in her eyes turned dark, her arm tensed beneath his hand. ‘To hell with that.’ She looked pointedly at his throbbing erection, which only made him ache more, then back to his face. ‘You don’t want me to go.’
‘We are not doing this.’ The denial came out harsh and forced. The air simmered between them, a brooding stew of hot emotions and unfinished business.
Then she dropped her gaze to her own lap, her shoulders drooped and he felt her pain right down to his toes. ‘So...’ she said. ‘I came on to you—totally not your fault—but when it comes right down to it, I’m not good enough.’
She was so wrong. And that was the killer, testing his resolve down to the wire.
‘Cleo, Goldilocks...that’s not true, you were...’ Back off now.
Her Cat Woman suit made a shooshing noise as she slid to the edge of the bed. Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes, tiny diamonds on her lashes, but blue fire burned in their depths. ‘No need to explain. I know home-town girls aren’t to your taste.’
His fingers itched to wipe the damp away. Face it, his fingers itched for entirely more basic reasons. His self-disgust was complete. Here he was imagining how it would feel to touch her, really touch her, when she was hurting and humiliated. She was better off not knowing how he felt, how he ached.
She patted his hand, making him feel like a total bastard. ‘I’ll leave. I’ve always been real good at making a fool of myself in front of you. I should be used to it by now.’ She rose, hands fisted at her sides. ‘Think of me when you’re lying here alone tonight. For that matter, you can spend the rest of your life being right and fair. And alone.’
She shook her head when she reached the door. ‘But I guess you won’t be alone for long, will you, Jack?’
And while his brain tried to catch up with the rest of his body, she slipped away.
* * *
Jack dragged the last box from his father’s wardrobe and sat on the floor to sort through it. It had been a huge job over the past two weeks, sorting clothes for the Goodwill box, hours on the phone and in Scott’s office going over paperwork so all would be in order for Cleo.
He’d taken long jogs around the neighbourhood and spent hours at the local gym where he’d punished his body till there had been no room for thought.
His shoulder had healed well enough to join the basketball match last week, but Cleo had begged off, pleading a migraine.
When they had shared a meal—the only thing they seemed to share these days—they had talked like strangers. Polite, distant. The subject of their relationship remained off limits for both of them, something he’d have to deal with before he left. He couldn’t, wouldn’t leave without addressing Cleo’s loss of self-esteem.
He missed her sunny, outgoing personality, her forthright nature. Who else could put him in his place the way Cleo did? He missed her smile at the breakfast table. She was in her workshop before six o’clock most mornings and often managed to be elsewhere when he was around.
Could he blame her? Blowing a harsh breath, he lifted the lid. Sixties Rolling Stone magazines and paraphernalia. He put them aside for the recycling bin and looked deeper.
Photos. Black and whites. His father had preferred to work with the drama of shade and light, whereas Jack liked the vividness and immediacy of colour. Jack had learned photography by osmosis—one of the few positives he’d inherited from his father.
He sifted through some nudes, all of the same woman—a well-endowed brunette. Dad’s? Then he frowned. The last one was of Jack in a tux taken at his eighteenth with the brunette snuggled up against him. Naked. What the...? Disbelief plunged through him. Dad’s handiwork, he realised. His father had enjoyed experimenting in the dark room. He’d merged two shots. Why?
Then he recalled the conversation. What had Cleo said? You’d know all about photographing naked women... I’ve seen the evidence. He clenched his fist around the photo and threw the crumpled paper at the wall. Bastard. Another one of his father’s attempts to make Jack look bad in Cleo’s eyes.
Disgust filled him. Was there no end to this man’s hidden talents? This man who was his father.
Not for the first time another equally abhorrent thought slid through his mind. He carried his father’s genes. Jack never used his camera to lie, but the violence...
Agitated, he got up and prowled to the window. Hadn’t Jack pounded anyone who had tried to put the moves on a young Cleo? Like the bastard who’d told Scott what he wanted to do with her. The satisfaction of bone crunching bone. The hot smell of blood. Did that make him a violent man?
&nb
sp; Too right. He clenched his fist against the window pane till his nails bit flesh. Didn’t matter that the other guy had thrown the first punch. An unenlightened Cleo had been appalled at Jack’s behaviour when word had got out, whereas Dad hadn’t batted an eyelid. Like father, like son.
Yet another reason to stay the hell away from Cleo.
No one had been good enough for her because he’d wanted her for himself.
The reason he’d left.
The reason he’d leave again.
Because he wasn’t good enough either: family and commitment.
He hadn’t needed to try very hard to keep his distance today. She’d breezed out this morning and he hadn’t seen her since. He checked his watch—four p.m.
And wondered where she was now.
* * *
‘We need a girls’ night,’ Jeanne said as she and Cleo strolled the mall licking ice-cream cones. Jeanne closed up shop at one p.m. on a Saturday, and they usually spent the afternoon together.
Cleo had reported her failed mission with Jack, and Jeanne obviously felt she should try to lift Cleo’s spirits. ‘Good idea,’ Cleo said, feeling duty-bound to agree, even though she’d prefer to hole up in bed with a book or a mind-numbing bottle of red.
‘Girls’ night, as in in or out?’ Jeanne asked before wrapping her tongue around her chocolate pecan ice-cream.
‘Out. Definitely out.’ Cleo took a chunk out of her raspberry-flavoured one. ‘It’s been three weeks since... Since Jack and Scott did the town. It has to be our turn.’
‘You want cool and classy or hot and sweaty? As in nightclub hot and sweaty,’ Jeanne added with a grin.
Images of Jack in the garden minus the shirt, his skin slick and gold in the sun while they turned soil for the sundial, snuck up to mess with Cleo’s hormones. And as for the Cat Woman scene— Don’t go there. Don’t go remotely near there. Hormones were off limits. Jack was off limits. She’d humiliated herself enough.
‘Cool and classy,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can cope with hot and sweaty of any kind right now.’
She stopped in front of one of the mall’s fashion boutiques, attracted by a low-cut watermelon-pink top and matching handkerchief skirt. That didn’t mean she couldn’t dress hot.