by Lori Wilde
All the air leaked from his lungs and he pulled his palm down his face, searching for some semblance of control. But his self-restraint had gone AWOL, leaving him aching and hungry for this woman he barely knew.
“Go.” One of the stage hands gave him a push. “You’re on.”
THE IMPACT of Jake’s presence on the stage sent Avery’s normally daring spirit packing. She felt tongue-tied and owl-eyed. If Jorgie were here, she’d have a good laugh.
Jake sent her a look that dizzied her head. He stared at her as if she was the only woman on earth and he was the only man and the survival of the species depended on them having sex now.Avery gulped.
He came toward her, holding up the towel as she slipped out of the bathtub. She could feel the heat of his gaze burning up her skin. He wrapped the towel around her and then his arms were around her, as well, the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-down shirt soaking up the water dripping from the ends of her hair.
His mouth closed over hers as he pulled her damp body flush against his chest. The kiss was in the script, but it felt completely unscripted and frankly, he knocked the pins out from under her. He tilted her chin with the hand that wasn’t wrapped tightly around her waist and kissed her with an open, greedy kiss so hungry it sucked all the breath from her lungs.
Avery parted her lips and his tongue slipped deeper into her mouth, running over her tongue in unabashed command. She’d thought because he liked to watch, because he hid behind a camera, that he was not a dominant, demanding guy. How wrong she’d been.
She sank against his hard body, both startled and pleased by this new revelation. His erection pushed against her belly, leaving no doubt about his interest. Luckily, his back was to the camera, so the glaring evidence of his arousal wasn’t being filmed. He made her feel desired and wanted. It was a heady sensation.
With a soft moan, she wrapped her arms around his neck, forgetting all about the camera, the crew, the movie. Only one thing dominated her mind—Jake, Jake, Jake.
She pressed herself against him, trying desperately to get closer. His mouth was still on hers, firm and inquisitive. Her sex tightened, moistening, readying for his invasion.
He splayed a palm over her rump, only the terry cloth material coming between skin-to-skin contact. Her nipples hardened in response, beading up tight, and her breath slipped from her lungs in short, escalating gasps.
Gently, he grazed her nipple, knotted stiff beneath the oversize bath towel, with the back of his hand. A sweet stinging sensation shot like a lightning bolt from her nipple to her groin, bathing her in physical awareness.
He pulled back, breaking the kiss, and looked deeply into her eyes. An odd expression lurked in his hooded gaze—a combination of bafflement, lust, cynicism and irritation. His breathing was as hot and fast as hers.
If the director hadn’t yelled “Cut!” Avery was certain he would have kissed her again and if he hadn’t, she would have kissed him.
9
Uncertainty is the key to keeping his interest
—Make Love Like a Courtesan
FOR SEVEN DAYS, Jorgie did her best to keep Quint at arm’s length while at the same time flirting madly with him as she was supposed to do. She made sure never to find herself alone with him, although it wasn’t easy because he seemed hell-bent on courting her.
On the day after their gondola ride, he sent her a dozen purple orchids. She had no idea how he knew her favorite color was purple or that orchids were her favorite flowers. She wanted desperately to keep them, but knew that in her place Lady Evangeline would have sent them back to Casanova with a kind note telling him she could not accept his gift because it was too romantic.The next day, he sent her a book of erotic love poems. She sent it back, as well.
The third day, he sent her a box of chocolates. This she accepted, one because she was in truth a chocaholic and two because it’s how Lady Evangeline operated. She gave in just enough to keep Casanova hooked on her string. She heard through the grapevine that Quint crowed victoriously to his class that his techniques had battered down her defenses. But that night, at the Venetian ball, she refused to dance with him, leaving Quint looking totally befuddled.
At eight a.m. on the seventh day, both the Make Love Like Casanova and the Make Love Like A Courtesan students were scheduled to visit the island of Murano and take a private tour of a glassblowing factory. As they entered the water taxi, Jorgie held back, letting the rest of the group surge ahead of her and provide a protective shield between her and Quint.
She’d just sat down and was looking out across the lagoon, enjoying the cool morning breeze ruffling her hair, when she felt someone sit beside her. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Quint. His unique scent teased her nose.
“Hey,” he said.
She glanced over at him but didn’t say a word, just ducked her head, studied him through lowered lashes and tried to ignore the erratic pounding of her heart.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” His deep voice rumbled near her ear.
“You flatter yourself if you believe that I give you that much thought,” Jorgie said, trying to sound glib and carefree. Actually, she was trying to imitate Avery. Glib and carefree did not come naturally to Jorgie.
He gave her a wry, crooked smile that lit up his handsome features and splayed both palms—one on top of the other—over his heart. “You wound me.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“You treat my heart so cavalierly. I do have feelings, you know, and when it comes to you, I have trouble controlling myself.”
Strange emotions lumped up in her throat, knotted her chest. She stared at him, taken off guard. He sounded so sincere. She’d been attracted to him at thirteen; she was even more attracted to him now. She’d been fighting the decade-old attraction for the last seven days, but with that admission and his devastatingly adorable grin, her resolve shattered. The power of his smile set her head spinning.
Or maybe it was just the speed of the water taxi. That was it. Motion-induced dizziness. He wasn’t responsible at all for this blurry, breathless sensation taking hold of her.
She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the side of the boat in an attempt to steady herself. But he followed suit, mimicking her movements, and his elbow bumped against her, firm and fundamental and so hot she felt herself melting like ice cream in the sun.
“This is fun, huh?” He grinned at her. “Being here with an old friend. The romance of Venice.”
“Fun,” she echoed, but the feelings churning inside her were far from fun. They were scary and exciting and nerve-racking and about as much fun as dangling from tenterhooks.
“Venice is one of my most favorite places on earth,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his throat.
It made her think of motorcycles and how afraid of them she was. Jorgie shifted away from his distracting elbow, sliding her arms down the smooth fiberglass of the vaporetto. She couldn’t form a coherent thought when he was touching her. Oh, this was bad.
“You’ve been here often?” she asked.
“I was stationed at Aviano air base. It’s only an hour away.”
“Really? I never knew you were stationed in Italy.”
“For a year.”
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Sì, parlo un piccolo italiano.”
“What was her name?”
“Che cosa?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“What?”
“What, what?”
“Okay, have we got a Who’s On First thing going on here.”
“The name of the woman,” Jorgie said. “That you used to come see in Venice. What was her name?”
He grinned. “How do you know there was a woman?”
“With you, there’s always a woman.”
“It’s the Italian way.”
“And yet, you’re not the least bit Italian.”
“I take the slogan ‘when in Rome do as the Romans do’ quite literally.”
“No,” he said as the vaporetto bumped gently against the dock. “We’re in Murano.”
“So we are.” She stood.
“Gia.”
“What?”
“Now you’re doing it.” He looked at her with sultry eyes and got to his feet along with the rest of the passengers. “The girl I used to visit, her name was Gia.”
“Do you still keep in touch?”
“No.” His look was pure Casanova. “Her husband is the jealous type.”
Jealousy brushed against her, as well. This was stupid, being jealous over his ex-girlfriend, and yet she couldn’t help how she felt. “Was she married when you used to see her?”
He made a disgruntled noise. “What do you take me for?”
“A rogue.”
“I like to have a good time, but I’m not in the habit of busting up marriages.”
“It’s good to know you have some standards,” she said.
“You’re jealous,” he teased.
“I am not.”
“Then why are your cheeks turning pink?”
She raised her hands to her cheeks. “They’re not.”
“Gotcha.” He laughed.
“Ass.”
“Princess.”
“Jerk.”
“Sweetheart.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“And you’re fun to rile.”
“Seriously, these moves work on other women?”
“Nope, these are the moves I’ve come up with just for you.” He winked.
Oh, it was stupid, but that made her feel special. He’s lying. Don’t buy in to it. He wants you to feel special.
During their exchange, everyone else had filed off the boat, leaving them the last ones to exit. Quint got out ahead of her and then reached down to help her out of the boat. She didn’t want to take his hand, but the dock looked slippery and she’d already seen one woman stumble. She didn’t know which was the lesser of two evils—taking the risk of a fall, or touching him.
Warily, she extended her palm.
His hand enveloped hers.
Their gazes met, wedded.
She shivered in response and almost yanked her hand back, but he was already pulling her up on the dock beside him. What was going on here? Why was she letting this physical chemistry between them get the better of her?
“Here we are,” he murmured.
The attraction was burning too hotly, moving too fast, zooming beyond anything she could control. He was a one-man wrecking ball, crashing through all her defenses with his wickedly sexy grin.
“We’re getting left behind,” he warned, still holding on to her hand.
She wanted to pull away, but it felt so darn good. Just a minute longer, she told herself, and allowed him to lead her over the cement walkway toward a cluster of buildings lining the main thoroughfare. The tour guide walked ahead of the group, detailing the history of Murano. She tilted her head, trying to get her focus on what he was saying and off the feel of Quint’s calloused palm against her smooth one.
“Murano,” said the guide, “is a glassmaker’s paradise. The glassmaking industry was moved from Venice in 1291 because most of the structures were made of wood and glassmaking is a heat-intensive endeavor. Fearing fires that could destroy the city, the town elders decided Murano was the perfect place to relocate.”
They crested a small hill that descended down into the middle of town. Seagulls winged overhead, calling to each other in their querulous voices. Vegetables, housed in wooden crates, were set up at vendors’ stands overflowing with tomatoes, onions, artichokes, bell peppers and truffles. She could almost taste the tang of antipasto. Flowers of all colors and shapes bloomed gloriously in window boxes—jasmine, crocuses, bluebell, periwinkle and violets. The sweet, heady smell filled her nostrils as they strolled past.
But as the guide led the tour south, Quint, with his hand still wrapped around hers, steered Jorgie north.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, trying to pull her hand away, but he stubbornly held on.
“Do you want the tourist version of glassblowing?” he asked. “Or would you like to participate in the real thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Stick with me, kid, and the world will be your oyster.”
“I don’t like oysters,” she teased, merely to be petulant. Truthfully, she was a bit unnerved that he was cutting her off from the herd. Not that she was afraid of him. Rather, it was her own impulses that frightened her. Alone was not a good place to be with Quint. Not when he made her feel the way he made her feel.
“You’ll like this,” he reassured her. “Trust me.”
She glanced back over her shoulder as the other group grew smaller in the distance. Help.
They approached a building made of red brick. The door stood open. The weathered sign over the door read Veneziani Glass Shop. A young man stood outside, sweeping off the front stoop.
“Uberto!” Quint called.
The dark-haired young man looked up, then his face broke into a welcoming smile. “Ciao, Quint.”
They embraced, pounding each other heartily on the back. Then Uberto pulled back, peppering Quint with questions in Italian. Quint nodded and smiled.
Jorgie had no idea what they were talking about, but she heard the name Gia mentioned and saw the young man rake a speculative glance over her.
“Sì.” Quint nodded and then motioned Jorgie over.
“Buongiorno, mancanza.”
She knew enough guidebook Italian to realize he’d wished her a good morning. Jorgie smiled. “Buongiorno.”
Uberto motioned them into the little shop. Once inside, her eyes were treated to a beautiful array of Murano hand-blown glass. She wanted to linger and admire the pieces with steep price tags, but Uberto was leading them through a door at the back of the shop.
“What’s going on?” She leaned over to whisper to Quint.
“I’ve arranged private glassblowing lessons for you.”
Pleased and flattered, she murmured, “Thank you.”
The small shop opened up into a cavernous back room where the glassware was fired and formed. Two older men wearing sunglasses labored in the big room, handling white-hot glass with long metal tongs. The air carried a crisp, singed flavor that reminded her of sesame seed oil.
“The skill of glassblowing,” Quint explained, “is over two thousand years old. It basically involves taking molten glass and inflating it. I’m going to lead you through a demonstration and then you’re going to do it.”
Jorgie blinked in surprise. “You know how to blow glass?”
“I do. Side benefit of dating Gia. Uberto is her cousin.”
“You’re full of surprises.”
“Comes from a life well lived.”
The men were fully focused on their work and could spare Quint little more than a simple hello. Their level of concentration was a marvel in and of itself.
“Molten glass is viscous, allowing you to blow it, and it gradually hardens as it cools. It takes a furnace temperature of 2,400 degrees Fahrenheit to transform the raw materials into glass,” Quint explained. “The glass appears white-hot at this heat. Then the glass is left to ‘fine out,’ a step which allows the bubbles to rise from the mass, and then the working temp is lowered in the furnace to around 2,000 degrees. At this stage, it will turn bright orange.”
She nodded, absorbing the details. He led her around the room, pointing out the techniques the glass smiths were using.
“Glassblowing involves three furnaces. The first is the crucible of molten glass.” He pointed it out. “It’s simply referred to as the furnace and this is where it all starts.”
The heat radiating from the furnace warmed her skin, even from a respectful distance.
He motioned her over to a second furnace. “This is called the glory hole, and they use it to reheat a piece while they’re working on it.”
“Seriousl
y? It’s called the glory hole?”
His lips twitched. “Seriously.”
Jorgie rolled her eyes. “A man must have come up with that moniker.”
He laughed. “I’m sure you’re right. Now this—” he paused and pointed out the third furnace “—is the annealer, and it’s used to cool the glass over a period of several hours or days, depending on the size of the piece.”
“Wow.”
“So as you may have noticed, glassblowing is a lot like making love.”
“Oh, please.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No.”
“They say glassblowers make the best lovers.”
“Sounds like glassblower propaganda if you ask me.”
“Furnace number one is like good foreplay,” he murmured. “Turn up the heat and melt.”
Jorgie swallowed.
“Step two, it’s into the glory hole.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “Pervert.”
“Hey, I’m just saying.” His grin was impish. “And then there’s the afterglow of the annealer as things slowly cool down.”
The truth was, as he talked she found herself heating up. He made an excellent point, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. The man had enough of an ego as it was.
“So where does the blowing come in?” she asked.
“Let me demonstrate.”
Her curiosity piqued, she watched him go through all the steps. His fingers were nimble on the blowpipe, and it was exciting to watch the glass inflate as he blew on the end. His calm patience amazed her. When the glass was too hot, he’d roll it against a metal table called a marver. When it cooled too quickly, he’d put it back in the glory hole for reheating. In the end he made a little cat of red glass.
Jorgie applauded his finished effort.
“For you,” he said with a courtly bow. “I remember you like cats. Mr. Buttons was the name of your Siamese you had when you were a kid, right?”
She tilted her head. “You remember that?”
“I have a good memory for names.” He picked the cat up with the tongs that he’d told her were called jacks. “And he goes into the annealer. It’s a small piece so it should be ready for us to take back with us.”
Uberto sauntered over. “You still have the touch,” he said in heavily accented English.