"I don't doubt it," she said fervently. "Are they married?"
"No," he said. "Davy was married once, back when he was in the service. We only knew about it because he got drunk one night and told us in a moment of weakness. She made a big impression on him, though. He doesn't want another wife ever again. Davy never learned how to have fun. He had little brothers to look after when he should've been out raising hell, and as soon as I was old enough to look after Sean and Kevin, he got shipped out to the Persian Gulf. The world according to Davy is a grim, dangerous place."
"And Sean?" she prompted. "What's he like?"
Connor smiled. "The polar opposite of Davy. He's a basket case, but in a good way. He's got a wild streak, and he's too handsome for his own good. A chick magnet since he was thirteen. Incredibly smart, like Davy, but he's got some problems with impulse control. And he gets into serious trouble when he's bored. The world according to Sean is a big playground, and everything in it is a joke. What are you smiling at?"
"You," she said. "I can see how much you love your brothers from the way you describe them."
He stared down at his plate, wondering what the hell a guy was supposed to say after a comment like that.
Erin propped her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers together under her chin. "So if the world according to Davy is grim and dangerous, and the world according to Sean is a playground, then what's the world according to Connor?"
He finished off the last swallow of beer, his eyes fixed on her lush, gleaming lips. "The vote's not in on that yet."
The waitress arrived and started collecting their dishes. "The special dessert tonight is fresh baked Dutch apple pie with homemade vanilla ice cream," she informed them.
They looked at each other. "Go for it," Connor said.
"Only if you do," she replied.
Connor grinned at the waitress. "Two," he said.
The pie proved to be delicious. The apples were tangy and sweet and buttery, the crust was crisp and crumbling, blending with the melting ice cream into a goopy, fabulous mess.
Erin closed her eyes and moaned with pleasure every time she puckered her beautiful lips around the dessert spoon, sucking it so it came out of her mouth hot and shiny clean, polished. Everything about her was turning him on, every little innocuous thing.
And it was going to get worse. He was going to see her in her nightgown. He was going to watch her sleep. See her tousled and sleep-flushed in the morning. He was going to press his face into her sheets when she went into the bathroom. Inhale her scent, absorb her warmth as he pictured the water streaming down over her soft, curvy body.
His head might explode before dawn, to say nothing of his balls.
The only solution was to escape into the shower and spend a minute or two trying to relieve the pressure with his fist.
Erin peeked at him in the elevator, daunted by the grim look on his face. Her decision to seduce Connor McCloud was signed and sealed but the actual execution of the seduction was still a scary question mark. She'd thought to make some progress when he opened up about his family, but when she started bawling like a ninny, he clammed right up again. Just thinking about his mother made her throat tighten up.
He looked tense, almost angry, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. He preceded her to the door, gestured for her to wait, and pulled out a gun from the back of his chinos. He checked the room before he let her come in, and silently reattached the weird devices onto the door and window.
"What are those?" she asked.
"Alarms. I got them from my friend Seth. He calls them squealers."
"What a fortress," she murmured.
His eyes hardened. "They can't hurt." He flipped a switch, and a tiny red light on the device attached to the window began to blink.
She felt so shy. She would never work up the courage to come on to him when he looked so fierce.
He threw his coat on the bed. "Do you need the bathroom for the next few minutes? I want to take a quick shower."
"Go ahead," she said.
He disappeared into the bathroom. She listened to the water run. He hadn't locked the bathroom door. If she really were a bold, naughty seductress, she would just shuck her clothes and join him.
And then? She had all kinds of fantasies, but so little practical experience. The shower pounded, like the rain that pounded against the picture window, the surf that pounded on the beach below. She buried her face in her hands and moaned in frustration. His big, gorgeous body was stark naked and soaking wet in there. And she was sitting out here.
A few minutes later Connor came out, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair tangled around his shoulders. He rummaged through his duffel, pulling out a fine-tooth comb with at least a third of the teeth missing. He dragged it through his hair. Erin flinched in protest at the sound of hairs stretching and snapping. "Ouch! Stop that!"
He looked startled. "Stop what?"
"Stop torturing your hair! You'll ruin it!"
He gave her a doubtful look. "Uh, my hair is used to it, Erin."
She shook her finger at him. "You have dry, split ends because you stretch it and break it with that awful comb. I've had long hair all my life. I know how to treat long hair. And how not to."
"But it's tangled. What am I supposed to do? Leave it in dreads?"
"Have you ever seen a hair conditioner commercial on TV?"
"I never did get into the habit of watching TV" he admitted.
She slid off the bed and unzipped her suitcase. "You need a deep conditioning pack. And you're in luck, because I've got some with me."
His eyes narrowed. "Uh, Erin. I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm really not the deep conditioning pack type."
"Then it stands to reason that you're not the long hair type, either," she said. "Want me to cut it short? I brought my good scissors."
"Oh, God," he muttered.
"Choose," she said briskly. "One or the other."
He took a step back. "You're scaring me."
She pulled her toiletries case out of the suitcase. "Don't be afraid, Connor. Just give in. You can't control everything, remember? You'll just hurt yourself." She pulled the scissors out with a flourish. "Voila!"
"That's not fair. Don't throw my words back in my face."
"Oh, don't be silly." She felt more centered now that she had a goal to accomplish. It let her natural bossiness spring to the fore. "Putting goop on your hair will only make it softer and shinier. It will have no discernible effect upon your virility."
"Promise?" he said.
"Yes," she said rashly. "I promise."
There was a hot flash in his eyes. "Want to put it to the test?"
The scissors dropped from her suddenly numb fingers and thumped onto the bed. Yes, she wanted to say, let's test it right now.
The words wouldn't come out. The silence just got heavier.
He broke eye contact. "Sorry," he said. "Forget I said that."
He sat down on the bed. She stared at his broad back, at the thick, tangled mass of water-darkened blond hair that she'd always dreamed of touching. She wanted so badly to fuss over him and care for him. Just some small, comforting thing, no matter how insignificant.
"Connor. Let me do this," she pleaded. "Let me fix your hair."
He hesitated, and let out a long sigh. "Oh, what the hell."
"Excellent." Erin sprang into action, gathering scissors, shampoo, conditioner, plastic ice bucket, and comb. She kicked off her shoes and flung open the bathroom door. "Come on in here. We'll get started."
He waited in the bathroom doorway while she set the water running to warm it up. She folded a towel and draped it so that the chilly porcelain tub wouldn't touch his back.
"I can do this myself." His voice was tense. "Just tell me how."
"No, I want to," she fussed. "Take your shirt off. It'll just get wet."
He hesitated for so long that she looked up at him, puzzled.
His face was tight and miserable. He was clutchin
g the bottom of his T-shirt like a bashful little boy.
She smoothed the towel into place. "Connor? What's the matter?"
He would not meet her eyes. "I don't look so good right now. The scars. They, uh… look like hell."
Dear God, how ironic. He was insecure about his body. She covered up a rush of startled tears with a forced laugh.
She went over to him, seized the bottom of his T-shirt and tugged it up.
He seized her hands. "Erin, I—"
"Shhh," she soothed. "Up with your arms."
He let her peel the shirt off. Her breath stuck in her lungs. He was incredibly beautiful. Racehorse lean and broad and sinewy, his ropy muscles were thick and tough, every finely cut detail showing beneath his smooth, pale golden skin. The burn scar blazed down over his ribs, left shoulder, arm, and hand. It chilled her to see how close he had come to death. "God, Connor," she whispered.
"Told you." His voice was colorless. "Pretty bad, huh?"
She brushed her fingertips across his shoulder. He jerked away.
"I'm sorry. Does it still hurt?" she asked anxiously.
He shook his head. He still wouldn't meet her eyes.
She wanted to memorize every dip and curve with her hands and mouth. The scar intensified his masculine beauty, by poignant contrast.
She could lean forward right now, press her lips against his hard chest. Nuzzle that whorl of flat, dark blond hair. Take that taut male nipple between her teeth and suckle it. She took an unsteady step backwards. "Sit by the tub and lean your head back." Her voice shook.
He did so, leaning his head back and stretching his long legs out in front of him. She stepped into the tub and sat down next to him.
"I'm going to shampoo your hair first," she told him.
He lifted his eyebrows. "I just washed it."
"Not with my good shampoo you didn't." She picked up the ice bucket and poured hot water slowly over his hair. "Scoot back further so I can hold your head in my hands."
He arched his back with a sigh and closed his eyes.
Shampoo lather foamed, dripping off his head, off her hands. It plopped into the hot water that lapped her ankles and floated there like whipped cream, like cumulus clouds.
Heat and steam and the slick, moist sounds of her hands caressing his hair put her in a sensual trance. She could have gone on caressing his beautifully shaped head forever. Admiring his ears, the thick hair that slid between her fingers, his dark, gold-tipped lashes. His sharp cheekbones, the grim lines that bracketed his mouth. Flinging his head back like that made the tendons stand out in his sinewy neck.
She could lean down and kiss him right now. It would be so easy. A perfect lead-in. The thought circled in her mind, teasing, dancing in almost close enough to spur her into action, then retreating.
She scooped up hot water with the ice bucket, rinsed the lather out of his hair. Squeezed the water out. Connor opened his eyes. His eyebrows lifted, questioning.
She smiled shyly and squeezed conditioner onto her palm. The stuff had cost a fortune, and it was almost used up. She wasn't going to be buying hair-care products with that kind of price tag for a very long time, but what the hell. Connor was worth it. She squeezed until the tube was empty and flung it aside. "I'm going to work this stuff into your hair, and you're going to leave it on for ten minutes."
He looked aggrieved. "Ten minutes?"
"A half hour would be better," she said sternly. "I really should wrap your hair in a hot towel to help it penetrate. But I think that would be pushing my luck." She massaged conditioner into his hair.
Connor seized one of her slippery hands and held it to his face. "Wow," he murmured. "My hair's going to smell like that?"
"Yes, and you will live." She stared at the brutal scarring on his long, graceful hand. "So don't whine."
He stroked her hand, as if the conditioner were a massage oil. "I finally know the secret."
She was half-hypnotized by his caressing hands. "What secret?"
"Why your hair is so pretty." A lazy smile played over his mouth. "I always wondered how you made it so shiny and perfect. So this is how it's done. Hours in the bathroom, and sweet-smelling goop slathered all over you. I could get used to this."
Time warped and slowed even more in that silent, enchanted bathroom. The only sound was the hollow drip of the faucet plopping rhythmically into the bathtub. The room was a blur of fragrant mist.
She stared at his big, caressing hands and tried not to pant.
Connor's eyes flicked up to her face. He grinned. "You're rosy red, Erin. Are you hot? Or are you just blushing?"
"I'm hot," she said in a tiny voice. "I think it's time to rinse."
"Has it been ten minutes? Damn. Feels like ten seconds."
She had absolutely no idea. It could've been ten seconds, it could've been three hours. "At least ten minutes," she murmured.
He dropped his head into her hands with a growl of pleasure. "I feel like a sultan getting pampered by his beautiful bath attendant."
She giggled at the rush of erotic images his words provoked. Her eyes slid down the length of his body—and stopped at his groin.
He had an erection. A large erection. Not that she had much basis for comparison, but it was much larger than she'd expected.
Here it was, proof positive that if she came on to him, he wouldn't object. At least his body wouldn't. She could just reach down and… and what? Stroke him through his jeans, or would it be better to unbutton them? Her hands were goopy and wet. Maybe he would think it was vulgar and crass. Maybe he would be offended.
Or worse, amused. She was so goddamned chicken.
She rinsed his hair carefully and stood up. "Time to comb and trim," she announced. "Sit up on the edge of the tub, please."
He grimaced. "Do I have to?"
"You've come this far. Don't choke at the finish."
He lifted himself up. "You're not going to make me look like a poodle, are you?" he grumbled. "It has to be long enough for a ponytail. And all one length, for God's sake. Otherwise it drives me nuts."
"Don't worry," she said. "Trust me. I'm very good at this."
She eased her comb through his hair and fanned it out over his broad shoulders. "I'll trim it to shoulder length. That'll get rid of the split ends. Where's your part?"
He twisted around, puzzled. "My what?"
"The part in your hair," she explained. "It changes the cut."
"Jesus, this is complicated. It's wherever it happens to be at any given moment that I yank my hair back. I never really noticed."
"Oh, you are hopeless," she snapped.
She trimmed his hair with slow, methodical precision. She drew it out as long as she could, so she could linger close to him, but she finally had to straighten up and run her hands through his hair. "All done," she said. "Now for a blow-dry, and you're all set."
He recoiled. "Like hell. That's where I draw the line."
She brandished her blow dryer. "But Connor, it's just a—"
"Get that thing away from me before you electrocute us both!"
"You are such a baby." She gathered up the cut ends, dropped them in the trash basket, and hurried from the bathroom. She shoved her sticky, hair-covered bottles into her toiletries case with none of her usual anxious neatness. She was so angry at herself. All those openings, and she had just let them go by, one after the other. Idiot. Coward.
"Erin."
She turned. He leaned in the bathroom doorway, still naked to the waist. The slicked back hair accentuated the stark, chiseled beauty of his face. She sank down onto the bed. "What?" she quavered.
"This was really nice of you. Really sweet. Thank you."
"You're welcome," she whispered.
Sweet. He thought she was sweet. And nice. There it was, like an evil enchantment. She tried to swallow it, but it wouldn't go down.
People had called her that all her life. Ever since she'd been an unnaturally well-behaved little girl who tried to be perfect, and make
the world harmonious for Mommy and Daddy. Since they couldn't be harmonious on their own and needed all the help they could get.
Sweet and nice. Respectful and polite and studious. Straight As, honor society, squeaky clean, pure as the goddamn driven snow.
She couldn't endure it any longer.
"Uh… Erin? Did I say something wrong?"
She looked up at him wildly. "No, of course not! I, uh, need the bathroom for a while, if you don't mind."
He nodded. The smile he gave her was so sexy, her toes curled up. She snatched her toiletries case and her nightgown, and hustled into the bathroom while she still had partial control of her face.
She squeezed her eyes shut beneath the pounding spray of the shower. She was going to have to do something dramatic to break this awful spell. Worst case scenario, he would just laugh at her.
No. Connor was brusque and hard-edged, but he wasn't cruel. If he didn't want her, it would be so painful for him to have to reject her. But it wouldn't kill them. They would both live through it.
She turned off the shower. Then again, maybe it would kill her. But even the prospect of death by embarrassment was no excuse for cowardice. She toweled off, and put on her nightgown and panties. She put her hand on the doorknob—and stopped.
She'd bought the nightgown because it was like something out of a Regency romance, gauzy and lace-trimmed and romantic. But it was so virginal. Nowhere near sexy enough to make the statement she needed to make. Neither were her white cotton bra and panties. If she wanted to go past the point of no return, she had to be bold. Once she stepped out that door, she was going to be as mute as a statue anyway. If there was a message to be sent, it had better be a nonverbal one.
She pulled off the nightgown and hung it on the hook. Peeled off the panties, folded them and refolded them. Her cold fingers were clutching the door handle when she remembered her hair. She pulled the bun loose, let it tumble around her shoulders.
She stared into the mirror. Naked, with her hair down, she might almost pass for sexy. Too bad she'd left the makeup case out on the bed. No help from that quarter. She would have to do this au naturel.
A better chance to seduce him would never come her way. And she might not be talented, but oh, was she ever motivated. She tried to take a deep, bracing breath, but no air would go into her lungs.
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