by Diane Kelly
A quick check of the suitcases indicated they were locked. Why would someone lock their suitcases inside a private residence? Habit? Or did the locked suitcases indicate an innate lack of trust? In my experience, people who didn’t trust others were usually not trustworthy themselves.
“Tara?” Brett’s voice came from downstairs.
Sheez! I hadn’t heard him come inside. Thank goodness he didn’t catch me trying to open the suitcases. How would I have explained that?
I tiptoed out of the room. “Coming!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Will We or Won’t We?
That evening, Brett and I feasted on an elegant, excessively rich, and decidedly delicious dinner at the resort’s restaurant, beginning with a goat cheese and sun-dried tomato salad, followed by fish smothered in lemon-butter sauce, nothing like the fried baloney and mayonnaise sandwiches I’d grown up on. We topped off the meal with a bottle of merlot. Brett made sure my wineglass contained a cherry, undaunted by the waiter’s raised eyebrow.
“I haven’t seen you in purple before,” Brett commented. “It’s pretty on you.”
I gave him a smile. Seems the skirt and sweater set had been a good choice. The fitted skirt emphasized my lean legs, while the sleeveless sweater exposed my tightly toned arms. Heck, I worked hard at the Y. Might as well show off a little.
Several times during the meal, I caught Brett watching me across the candlelit table. Our eyes met and held for several seconds, communicating what we weren’t quite ready to put into words. We wanted each other. Bad.
After the waiter recited the dessert options, Brett asked if it might be possible to have the chocolate fondue served in our room, along with a bottle of champagne.
“Certainly, sir.”
Brett arranged to have room service deliver our dessert a half hour later to allow time for our dinner to settle. After signing the credit card slip and returning it to the waiter, Brett stretched a hand across the table to take mine, the warmth of his skin sending yummy signals to other parts of my body with hungers yet to be satisfied. “Want to take a walk along the shore?”
“A walk sounds wonderful.” Might as well get our blood pumping and our bodies warmed up. Wouldn’t want to pull a muscle during our upcoming bedroom romp. Two weeks of dating was long enough for sex, right? I’d been unsure before, but things felt different now, felt right.
Brett and I wound our way down a curved flagstone path to the lake. The evening had grown dark by then, and the amber lights from the hotel’s patio reflected off the water, turning the whitecaps gold under the starry sky. The water surged onto the shore and receded with a soft shush-shush sound. A brisk, cool breeze blew off the water, refreshing and energizing.
I took off my sandals and carried them as we made our way down the moist, sandy ground of the lakeshore. Brett took off his loafers, tucking his socks inside and rolling up the legs of his pants. We walked along the edge of the lake, letting the water lap at our feet. Every nerve ending in my body was on high alert, especially those on my backside where the red lace thong was now creeping up.
I looked up at Brett. “This was a great idea.”
“I’ve got another one.” Brett took my hand and pulled me to a stop. He stepped in front of me, dropped his shoes to the ground, and cupped his hands under my chin, turning my face up to his. This kiss was just as warm as his earlier kisses, but far more passionate, demanding even. After a few seconds, he opened his mouth and our tongues began to tango.
This was good stuff. I tossed my sandals aside. Splash. Oops. My shoes had landed in the lake, but at that moment I didn’t give a rat’s patootie. All I cared about was Brett, being close to him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and stepped closer, my chest pressed to his. The heat between our bodies grew, making the night air feel even cooler in contrast, the opposing sensations making my body feel incredibly alive. I could feel my heart racing, the blood pulsing through my veins, desire fueling a fire inside me that only Brett could extinguish. He’d better make it quick. We’d reached a four-alarm level.
Eventually, Brett backed off, taking his mouth off mine. I kept my eyes closed, feeling weightless, as if the breeze could just blow me away.
After a few seconds, I opened my eyes and found myself meeting Brett’s gaze. His eyes were hooded, his pupils dark. Clearly he was a man with longings, needs, wants. And I wanted nothing more than to fulfill each and every one of them.
Two squealing kids came running up the shore ahead of their parents, throwing rocks into the water, invading our privacy. Brett retrieved my wet sandals from the lake, laughing as he shook the water from them. Arm in arm, we meandered back to the hotel. I would’ve been up for an all-out sprint back to the room, but the slow pace only gave more time for the anticipation to build.
We took the elevator up to our room, my breaths coming shorter and faster as the doors opened onto our floor. We headed down the hall, my waterlogged shoes emitting a soggy sklurch with each step.
Brett opened the door and we entered the room. My heart spun with expectation and my skin felt as if it were tap-dancing on my bones. This was it. The night we’d seal the deal.
Brett dropped the key card onto the coffee table. He gestured to the room-service cart, laden with a fondue pot full of delicious-smelling melted chocolate, an assortment of fruit for dipping, and a bottle of champagne in a crystal ice bucket. “How does champagne sound?”
“Like this.” I put a finger inside my cheek and made a “pop” sound.
Brett shook his head but grinned, amused, as he pulled the chilled bottle from the bucket.
Sure, I had a goofy side, and it often reared its head at inopportune moments. But just as I was attracted to Brett for the normality he brought to my otherwise crazy world, I suspected my occasional eccentricities, my somewhat wild and unruly nature, were part of the reason Brett was attracted to me.
While Brett poured us each a glass of bubbly, I took my soggy shoes into the bathroom and freshened up. When I finished, I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to psych myself up. Instead, the uncertainties kicked back in. Images of the colorful Forex brochure flashed in my mind and a tiny voice in the back of my head whispered to me to think twice before doing something stupid, before entangling myself—emotionally and physically—with a potential criminal. But other voices in my head screamed, “Don’t listen, you idiot! He’s a great guy! Go for it!” and soon the tiny naysayer was drowned out.
We sat side by side on the couch, Brett’s arm draped around my shoulders as we enjoyed the champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries, cherries, and raspberries.
“Mmm.” I closed my eyes as I swallowed another delectable bite of chocolate-covered fruit. “This is sooo good.”
Brett took my hand and lifted it to his lips. His voice was husky and low. “Some chocolate dripped on your finger.”
Before I knew what he was doing, he’d slipped my pinky into his mouth, gently sucking the sweet chocolate from the tip.
“Mmm,” I said again, my eyes on his mouth now. “This is even better.”
When the champagne bottle was empty, Brett gently took the crystal stem glass from my hand and set it on the table. He took both of my hands in his, pulling me up from the sofa. He looked deep into my eyes and found the answer he’d been looking for.
Yes. Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes, hell, yes!
He glanced down into the fondue pot. “There’s a little warm chocolate left.” His lips spread in a naughty grin. “Should we bring it with us?”
“Heck, yeah. Can’t let anything that yummy go to waste.” Sweetly sore it is.
Brett handed me the pot, then scooped me up in his arms and carried me into his dark bedroom. I rested my head against his shoulder, inhaling the musky, manly scent of him. He laid me gently on the bed, kicking off his shoes and sliding onto the spread beside me. He kissed me, sweet, soft champagne-and-chocolate-flavored kisses. I hoped he’d never stop.
He took the still-warm fondue pot from my hand
s and set it on the night table. I turned to him and we lay on our sides, kissing some more, pressed together in a warm, full-body embrace. His fingers tangled in my hair as he tasted my mouth, the flesh under my jaw, the sensitive spot on my neck just below my ear. My nipples tightened, and I began to throb with want. I slid my foot slowly up his leg, past the crook of his knee and over his taut thigh, my skirt bunching around me as I wrapped my leg around his lower back. Using the leverage to pull his body hard against mine, I angled my knee outward, opening myself up to him, only his clothing and a thin strip of red lace separating us. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so assertive our first time, should have let him take the lead, call the shots. But I wanted him so badly I simply couldn’t help myself.
Brett responded with a groan that could only mean my maneuver had pleased him. He put his hand on my thigh, grasping the fabric of my skirt and drawing it up to expose my bare flesh. He spread his warm fingers over my skin, cupping my ass. He rocked against me then, his full, firm ridge pushing against my inner thigh, telling me he was ready for more and creating a raw, carnal ache inside me. I wanted him—now!—but something this sensual, this delicious, should be savored, not rushed.
His lips moved down my neck, kissing, sucking, biting. His hand worked its way under my sweater. His fingers brushed my rib cage, then the side of my breast, then his thumb worked its way back and forth over my lace-covered breast in an arc that crossed my swollen, sensitized nipple and made me gasp with pleasure. In one smooth movement, he pulled me to a sitting position, removing my top. He tossed the sweater onto the armchair in the corner. His eyes flashed with dark desire as he took in my red lace bra. “I should’ve known you’d be wearing your signature color somewhere.”
He traced the outline of the lace with a lazy fingertip, watching my face, gauging my reaction. His finger left a warm trail along the edge of the fabric and it was all I could do not to scream, Touch me now!
I tilted my head and grabbed his hand, putting a stop to this sweet agony. “There’s a fine line between pleasure and torture, Brett.”
A soft, seductive chuckle escaped him. With both hands, he reached for the clasp between my breasts, unfastened it, and freed my breasts from their cages of lace. He pushed the straps off my shoulders and removed my bra, tossing it onto the chair on top of my sweater.
“My turn.” I knelt on the bed, nuzzling his neck and leaving steamy kisses along his collarbone as I tugged the hem of his shirt out of his pants. I pulled it over his head, and soon his shirt joined the stack of clothing accumulating on the chair.
Brett’s shoulders were round, muscular. His chest was covered with coarse, sandy hair, enough to be masculine without being overly brawny. As I kissed his neck and chest, I ran my index finger in a zigzag down the cleft between his well-defined pecs, trailing it down to circle his navel, then working my way back up again.
Brett exhaled sharply and echoed my earlier words. “There’s a fine line between pleasure and torture, Tara.” He wrapped his arms around me then, turning to lower me back down to the bed, his chest just close enough to mine that I could feel the soft friction of his hairs on my skin. I could only imagine how good it would feel to be completely skin to skin with him.
I was on my back and he lay on his side next to me, one leg stretched over my thighs now, his weight pinning me to the bed. He touched my breasts, his caresses alternating between slow and soft and firm and insistent, but each of them effective, generating sensations I’d never experienced in quite the same way with any other man. Reaching over to the night table, Brett dipped his finger in the warm fondue chocolate, flashing a mischievous smile as he spread the sweet, sticky substance in circles around my rigid nipples. As he bent his head down to lick the chocolate from my body, I arched my back, raising up to meet his wet, warm mouth, emitting an involuntary cry of pleasure as his tongue circled my breast.
Brett may appear conservative and refined, but looks could be deceiving, couldn’t they? Clearly, underneath that reserved, respectable exterior, Brett was a bad, bad boy.
When Brett had expertly removed all trace of the chocolate, he moved his lips to my ear, his breath warm on my skin. “You like that, don’t you?”
All I could do at that point was whimper. I’d never wanted—needed—a man so badly.
He reached down and slid his fingers under the waistband of my skirt. He began to slide the skirt down. My body screamed, “Take me now!” But my mouth screamed, “Wait!” A knot of worry had formed in my gut, and I couldn’t let this go any further.
Was Brett a bad boy? Was he involved in a con game?
I sat up, putting a hand on Brett’s chest and pushing him backward on the bed.
He took my wrist in his hand and pressed me back down. “Don’t worry. I brought protection.”
I squirmed out from under him and sat up again, turning away from him, my legs now hanging over the side of the bed. I looked down at the floor, unable to look at him. “That’s … not the issue, Brett.”
He reached out from behind me to put a hand on my bare shoulder, forcing me to turn to look at him. His chest heaved with labored breaths and his voice was strained. “Then what is it, Tara?” He looked into my eyes, searching for answers.
My heart whirled in my chest like an off-balance washing machine. I could barely breathe. “I … I just can’t do this.” I gasped for air. “Not … yet.”
He stared at me for a moment, his expression confused, disappointed, and frustrated, maybe even a little hurt. But thankfully not angry.
Hell, I felt confused, disappointed, and frustrated, too. What was wrong with me? Wasn’t this what I wanted, what I’d been waiting for?
But something didn’t feel right. That damn suspicion had reared its head again, refusing to let me make an irreversible mistake. There’d be plenty of time for lovemaking once I’d eliminated all my doubts, convinced myself Brett had nothing to do with any type of scam, that Brett might be a bad boy in bed but that he wasn’t a bad boy elsewhere.
I forced a smile at him. “I’m sorry, Brett. I really thought I was ready for this. I want this. I want you. I do. But … this is a big step. I need—” To know you are innocent. “A little more time.”
Brett’s shoulders sagged. He watched me for a few moments, quiet, taking deep breaths to calm himself. “I understand,” he said finally, running a hand through his hair. “You’re nothing but a tease.” He grabbed a pillow and whopped me softly upside the head with it.
“Hey!” I grabbed my pillow and whopped him right back.
We fought with the pillows for a few moments, laughing and wrestling on the bed until I could feel the scar on my forearm straining with the exertion.
Self-conscious now, I stood and picked my clothing up off the chair, holding my sweater and bra in front of my naked chest. Unable to face him, I looked down and mumbled, “I really am sorry, Brett.”
“Me, too.” Brett climbed off the bed and stood in front of me, putting a finger under my chin to raise my eyes to him. “But I’d rather you be sorry you didn’t make love to me than sorry you did.”
* * *
Sleeping in Brett’s warm, strong arms did wonders for me. With him next to me in bed, I felt physically safe and secure. Try as they might, Jack Battaglia and his sharp box cutter couldn’t invade my dreams that night. Instead, I dreamed of Brett, what it would have been like to make love to him.
In the morning, while Brett continued to doze, I slipped out of bed and took a long, hot shower. My breasts were still tender, my entire body aching with unfulfilled want the water couldn’t wash away.
Brett woke as I stepped into the doorway, wrapped in one of the hotel’s thick, luxurious blue towels.
“’Mornin,’” he drawled from the bed, his voice deep and gravelly from sleep. He somehow managed to look both adorable and sexy in his rumpled state.
I bent over to give him a kiss on the cheek and he playfully grabbed at my towel.
“Up and at ’em, mister,” I com
manded. “I’m starved.”
A grin pulled at Brett’s lips. “I did enjoy more than my fair share of the fondue last night, didn’t I?”
While he showered, I used the mirror in my room to apply my makeup and fix my hair. I dressed in my Bermuda shorts and knit top, sliding my feet into a pair of tennis shoes. Brett emerged from the bathroom in khaki shorts paired with a colorful golf shirt sporting a palm tree motif.
After a nice breakfast on the poolside terrace, Brett retrieved his bag of clubs from the room and changed into his spiked, saddle oxford-style golf shoes. We headed out to the resort’s driving range so he could hit some balls.
I knew the basics of golf. Martin and McGee hosted a tournament every year, and its staff was expected to have at least a passing knowledge of the game. I’d taken a few lessons when I’d worked there and eventually my skills had improved from laughable to simply embarrassing. I much preferred to take shots on a firing range than a driving range.
Brett purchased a large bucket of balls in the clubhouse and we walked across the close-cropped grass to the range.
“Did your father teach you how to golf?” I asked.
Brett nodded. “Got my first set of clubs for Christmas the year I turned five. My father and I played every weekend until I left for college. We still play as often as we can.”
Father-child bonding over a golf game, the more sophisticated equivalent of me and my brothers hunting with my dad. “That sounds nice.”
“Want to hit a few?” he asked, lifting the bucket of balls higher.
“Nah. I’d make a fool of myself. I’ll just watch.”
I took a seat nearby on the covered patio of the clubhouse. Brett selected a spot between two other golfers and pulled out the legs on his bag’s built-in stand. After retrieving a wooden tee from a zippered pocket, he looked over his clubs, carefully choosing an iron. He bent over to stick the tee in the ground, grabbed a ball from the bucket, and positioned it on the tee. To loosen up, he took a few practice swings, the well-formed muscles in his broad shoulders flexing and shifting as he swung the club. Nice. I could watch this all day.