by Terri Garey
Tired in a way that made her want to push his hair back from his forehead and tell him everything was going to be all right. Tired in a way that made her feel guilty, as though she didn’t feel guilty enough already.
He smiled at her again, and something unfurled, low in her belly. With a shock, she realized it for what it was: genuine arousal, genuine desire—neither of which she’d felt in a very long time.
“There,” she said to him cheerfully as she hung up. “Dinner will be here before you know it.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking another sip of his drink before putting it down on an end table. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower while we wait? I came straight from the stage.”
The image of him onstage was seared into her brain from a concert when she was twenty. The image of him naked in the shower, however, made her mouth go dry. “Not at all,” she said brightly, “I’ll, ah . . . I’ll just call my supervisor while you’re in there.”
“Great.” Finn gave her a grin and stood up. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.” His green eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “Turn on some music. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks.”
She watched him walk away. The man knew how to wear a pair of jeans. They fit him like a second skin, and how could anybody make a plain white T-shirt look so sexy?
Dammit. He lived up to every single picture she’d ever seen of him, and he was nice. He was a celebrity, and she was just a single mother who worked in a hotel, lying her ass off for the chance to steal from him.
Before she lost her nerve, she picked up the phone again and dialed, not the front desk, but her home number. Her good friend and next-door neighbor, Dina, answered.
“Dina,” she whispered, glancing anxiously toward the bedroom, “is everything okay? How’s Nathan?”
“He’s sleeping,” Dina replied, “and why are you whispering?”
She’d known Dina for five years, ever since she’d moved into her little duplex apartment. They shared a front porch and a common wall, as well as all their secrets. She’d been there for Dina while she’d gone through a messy divorce, and Dina had been there for her when Nathan was born.
“I’m going to be later than I thought,” she whispered. “Can you stay the night? I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.”
“ ’Course I will,” Dina said comfortably, having slept over many times. “What’s going on?”
“Long story—I’ll tell you later. Thank you so much for watching him for me tonight.”
Dina made a rude noise. “You don’t need to thank me, girl. You know I love that boy almost as much as you do. I’m just glad to have him out of that hospital and home where he belongs.”
A lump rose in her throat, and she had to swallow hard to keep back the tears that threatened. What was she doing? How was she ever going to pull this off?
“Dina?”
“Mm-hm?”
She could hear the jagged burst of TV in the background, and knew her friend was flipping through the channels. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Oh Lord,” Dina groaned. “What the hell are you up to, girl?”
Faith bit the skin around her fingernail, looking anxiously toward the bedroom where Finn had disappeared. “Nothing,” she said, too quickly.
Dina sighed. “Never mind,” she said. “Don’t tell me. Go on, have a little fun. You deserve it after what you’ve been through with Nathan. He’s fine, don’t you worry.”
She said nothing, and Dina sighed again. “Yes, you’re pretty, and you’d be even prettier if you put a little meat on them bones.”
Dina was a full-figured young black woman, and proud of it. “You looked hot when you left for work; that pink top looked good on you. White boys love that sexy librarian look.”
“Thanks, Dina,” she whispered gratefully, in need of any reassurance she could get. “Call me if Nathan wakes up and needs me, okay?”
“He ain’t gonna need you,” her friend said complacently. “Auntie Dina is here. You have a good time, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Faith hung up, feeling just a teeny bit better until she turned around and faced the reality of the big, empty suite, and heard the faint sound of a running shower from the bedroom down the hall.
Oh shit, she thought again.
Finn Payne was in the other room, naked. Every woman’s fantasy come to life, hers for one night only, despite the nightmare that had brought her to this point. In order to steal the ring, she first had to overcome her own nervousness. He was a man, and she was a woman, and that’s all there was to it.
Faith took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Yes, she was about to have a private dinner with one of the world’s sexiest rock stars in a luxury suite at the Ritz-Carlton, and despite Finn’s immediate preference for food over sex, she had no doubt how the evening needed to end.
Given that she hadn’t had sex since before Nathan was born, she only hoped she could remember how.
A knock came at the door while Finn was still in the shower. “Room service.”
Faith, who’d kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned another button of her blouse, put her eye to the keyhole. “Leave it in the hall, please,” she said through the door, glad she didn’t recognize the waiter. He wouldn’t know her voice.
“Yes, ma’am.” Instantly he did as she asked—this was the Ritz, after all—and left his wheeled cart where it stood. She waited, giving him plenty of time to reach the elevators.
Checking the peephole a final time before opening the door, she ducked her head outside and looked around before snagging the cart, feeling like a criminal. She’d lied to her coworkers and left the desk shorthanded, so she wasn’t eager to be seen.
She wasn’t eager to get locked out, either, so she used a hip to keep the suite door open, backing in with the cart.
“Let me help,” came Finn’s voice, behind her, and the weight of the door was relieved. He held it open, standing close to the wall to let her pass.
When she did, she got a whiff of soap and dampness, and with a jolt that set the cart rattling, she realized he’d barely dried off from his shower.
He was wearing nothing but a towel.
“I’ll put this over by the table,” she said brightly, dragging the cart farther into the suite. He turned to shut the door, giving Faith a great view of his lean back and narrow hips. He had a pair of black wings, ornately feathered, tattooed on his shoulder blades.
“Your tattoo is beautiful,” she said truthfully. She didn’t care much for ink as a rule, but Finn’s wings had obviously been done by a true artist.
“Thanks.” He turned from the door to help her with the cart, giving her a wry smile. “Every fallen angel needs his wings.” The way he said it made her stomach do flip-flops, and the way he looked—well, the way he looked made her mouth dry and her heart pound. His chest was firm and well-muscled, a faint line of dark hair trailing down until it disappeared into the towel.
“You’re blushing,” he said with a grin. “I’m making you nervous.”
“No shit,” she shot back, unthinking.
Finn threw his head back and laughed. “She blushes and swears,” he said. “So ladylike, yet so naughty. You’re an interesting woman, Amy.”
“I don’t swear that much, really,” she said ruefully, knowing she wasn’t at all interesting, and wishing he hadn’t called her Amy.
He was standing on the other side of the cart, the handle of which she still held in a death grip.
“Never seen a man in a towel before?” he asked softly.
“Um . . . not lately,” she answered honestly.
Finn laughed again. His towel was riding low, bunched in his fist. “Glad to hear it. I’ll just go”—he gestured toward the bedroom—“get dressed, then.”
She nodded, grateful for the chance to gather her wits.
“Or I could eat like this. You could get naked and join me.” The teasing glint in his eye was still the
re, but there was a definite hint of possibility there, too, and Faith knew it.
“I’ll set the table while you dress.” She chickened out.
“Hm,” he murmured, eyeing her with a grin as he walked away. “Not quite as brave as you think you are, I see.”
She had no answer for that, because her brain was otherwise occupied. Oh. My. God. He was hot. Hormones she had forgotten existed surged to life, bringing a dampness between her thighs, and suddenly Faith remembered what it was like to be a woman again. To want a man who obviously wanted her (if the bulge in his towel was to be believed), and to be free to do whatever they—as two consenting adults—wanted to do.
Except she wasn’t just consenting—she was instigating—because she had an ulterior motive, which made her a big fat freaking liar.
Finn walked through the bedroom door and out of sight, but before he did—in large part because she couldn’t help herself—she admired the view. Then, a blink or two later, she calmly began to set the table. This wasn’t about her, it was about Nathan, and it wouldn’t do to forget that.
If that made her a liar, then so be it.
Might as well do her best to enjoy it.
Chapter Seven
Finn emerged from the bedroom to find she’d set the table. She stood by the window, staring out as though mesmerized, and he wondered what she saw.
To him it was just another faceless big city, but to her it was obviously home.
“Do you like living here?” he asked, and she jumped.
He wanted her to relax, for purely selfish reasons that he had no trouble acknowledging. He hadn’t been on a date—a real date—in so long he couldn’t even remember what one was like. She’d gotten so flustered when he’d come out in the towel; women who blushed were pretty rare in his world. At any rate, he didn’t want to be on anymore tonight. No performing, no posturing, no bullshit. He just wanted to be himself, to be Finn, and see how she responded to that.
“I love Atlanta,” she said, turning back to the view. “Except for the traffic. It’s beautiful when the dogwood and azalea are in bloom, and the winters aren’t too bad. I’ve lived here all my life.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Sounds pretty boring, doesn’t it?”
He shook his head. “I was an Air Force brat—I always thought it would be cool to stay in one place.”
There was a silence, in which he could feel her looking at him.
“I thought you grew up in L.A.,” she offered, as if everyone knew where he’d grown up, just because of who he was.
He shot her a wry grin. “That’s the official story, I guess.” He turned from the window, moving toward the table. “I grew up all over.” He pulled out a chair and held it for her, smiling. “I hope you don’t believe everything you read about me.”
“You mean you don’t own a private island in the Bermuda Triangle where you throw wild parties with celebrities and starlets and models?” She cocked her head, obviously only half teasing.
He gave a short laugh. “Of course not,” he replied, as if the very idea was ludicrous. He waited until she’d settled in the chair to add, “It’s in the British Virgin Islands.”
There, he’d made her laugh. She smelled good, something light and uplifting that made him want to breathe in deep.
Instead he settled himself in the chair opposite her, looking forward to the meal. “I’m hungry,” he said, “how about you?”
“Starved,” she answered.
And so for the next half hour, they talked and they ate; him doing most of the eating and her doing most of the talking, mainly because he kept asking her questions. She toyed with her green beans while he decimated his fillet, and pretty soon he knew quite a bit about Amy Smith.
Twenty-seven, degree in business from Georgia State. Grew up in Atlanta with parents she thought were great, lots of friends, liked to go out but took work very seriously.
“Sounds like a nice life,” he said.
She laughed at that, spearing a bean or two. “It’s had its ups and downs, but yes”—she nodded thoughtfully—“my life definitely has its bright spots.”
“Anyone special?”
Her eyes flew to his face.
“Boyfriend, maybe?” Finn shrugged, playing it casual. “As long as he doesn’t show up pounding on the door, I’m okay with it.” As he said it, he was surprised to realize he didn’t mean it, and wondered why—he barely knew this girl.
“No boyfriend,” she said, putting down her fork to pick up her glass. “I have a four-year-old son.”
She barely looked old enough to be anyone’s mother, but news of a child didn’t faze him; after tonight he’d never see her again.
“Divorced?”
She shook her head. “Never married. He didn’t want what I wanted, so we went our separate ways.”
Finn nodded as though he understood, but he didn’t. What kind of man walked away from his own child, his own flesh and blood, knowing no other man could ever quite fill those shoes?
“What about you?” she asked.
“No kids,” he said, shaking his head. “But I wouldn’t mind having them one day.” Except he never would, because he’d probably be a lousy father. Always working, always touring . . .
The overhead light played on her hair, gleaming shades of red and mahogany that reminded him of the wood he used in his workshop. It was his sanctuary between tours, where music and chaos were replaced with the sound and fury of saws, drills, and hammers.
He hadn’t lied about the British Virgin Islands—he did have a house there, and it was as close to home as anyplace else he’d been in the last twenty years. It was private, and it was quiet, and he could usually rest there, for a while, until the muse of Chaos roused herself and consumed his mind and body with the need for another song, another CD, another tour.
Another triumph.
“You didn’t eat much,” he observed quietly.
She looked up. “I don’t usually eat red meat,” she admitted, “but I thought you might like it.”
“Surely you’re not still nervous,” he teased. “Ever since I put my clothes on I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”
“You have.” She smiled, shooting him a glance beneath her lashes. “But you don’t have to be, you know.”
Despite the open invitation, she was blushing again; no hiding it with skin that fair.
“Good,” he replied, “because I’ve been dying to play footsies with you under the table.”
He liked the way she laughed.
“You’re quite the tease, aren’t you? The last guy I dated had no sense of humor—” Then she stopped laughing, as though she’d said too much. “I mean, not that this is a date, exactly . . .” She trailed off.
He raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”
She looked uncomfortable. “You’re being sweet,” she said. “We both know I shamelessly pushed my way in here.”
“I’m glad you did,” he answered smoothly. He reached across the table for her hand and took it. His hand dwarfed hers. “Let’s be honest with each other, shall we?”
Her brown eyes widened.
“For all your bravado, you don’t seem like the kind of girl who talks her way into celebrity hotel rooms on a regular basis, so you need to understand something. We can have a great time together tonight, but afterward . . . afterward you’ll probably never hear from me again.”
He leaned in, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles. “You need to be okay with that. One night, that’s all we’ve got.”
“One night,” she repeated, biting her lip.
“And in the morning, no hard feelings and no regrets?”
“No regrets,” she murmured.
“Do me a favor,” he said, his eyes drawn to those sweet pink lips. “Let’s pretend I’m not Finn Payne; I’m just some guy who saw you in a crowded elevator and invited you to dinner, and you’re not Amy . . .” He hesitated.
“Smith,” she provided, a heartbeat later.
“You’re not
Amy Smith; you’re just a beautiful woman about to have a night of wild delight with a total stranger. Sort of like role playing, except we get to play ourselves.” He stared into her chocolate brown eyes, wondering if she could possibly be as gorgeous naked as he was beginning to imagine.
She swallowed, squeezing his hand. The tip of her tongue came out to moisten her bottom lip, and his groin tightened.
“Wild delight,” she murmured huskily, “sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?”
There was something different about her; boldness mixed with vulnerability, shamelessness mixed with shame.
Face of an angel, body made for sin, whispered an amused voice, faintly, in the back of his mind.
Go away, he ordered it, tightening his hand over the girl’s. I don’t need or want any chaos tonight.
Chapter Eight
She could feel the ring beneath her thumb as he gripped her hand. He stood up, drawing her with him. “Come with me.”
She did as he asked, choosing to focus on him, not her problems. It wasn’t hard—she was very conscious of how very male his fingers felt, the sculpted strength of his wrist and forearm, the firm bulge of his biceps. He led her to the couch overlooking the Atlanta skyline and settled her where she had the best view, but she barely noticed, her attention taken by something infinitely more interesting, directly in her line of sight.
Finn gave her a knowing smile, not troubling to hide his erection. Then he moved away, toward the bar. “Wait right there,” he said. “Enjoy the view.”
She swallowed hard, enjoying the view very much.
Finn poured them both another splash of scotch and came back to the couch, taking a seat next to her. His knee was touching her thigh. “To no regrets,” he said, clinking his glass with hers. They both drank, and the burn of the scotch as it worked its way down steadied her.
So much so that when he lowered his glass, she leaned in and kissed him. Gently, slowly, as though they had all the time in the world. Moving her lips over his, breathing his breath and letting him breathe hers, the merest brush of their tongues, mingled with the tang of scotch and the first stirrings of desire.