by Jo Leigh
Heather had deserved so much more. She’d deserved parents who weren’t emotional cripples. A stepfather who wasn’t so consumed with his own life that he couldn’t see two feet in front of him. She’d deserved a healthy baby, a loving husband and a world of possibilities, instead of the nightmare her life and death had become.
He threw the covers back and turned on the light. Sliding his feet into his slippers, he got up, found the remote control and turned on the news.
It was sports coverage, but he didn’t care. He wanted the voices. When his restlessness wasn’t appeased, he walked to the honor bar. The scotch he’d had at the bar earlier had done nothing, but maybe wine would do the trick. He wished he had something more substantial to put him to sleep, but he so rarely needed help that he’d never thought to bring anything with him.
He unscrewed the wine bottle, which wasn’t actually a bad Merlot, and poured it into the tumbler next to the ice bucket.
Then he sat in the chair by the desk, turning his seat so he could see the television. But his gaze didn’t go there; it went to the connecting doors.
Maybe she was awake. Maybe he could talk to her, apologize. He was not sorry for what he’d said, but how he’d said it. And when. The relationship was too new and raw for revelations, especially with someone like Rachel.
Everything about her was closed and tight. The way she wore her hair, her tailored clothes, the way she held her body. Maybe that’s why the sight of her in the wisp of silk had shocked him into seeing her in an incredibly new way.
The hell of it was, he couldn’t go back. Never again would he look at her as the prim celibate. The all-work-no-play trauma doctor. He’d seen beyond her masquerade, stripped her of her defenses, and now he knew, for certain, that he was right about her.
If she’d laughed at him, changed the subject, touched his hand with hers, he would have doubted. But her reaction had been electric, as if he’d given her three hundred joules with the defibrillator. The look on her face had been outrage, and that’s what troubled him most. She wasn’t just shocked he’d guessed her secret, but wounded.
Just as he’d been wounded when he’d realized exactly who the hell he was. Truth was a bitch.
RACHEL TURNED OFF the television. She wasn’t watching it and the ads annoyed her with their perky messages and perfect people. She sat cross-legged on the bed, readjusting the pillows behind her back.
She couldn’t stop thinking about what a moron she’d been downstairs. The man had made a few guesses, that’s all. Thought he knew her when he really didn’t. They worked together, that’s all. They’d barely spent any time together, and she’d certainly never bared her soul to him. Not the way he’d done to her.
She’d never asked him to expose himself like that. In fact, she really didn’t want to know anything about his personal demons. The hell with what Allie had said, she wasn’t involved, and if she could just keep her wits about her, she wouldn’t be involved. She’d seen a man in pain and offered a helping hand. Period, the end. Hell, his pain had nothing to do with her. Nothing.
Of course she felt badly, she wasn’t a monster. He’d lost someone important to him. But where was his sister during all this turmoil? His brother? He was the one with the family, not her. It wasn’t fair.
She flung the covers back and stood up, wishing she had her own car. It was probably too late to rent one, and she wasn’t about to ask Guy for his keys. But maybe there was something open downstairs. This was L.A., for heaven’s sake—of course there’d be something happening. She could go back to the bar. Have a few drinks. Get sloshed.
By the time she reached the wardrobe, she remembered she didn’t like to get drunk. And why? Because she was a control freak, that’s why.
Okay, so he knew that about her. Big whopping deal. Everyone knew that about her. Hence her nickname. It wasn’t a crime. It was sensible, especially for a physician. If she wasn’t in control, everything would go to hell. Who would help the patients? They were the only ones who mattered.
Deep and burning fire inside her, indeed. What was he, some kind of psychic?
Projecting. That’s what he was doing. Projecting his own neurosis on her. He was the one who had all that stupid fire, not her.
This was ridiculous. It was late, and she had to get to sleep. A bath. That would calm her down, get her to relax. She went into the bathroom and started the tub.
While the water flowed, she brushed her hair and pulled it up on top of her head. Then she dug into her train case and got out an oatmeal mask, plastering her face with it so she looked like a Kabuki dancer.
Then she pulled out her cuticle cream and lathered that on her fingers. When she checked behind her, the tub was filled enough for her to get in.
Stripping off her long nightgown, she hung it on the back of the door. Then she tested the water with her toe, adjusted the taps and stepped in.
She felt better immediately. The steam, the warmth were a balm to her troubled nerves, and she smiled for the first time since she’d run from Guy.
It took her a while, but she lay all the way down, the water coming almost up to her chin. She closed her eyes, resting her head on the tile behind her.
No permanent damage had been done. She felt sure that Guy would back off now, that they could get through tomorrow focused on finding Stan and the adoption agency. No heartfelt talks, no baring of souls. She would just be Rachel, and he would just be Guy.
Sexy, handsome Guy.
She shifted, feeling a warmth that wasn’t entirely from the water. Damn, if only…
If he’d just kept his mouth shut, who knew what might have happened. She still wasn’t averse to the idea of sex. In fact, she rather liked the thought of it, especially with the man in question. With those big hands and the way he kissed.
Sighing, she cupped some water in her hand and let it dribble over her breast. Her nipple hardened into a tight bud. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Her hand moved down over her belly, sliding across her wet skin, resting just above the nest of dark curls. She shivered, anticipating. If anything would help her relax, this would.
Good old self-gratification. The one sexual relationship that would end up exactly as she wanted it to. No muss, certainly no fuss. She could trust herself not to say anything foolish.
Although, clearly, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking very foolish thoughts.
She pictured herself getting out of the tub, putting on her bathrobe and walking to the connecting doors.
It wasn’t a leap from there to imagine him opening the door, tousled from sleep, wearing only pajama bottoms. They’d be riding so low on his hips she could see the line of dark hair below his belly button. He’d smile, say nothing. Just step back, inviting her in.
Because this was her fantasy, she wouldn’t speak, either. She’d simply walk to the side of his bed, and with slow, deliberate movements, open the robe. Watch his eyes as he realized that she had nothing whatsoever underneath.
She’d let the robe drop at her feet, and he’d notice her toes were painted. That her legs were smooth.
In her mind’s eye he walked slowly toward her, his eyes dark and smoky, his body delicious with all those muscles and hard parts.
Her eyes opened and the dream dissipated. Suddenly the old standby wasn’t what she wanted at all.
She sat up so quickly, the water sloshed on the tile floor, but she didn’t care. Quickly, she washed her face, scrubbed the goop off her hands and climbed out of the tub. Wrapping a towel around her, she patted herself dry.
The plan had been so simple. Nothing to it. She’d pleasured herself a hundred times before.
Impatiently, she ripped the pins out of her hair and flipped the whole mess behind her back, then she marched out of the bathroom, picked her robe up from the side of her bed and slipped it on.
Walking over to the connecting doors, she knocked. Three times. Loudly.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HE WAS DREAMING. He had to be,
because if he wasn’t, Rachel wouldn’t be standing in the doorway, wearing a bathrobe, and she definitely wouldn’t be looking at him with that naked hunger in her eyes.
“You were sleeping—I’ll go,” she said, stepping back.
“No! I mean, it’s fine. Come in. In fact, I wasn’t sleeping.” He was the one to step back now, letting her into his room. His gaze caught on her hair. It wasn’t in a ponytail or up in a bun. It was loose and flowing, silky smooth and more beautiful than he’d imagined. His fingers itched to touch it, to touch her.
He closed the connecting doors, and by the time he turned around, she was standing by his bed. Even in the dim light of the bedside lamp, he could see her cheeks were flushed with color, and her hands were on the belt of her white terry robe. She wore no shoes, and her toes—my God, they were painted a deep scarlet. Guy didn’t know what to look at. Her toes, her hair, her incredibly moist lips, luscious and full. She decided for him when she untied the knot of her belt.
He tore his gaze from the open belt to her face, making damn sure he understood what was happening. As soon as their eyes met, he knew without a doubt.
Standing so still he could practically hear his own heartbeat, he waited, holding his breath.
She ran her slender hands up the center of the robe until she grasped the ends. Slowly, teasingly, she pulled the robe open, revealing the treasure beneath.
His throat tightened and he felt himself harden as he drank in her beauty. She was the most stunning woman he’d ever seen, and he felt humbled just to be able to look at her. Her skin glowed. Her breasts, so perfect they begged to be caressed; her nipples, dark like wine, taut and dimpled.
He let his gaze wander lower, lingering over the indent of her waist, the flat of her belly, the curve of her hips. His mouth opened when he looked at the trim triangle of dark hair barely hiding her womanhood. And how her thighs, lovely and strong, tapered to her knees and shapely calves.
He should do something. Move. Speak. But he couldn’t. She was so much more…The combination of brains, skill and beauty overwhelmed him. He’d never felt such need. Every part of him wanted every part of her. He had no explanation, just gratitude.
The robe dropped to the floor, leaving her utterly naked. Gorgeous. Then she moved her right hand slowly up the side of her body until her fingertips touched the peak of her nipple.
He closed the distance between them in three strides, and she was in his arms, her breasts pressed against his naked chest, her gasp swallowed when his lips crushed hers.
GUY’S MOUTH ON HERS took Rachel by surprise, bringing her to the dizzying realization that she was here, with him. That she’d come to him naked and willing. That she’d stripped herself bare before him. And then the amazement was all about the way his hands were on her body, running over her chilled flesh, warming her all the way through. The way he took possession of her mouth, his tongue thrusting and darting, leaving no part of her untouched.
She parried with him, tasted him, teased him while she explored the contours of his back. He’d been half-naked, just as she’d imagined. Instead of pajama bottoms, he’d worn sweats, riding low. No shirt, just muscles, heat. Power.
He pressed against her and she felt his excitement, and not just from the hard thickness against her hip. It was in the thrust of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers.
She’d done it. She’d thrown away every sane thought she’d ever had and come to him. She wanted to laugh at how bizarre it was, but he kept her occupied. He leaned back, but only for a moment, taking a great breath of air, and then he kissed her again, hard. His lips moved to her cheek, the curve of her jaw. Little nips that felt almost like pain, and then his tongue, licking her like a cat. She felt his lips at the hollow of her throat, kisses, tiny kisses, below her ear, and then her earlobe between his teeth, making her shiver and squeal like a child.
His laughter…she could feel it in her chest, her hands, her hips. Just before his mouth found hers again, he sighed, and her breath and his melded, mixed, became the same.
This was exactly where she wanted to be. With Guy. This night. In this tall tower with the lights glittering outside like diamonds.
His hands shifted, moving her closer to the bed. A moment of struggle, then abandon as she let herself fall with a whoosh onto the mattress, her head sinking into the pillow.
Guy next to her, his fingertips gently smoothing the strands of hair from her forehead, her cheek. Then he was gone, and she turned her head to watch his fingers curl under the band of his sweats. He pulled them down over his erection, and she was embarrassed that her mouth fell open.
He was so beautiful. Strong, lean, powerful. Dark hair on his chest, then tanned skin over muscle. A fabulous discovery that he was an innie, with a neat little belly button that seemed so innocent until her gaze moved down.
“Oh, God,” she said, not intentionally. She’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands of naked male bodies, but this…He made her insides tighten, her breasts crave his touch.
This was a totally new experience, as if it was her first time with a man. Nothing had ever felt like this. She laughed.
She wasn’t Rachel anymore. Not the same Rachel. He made her someone different. Someone who wanted to touch every part of his body, to have him inside her.
Naked now, and shimmering in the faint light, he climbed on the bed. She moved with the weight of him, rocked with his movements. She expected his kiss, but he was too far away. At the foot of the bed.
She raised her head higher, until her neck ached, but he wasn’t looking back. He lifted her foot, cradled it in his hand. Kissed her right there. The tender, ticklish arch.
She tried to pull away, but he held her steady, smiled down at her, then turned his attention back to her foot. It was incredible and weird, and she wasn’t sure what he was going to do, so she ignored his teasing and focused on his body.
He was sitting back on his knees, his legs underneath him so that his thick length rested on his thigh. His masculinity, his power made her dizzy, and she gave up, letting her head fall back to the pillow.
She jerked up again a second later when, to her shock, Guy licked the bottom of her foot, then swallowed her big toe. Gasping, she struggled. She’d never—“Guy!”
He didn’t even look at her. His tongue was too busy licking. Sucking.
Her strength waned, her head fell back again, and sensation swamped her. The hot, wet warmth of his mouth, the slickness of his tongue. It dawned on her that this was what it must feel like for a man to be in a woman. Not nearly as good, because the toe didn’t have a tenth of the nerve endings of the penis, and yet…
She moaned. He was sucking her toe and she couldn’t stop her own sounds of pleasure or her head from tossing from side to side. He was killing her, and she didn’t know what to do with the feelings that weren’t just in her toe, but all the way up, inside, making her wet and hot and ready.
As if he realized she couldn’t take it for another second, he let her go. Well, not entirely. His hands moved up her leg, followed by his lips. He nibbled on the back of her knee, yet again making her feel so strange, so wonderful.
Quieting herself, she could hear his breathing, hard, fast, heavy. Kissing her in all these strange places was giving him pleasure, too. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what she’d come for.
She pulled her leg free and got up on her own knees, grabbed his shoulders in her hands and yanked his mouth to hers. He kissed her again as she ran her hands down his chest, tweaking his nipples between her fingers, loving his response, his low groan. Her hands moved farther down, his skin amazingly thin and smooth above the hard steel of muscle below. So different from her own softness. And still it wasn’t enough. She slid her hands down and grasped his hard length.
He gasped, and at that second she darted her tongue inside his mouth, invading him and thrusting, letting him know exactly what she wanted him to do to her. She guided her hands up the length of him, over the smooth head, and spread his moistur
e as she traced the corded muscle on the underside.
His tongue pushed back, battling her for domination, and she gave him his way. But only for a moment. Before he could guess her intentions, she put her hands flat on his chest, astonished that she could feel his beating heart, that his rhythm matched her own.
She pushed him, hard, and he fell flat on his back, his legs bent beneath him. She allowed him to straighten them, then straddled him quickly, using her hands and her upper-body strength to hold him down.
Staring down at him, she saw the wild hunger in his eyes, and the thought that she was seconds away from having him made her want to scream in triumph. Never letting up on her hold, she lifted her lower body and planted her feet on the bed, next to his hips. She leaned down until her lips almost touched the shell of his ear. “Hold yourself,” she whispered.
She waited, keeping still until she felt his hand move. Then the tip of his length teased her entrance. He was ready, and she was nearly out of her mind with want.
Slowly, as slowly as she could, she lowered herself, inch by astonishing inch. Her stomach tightened, and she was unable to breathe.
He stretched her, filled her, and still she squeezed her muscles, knowing he could feel every move. He closed his eyes and his muscles jumped beneath her hands.
She lowered herself even farther until she rested completely on his body. Her head lolled back as she gasped for breath, more aware than she’d ever been in her life.
And then she began a slow rise, lifting herself, the only connection between them her hands on his chest, and the heat of him inside her.
She continued, straining, moving so slowly, and then his hands gripped her arms, tightly. The next second, she was thrown from his body, tossed on her back on the bed.