QUADE: THE IRRESISTIBLE ONE

by Bronwyn Jameson

  With her focus fixed on her brother, she didn't see him right off. Thank heavens for small mercies. He needed recovery time, tongue-recoil time, eyes-back-in-head time. Still, he couldn't stop staring as she delivered a quick message to Mitch, fussing with his tie in a way that made his own feel like a neck noose. An affectionate smile curving her lips, she turned and started back toward whence she had come.

  He knew the instant she saw him. Less than five yards away her hurrying strides faltered and her smile faded. She blinked, one slow-motion slide of her lashes, and then she was there, right in front of him, lifting her chin and pushing back her shoulders and drawing all his attention to the way she filled the bodice of the killer dress.

  Did it come with built-in underwear? Because he sure couldn't see – and he was looking closely – how she could fit anything between the stretchy lace fabric and her skin. From the low dip of the neckline to the top of her shapely knees it caressed every contour.

  When she tugged at the neckline, he realized how long he'd been staring, and where he'd been staring. Not good. He knew that for a fact when he looked up into her furious eyes. It seemed like a good time to take a teasing approach. "Is that dress legal?"

  "It shouldn't be," she replied darkly, and he realized her crossness wasn't directed at him but at the dress.

  Releasing muscles he didn't recall tensing, he grinned. "Do I take it this wasn't your choice?"

  "Kree and Julia outvoted me."

  He made a mental note to buy them both a drink or ten.

  Then someone called her name from the back of the house and she wrinkled her nose. "Duty calls."

  "Chantal."

  Halfway to leaving, she paused, looking back at him over one smooth bare shoulder. "It's a killer dress. The only way I can imagine you looking better is out of it."

  Her lips parted on a soft surprised "Oh," and his body quickened. How many times the past two nights had he recalled the feel of those plush lips under his, imagined their moist openmouthed kisses on his body? He rubbed a hand over his jaw, a hand that stopped stock still as his gaze fastened on her retreating rearview, on the way the killer dress cupped the round curves of her buttocks.

  With a low groan, he bowed his head in supplication. It was going to be a long, torturous evening.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  «^»

  Six hours later he was still riveted by that dress … or by the woman wearing it, he acknowledged ruefully, as he led the other bridesmaid through a series of fancy steps on the dance floor. Kree wore the same dress but on her it was just a dress, not an instrument of torment.

  At that moment Chantal swung by, laughing up at her sixth partner in the half hour since the band struck up the bridal waltz. Quade clenched his teeth. So, okay, he hated the fact he'd been counting. He didn't begrudge her the turn with her father or her brother or the best man, but he begrudged the hell out of every other man with his hands on her body.

  "You could always cut in," Kree suggested.

  Yeah, and he could always swallow his pride and go drag her outside, into his car, and all the way home to his bed. Except he'd told her she had to come to him, in her own time, once she had nothing but sex burning in the depths of those espresso dark eyes.

  She came by again, hips moving seductively in time to the music, and he felt a snarl building in his throat. When her partner slid his hand from a proper shoulder height to mid-back, the snarl slid through his teeth.

  Kree held up her hands and stepped out of his hold. "James is a good customer. Don't hurt him too badly."

  "One inch lower and he loses his hand."

  Eyes intent on the other couple, he pushed through the press of dancers, and when he heard her throaty laughter, when he saw her fingers tapping a beat on the man's shoulder, he hoped Kree's good customer had lowered his hand. Just so he could inflict bodily harm.

  Such uncivilized possessiveness was alien but undeniable. Before he could tap the man's shoulder he had to unclench his fists; before he could say, "Excuse me, she's mine," he needed to release the rigid set of his jaw. Surprise flickered across her face as he took her into his arms, and he liked the fact he'd jolted her for a change. Even more, he liked the way she felt in his arms.

  Intense satisfaction chased all the violence from his body. When she lifted her head to talk, he splayed his hand wider against her silken back and tucked her closer to his body. More times than not, when they talked, they argued. Tonight he didn't want to take that chance. For ten minutes everything narrowed to the feel of the woman in his arms, to the certainty that she would be his. Tonight.

  He deflected two attempted cut-ins, maneuvered them past two attempted conversations, and would have happily kept doing more of the same if the music hadn't stopped. The MC took the microphone to inform the guests that Mr. and Mrs. O'Sullivan were about to leave, and while Quade allowed Chantal to slip out of the traditional dance hold, he kept a firm hold of her hand. She didn't seem to mind, at least until Julia sought her out, and then she tugged free to fall into her sister's embrace.

  While they talked and wiped tears from each other's faces, a weird feeling settled over him, a foreboding that only intensified when Julia stepped to the center of the crowd and raised her bouquet high. With dramatic flair she paused to scan the faces before sending it sailing in a high arc. He felt positively sick as he watched the flowers spiral through the air directly toward the woman at his side.

  When the jostling intensified, he stepped hastily out of the fray. When he heard a high-pitched shriek of delight, he glanced up to see a tall redhead waving the spoils of victory above her head. And with a jolt of surprise he realized Chantal was still by his side, that despite her competitive nature, despite the bouquet being hers for the taking, she had stepped aside. All his misgivings faded.

  "You want to dance?" he asked.

  Gaze steady and resolute, she looked him right in the eye. "I'd rather go home."

  Quade's pulse kicked hard. "Are you sure?"

  "I know what I'm doing, Quade. I know what I want. Do you?"

  He nodded, a short curt movement of his head, and grabbed her hand. He wanted her and he was sick of not having her. But when he tugged on her hand, she resisted, and he turned impatiently. "What?"

  "The other night I scared you off with the virgin thing. I want to be sure that won't happen again, that you won't run screaming for the hills because I'm not what you expected."

  "I don't doubt there'll be screaming." His gaze fastened on her lips and his body burned with sudden intense need. "But that'll be you."

  * * *

  Quade's instructions for the drive home were short. "No chitchat, no revelations, no thinking."

  How dictatorial, Chantal thought, objections taking shape in her brain. But then he took her hand and rested it on his thigh and that took care of the objections and the thinking in one fell swoop. Total mental vacuum until she moved her hand, spreading her fingers over the finely woven fabric of his trousers and feeling the instant grab of tension in the hard muscle beneath.

  Then her vacant mind filled with vivid sensual images. The cool caress of satin against her naked skin. The hot gleam of his eyes as he lowered himself to the bed. Those long lean muscles flexing as he lifted himself over her body. Uninhibited cries of pleasure.

  Champagne bubbles fizzed through her veins with dizzying, intoxicating speed. No doubt he could make her scream. He could, quite probably, make her do anything his heart desired.

  Except it's not his heart doing the desiring, Chantal.

  Before she could prevent it, her own heart performed the swan dive it had perfected over the past few days, plunging to a new low whenever she thought about the impossibility of her feelings for Cameron Quade, soaring high with Julia's series of pep talks.

  "It's the male mantra, sis. No intimacy, no promises, no commitment. The thing is, they don't know what they want, apart from sex. They need showing. They need loving."

  "And what if
he doesn't want me for anything, apart from sex?"

  "Do you want to find that out? Or are you going to hem and haw until it's too late and he's gone."

  "You don't think he'll stay?"

  "Not unless he has something to stay for."

  Julia was right. Once he finished putting Merindee back together, he would be gone. He might call himself an ex-lawyer but he was a man used to doing, a man used to challenges. A man worth putting all her insecurities and self-doubts on the line for, because, deep in her soul, she sensed he was The One for her. For even the slim possibility of love, he was worth the chance of heartache.

  His leg shifted infinitesimally, but it was enough to jolt her back to the present, enough to send a tingle of awareness skittering through her nerve endings, enough to cause her fingers to tighten reflexively on his thigh. Were all his muscles so taut, hard, hot? Instantly she was assailed with visions – taut, hard, hot visions – of sliding her hand higher. Moistening her lips, she edged her fingers a bold centimeter only to find them instantly imprisoned.

  "Not a good idea, sweetheart. Not if you want to make it home."

  The impact of those words – and the implication behind them – pulsed through her blood. If she tested him, would he pull over to the side of the road? Would he push her back in the seat and take her there, with all the hot urgency she saw in his eyes?

  Oh dear Lord.

  Heat, white and incandescent, suffused her, tempted her, teased her. And then she thought about afterward, about the inevitable awkwardness, and about him dropping her off at her own doorstep, his needs assuaged. No. That wasn't how she wanted this night to end, not by a long shot.

  Settling back in her seat, she vowed to behave herself, at least until they made it to a bedroom.

  * * *

  His bedroom. She was pleased by his choice, pleased and so nervous she felt perilously close to nausea, which explained why she'd excused herself and bolted for the bathroom.

  Getting this far had been relatively easy. For the last half of the trip his hand had covered hers, and the slow stroke of his thumb over her wrist steadily escalated her level of awareness. When he'd turned into his drive he must have felt her jumpy reaction, because he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm, a kiss that calmed as much as it aroused.

  Then he took her by the hand and led her into his house, all the way to his bedroom. Eyes closed, she concentrated on the little things that suddenly seemed so difficult, important little things such as walking and breathing. And when she heard the pad of her bare feet on the hardwood floor – such a smooth, cool contrast to the jagged, hot edges of her senses – she laughed out loud.

  "What's so funny?" he asked, and she heard the frown in his voice.

  "My shoes must be still in your car. I don't even remember taking them off."

  "It's a start," he said shortly, pulling her through the door into his bedroom. "One less thing I have to take off you."

  If he'd started taking the rest off her then and there, she would have been fine. But a muscle jumped in his jaw and he'd looked so tense, so hard and untouchable, she freaked. And bolted.

  Splashing water on her face cooled and calmed her. It also smeared the eye makeup Kree had applied with a liberal hand. Obviously not waterproof. Fixing the damage took several more minutes and, thankfully, distracted her.

  "Stop being a coward," she instructed her pallid reflection. "You've come this far, now get back out there."

  Nerves still danced about in her stomach, but she kept her head high as she padded back to his room. On the threshold she came to an abrupt halt.

  Bare from the waist up, he sat on the edge of the turned-down bed removing his shoes. Soft warm light poured from a bedside lamp, turning the satin sheets to a gleaming midnight pool. As he bent and pulled at the second shoe the light fell across the smooth, clean lines of his back, playing on the flex of muscle, shadowing the dips and hollows.

  The longing to touch was so strong, the anticipation so keen, she couldn't stifle the sound that rose in her throat. He looked up, saw her standing there, went still.

  "You need help with that dress?" he asked in a low, controlled voice.

  She licked her dry lips. "Yes."

  "Good." Again, that muscle jumped in his cheek. "Come over here."

  Heart beating so hard she could hear each individual thud, she started toward him. She saw the flare of his nostrils, the slide of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, the unwavering intensity of his eyes on her, and everything else faded. He wanted her. That's all that mattered.

  He took one of her hands and tugged her closer, right into the space between his spread knees, and before she could think more than nice move, he hooked his other arm around her hips and pressed his face to her belly. It was such an unexpected embrace, so incredibly sensual, that Chantal thought she might shatter with the intensity of her pleasure.

  Closing her eyes, she laced her fingers through his hair and sucked in a surprised breath at its softness. She had never equated softness with this man

  "Nervous?" he asked.

  "Not any more."

  Through the unsubstantial dress she felt the touch of his lips, the hint of a smile, and her toes curled against the hardwood floor.

  "I love this dress." His hands skimmed her hips, slid down the back of her thighs, came to rest on her stockinged legs. "But it has to go."

  In one practiced motion he peeled it from her body.

  "Much better," he murmured and when his lips touched bare skin, Chantal's knees all but gave way … would have given way but for the hands curled around her hips and holding her steady, holding her captive to the touch of his lips, the stroke of his tongue, and the soft sounds of approval he murmured low in his throat.

  Suddenly he rolled backward pulling her with him. The move should have been smooth except he caught her unprepared and she fell clumsily, laughing in nervous reaction as he tumbled her onto the bed beside him.

  "Sorry." With an apologetic grimace she removed her elbow from his stomach.

  "I'm not complaining." He had come to rest with his large hands cupping her bare buttocks. "Another surprise."

  Chantal felt the heat of a flush warming her throat. "I had to wear a thong on account of that dress."

  "It drove me crazy wondering what you had on under it."

  The slow sexy circle of his hands was driving her crazy. "Now you know," she whispered breathily.

  "Now I know."

  She expected the teasing to continue, expected him to transfer his attention to the strapless bra that barely covered her breasts, but those tormenting hands stilled as he looked deeply into her eyes and the mood shifted to something more solemn. As he eased closer, need shuddered through her, an aching need to press herself against him, soft to hard, curves to flat lean planes, but his hands moved to her hips, holding her at bay.

  "Slowly," he murmured as he lowered his lips to hers. "We have all night."

  He started out as if he intended that one kiss to last all night: a languid sharing of breath, lazy strokes of his tongue, a slow meandering journey of her mouth. Chantal tasted champagne and chocolate dessert, pleasure and passion, and when he drew her bottom lip into his mouth she looked right into his eyes and the kiss became as involved as their myriad hues of green and amber, as deep as the strength and tenderness she felt.

  Palms tingling, she explored his back, sliding over the smooth planes, touching each nub of his spine, slowing in surprise at the softer skin beneath his arms. Every touch he mirrored– the brushing of fingertips, open-palmed caresses, sometimes giving, other times greedy. A frisson of fear immobilized her when he unsnapped her bra, when she felt the slough of his breath against her bared breasts, but with one awed word her nerves fell calm.

  They learned each other's bodies in slow increments, encouraged by murmured words of praise and pleasure. With hands and mouth he discovered secret places – behind her ear, inside her wrists, the dip of her spine – that set her body adri
ft on a sea of sensual delight. How could he know to linger over such places? How could he know such a perfect touch? How could he not know that her breasts screamed for equal attention?

  He knew.

  He knew so well that at his first touch, a gently exquisite pressure to one tight nipple, she thought she might weep. When he cupped the fullness of each breast in his hands, when she felt the pressure of those work-roughened palms and his low rough sound of need, her nails dug into the flesh of his back. And when he took those breasts to his mouth, when she felt the moist stroke of his tongue and the gentle scrape of his teeth and the insistent tug of his lips, she cried out, a sharp needy call for more.

  So much, too much, not enough.

  He left her breasts to slide lower, hooking his fingers into the elastic of her skimpy pants and peeling them from her body. A restless fire licked through her blood. Then his hands were on her legs, rolling away each stocking before sliding up her thighs to spread her, to find her hot and wet and wanting.

  Craving.

  And, oh, those hands. They knew how to torment and to tantalize, how to turn her into a panting, quivering mass of need. But it wasn't enough. She wanted her hands on him. She wanted his body on hers, in hers. Naked. But he rolled out of reach of her questing hands and onto his feet in one fluid movement. Light and shadow rippled across his skin as he shed the rest of his clothes, as he unselfconsciously revealed a body that turned her weak with wanting and renewed nerves.

  He was extremely big, he was extremely aroused, and he was going about the whole find-and-fit-protection process with a practiced ease that reminded her of their extremely divergent levels of experience. But before she could finish thinking what am I doing here and what am I going to do with all that? he was back at her side, kissing her, reassuring her, touching her. Finding supersensitive flesh with those magical fingers and circling, pressing, lingering. Blowing all her fears out the back of her head as a delicious pressure coiled low in her belly, as a restless pulse pounded through her blood.