Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  Then she decided she didn’t care, because she wanted to rub herself against him. In fact, her hips were headed in his direction when some remnant of sense stopped her.

  She wore almost nothing. He wore . . . who knew? Dangerous ground for a woman whose one fledgling affair had faded under the pressures of family illness.

  She turned her head away from his fingers and her gaze away from his. “Don’t.”

  He rose onto his elbow. “Look at me.”

  She did. She had to. She needed to observe his moves, try to keep ahead of him. If that meant she obeyed him, there was no help for it. If her gaze intertwined with his again, and those heated brown eyes stripped away her pretensions and left her bare to his scrutiny, there was no help for that, either. He had a way of making her feel helpless—and making her like it.

  “We’re lucky.” He slipped his hand around her waist and splayed it in the small of her back. “Most couples have only one first kiss. We’ll have two.”

  Her thoughts might be muddled, but her instincts were crystal clear. She should run. She should run now.

  Instead she let him pull her closer, into the heat and the scent of him.

  But it was okay. Because he was wearing boxers.

  Specious reasoning, Meadow.

  His head dropped toward hers. His breath whispered across her skin near her ear. “Sometimes when two people meet, they know that a touch would be enough to set off a wildfire, but they never have the chance to set the spark. We have the chance . . . and it would be a crime against nature not to find out. . . .”

  She turned to look at him, to tell him to back off.

  Somehow her lips met his—and the spark leaped into instant, glorious conflagration. Her eyes fluttered closed. The lightning from last night shivered between them, setting off flashes beneath her closed lids. Her hands rose and grasped him, one behind his neck, one against his shoulder, and the lightning crackled from her fingertips into his skin and back again, like magic performed by a cartoon magician.

  What he did with his lips was wicked, an overload of temptation. His hands didn’t wander; rather, they held her closely, and the heat that built seemed to ignite their scraps of clothing, leaving nothing but bare skin and the flare of desire.

  Her breath came more and more quickly. She was blind and deaf to anything but him: his breath in her mouth, his scent filling her nostrils, the fire he created as he rubbed his hips against hers.

  She liked his tongue. She liked that he used it against her teeth and lips to taunt and touch. She liked that he gave up control when she wanted to explore his mouth. She savored the vibration of his moan as he rolled onto his back and pulled her with him.

  He was solid beneath her, a great, strong beast of a man who radiated heat and moved her without effort. As she pressed him into the mattress, kissing him with growing intensity, he ceased holding her against him. Instead his hands wandered, pushing her robe aside so that only the tie remained between their bodies. His palms caressed her buttocks, cupping them, pressing her against his erection, and moving her in a pulsing rhythm.

  Vaguely she knew things were moving too fast. She couldn’t get intimate with a man who had lied to her. Not when she was lying to him, too. But on this sensual, physical, earthy level, they were far too attuned.

  At least, she was attuned to him.

  Maybe he was simply good at this stuff. She’d heard that some men worked miracles with a woman’s anatomy, although she’d had little experience with that. But here and now, each shift of their bodies wrung another sensation from her taut nerves.

  She searched out the hem of his T-shirt and slid her hands beneath it, climbing the ladder of his sculpted belly up to his ribs and then to his nipples. He stretched his arms above his head, inviting her—challenging her—to strip him.

  As a girl, she’d once taken a dare to jump off the roof of the studio onto their trampoline. She’d broken her leg. While the doctor set it, he’d sternly warned her of the dangers of accepting dares.

  Too bad Meadow’s besetting sin was impetuousness.

  Don’t do this, Meadow.

  Sitting up, she straddled Devlin.

  You’re going to be sorry, Meadow.

  Peeling him out of his T-shirt, she tossed it aside.

  Her conscience was wrong. She was not sorry.

  Smooth muscles rippled beneath tanned skin. On his arms. On his chest. On his belly. She couldn’t resist; she touched him with her fingertips, sliding up hills and down valleys, following his love arrow down his breastbone, over his navel, to the waistband of his underwear. The contrast between her pink nails and his dark hair fascinated her, and she gloated over the strength and glory of his chest. “You’re in great shape.”

  “After you left me, I had nothing worthwhile to do except practice making love.” He flexed his biceps. “By myself.”

  Damn the man! How did he know she was sucker for guys who made her laugh? “Practice makes perfect.”

  “Let’s see.” He slid his fingers under the waistband of her panties.

  She had only one thought—Take them off.

  She leaned forward.

  He pushed them down her legs.

  Stupid Meadow. Don’t do this, Meadow.

  She kicked them away.

  His palms stroked the bare globes of her rear, raising the fine hairs all over her body. His fingertips skimmed the crack that led to the space deep into her body.

  She tensed with anticipation.

  He slid his thumbs over her clitoris.

  She sank her nails into his skin.

  He slipped—just barely—his finger into her body.

  She gave a moan that revealed far too much.

  “It was exactly like this in Majorca,” he whispered in her ear. “You kissed me and we went up in flames.”

  A warning pealed loud and shrill in her head.

  “Majorca?” He’d mentioned Majorca before, and it behooved her to remember—she’d never been to Majorca.

  She wasn’t starting out a relationship based on lies.

  Devlin’s lies.

  Her lies.

  “I’m out of here.” She vaulted off the bed, one hand sinking into the mattress, the other mashing his stomach.

  He oofed as she drove the air out of him.

  It was farther to the floor than she expected. She stumbled when she landed, then stood with her back to him and took a long breath—a long breath that did nothing to restore her good sense.

  Her brain clamored for her to get far away. Her body urged her to climb back on the mattress and make it rock.

  And her common sense insisted on asking the logical question—had he mentioned Majorca on purpose? Had he wanted to stop them before they went too far? That suggested that a cool mind still operated beneath the heat of passion, and that one thought brought her temperature down to a reasonable simmer.

  She pulled the robe closer around her, covering herself. She faced him.

  He reclined on the bed, sheet to his waist, arms tucked under his head. Muscles bulged on his chest and pecs; hair dusted his armpits and breastbone. His hair glowed like a dark halo against the white pillowcase. His eyes smoldered with intensity.

  He didn’t look like a man in possession of a cool mind. Maybe he’d mentioned Majorca by mistake. “Are you always so reckless?”

  “Never.” He sat up on one elbow. “That’s why I fell in love with you—you transform me from a dull businessman into a dashing beachcomber who knows what’s important in life.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You.”

  She swayed toward the bed, pulled by the gravitational force of his desire.

  Think, Meadow. Think!

  She pulled back. “You’re good.” She’d always appreciated flattery as much as the next girl. Apparently she appreciated it a little too much.

  “Let me put on my clothes. They’re harder to get out of.” She headed into the bathroom, sure she had seized control of her destiny again, a
nd determined to ward off any more of his lightning-fast, underhanded, seductive maneuvers.

  “I threw away your clothes.”

  5

  Meadow caught her breath in outrage. She stopped. She turned.

  Devlin smiled a panty-dropper smile.

  Too bad she wasn’t wearing panties.

  “Excuse me?” She stepped toward the bed, a half smile on her lips, fire in her eyes. “You threw away my clothes?”

  “The shop downtown is sending out outfits appropriate for my wife.” He sounded so . . . innocent. So reasonable.

  “Outfits appropriate for your wife?” Her voice rose. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I like the way you dressed in Majorca.”

  “And that would be?”

  “In sundresses. With flowers in bright colors.” He wiggled his fingers over his chest to indicate something. Bright-colored flowers, she guessed.

  “Sundresses? With . . .” Normally she wore jeans and T-shirts. And Birkenstocks. With socks. “If I’m your wife, why don’t you have my clothes from Majorca?”

  Promptly, he said, “I left them there, hoping you would return.”

  The fresh-washed morning sunshine lit one half of his body and face, and left the other half in shadow. Who did he think he was? Some supervillain capable of lightning-fast changes designed to amaze and confuse her?

  Because someone needed to bring him down to earth.

  Like targets, his nipples drew her gaze. Grabbing one, she twisted. Hard.

  “Ouch!” He grabbed himself. He looked down at the bruised nub. “What was that?”

  “A purple-nirple.” She watched in grim satisfaction as he rubbed the ache. “And no normal woman wears a flowered sundress for everyday. I wear jeans.”

  “You can’t know that. You don’t remember.” Sarcasm. Definitely sarcasm.

  “Are you trying to make me into a Stepford wife?” A spooky thought. Was that his intention? “I know what kind of woman I am. And I certainly know what I wear. What all women wear. You need to look around.”

  “I don’t look at other women. I’m married.”

  She snorted. “I’ll call and get you an eye appointment.”

  “That’s a very wifely duty.”

  Conversation between them wasn’t an exchange of ideas; it was a fencing match.

  Worse, she was enjoying herself when she was actually angry at him. Very angry about . . . something . . . Oh, yeah. “Don’t ever get high-handed and toss my clothes again.”

  “Of course not. I won’t have to.” He swung his legs out from under the sheets. “Not now. You’re here with me, and I intend to keep you close.”

  Devlin was too tall. The way he loomed distracted Meadow, made her aware of his erection tenting his dark blue boxers, her bare feet on the cool hardwood floor, their recent and all too steamy intimacy. The things he said sounded less like banter and more like a threat, and when a woman had gone as far as she had—and that was far too far—she would be a fool to ignore her alarm. “Keep me close? What does that mean?”

  “You’re not well. You have a concussion—”

  “Minor!”

  “And you have amnesia about the most important moment of our lives.”

  She hated that he held that trump.

  “More important, I’m opening a hotel here on the private, exclusive shores of South Carolina. It’s the wave of the future; all of these old homes are falling to reduced incomes and increasing costs. But the wealthy here are still wealthy—and hostile to me, and there’ve already been incidents of sabotage.”

  “Oh,” she said blankly. Such a scenario was so out of her league, she didn’t know what to say. “Like what?”

  “A few of the more important families made it clear that the merchants in town would find their mortgages inexplicably foreclosed on if they sold us anything. I’m trucking in groceries from Charleston.”

  “That’s medieval!”

  A smile quirked his mouth. “That’s South Carolina. It’s one of the original thirteen colonies and still run by the same families.”

  “You’re kidding.” She was from the West. From the mountains of Washington and a family of bohemians, artists. Of course, her grandmother had told her about the old South Carolina family traditions that choked the life out of a person. But Isabelle had run away, and the stories she told sounded like fairy tales from long ago.

  Now Devlin was saying nothing had changed? One look at his stern face convinced her he was serious. “What else have they done to the hotel?” Meadow asked.

  “I built a cell tower behind the hotel. Someone knocked it down.”

  “Cell tower?” With a jolt she remembered. “My cell phone.” She slapped her rear as if expecting to find a pocket. “Before you tossed my pants, did you retrieve my cell phone?”

  “It’s here on the nightstand.” Sitting down on the bed, he extended his hand. “I have guards patrolling this place—”

  “So how did I get in?” She didn’t think he was lying about this.

  “A guard who found shelter from the storm when he should have been making his rounds, combined with untested generators that allowed power outages. The problem will be fixed today.”

  “Fixed? You mean, the generators will be up and running?”

  “And the guard replaced.” His gaze grew cold.

  She didn’t like that expression. It reminded her of last night. It reminded her only too clearly that he had some ulterior motive for this farce he was playing, and if she didn’t get that painting and get out of here fast, he was going to squash her like a bug. “Ah, come on. That was a heck of a storm!”

  “I pay top dollar, and I expect the best.”

  “Yes, but . . . the poor guard! He’s got no job.”

  She saw no visible softening on Devlin’s face. “He should have thought of that before he signed the contract.”

  “I guess.” Meadow honored her own contracts, but at the same time, her heart ached for the unknown man.

  “Look. These people who want to stop me from opening are determined, and they’ve got the money to back that determination. I can’t take the chance that someone will seize the opportunity to hurt my wife, and a sloppy guard would expose you to danger. You do understand, don’t you?” Charm thawed his expression. With his dark hair disheveled from the night and that quirk of his lips, he looked almost . . . sincere. Intent. Interested in her. Only her.

  Reluctantly she placed her hand in his. “Sure. Except . . . are you really going to tell people I’m your wife?”

  “Of course.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth across her palm.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what excuse he would make when she disappeared. But then he’d ask why his wife would disappear, and she’d be stammering around, trying to come up with a good lie. Her mother always said there was no such thing as a good lie, that the universe rewarded the truth and punished a falsehood.

  Meadow’s gaze fell on their joined hands, then on the bed. With last night’s debacle and this morning’s precipitate passion as cases in point, Meadow had to admit that her mother was right.

  She could reveal the truth—she cast a glance at his harsh face—and be arrested for breaking and entering with intent to commit grand theft. Good idea, Meadow.

  Devlin watched her flounder with the dilemmas of truth versus lie, him versus prison; and the way he smiled made her suspect he found her struggles all too amusing.

  Jerking her hand from his grasp, she picked up her phone.

  As she flipped it open, he said, “I looked for numbers, but the phone is blank.” He strode across the room to the dresser and pulled a pair of jeans out of the drawer.

  “You snooped in my phone?” He’d had the nerve!

  “I thought it might reveal some names that would tell us where you’ve been.” He pulled on the jeans.

  “Oh. Yeah.” Thank God Judith had thought to have Meadow wipe the memory or he’d be talking to her mother right now. Meadow
could imagine how her mother would sound—as disappointed and upset as the time she’d caught the thirteen-year-old Meadow eating a hamburger—meat!—at her friend’s.

  What a horrible memory that was!

  “So there’s no cell service out here?” To avoid his gaze, she watched the little signal searcher do its gyrations.

  “Until last year, the residents of Amelia Shores hadn’t allowed anything so crass as a cell tower to pollute the ambience of their elite village, and even now the signal doesn’t reach out to the mansions.”

  “Medieval,” she muttered again.

  “I’m building another tower for the hotel’s guests, but it isn’t scheduled for assembly until the day before the grand opening. Then the frenzy of disapproval from the other mansions’ residents will be at its height, and they won’t even notice the tower going up behind the house.”

  “Yeah. Probably not.” She snapped her phone closed. “I want a shower.”

  He opened his mouth.

  “Alone.”

  He closed it.

  “So where are these flowered sundresses?” She needed to search the house for the painting, and she needed to search fast.

  “They’re not here yet. I’ll see what I can find you in the gift shop.” He started for the door.

  “Jeans. A T-shirt,” she called after him.

  “It’s going to be eighty-five today.”

  “Shorts and a T-shirt, then.”

  He stopped and ran his unsmiling gaze over her.

  “What?” She spread her hands.

  “Five-five, one hundred and twenty-eight pounds, A cup, pants size six, shoes a size eight.” Then he continued out, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t ask if he was right.

  “One hundred and twenty-six pounds. What’s wrong with that?” A man with such acute powers of observation could probably read every thought before it crossed her mind—and she prided herself on keeping an open mind.

  She was in such trouble.

  She had to find that painting and get out of here. She wanted—desperately wanted—to go home to her parents with enough money to pay for her mother’s medical treatment . . . and now Meadow had a second reason for haste.