by Debra Webb
“I’ll have you know that I’m in perfect control of all my faculties,” he said in a low, dangerous tone.
“Of course you are,” she offered, trying to calm the storm building in his eyes. “But I still say that you didn’t enjoy the party.”
He stared at her a long time before he spoke. A strange mixture of emotions stole across his features, pain, sadness, and then confusion. He finally shrugged, almost defensively. “It didn’t do anything for me one way or the other. These kinds of functions are a necessary evil that I must endure from time to time. The fact is I haven’t enjoyed any aspect of this trip.”
“You’ve enjoyed nothing?” A sudden, irresistible urge to touch him just to see if she could feel all that tension vibrating inside him washed over her. It radiated from his eyes, his face and his rigid posture.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and hovered there. “Nothing,” he said.
He leaned closer, the warmth of his breath feathered over her lips. “You’re lying,” she whispered, her eyes on his mouth now.
“I know,” he whispered back. He eased closer, one tiny fraction of an inch at a time until their lips just touched. And then he paused. The sensation was incredible and powerfully erotic. Claire’s heart leaped in response.
Slowly, carefully, he caressed her lips, working his way from one corner of her mouth to the other. She flattened her hands against his chest and felt his heart pound beneath her palms. She opened to his touch, and he dipped his tongue inside with the same slow thoroughness. The taste of man and scotch filled her, making her crazy with want.
His hands slid down the paneled wall until they rested on her shoulders. His fingers splayed across her skin as he cupped her face in his hands. Leaning into her, he pressed the proof of his own desire against her body. Claire moaned at the realization of how she affected him. Mercy, how she wanted this man! She suddenly didn’t care if the elevator ever moved again. The thought of making love with him right here, right now, surpassed all else.
He pulled her closer and tilted her head back to deepen the kiss. His touch remained gentle though desire exploded between them, urgent and insistent.
The elevator lurched into jerky, upward movement.
Walker pulled back. He exhaled a ragged breath and gazed long and hard into her eyes. “We can’t keep doing this, Miss Carson,” he insisted, his tone lacking the conviction of his words. He traced one final path across her lower lip with the pad of his thumb.
“Because you don’t want to admit that you have feelings?” she asked, breathless. “That you want someone?”
His gaze sobered. The passion she had seen there only moments ago vanished, as if it had never been there at all. “I can’t have you.”
“Isn’t that my decision to make?” Claire touched him then. Softly, tentatively. A simple caress of his jaw. “If I can’t pretend that nothing is happening between us, how can you?”
Regret and pain passed swiftly over his handsome features before every line and angle turned to stone. “I won’t let it happen.”
The elevator bumped to a stop and the doors slid open. He released her, then turned and strode away without a backward glance.
Claire stared after him for one bewildered moment before snapping out of the spell she’d drifted into. She scrambled quickly from the elevator before the doors closed with her still inside. The man sure had a way of making her forget everything else—including stalled elevators.
~*~
Claire heard Trace pacing for a long while after she’d gone to bed. The pacing interrupted only once by the clink of ice into a glass. And then, what seemed like a lifetime later, the pacing stopped.
Closing her eyes, she willed the lingering twinge of guilt to retreat. She’d only wanted to see if he would show some kind of emotion. Admit what he felt—a definite attraction growing between them. Wanted or unwanted, it was there and growing stronger each day. Well, she’d gotten her answer. Pain, sharp and vivid, had flickered in his eyes long enough for her to glimpse the tortured man beneath the slick, all-business exterior Trace Walker presented to anyone he allowed close. He wasn’t cold and heartless at all, not unfeeling by any stretch of the imagination. She had a strong suspicion that he felt things far too deeply.
But how could she ever break down that wall he’d built around himself? She needed—wanted—more than a peek at what lay underneath. A sickening sensation settled in her belly. She turned on her side. Feeling suddenly chilled, she pulled the sheet up under her chin. What kind of person had she become? She was worse than even Walker thought. She wanted to know his innermost feelings, no matter how painful. Why? Why bother? As soon as he grew tired of punishing her by forcing her to be his secretary, she’d never see him again.
Unless...
Letters and calls about the promised Trace Walker sequel had poured in at the station. And Claire wanted to deliver to her fans. And, she wanted her life back to normal. To the way it used to be... before Trace Walker.
And above all else, no matter how she denied it, she wanted to know Trace Walker. To know him intimately. To touch him... for him to touch her. God help her, she wanted him.
How long had it been since she’d wanted a man as much as she wanted her new boss? She had concentrated so hard on her career the last few years that it seemed like a lifetime.
I won’t let it happen. Walker’s final words to her tonight. Had she hurt him so badly with the report she’d already done that no chance existed of her ever being able to make amends? Claire sat up in bed. The thought that Walker harbored no feeling for her at all, except a desire for revenge, squeezed her heart. That hurt. She had always been the type who wanted everyone to like her. She couldn’t help it. The idea that he felt such negativity toward her sat on her chest like a stone.
She knew he desired her physically, but did he merely tolerate her otherwise? Did she represent nothing more than a glitch in his perfectly controlled environment?
That was the bottom line... she should know that by now.
This wasn’t junior high. She had grown a tougher skin in the entertainment world. This whole business with Walker had her feeling like a pimple-faced thirteen-year-old with big ugly braces all over again.
Claire slid from the bed and padded across the room. She needed a nightcap. She couldn’t just toss and turn like this all night. She eased the door open and surveyed the parlor. He’d carelessly left the light on. The door to Trace’s room stood slightly ajar.
She moved soundlessly to the bar and searched the row of little bottles until she found something that appealed to her. Peach brandy. She poured it into a glass and made fast work of making it disappear. The amber liquid burned all the way down, but Claire didn’t mind since a warm, relaxed feeling would soon follow. She wasn’t much of a drinker. A shot or two at most was her limit.
She combed her fingers through her hair and contemplated going back to bed. Instead, she sat down on the couch and folded her hands in her lap. The pink silk gown felt cool against her skin. She should have slipped on her robe. What if Walker got up? No, she decided. He’d probably drunk enough while he’d paced around in here to sleep like a baby the rest of the night. Her own little warm, fuzzy feeling began. Maybe now she’d be able to sleep when she went back to bed.
Her gaze drifted to his open briefcase on the glass table in front of her. He’d scrawled several notes on a pad. Bold and graceful, his handwriting was especially good for a man’s. She touched the words on the paper, wondering what it would be like to touch the man so openly. To read him as easily as she could the words he’d written on the page.
She should go to bed. Sitting here fantasizing about him beyond that slightly open door wasn’t too bright. He didn’t want her. And did she really want him? He was hiding too much... he hadn’t healed. His tragic past—she wished she knew more of the details—had left him scarred. He had no desire to feel. So why was she so determined to make him? To tempt his boundaries? Why would she want a man like that?
That was the right answer. She didn’t need this man or any other at this point in her life, she told herself over and over. She had a career—she didn’t need a relationship.
Claire jerked herself up and let out a frustrated sigh. Sleep, she needed sleep. She started toward her room, but a force she had no control over halted her at his door.
Go to bed, Claire, you don’t need to check on him. He’s a big boy. He doesn’t need you. Or want you, for that matter.
She squeezed her eyes shut and commanded herself to move, but she couldn’t. Almost of its own accord, her hand went to his door, and she slowly pushed it open far enough to see inside. Soft, golden light spilled into the room. Her heart hammered in her chest. This was too stupid for words!
Walker lay on his back, sprawled across his bed, the twisted sheet barely covering his lower body. Oh. My. God. He did have on sexy boxers, just as she imagined he would! Claire licked her lips and allowed her gaze to travel over his exposed upper torso. His strong, muscled arms were thrown over his head, resting on the edges of his fluffy pillow. A thick lock of dark, sleep-tousled hair lay across his forehead. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. Broad shoulders and chest narrowed into a lean waist. Her thighs trembled as her gaze slid down to the navel that peeked above the waistband of his low-slung silk boxers. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, the friction warming her skin against the cool, climate-controlled air. Even though heat surged inside her, her skin felt unreasonably chilled. As good as he looked lying there, half-naked on the bed, she felt sure he would be cold. The least she could do was cover him. He was obviously dead to the world. He would never know.
She tiptoed into his room and stood at the head of the bed for a time, trying to summon enough courage to do what she’d decided needed to be done. Pushing past the hesitation, she gently tugged the sheet free. Her hands suddenly stilled and her eyes widened at the sight of his arousal. There was no mistaking the hard length beneath the silk. When she could tear her gaze away from the part of him that made her warm and wet, she gloried in just looking at his powerful thighs. Muscle-heavy and sprinkled with dark hair, Claire could imagine those long legs intertwined with her own. Her hands trembled and her blood roared in her ears as she spread the sheet over him.
Unable to help herself, she moved around to the side of his bed and sat on the edge to drink in the beauty of his face. Lines and angles, shadows and light, he looked every bit the perfect man. Thick dark lashes lay against his cheeks. Full, firm lips made for kissing, that could spread into the sexiest smile she’d ever seen when he chose to allow the outward display. She knew she should go back to her own bed, but she felt fairly safe at the moment. It would take more than her sitting at his bedside to rouse him from the alcohol-induced sleep he’d no doubt fallen into.
Besides, this felt nice. She liked the idea of having all the control.
The lock of hair that lay across his forehead beckoned to her on a level she could no more deny than refuse to take her own next breath. She hesitated then reached to push it back. The soft texture made her fingers tremble with the need to run them through the thick, dark stuff as she had when they’d kissed on Friday. The memory of the way his hair had felt between her fingers made her ache with desire.
Her hand hovered hesitantly near his face before she allowed her fingers the added pleasure of lightly touching his beard-shadowed cheek. The sensation sent a sizzling current through her body. She traced the outline of his jaw, wanting more than anything else in this world to press her lips there. The rasp of his stubble beneath her touch felt incredibly erotic and gave her the courage to continue. Her hand drifted down his throat and along his chest. His body felt hard, sleek and warm, so very warm.
Completely enthralled with the feel of him, her fingers encountered one flat, male nipple. Claire gasped and snatched her hand back. The brown peak tightened right before her eyes. Her own nipples responded in kind.
She had to get out of here.
Now.
Right now.
Before her body reacted to her brain’s command to move, strong arms captured her and in one smooth, powerful move, Claire was beneath him in his bed. She gasped at the sheer pleasure of his weight on her, and the hard length of male flesh pressing between her legs. She fought the instinctive urge to arch against him even as she struggled to find her voice.
“What do you think you’re doing, Claire?” he rasped, his mouth almost touching hers. He braced his weight on his elbows and glared down at her. His hands knotted in the pillow on each side of her head.
“I’m sorry,” she managed as soon as she’d sucked in a gulp of much-needed air. She pushed against the solid wall of muscle that was his chest. “Let me up—”
He shuddered at her touch. “Don’t move,” he growled, the fever in his gaze raging. A muscle jumped in his tense jaw. “Is this what you want?” He held her gaze steadily while he ground his hips into hers.
Yes! Yes! her body screamed.
She bit back her cry of need. “No, I...Please let me up, Trace.” The thin sheet and silk that separated them in no way disguised the heat emanating from both their bodies.
His gaze settled on her mouth and he let out a shaky breath. Fabric rustled as he tightened his grip on the pillow. “Don’t tempt me, Claire.”
His lips almost brushed hers as he spoke. It took every scrap of control she had not to lift her mouth to his—to make the contact complete. To taste what he had to offer, willingly or not. She pushed against his chest, harder this time, telling herself to say no. To tell him to stop with a bit more force, but no words came.
“You might think you want me, but you don’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t have anything to offer you.”
“Trace,” she murmured, wanting him desperately and feeling frightfully uncertain how to make this right.
He shook his head, his diminishing hold on control more than clear. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t want you.” His gaze dropped to her mouth once more before he pushed up and off the bed. He strode to the far side of the room. He stood there, his back to her, silent and staring at the floor, his hands braced on his silk-clad hips.
Feeling cold and empty, Claire rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up. She closed her eyes and steadied herself, then stood. Even the humiliation of knowing that she’d all but thrown herself at him and been rejected couldn’t ease the need throbbing inside her. Summoning her courage, she took the few steps necessary to bring her within arm’s reach of him. She stared at his broad back and clenched her fists at her sides to keep from reaching out to touch him. “I’m sorry, Trace. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just wanted to—”
“Go, Claire,” he said roughly. “I don’t want either of us to make a mistake, and I’m dangerously close to doing just that.”
She turned and hurried out of the room. In her own room, she slammed the door and flung herself onto the bed. What had she been thinking when she’d gone to him like that? She’d excused her actions by allowing herself to think that her only motivation was to check on him. To cover him. To touch him...
Heaven, help her, that was a lie and she knew it.
How could she possibly be falling so hard and so fast for Trace Walker?
Chapter Six
Claire waved and smiled to her studio audience as she crossed the stage. This particular Friday was a very special day for her and the show. Not to mention that she was extremely grateful to have the day away from Trace. Things had been a little more than awkward all week. They’d actually avoided each other at every opportunity. The charged scene in his hotel room stood like a brick wall between them. Though it was clear Trace was uncomfortable around her, he made no offer to end the secretarial charade. The man was determined to see it through to the end.
And worst of all, Claire couldn’t bring herself to consider that when he did release her from the “additional duties” she would probably never see him again.
Damn. S
he’d gotten in way over her head. The distance she’d intended to maintain had disappeared. Calling him by his first name, feeling sympathy rather than determination—her defenses were shattered. But, she couldn’t worry about that right now, she had a show to do. But later, she had to figure this out. Somehow Claire had to emotionally disengage herself from Trace Walker, or things were only going to go downhill.
“Hello, Nashville, and welcome to the third anniversary special of Heart Beat.”
A long, loud round of applause followed. She smiled, happiness and excitement rushed through her, pushing away worries of Trace. Morris Tate, the network exec who’d been courting her, had called to congratulate Claire this morning. The fact that he was watching made this show all the more important.
“Today we have a very special guest,” Claire announced when the applause had died. “His country music career has been hugely successful, and now he’s moved into the movie-making arena. The leading role in the blockbuster release Rage has launched Wade Hayes into superstar status. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure—”
“Claire?”
She wheeled in surprise to find Ron crossing her stage with a lavish bouquet of red roses. “Happy anniversary, Claire.” He placed the flowers in her arms, a big smile plastered across his face. The audience roared into action with thunderous applause.
Claire blinked back tears and muttered her thanks as Ron kissed her cheek. With a wave to the audience, he hurried off stage. Claire swiped at the tears now flowing freely, running her makeup. Wanda was probably standing backstage clucking her tongue at a monitor.
Claire placed the bouquet on the table next to her chair and turned back to the cheering fans. This is what I have to focus on. Her future. She couldn’t let Trace Walker drag her down. And she was very close to losing her heart to the man. Too close.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Claire announced in a clear voice, “Mr. Wade Hayes.”
~*~
On Saturday evening Claire downed her second glass of wine, plunked the stemmed glass down and poured herself another. She stared at the box on her coffee table that contained the few personal items she had taken to, or accumulated over the last two weeks at her TWI office. She stiffened her spine and lifted the glass to her lips.