by Nancy Warren
“Indulge me.”
“There’s no white board up here.”
“No,” he said, digging into his pocket. “But I do have my PalmPilot. I can change text colors. We’ll improvise.”
“I can’t make a list of your good and bad points with you sitting right here,” she told him.
“Sure you can. I can help. Who knows my qualities and vices better than me?”
She settled herself at a black wrought-iron table. The pool lapped quietly, reflecting the mood lighting on the roof patio and the pale wash of the moon. The man was ridiculous. She decided to call his bluff. “All right. If you want to.”
“Great. I do.” He opened a file. “I don’t have a purple font. Pink okay?”
“Let’s start with your negatives first.”
She thought his shoulders slumped a little. “I hope this baby has enough memory,” he said, shooting her a wry grin.
“I certainly do,” she snapped.
His gaze met hers and she saw a certain eagerness. He wanted to talk about the past. Damn. She hadn’t meant to sound so angry. She wasn’t angry. She never dwelled on past mistakes. How odd that flash of remembered pain had felt so excruciating.
He looked as though he might say something, then seemed to think better of it. “Okay,” he said, “Black font.” He typed and she saw over his shoulder that he’d written a heading: Peter’s Bad Points.
The curser blinked away at her as he held the small machine out. She grabbed it. Typed: Teases at inappropriate moments.
“Now you do one,” she said and passed it back. He thought for a minute. Typed: Forgets to buy socks. Sometimes tries to match a black with a blue.
She read what he’d written and said, “So what? I don’t care about that.”
“All right then. You put down a negative thing.”
She grabbed the device and typed: Pushy.
She shoved it back.
He picked it up and typed: Ran from own wedding. Bad emotional risk?
“That’s not fair,” she said reading the words. “If anyone was going to put that on the list, it should have been me.”
“Why didn’t you? It was hanging there in the atmosphere.”
“Because that doesn’t matter. It’s over. In the past.”
She went to erase his last entry but he stopped her. “Let’s leave it in there for now.” He glanced up. “Um, maybe we should add a few positives to this list.”
“I’m really hungry. Could we eat first?”
He sighed. “All right.”
She called down and, as she’d told Peter, was instantly assured that dinner would be sent up along with a bottle of wine personally selected by Jacob Hill.
“We call this roof service,” she said, when one of the room service waiters arrived with a serving table.
No tasting menu tonight. Instead, Jacob had sent up a simple salad with organic greens and lobster ravioli. The wine was cold and crisp, and chosen by him from his native California.
“You know, I think I could live at this hotel,” Peter said, as he raised his glass to hers in a silent toast.
“I know,” she agreed. “I have the greatest job in the world. I spend a lot of my life here.”
“So,” he said, settling back in his chair, looking gorgeous and vaguely mysterious in the candlelight. “Tell me the story of your life,” he said.
She wrinkled her nose in puzzlement. Tried to read his expression. “You know the story of my life,” she said. “I’ve known you for years.”
“Pretend that we met for the first time last night. Let’s get to know each other.”
“But that’s silly.” She saw him open his mouth and raised her hand to forestall him. She knew what he was going to say. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Anything he wants.”
He nodded, obviously pleased she’d guessed he was going to spout his favorite line of the weekend.
“Fine. My life story.” She glanced at him and paused. How would she organize and display the facts of her life for this man if she’d just met him? What would she say? She tried to imagine he was a guy she was dating, some acquaintance of an acquaintance who’d recently moved to New York.
“I’m from Oregon originally,” she began. “I was pretty good at school but not the best, a reasonable athlete, but no star. My dad’s a grocery store manager, and my mother stayed home to raise us. They split up a few years ago and my mom now works for a cancer research agency. She’s a fund-raiser.”
“Is that who you inherited your PR talent from?” Peter asked, as though he’d never known these facts. She opened her mouth to answer and realized that no one had ever asked her that question before, including Peter.
“I don’t know.” She thought of her mother, so capable, maybe a little bossy and absolutely manic about how to host a dinner party. She grinned. “I guess I must have. My mother did most of her event planning as a hobby, but I’m telling you, Jacob Hill isn’t better organized in the kitchen than my mom. If she cooks for a dinner party, she starts a week ahead. I’m not kidding. If dinner’s on Saturday, she’ll have most of the food prepared and frozen by Tuesday.”
He laughed.
“No. It’s true. She’ll scour her place top to bottom on Thursday, lay the table on Friday, and by Saturday all she has to do is thaw the food and get dressed. I guess I do take after her. Well, I don’t freeze dinner party food ahead, of course, but I like to have everything perfect.”
He sipped his wine and watched her. She had his entire attention. It was nice. “You’re a long way from Oregon.”
“I decided to come out east for college, mostly to get away, I guess. See something new. I met Piper at college, you know. We’ve been friends ever since. To tell you the truth, she wasted a lot of time at college. Not me, though. I loved it. I was born for public relations.”
“What made you move to New York?” he asked. Like anyone would. As if he didn’t know.
She toyed with a leaf of endive. Then put down her fork. “I was going to get married,” she said. “It didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry for him,” Peter said, as though referring to a stranger. “But happy for me.”
This was getting too weird. She sent him a brief glare. “Anyway, after I didn’t end up getting married, I moved to Manhattan, got a job with a PR firm and started working my ass off. Piper hired me when she opened Hush. Like I said, it’s the greatest job. Part of my responsibility is to see and be seen around town. I live a fun, single life in the greatest city in the world. What could be better?”
“What do you think you’d be doing right now if you’d married that guy in college?”
She put her chin in her hand and thought about it. Not something she’d done too much before since she wasn’t big on dwelling on the past. “I don’t know. He lived out of the country for a few years. If I’d married him, I probably would have lived in Hong Kong and Europe, too. Or maybe he would have got a job stateside and I’d have ended up with the same career path. Who knows?”
“Have you ever wondered if maybe it wasn’t the man who was wrong, but the timing?”
“Peter, please. I do not want to go back there again.”
He looked as frustrated as she felt. Why did he keep torturing her with their past?
“All right. If you won’t talk about the past, then let’s get back to our possible future.” He drew out his PalmPilot again.
“I don’t want to do that anymore. It’s silly with you sitting right here.”
“You can’t leave a man with a list of negatives about his character and not one single positive thing. And you in public relations.”
She bit back a smile. He sounded a little huffy. “I don’t know.”
“Just a few positives? Please?”
She held out her hand. With a cocky grin he handed the device over.
The curser blinked as she tried to come up with something positive about Peter that wouldn’t end up making her sound like she still cared. She typed, watching the words
come up in pink.
He read, “Good kisser.” Winked at her. “All right. Let me do one.” He typed and passed.
She laughed. He’d written Great in bed.
She typed Healthy Ego. Passed it over. Thank goodness they’d turned this into something fun and frivolous.
He made an entry and passed her the Palm.
There was a smile already on her face as she imagined what other boastful comment he’d come up with, but the smile froze when she read, Loves you.
She stared at the stupid pink words and fought an urge to turf his personal organizer over the balcony. She might have if she wasn’t afraid it would hit somebody far below.
“You don’t love me,” she cried. “You never did.”
She leapt to her feet, not caring any longer about hiding her hurt, and ran.
He caught her before she got to the roof exit. “I did love you. I do.” He gripped her shoulders but she wouldn’t look at him. She turned her head, blinking furiously.
“Please don’t go. Please let me love you.”
“Don’t say those words.” She turned to him, fierce and proud. “Don’t say them.”
“All right.” He was trembling. She could feel it in his arms and for a second she wondered what it would be like to let herself go the way she used to, to believe in him so completely, to be so sure they’d be together forever.
To give her heart as easily as she gave her body.
“All right,” he said again, “Just please, let’s have this night together.”
She glared at him. “And you don’t love me.”
He stared down at her for a long moment and then he said, “I don’t love you.”
He kissed her slowly, sweetly, running his hands down her back and pulling her tight against him. “I don’t love the way your body fits against mine so perfectly.”
He turned her so her back was to the wall. “I don’t love the way your breasts feel in my hand,” he said, fanning his fingers across her nipples until they ached to be touched properly.
“I don’t love the way I know you so well, I can almost read your mind,” he said, slipping the buttons from her midnight blue silk dress. His voice grew husky and she heard herself panting as desire tangled with emotions old and new in a fiery mix.
Proving how well he did know her, he reached for her breasts and, pushing down the silky cups of her bra, played with them in his hands until she was moaning. He kissed her feverishly. “I don’t love the way you kiss me, or the taste of your nipples against my tongue,” he said harshly, dropping his head to put his mouth at her breast.
“Oh,” she cried, digging her fingers into his hair, holding him against her breasts while he licked and sucked at her. He scraped his teeth lightly over an engorged tip and powerful sensations shot straight to her core.
“I don’t love the way the moonlight looks on your breasts,” he said, baring her to the pale light that washed over the rooftop, making her skin appear milky white.
She was desperate for him, and she let him know by clawing at his shirt, anxious to get to his skin.
When she’d bared his chest and belly, he pulled her against him so their torsos rubbed back and forth.
He fumbled with his pants, and she felt his erection spring up against her belly. She whimpered with need. There was so much powerful emotion swirling around them that it seemed to channel into the one area where they had no controversy. Maybe they couldn’t communicate verbally, but their bodies were dying to share with each other.
She kissed him feverishly, tasting wine and a hint of lobster, feeling his frustration even as she was certain he tasted hers. She nipped at his lower lip, let her hands clutch greedily at his hips.
He dragged her panties off and then hoisted her up, pinning her against the wall even as she wrapped her legs around him.
“And I don’t love the first moment I enter you,” he said, “when I feel like everything I am and everything I’ll ever be is right here.”
He thrust hard and smooth, driving into her so she felt possessed and there was nothing she wanted more right at this moment. He took her hard and she reveled in it. His words were crazy, passionate, and if she wouldn’t let herself believe in him again, she could respond to his lovemaking with abandon.
In fact, she couldn’t help herself.
She cried out, from deep inside as he took her up and over the edge, and her cry was muffled by his mouth.
When she slid down his body and back onto her feet, she realized that nothing was different. He might think that he was in love with her, but he’d been down that road before.
So had she.
She wasn’t going there again.
But, oh, how her body craved him.
“Will you come back to bed with me?” he asked, after she’d buttoned herself up and slipped her panties back on.
“Yes,” she sighed, knowing they’d only just begun.
“Will you stay the night?”
“No.”
12
“SO, WHEN THIS WEEKEND ENDS, what happens to you?” Irene asked Giles. They’d chatted through dinner about all kinds of things. She might be a hick from a small town in Ohio, but she was a passionate reader, mostly of history and biographies. It turned out that Giles was a bit of an amateur historian himself, so they had a lot more in common than she’d have believed. Of course, his family had lived a lot of the history she’d read about.
Giles sipped wine and replaced his glass. “I’ll carry on with my regular life, I suppose.”
She nodded. “In England.”
“Primarily, I’m based in London, of course. But I do get over here with reasonable frequency.”
“Not to Ohio, I bet.”
“Not too often. You should come and visit England. I can get you a private tour of my family estate in Kent.”
“A private tour, huh. I’m impressed. You must know people.”
“A few.”
She laughed. “And what would your people make of me?”
“They’d adore you.”
She snorted. “The closest thing England’s ever seen to me is Fergie. And look what happened to her.”
“You aren’t a bit like Fergie,” he said.
“How do you know? I suppose you are personally acquainted with the royal family?”
He sent her one of those enigmatic gazes again.
She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God. I keep forgetting. I’m practically dissing your family.”
“Of course, you’re not.” He didn’t correct her about being personally acquainted, though. Wow. “Now, tell me more about your great uncle Waldo, the historian.”
“He’s the one who got me interested in history. He has this amazing collection of Civil War memorabilia.”
“I’d love to see it sometime.”
“Well, next time you’re in Ohio,” she said brightly.
She thought he was going to say something but he didn’t. His eyes glinted at her across the intimate table width in their romantic corner of Amuse Bouche. Their expression had her pulse quickening. She’d been chatting to him so easily she’d forgotten this was a fantasy weekend date. Her fantasy. Her date.
Except, of courses, as far as he was concerned, the fantasy ended outside her fancy princess suite.
The restaurant was nearly empty, and they’d finished eating long ago. She’d probably bored him to death with all her chatter. When would she ever learn to shut up once in a while? He hadn’t seemed bored, though, and he laughed at all her jokes—which she liked in a man.
“May I walk you upstairs?”
She nodded, not willing to screw anything up by speaking. He rose and then held out his hand to her. She took it, finding the palm warm and somehow sexy. She liked the way her hand fit in his. Liked the way his body seemed slightly warmer than hers.
They didn’t talk as they left the restaurant, didn’t talk as they rode up in the elevator. There was a thrumming tension building between them, a feeling of inevita
bility in the air.
She licked her lips out of a combination of nervousness and excitement, and he watched her as intently as though she were slipping off her clothes.
When they reached her floor, the carpet seemed as buoyant as clouds as she floated along to her suite. She removed the keycard from her clutch and opened the door. Then she hesitated. Should she ask him in? Would he want to come inside, or would she only be making a fool of herself?
She glanced behind, and his eyes smoldered with intent.
Oh, the hell with making a fool of herself. Who cared? She did it all the time and with far less at stake.
“Would you like to—”
“Yes. I would,” he said and walked through the doorway.
Her heart leapt. Yes. He hadn’t left her at the door with a polite peck on the cheek as she’d half expected and fully dreaded. If he was here, it could only be because he was attracted to her. And of course that made her nervous, which made her a smart-ass.
“I’ve never done it with royalty before,” she said, striving for her usual cocky attitude.
He smiled at her, and she thought he understood. He was so utterly in command of himself that she felt shaken. He was so amazing, so superior to any man she’d ever known and she could never have him for real. But it didn’t matter, she reminded herself. It didn’t matter if he never called because she already knew he was never going to call. He lived in friggin’ England and was next door to being a lord. She was Irene Bonnet from Ohio, who cracked jokes for a living.
“I know we only have one night,” she told him. “I’m okay with that. So do me a favor and don’t say things or make promises because it’s what you think I want to hear. I hate that.”
“All right. If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
He took a step closer. “May one ask, is any talking at all allowed?”
She chuckled. “Sorry. I like to be up-front is all. We only have tonight.”
He moved closer still, ran a hand up her arm over her shoulder and into her hair, stroking through the thick curls until he touched her scalp. Something about the gesture was as intimate as though he’d touched her breast. “Then let’s make it perfect,” he said, and stepped up so their bodies touched. A shiver went through her from her head to her toe, and as she glanced up to see if he’d felt it too, he kissed her.