Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance)
Page 14
He’d had a setback, but now that he’d had time to think, he realized it was only that. There were other ways to get the money.
In the meantime he’d had enough of self-deprivation. He was here with a beautiful woman whose company he thoroughly enjoyed.
“C’mon, Rhys,” Whitney urged when the program ended. “Let’s go get my camera.”
A few minutes later outside Whitney’s room, Rhys took the key from her and opened the door. She flipped on the light, closed the door, tossed her purse onto the closest chair and kicked off her shoes.
“Go ahead and have a drink while I get my things together?”
He glanced around. Her room was exactly the same as his. And they were alone. And he wanted her. “Sure. What’s the special?”
He watched her walk to the small refrigerator, open it, then hold up a tiny bottle. “What’s your preference?”
Did he just imagine that her voice was low and sexy? And how would she react if he told her his real preference? You and me, naked on the bed—making love.
“Any Scotch in there?” The last thing he should have right now was a drink. He shouldn’t be thinking anything he was thinking, either. But all the should nots seemed to go out the window when he was with Whitney. He knew the pitfalls and yet he wanted to be with her.
Because being with her, whatever his mood, was infinitely better than not being with her. He looked forward to it, savored every moment—when she came to the shop each day, when she came back from lunch, when she joined his family for dinner.
“No Scotch.” She bent to look inside the fridge again.
Watching, appreciating how her dress lifted to reveal sexy slender thighs, he hardened. Dammit. He’d struggled against his feelings from the moment she’d slid up next to him on his bike, her sexy body warm against his, her hands trembling as they encircled his waist. He’d struggled because he knew himself well. If he got as close as he like with her, he’d need more, more than a one-night stand. And with a woman like Whitney, more was not an option.
What was it his dad always said… If you keep doing what you’re doing, you’ll get what you always got. Yeah. A good thing to remember.
Realistically, he barely knew anything about her. She’d been engaged, she’d told him. It hadn’t worked out, and he sensed she’d been hurt by it. He felt a twinge of envy thinking about her caring that much for another man.
Which was pretty damned ridiculous.
The one thing he knew with certainty was that she’d leave when she was finished with this project. She’d be off somewhere on another photo shoot, maybe even out of the country.
But this minute, right here and now, none of that made an iota of difference. It didn’t change his pounding desire…or his need to have her.
“Here, how about this?” She handed him a whiskey, and when she did, their eyes caught…and her pupils dilated as if in invitation.
Slowly, deliberately, he slipped his fingers over hers as he accepted the glass.
“I’ll get my cameras,” she said softly.
Following her as she headed into the bedroom, he stood in the doorway, rested one shoulder against the frame. “Need some help?”
She turned, waved a hand toward the dresser. “Sure. Can you can get me that box right there?” Her words were a near whisper.
He walked to her side and set the glass on the table behind her, breathing deeply, absorbing her intoxicating scent as he reached to the side for the box.
She leaned closer, eyes smoky, lips moist and parted. Alluring. Inviting. He set the box in her palm and covered her hand with his.
Her skin was hot, his desire insistent. He closed the gap and kissed her. She made a low moaning sound and melted against him.
His heart hammered like a piston in his chest. He should stop. He had to stop. But instead, he opened his mouth, increasing the pressure, immersed in the desire that flowed between them, his tongue searching, finding hers. She clutched him tightly, locked her arms around him.
When she pressed against him, passion flamed between them. He urged her toward the bed, sliding both hands underneath the dress, not surprised that her skin felt as smooth as he’d imagined.
He buried his face in her hair and in the crook of her neck, drinking in her sweet sweet scent. He was a drowning man, and loving it every time he went under.
Whitney moaned again, softly uttering his name. She molded her body against his, yielding to his touch. Her breathing quickened. “You feel good, Rhys. So good.” Her words were raw and ragged.
His need became a sweet agony. He couldn’t stop. He wanted, needed, all of her.
He watched in awe as she drew back and began to unbuckle his belt. As impatient as she, he shook off the jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers tearing at the buttons on his shirt, and then her mouth came down hot against his chest. Overwhelmed by urgency, Rhys pulled her dress off over her head, taking a moment to revel in her beauty.
He drew back the covers, and she eased to the pillow, her hair spilling around her. Her lips were moist and full from his kisses, and he was drawn back to them again and again.
He kissed her deeply, sensuously, unfastened her bra and discarded it. She deftly removed her tights and then trailed kisses down her neck to her small firm breasts. Needing to touch her as intimately as he could, he slipped one hand between her thighs, and when his fingers grazed her warm moist center, she arched her back and raised her hips, increasing the pressure.
He stroked slow and deep, wanting to give her pleasure. Wanting to make her his, if only for just this night. Another low moan nearly sent him over the edge. Dragging himself away, he stood, and in seconds, he’d finished undressing.
“Oh, wait,” she said, her breathing heavy, her eyes on his naked body. “Do you have anything with you?”
Damn! Why hadn’t he thought ahead? He couldn’t make love to her without protection, and although he had a condom in his wallet, it was so old it would probably disintegrate on contact.
He watched her chest rise and fall, her nipples peak. Hell, it would have to do. He nodded, fumbling for his wallet.
She held out a hand and whispered, “Let me help.”
Seconds later, he eased into her, penetrating slowly. She was hot and silky and more wonderful than he’d imagined. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him in, deeper and deeper, and then she began rocking rhythmically, sensuously, sending him to the brink.
His emotions soared, the sensations so intense a ragged groan tore from his throat as he fought to hold off. Her passion was as great as his, and as much as he needed release, he couldn’t—not yet.
His heart hammering, he shifted position so she was straddling him and he could see her face. He reached up with both hands, and she shivered as he traced his fingers over her breasts and down her flat stomach.
He reveled in watching her, especially when he splayed his hands over her hips and she began moving again, rocking rhythmically until her eyes closed and her head tipped back.
His blood pounded, his excitement spiraled and soared, and when he felt her involuntary spasms around him, he exploded. And in that dizzying rush, he felt her shudder again and again.
Spent, she melted against him, bringing her head to rest against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. They lay like that for a long time, it seemed, neither initiating a separation.
She’d been with him all the way, and he’d succumbed, physically and emotionally, and he felt… God, he didn’t know what he felt.
Other than he’d never experienced anything like it, and he wanted to stay close to her, locked together like lovers.
“You sleeping?” he whispered.
She shook her head.
She was so quiet he wondered what she was feeling. Not that it mattered, he reminded himself, because she’d be on her way as soon as she’d finished her project.
They moved onto their sides, spooned together. Okay,
so she’d leave. What was wrong with that? Hell, it was the kind of relationship men fantasized about. A beautiful woman who wanted nothing from him but sex.
Purely physical. No strings attached. Some men would give up Super Bowl tickets for a relationship like that.
He should be happy. He’d wanted to make love with her—needed it. He’d gotten what he wanted.
When he heard the smooth deep breathing of sleep, he rolled off the bed, careful not to wake her. The light from the entry was still on and provided just enough illumination for him to retrieve his clothing.
Quietly, he pulled on his pants, gathered his clothes and stood in the doorway for a moment, unable to suppress the wry smile that formed on his lips.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MOONLIGHT FELL ON Whitney’s face from the arched window above the balcony doors. She blinked under the soft light, then stretched like a lazy cat, enveloped in a cocoon of satisfaction. In that twilight of awareness, she tried to slip back into her beautiful dream, tried to retain the warm feeling of being wanted, needed—and loved.
As she awoke a little more, she realized it wasn’t a dream at all. With one hand, she searched the bed next to her. Cold sheets and an empty mattress. She turned.
Gone.
She rolled onto the other pillow and buried her face in it. Rhys’s clean soapy scent lingered in the fabric, and she wanted to make love with him all over again. She glanced at the floor. His clothes were gone, too.
They’d made love, she’d fallen asleep and he’d left. That was all there was to it.
Like hell!
A deep knowing settled within her. He’d made love to her. Really made love to her. Passionate and tender. Totally. Thoroughly. And she’d relished every delicious minute.
He’d taken her to heights she’d never been. He’d taken her out of herself and beyond all reason. And she’d held nothing back. A rush of embarrassment ran through her. She’d craved him, all of him. And she’d wanted to please him as much as he pleased her.
Their passion sated, she’d drifted into a deep sleep where her dreams were filled with light and love and a soul-fulfilling happiness. Whatever he’d been before she met him, she truly believed he was not the man her sister had said he was.
She cared about Rhys—for better or worse. It was true. And she hoped he cared, too. If even just a little.
She closed her eyes and clutched the pillow, retracing each and every move. She remembered how he’d looked at her, his pupils dilated, his expression a combination of lust and longing.
She’d felt wanted, desired, and for the first time in her life, she’d even felt loved.
But one evening together didn’t translate to anything beyond that. Still…remembering the passion, the tenderness in his eyes, the ways in which he touched her, so gently, almost reverently sometimes, it had to mean more—didn’t it?
She could almost imagine— She squashed the thought before it went too far. Because even if she and Rhys could somehow work things out between them—and with SaraJane—wouldn’t she be living with constant fear again? Love could be snatched away in an instant. She’d learned that by the time she was five, and the fear had dominated her childhood. She finally figured out that if you didn’t care, it didn’t hurt so much. The trick was to never allow herself to need someone’s love so much she’d fear losing it.
Her career had filled the void. She could express her emotions through her photographs, let her needs and desires emerge through light and shadow, shape and texture. For a long time, her art had been enough. Only now she realized the longing for a taste of what she’d once imagined real love to be, had never really disappeared. She’d simply buried it.
She’d had to. Still did. Because if she opened her heart now, she’d only be making herself vulnerable—and she’d be right back where she’d started.
She couldn’t live that way again. She just couldn’t.
***
The phone rang just as Whitney was getting out of the shower.
She felt her nerves jump, hoping it was Rhys. Wrapping herself in a towel, she hustled to the hotel phone.“Hello.”
“Hi. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
His voice sounded brusque. “No. You didn’t. I just finished showering.”
There was a long silence before he finally said, “If you plan to get some shots of the bikes, you’ll have to do it soon. In another hour the showroom will be jammed.”
“Okay. I can be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“How long d’you think it’ll take to get the pictures you need? We’ve got to check out by eleven.”
She bristled at his sharp tone. Okay—she hadn’t expected hearts and flowers, but she hadn’t expected a cold shoulder, either. They were both adults. They should be able to move on from last night and be the same as they were. Nothing had changed there.
If he needed space, she could respect that. She could step back and remove herself from the encounter just as easily as he could. “I’ll make it quick,” she said, adding a little coolness to her own words. “I can get what I need in maybe forty-five minutes to an hour.”
Whitney glanced at the clock. They had four hours before checkout. What was his rush?
“Fine. That’ll work. Meet me in the coffee shop when you’re done. Say nine-thirty?”
She hitched up the towel. Guess that meant he wasn’t going to join her while she photographed.
“We’ll grab breakfast and head out.”
“Sure. See you then.” Whitney let the phone slide through her fingers, and after hanging up, she hurried to the bathroom to dry her hair.
She might blame his behavior on morning crankiness if she hadn’t known better. Every morning she’d seen him at the shops, he’d been eager, energetic, smiling and happy. Could be the loan thing was getting to him again or—
Or— a quick jolt of panic shot through her —he’d found her out. God, that couldn’t be it. Could it?
She clutched the blow-dryer and, bending at the waist, started on her hair. No, nothing had happened, she assured herself. How could he have found out anything?
But even if he hadn’t, he would eventually. And until that happened, she was going to worry about it. More importantly, after last night, how in the world would she be able to continue the charade. God, she hated feeling like such a fraud. She should just tell him the truth and be done with it. Regardless of the outcome.
If she could just find a way to tell him so he might understand. If she told him she’d believed him to be a drug dealer, he’d have to understand—wouldn’t he?
She tensed every time she thought about it. He’d believed her, trusted her and she’d repaid his trust with lies. Pulling on a pair of jeans, she remembered her promise to Morgan, and yet, she kept returning to the fact that he was honest, loving and gentle. He was a good father and had sacrificed his own needs to make a life for his daughter.
Maybe something had happened and he’d gotten off track for a little while, but that still didn’t explain all the things Morgan had said about him. The only thing that made any sense was that Morgan had lied. But why?
Thinking about Morgan being that vindictive didn’t seem right either. Morgan wasn’t like that. She blinked back the tears that welled every time she thought about Morgan’s short, sad life.
But, Morgan was gone, and her reasons, whatever they’d been, no longer mattered. Once Rhys knew who she was and why she was there, he’d send her away. And if she told him now, before they left for Estrade, it would be one very long ride home—if he didn’t kick her out of the car first.
Yes, she had to tell him, but it would have to wait, at least until they got closer to home.
After taking a raft of photos, she met Rhys at the coffee shop. “Hi,” she said, smiling, still feeling the rush after a successful photo shoot. She was always on a high when a shoot went well.
“Table’s over there.” Rhys pointed toward a window where the morning sun glinted off the glasses and silverware.
He wore stonewashed jeans and a white V-necked T-shirt that set off his bronzed skin. His hair was damp and he’d combed it back, except for the few strands that hung forward on his brow. Just looking at him made her breath catch.
She hoped he’d loosen up, but once they were seated, she saw the edginess was still there—churning close to the surface. She saw it in the way a muscle jumped in his jaw, the death grip he had on his coffee mug, the pressure on the knife he used to butter his toast.
Hoping to change his mood, she said, “I’m really pleased. I’m sure the photos will be great. You should’ve—”
“Whitney,” he interrupted, his gaze focused on his coffee mug. “I’m sorry about last night.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes, well, I don’t exactly know how to put this. I— I’m sorry for taking advantage of…the situation.”
That was the cause of his mood? He was angry at himself for “taking advantage” of her? Relief flooded through her, and she leaned forward and covered his hand with hers.
“Rhys…” She cleared her throat and started again.
“Rhys, you didn’t take advantage of the situation any more than I did. And I don’t want you to think I have any expectations because of it. I want things to remain the same between us.”
She felt the muscles in his hand tighten before he drew it back to rest on top of the coffee mug. His knuckles went white, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“Okay,” he finally said. “It’s a deal.” He pointed his index finger at her like a gun, made a clicking sound and winked. It was the same endearing wink he’d given her many times over the past two weeks, but this time, it didn’t ring true.
During the rest of the meal, they made small talk, and afterward, while loading the car, Rhys announced they were taking the scenic route back.