He hesitated but ultimately obeyed. “Would you like a beer while the coffee brews?”
“Yes, please.” She spotted the six-pack he’d brought with him, claimed one of the bottles and popped the cap.
He watched with fascination as she drained the contents.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and belched softly into her fist. “Thanks. I needed that.”
He tried not to smile as he grabbed the pot. “Let’s get you that coffee.”
“No worries. I’m not thirsty.” She placed the empty bottle on the dresser. Her gaze darted around the room, a little wild, a lot nervous. She began to pace in front of him. She wasn’t wearing shoes, revealing toenails painted yellow and orange, like her fingernails.
More curious by the second, he eased onto the edge of the bed. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“All right.” Her tongue slipped over her lips, moistening both the upper and lower, and the fly of his jeans tightened. In an effort to keep his hands to himself, he fisted the comforter. “I can’t really tell you. I have to show you.”
“Show me, then.” And leave. She had to leave. Soon.
“Yes,” she croaked. Her trembling worsened as she untied the raincoat...
The material fell to the floor.
Daniel’s heart stopped beating. His brain short-circuited. Dorothea Mathis was gloriously, wonderfully naked; she had more curves than he’d suspected, generous curves, gorgeous curves.
Was he drooling? He might be drooling.
She wasn’t a living doll, he decided, but a 1950s pinup. Lord save me. She had the kind of body other women abhorred but men adored. He adored. A vine with thorns and holly was etched around the outside of one breast, ending in a pink bloom just over her heart.
Sweet Dorothea Mathis had a tattoo. He wanted to touch. He needed to touch.
A moment of rational thought intruded. Strawberry Valley girls were off-limits...his dad...disappointment... But...
Dorothea’s soft, lush curves deserved to be touched. Though makeup still hid the freckles on her face, the sweet little dots covered the rest of her alabaster skin. A treasure map for his tongue.
I’ll start up top and work my way down. Slowly.
She had a handful of scars on her abdomen and thighs, beautiful badges of strength and survival. More paths for his tongue to follow.
As he studied her, drinking her in, one of her arms draped over her breasts, shielding them from his view. With her free hand, she covered the apex of her thighs, and no shit, he almost whimpered. Such bounty should never be covered.
“I want...to sleep with you,” she stammered. “One time. Only one time. Afterward, I don’t want to speak with you about it. Or about anything. We’ll avoid each other for the rest of our lives.”
One night of no-strings sex? Yes, please. He wanted her. Here. Now.
For hours and hours...
No. No, no, no. If he slept with the only maid at the only inn in town, he’d have to stay in the city with all future dates, over an hour away from his dad. What if Virgil had another heart attack?
Daniel leaped off the bed to swipe up the raincoat. A darker blush stained Dorothea’s cheeks...and spread...and though he wanted to watch the color deepen, he fit the material around her shoulders.
“You...you don’t want me.” Horror contorted her features as she spun and raced to the door.
His reflexes were well honed; they had to be. They were the only reason he hadn’t come home from his tours of duty in a box. Before she could exit, he raced behind her and flattened his hands on the door frame to cage her in.
“Don’t run,” he croaked. “I like the chase.”
Tremors rubbed her against him. “So...you want me?”
Do. Not. Answer. “I’m in a state of shock.” And awe.
He battled an insane urge to trace his nose along her nape...to inhale the lavender scent of her skin...to taste every inch of her. The heat she projected stroked him, sensitizing already desperate nerve endings.
The mask of humanity he’d managed to don before reentering society began to chip.
Off-kilter, he backed away from her. She remained in place, clutching the lapels of her coat.
“Look at me,” Daniel commanded softly.
After an eternity-long hesitation, she turned. Her gaze remained on his feet. Which was probably a good thing. Those shamrock eyes might have been his undoing.
“Why me, Dorothea?” She’d shown no interest in him before. “Why now?”
She chewed on her bottom lip and said, “Right now I don’t really know. You talk too much.”
Most people complained he didn’t talk enough. But then, Dorothea wasn’t here to get to know him. And he wasn’t upset about that—really. He hadn’t wanted to get to know any of his recent dates.
“You didn’t answer my questions,” he said.
“So?” The coat gaped just enough to reveal a swell of delectable cleavage as she shifted from one foot to the other. “Are we going to do this or not?”
Yes!
No! Momentary pleasure, lifelong complications. “I—”
“Oh, my gosh. You actually hesitated,” she squeaked. “There’s a naked girl right in front of you, and you have to think about sleeping with her.”
“You aren’t my usual type.” A Strawberry Valley girl equaled marriage. No ifs, ands or buts about it. The only other option was hurting his dad, so it wasn’t an option at all.
She flinched, clearly misunderstanding him.
“I prefer city girls, the ones I have to chase,” he added. Which only made her flinch again.
Okay, she hadn’t short-circuited his brain; she’d liquefied it. Those curves...
Tears welled in her eyes, clinging to her wealth of black lashes—gutting him. When Harlow Glass had tortured Dorothea in the school hallways, her cheeks had burned bright red but her eyes had remained dry.
I hurt her worse than a bully.
“Dorothea,” he said, stepping toward her.
“No!” She held out her arm to ward him off. “I’m not stick thin or sophisticated. I’m too easy, and you’re not into pity screwing. Trust me, I get it.” She spun once more, tore open the door and rushed into the hall.
This time, he let her go. His senses devolved into hunt mode, as he’d expected, the compulsion to go after her nearly overwhelming him. Resist!
What if, when he caught her—and he would—he didn’t carry her back to his room but took what she’d offered, wherever they happened to be?
Biting his tongue until he tasted blood, he kicked the door shut.
Silence greeted him. He waited for the past to resurface, but thoughts of Dorothea drowned out the screams. Her little pink nipples had puckered in the cold, eager for his mouth. A dark thatch of curls had shielded the portal to paradise. Her legs had been toned but soft, long enough to wrap around him and strong enough to hold on to him until the end of the ride.
Excitement lingered, growing more powerful by the second, and curiosity held him in a vise grip. The Dorothea he knew would never show up at a man’s door naked, requesting sex.
Maybe he didn’t actually know her. Maybe he should learn more about her. The more he learned, the less intrigued he’d be. He could forget this night had ever happened.
He snatched his cell from the nightstand and dialed Jude, LPH’s tech expert.
Jude answered after the first ring, proving he hadn’t been sleeping, either. “What?”
Good ole Jude. His friend had no tolerance for bull, or pleasantries. “Brusque” had become his only setting. And Daniel understood. Jude had lost the bottom half of his left leg in battle. A major blow, no doubt about it. But the worst was yet to come. During his recovery, his wife and twin daughters were killed by a
drunk driver.
The loss of his leg had devastated him. The loss of his family had changed him. He no longer laughed or smiled; he was like Daniel, only much worse.
“Do me a favor and find out everything you can about Dorothea Mathis. She’s a Strawberry Valley resident. Works at the Strawberry Inn.”
The faint click-clack of typing registered, as if the guy had already been seated in front of his wall of computers. “Who’s the client, and how soon does he—she?—want the report?”
“I’m the client, and I’d like the report ASAP.”
The typing stopped. “So this is personal,” Jude said with no inflection of emotion. “That’s new.”
“Extenuating circumstances,” he muttered.
“She do you wrong?”
I’m not stick thin or sophisticated. I’m too easy, and you’re not into pity screwing. Trust me, I get it.
“The opposite,” he said.
Another pause. “Do you want to know the names of the men she’s slept with? Or just a list of any criminal acts she might have committed?”
He snorted. “If she’s gotten a parking ticket, I’ll be shocked.”
“So she’s a good girl.”
“I don’t know what she is,” he admitted. Those corkscrew curls...pure innocence. Those heart-shaped lips...pure decadence. Those soft curves...mine, all mine.
“Tell Brock this is a hands-off situation,” he said before the words had time to process.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Brock was the privileged rich boy who’d grown up ignored by his parents. He was covered in tats and piercings and tended to avoid girls who reminded him of the debutantes he’d been expected to marry. He preferred the wild ones...those willing to proposition a man.
“Warning received,” Jude said. “Dorothea Mathis belongs to you.”
He ground his teeth in irritation. “You are seriously irritating, you know that?”
“Yes, and that’s one of my better qualities.”
“Just get me the details.” Those lips...those curves... “And make it fast.”
CAN’T HARDLY BREATHE—available soon from Gena Showalter and HQN Books!
Copyright © 2017 by Gena Showalter
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Catherine Mann for her contribution to the Texas Cattleman’s Club: Blackmail series.
ISBN-13: 9781488011825
Taking Home the Tycoon
Copyright © 2017 by Harlequin Books S.A.
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
Taking Home the Tycoon Page 17