by Maisey Yates
“Did he know you couldn’t swim?”
“Oh, yeah.” He’d had the naïve idiocy to share that little nugget of information before he’d been pushed. He shook his head, managed a wry smile even as surprise rippled through him that he was telling this to Chelsea Maxwell. He didn’t talk about his years at Walkerton Prep to anyone. He didn’t like to remember the lonely boy he’d been, desperate to fit in, to matter. He would have sold his soul then, just to belong. Thank God Jaiven had snapped him out of it with a right hook to his eye. Thank God he’d learned to be harder, tougher, and to stamp all over spoiled, entitled kids like that. “Fortunately the coach returned before I deep-sixed it. But I think those kids would have let me drown.”
“That’s awful.” Chelsea was quiet for a moment, her expression serious and yet somehow closed. “But I believe it,” she added, and there was too much understanding in that statement, too much experience. He almost asked her about it, and then decided not to.
If he thought sex might complicate things, some kind of emotional connection would screw it up completely. He didn’t go there. Ever.
“Well, like I said, it motivated me. I learned how to swim and I ended up on the varsity diving team. I ended up being captain my senior year, which infuriated the guys who tried to drown me. Sweet revenge.”
“I bet.”
“In college I learned how to scuba dive, and now I spend a lot of time in the water.”
“Do you like it?” she asked, and he saw a gleam of shrewdness in her eyes that jolted him. No one had asked him that before.
“Do you think I’d do it if I didn’t?” he asked back, and she tilted her head as her gaze swept over him.
“You’re a control freak, right? Absolutely. Anything to feel in control.”
He laughed and held up his hands in mock defeat, even though her insight made him feel a little more exposed than he’d have preferred. “Well, you’re right, Miss Maxwell. I still hate the water. But I do it.”
She nodded slowly. “I understand that.”
Her tone was heartfelt, and again he wondered. Wanted to know what she hated and still did. Her show? He knew she was hungry to prove herself professionally but did she actually dislike going on the pink sofa with those washed-up stars?
Something else he wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t actually want to know this woman. He just wanted to use her.
In more ways than one.
“Shall we order?” he asked and she nodded again. After the waiter had come and gone he decided to steer the conversation onto safer ground. Keep it innocuous, at least for the moment.
“So you’re from Alabama, right?” And just like that she tensed right up, her expression closing like a fan. Interesting. Strange, but interesting.
She took a sip of water and then slowly, carefully put the glass back on the table. “Yes,” she said, and even that seemed like more information than she was comfortable imparting.
“You’ve lost your accent.”
Her face was utterly blank as she gazed at him. “Yes.”
Alex leaned back in his chair. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t like to talk about your past?”
“It’s not very interesting.”
“And if I’m interested?”
“Somehow I doubt you actually are. But you can read my bio online.”
“I have.” He’d read the question-and-answer interview with her on her show’s website. He’d started out as a journalist; he did his homework, just like Chelsea. According to her bio, she’d an idyllic childhood in Alabama, all homemade cookies and trips to the state fair, and then she’d joined AMI as an intern when she was twenty-two. There was the inevitable list of awards and charities she supported, and that was it.
Pretty bland, really, and she obviously liked it that way, for she shrugged now, the movement invariably drawing his gaze to her breasts, their round shape outlined in cream cashmere. He wanted to slowly peel that dress off her, and soon. “Then you know all there is to know.”
He raised his eyebrows as well as his gaze. “Which is nothing.”
She just shrugged again, and he felt a sharp spike of curiosity again. Who was this woman?
Better not to wonder. Not to know.
Their appetizers came then and they didn’t talk about anything more alarming than industry gossip and news for the rest of the meal, which suited Alex fine. He was at a good restaurant with a beautiful woman, and he intended to enjoy it for a little while.
And then he intended to enjoy a whole lot more.
* * *
What was it about this man, Chelsea wondered, that made her say things? Feel things? She’d told more about herself to Alex than she had to any other person, except for Michael and her sister Louise. And she barely knew the man. Admittedly, what she’d told wasn’t that much, but she still felt exposed. He could dig into her history now, search Alabama records, and knowing him, he’d find something. He’d find too much.
Her insides iced and she told herself she wouldn’t say another word. She’d keep it professional or physical, one or the other, but no more of this talking.
Damn it, she was not that kind of woman. She didn’t let men get close. She didn’t tell them things. She used them for business or sex and that was it. That was how it had to be.
And she intended on using Alex in one way or another. Hell, maybe both ways. After their charged, innuendo-laced conversation she knew he wanted her. She wanted him.
That, at least, could be simple.
As for business? He’d deliberately not mentioned Treffen for the entire meal, and that suited Chelsea fine. She wasn’t ready for that conversation, didn’t want to be wrong-footed.
But no matter what happened between them, she’d keep it from being intimate. Emotional.
Except it already felt emotional. Already she felt a hard tug of sympathy for that boy perched on the edge of the pool, flailing in the water. God knew she understood how that felt. Everyone enjoying watching you fail. Smiling as you were humiliated, laughing when you were hurt.
No, she had to stop thinking like that. Wanting to know more about this man, cracking open the window of her soul to let him in just a little.
Sex would cure her, she thought. Sex made things simple. A bodily function, a basic transaction, and when it was over she invariably moved on to someone else. She’d never slept with the same man twice, not in ten years.
Sex would get him out of her system.
She smiled at him, pushed away her coffee cup and barely-touched dessert plate. She’d chosen fruit sorbet, the lowest calorie item on the menu, but she’d only eaten a mouthful. Television was unforgiving on a figure. Now she smiled, arched her eyebrows in obvious expectation. No innuendo in her voice, just simple fact. “Ready to go?”
Alex gazed back at her, gold flaring in the depths of his brown eyes. He slid a black credit card that she recognized as an exclusive, invitation-only card from his wallet and dropped it carelessly onto the table. “Yes,” he said. “I’m ready.”
They left the restaurant, Alex’s hand low and sure on her back. He had already texted the driver and the limo was waiting by the curb.
He guided her inside, his thigh nudging hers as he slid next to her on the spacious leather seat. She suppressed the urge to lay her hand on that hard muscle, slide her palm upward...
Her hand jerked of its own accord and she pulled it back into her lap. Would his skin be hot or cool? Smooth or rough? Her hand jerked again.
Belatedly she realized they were heading downtown. She turned to Alex. “Where are we going?”
“My apartment.”
“What?” She shut her mouth with a snap. “Aren’t you Mr. Manners. I don’t recall you asking me to go home with you, Alex.”
“I didn’t.”
She stared at him; he looked so unruffled she would have thought he was bored, save for the magnetic gleam in his eyes. She felt a tangle of emotions: fascination, frustration, even a little fear.
A
nd she was more excited, more aroused, than she’d been in a long, long time.
Which showed how screwed up she really was.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Do you think the caveman tactic is attractive?”
“No, I simply prefer to cut to the chase. You knew we’d be sleeping together from the moment you agreed to dinner, Chelsea.”
“A foregone conclusion, was it?” Her voice, thankfully, came out dry.
“We’re attracted to each other. We both view sex as—what did you call it? A basic need?”
“So?”
“So of course we’d sleep together.” He shrugged, as if the matter were of no consequence. “It is a foregone conclusion.”
“You’re very romantic,” she said, and her voice had taken on an edge. “Lay on the violins and roses, why don’t you?”
“I thought you’d appreciate my plain speaking.”
And normally she would, because that was how she always approached sex. She just didn’t like him approaching it that way. She was the one who told men how it was going to play out, and then she kicked them out the door when she was done.
She never went home with them. She never let them call the shots. She was always in control, always on top. Literally. And she usually didn’t even take off all of her clothes.
At least not her shirt.
The limo slowed and she saw they were already downtown, somewhere in Tribeca, near the Hudson River. And as amazed and aroused as she was by his sheer arrogance, she knew she wasn’t going to go into his apartment.
She wasn’t that stupid.
“Sorry, Diaz,” she said, “but I have my rules. I’m not going home with you.”
His gaze locked with hers, and his expression didn’t change. “Fine,” he answered. “Who said we needed a bed?”
A thrill ran through her, jolting her to her core. Why, she wondered distantly, was that sexy? Was it just because he was so incredibly good-looking, that she ignored his arrogance?
But no, it was his absolute assurance that made her weak with want. Thrilled and excited her. And considering her past experience, that made her one sick puppy.
Still she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. And neither did he. The chauffeur waited in the driver’s seat, separated by a soundproof, tinted window. Chelsea had no illusions that the man would know what they were up to. Maybe he’d done this before. Waited for Alex to finish his business.
Her palms went damp and she resisted the urge to wipe them against the side of her dress. Alex’s expression didn’t so much as flicker as he said in a low, sure voice, “Come here, Chelsea.”
Of course she shouldn’t move. Shouldn’t obey that absurd command. No way. Absolutely not. In fact, she should tell him just what he could do with his ridiculous, arrogant attitude. Shove it up his—
And yet she felt herself move, as if her body had a will of its own. She slid across the seat, her dress and coat whispering against the leather, her gaze glued to his. She couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried, which she didn’t. She could hear her own breath, almost a pant, loud in the utter silence of the car. So revealing, and yet she was unable to stop herself.
Alex put his hands on her hips and in one easy, fluid movement he pulled her onto his lap, slid her legs wide to straddle him, her dress hiked up to her hips, her feet braced on the seat.
Chelsea closed her eyes. She could feel his arousal pressing against her even though he didn’t move. He didn’t need to. Even just that little bit of contact felt achingly, painfully exquisite. Her breath hitched and instinctively she pressed against him, felt a surge of feeling mixed with a primal satisfaction. His breath had hitched, too.
She opened her eyes. Alex was gazing at her, his eyes burning gold, his face still strangely expressionless. Chelsea pressed again, harder this time, and his hands locked on her hips.
With slow, deliberate intent, he slid his hand along her thigh, under her dress. He reached the elastic of her tights and slid his hand underneath, his gaze never moving from hers, his inscrutable expression never changing.
She held her breath, her heart seeming to still completely as he slid his hand lower, to the damp heat between her legs. He pressed, and she shuddered.
Her hips began to move, her body caught in a pulsing rhythm. She felt a sob start in her chest, a cry of longing and need. She wanted more. She wanted more from him, more hands and lips. More skin.
He brought his other hand to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. She felt her careful, tight chignon come undone, pins raining around them as he drew her face down to his, his lips a whisper away from hers.
“Kiss me,” he said, another command, and yet she heard the edge of desperation, of need, in his voice, and without even thinking or questioning it she obeyed.
She pressed her lips to his and breathed in the scent of him before he took control of the kiss just as he’d taken control of everything else. He slid his tongue into her mouth, his hand still curved around her neck, their bodies pressed to each other in every way possible.
Almost.
Chelsea arched against him, still wanting and needing more. His hand pressed back against her and then her foot slipped onto the seat and she suddenly lurched sideways, her head hitting the window with an audible thunk.
It would have been funny, all that intensity turned into clumsiness, if she’d been a different woman with a different kind of past. In a different world, a different life, she would have laughed. He would have asked if she was okay, then taken her by the hand and pulled her back onto his lap. Maybe he would have kissed her head.
But this was her life, with her memories, her experience and anxiety and fear. She blinked, reeling as if the collision with the window had nearly knocked her unconscious. Her head didn’t hurt, but her heart did. Her body burned not with desire or need, but with shame.
What had she been thinking?
Alex, she realized, didn’t help her up. He simply watched her, sprawled as she was against the seat, her head pressed awkwardly against the window, her dress still rucked up about her hips.
Tears of humiliation and rage stung her eyes and she blinked them back. Jerked down her dress.
“Now that’s a classy move,” she drawled, thankful her voice didn’t shake. She reached for her purse.
Alex didn’t say anything. He barely even looked at her. The hurt she felt was so thick and hot she could choke on it. She fumbled with the handle of the door, her fingers near to trembling.
Alex wrapped his hand around hers. “Let me take you home,” he said quietly. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“We’re in Manhattan,” she snapped. Anger, she knew, was her best defense.
“The middle of nowhere for Manhattan, then,” Alex answered calmly. His hand remained on hers, and somehow, strangely, she found it comforting.
Still she shrugged it off, sat back in the seat opposite him. “Fine,” she said coolly, and purposely, as if she was as bored with him as he obviously was with her, she stared out the window as Alex leaned forward and told his driver to head uptown.
Chapter Four
Alex gazed unseeingly into the darkness of the limo and wondered what the hell had just happened. One second Chelsea had been on his lap, his hands in her hair, his mouth so gloriously on hers, and the next—
She’d been sprawled on the seat, her eyes twin mirrors of horror and hurt. Even in the taut silence of the limo now speeding uptown he could hear the hard thunk of her head against the window. A stupid accident, certainly a badly timed one, and yet somehow the way she’d looked at him had made him feel...sleazy.
No, worse than that. She’d looked at him as if her falling off his lap was his fault. As if he’d pushed her. Used and abused her, the way Treffen had countless women, including Sarah.
Wearily Alex rubbed a hand over his face. He had to be reading way too much into this. Into one shocked look. Hell, she’d probably just been embarrassed. Chelsea Maxwell wasn’t a woman wh
o seemed ever to take a misstep, so falling right on the floor had to have really got up her nose.
It had certainly killed the mood.
Moments ago he’d been on the brink of losing his precious control. He’d started out strong, had made sure Chelsea knew they were playing by his rules. And then he’d felt her on his lap, her body pressed against his, her mouth warm and soft and lush and every thought had emptied out of his head. Every thought but one.
More.
It was just as well it had ended the way it had, Alex decided. Sure, he’d wanted Chelsea in his bed. Or in his limo, as the case would have been. But he wanted revenge against Treffen more. And judging from that one look—and maybe he was reading too much into it—sex with Chelsea was going to be a bit more complicated than he’d thought.
No, it was definitely better this way. It was just too bad his libido didn’t agree.
The limo pulled to the curb outside of Chelsea’s building, and Alex realized they hadn’t spoken in nearly fifteen minutes. Now Chelsea reached for the door handle, wrenched it open. She turned to him, her lips still swollen from his kiss, her hair half tumbled about her shoulders. The smile she gave him was blade-sharp and mocking. “And you said you didn’t like women falling at your feet,” she said. She shook her head once and then without so much as a goodbye she slid out of the limo.
He watched her head into her building, the doormen springing to attention, her coat swirling about her tall, slender figure.
Then he leaned back against the seat, felt a tide of utter weariness wash over him.
“Where to now, sir?” Eric, his driver, asked and Alex closed his eyes.
“Right back downtown again, Eric,” he said, and sighed.
* * *
Chelsea’s heart pounded and her body ached with need, but her mind was cold and clear as she walked away from the limo.
That had been close.
She’d almost been incredibly stupid...again. Almost slept with a man who wanted to control her. Who had. And she had let him.
Thank God she’d slipped, as stupid as that had been, and hit her head. It had served as her wake-up call.