He sighed, a great explosion of breath. One bullet dodged.
“Nothing to be afraid of. I promise,” she said, and he believed her. The offer was beyond tempting. Her beach house was a shining beacon of serenity compared to the reality show next door. As if God knew and was laughing, one of the lawyers pulled out a karaoke machine and cranked up the volume, singing bad Bob Dylan at the top of his lungs.
“I don’t know. That’d be a big imposition on a stranger,” he said, but he heard the longing in his own voice.
Pleeb.
“I’m actually not that strange,” she answered seriously, which cemented his decision. Anything was better than ten thousand drunken choruses of “Just Like a Woman.”
“You sure you don’t mind?” he asked, not that he was going to let her back out now. She was promising him an escape from more late-night skinny-dipping and the now-permanent ridge in his back where the deck chair slats had eaten into it.
She shook her head, her hair falling again, and this time he didn’t look at all. “I’m sure. I draw a lot out here, so if all you want to do is sit by the beach and stare into the sun, it’s not going to bother me at all.”
“You draw?” he asked curiously.
“Not well,” she answered, pulling her sunglasses back over her eyes, but not before he saw the uncertainty flicker in them.
“Still, it’s something,” he said, trying to reassure her. She looked as if she needed reassurance.
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“Exciting,” she murmured.
Daniel managed a half smile. “Don’t lie.”
She looked at him, black lenses hiding her eyes. “Actually, it suits you.”
“Most people say that as an insult.”
“No, you’re very quiet and thorough and intense. I think those would be good qualities for an accountant to have.”
She sounded completely serious. “Still, boring is boring.”
“Ha. Not likely,” she said so skeptically that he had to look at her twice.
“What do you do?” he asked, thinking that if she thought accounting was exciting, her job must be a complete snoozer.
“Art appraisal.”
Not a snoozer, not even close. “Now see, that’s exciting.”
“Yeah,” she agreed happily. “It usually is. We discovered a lost Picasso last year.”
“Now that’s much better than accounting.”
“But you love it, don’t you?”
Daniel didn’t try to lie. Truthfully, he did love his job. The world needed accountants, like they needed scientists and garbage collectors. “I’m not designed to do anything else. There’s a balance to accounting. Very exacting, very precise. No room for error. At the end of the day, you know exactly where you stand.”
She smiled then, and he noticed that she had a nice smile. A full lower lip, and even white teeth that hinted at years in braces.
“Why do your brothers want you at the Hamptons?” she asked.
“To have fun.”
Catherine laughed. She had a nice laugh, too. Almost hesitant until she got into it and then the sound made him smile and want to laugh along with her, but he didn’t. “I shouldn’t laugh,” she said, putting a hand over her mouth.
“No, really, I think you should.”
“So you’re going to have a miserable time and prove them wrong, aren’t you?”
“It hasn’t been bad,” he answered honestly. Since he’d met her, he had liked sitting with her, talking, under no obligation to be funny, or witty, or charming, or any of those other sterling character traits that Daniel had long forgotten.
“I won’t say anything to your brothers,” she whispered.
“Thank you.”
“So, do you do anything besides accounting?”
Daniel hesitated, because he didn’t tell many people about the bar. There were expectations of a bar owner, more of the fun-loving, pleasure-seeking crap, and Daniel usually kept his mouth shut. But Catherine would understand. He knew it. She was the type of person who invited confidences, the type of person who didn’t demand or judge, and it had been so long since he’d had an ordinary conversation. He was surprised that he remembered how. “I’m part owner in a bar.”
The sunglasses came off again, and he wished she would leave them off; her eyes were strangely compelling. So completely content. “I’ve never met a bar owner before. You don’t seem the type.”
This time Daniel did laugh. “It’s my brother. He’s the type.”
“Ah. Your family must be close.”
“Family distance is highly underrated.”
She smiled at him. “Spoken by someone who is close to his family.”
“When they’re not playing therapist.”
“Do you want lunch?” she asked, and Daniel checked his watch. He’d talked with her for nearly two hours, and never noticed.
“I shouldn’t impose.”
“Puh-lease. You’re my houseguest now. What sort of hostess would I be if I didn’t feed you?”
“You have something beyond snack foods and beer?”
She raised her brows. “That bad?”
“Hmm, it’s not, but I’m thinking your food is probably better.”
Daniel pulled on his T-shirt and followed her through the French doors to the interior of the house. Once inside, he heaved a blissful sigh. Now this was a beach house. There was no television, no stereo, only a couch overlooking the windows, two dainty sticks of wood, which Daniel termed “female chairs,” a wall of rare books and what he guessed was really good art on the wall.
“This is a great place.”
“It’s my grandfather’s. I freeload often.”
“I bet he doesn’t mind.”
“Nah.”
She opened the refrigerator and stared inside. “Eggs, salad, tuna and some berries.”
“Very sensible.”
“I have cupcakes and chips in the pantry.”
“I won’t judge. I swear.”
“Thank you. Actually, I shouldn’t have them,” she said, skimming her hands down over her hips. It wasn’t a seductive move, but a self-conscious one. Daniel’s gaze automatically slipped lower, following her hands, and he felt something stir inside him.
A momentary flicker of heat.
Daniel looked away, and Catherine never noticed.
After lunch was over, Daniel grabbed a paperback thriller and sat out on the beach while Catherine sketched. He was curious to see her work, but she didn’t invite him to, and so he left it alone. He waited until there was a break in the karaoke next door, the lawyers driving off for dinner, and Daniel took advantage, grabbing his duffel.
No one had even noticed he’d been gone. Excellent.
When he walked through her French doors, bag in hand, she looked up from the book she was reading on the couch, as if he had disturbed her. Daniel didn’t usually second-guess himself; he didn’t have to. But this time, he did. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked.
“Are you kidding? Don’t worry.”
After that, he stopped worrying and simply enjoyed himself. Dinner was great, and afterward when the shadows of evening had begun to fall, Catherine broke out a bottle of 1982 Rothschild, pouring two glasses. “Grandfather’s got a truly excellent cellar,” she told Daniel. She sat next to him on the couch, curling her legs underneath her.
The wine seemed like the perfect ending to what had been the best day he’d had in some time. Seven years, in fact. Next door might have been When Good Lawyers Go Bad, but here, with the steady sound of the ocean, the quiet of the house, the easiness of her company, Daniel felt peace.
“This has been nice,” he told her. “I appreciate it.”
“You don’t expect much. I like that,” she said, lifting her eyes to his, and Daniel promptly forgot what he was going to say. It’d been too long since he’d been in such a close setting. He could feel the heat under his collar, the slow pound
in his blood and the push of his cock against what had been a loose pair of shorts until he had found himself fascinated by a set of wistful brown eyes.
Snap out of it, O’Sullivan.
Even before he could look away, Catherine did. Time for bed.
Alone.
He took a deep sip of wine and then placed it on the table, getting to his feet. “I think I’ll go to bed. Sleepy. Tired. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” He was rambling, pathetically rambling, but he needed to run and fast. The poor kid was probably completely unaware of the ideas that were suddenly flooding his brain.
Catherine uncurled herself from the sofa, and he found himself staring down the front of her bathing suit, which, up to this point, had been sensible and concealing. But now it wasn’t, nope—when a man was staring straight down her front, he saw flesh. Soft, pliable flesh. Soft, pliable bare flesh.
She lifted her gaze again, sending a shockwave through him for absolutely no reason, because it wasn’t as if she was going triple-X on him. No, this was just her being her, and he was suddenly in danger of busting a seam. For nothing. Just a set of dark eyelashes. And the breasts. The soft, pliable…okay, it was really time to leave. Past time to leave.
Daniel told himself to move, but it was too late. He’d found bottles of whiskey that were easier to escape than one single, soulful pair of shadowy brown eyes.
She rose from the couch.
His breathing stopped.
And then she kissed him.
3
DANIEL PULLED AWAY from her. “I should go,” he said, completely and utterly embarrassing her.
Oh God. She had thought…well, who cares what she thought? She’d been so caught up in the rare moment of being in the close proximity of such a man-man and now she’d blown it. Why the heck did she think he’d want to kiss her?
Talk. Yes. Sex. That’s a big No.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She was rambling. Whenever she got embarrassed, she developed a severe case of foot-in-mouth disease, which was a reason she always managed to avoid embarrassing situations.
“It wasn’t that stupid,” he answered, his eyes crinkling up nicely.
“I don’t mean that it was stupid to kiss you, I mean, you’re…” She waved a hand, searching for words, but found none, so opted for a silent adjective and stared a hole in the floor. He could figure that one out on his own. “I meant that I shouldn’t have intruded into your space without an explicit invitation. It’s rude.”
“I didn’t think it was rude,” he answered evenly, making her like him even more. He was so polite, trying to make her feel better, and she did.
“Okay, maybe not rude, but wrong.”
“It wasn’t wrong, either.”
“I shouldn’t have done it. Let’s leave it at that,” she stated, trying to extricate herself from this with some pride intact.
“No, I think you should have done it.”
At that point, as nice as his ego-bolstering was, she decided to bring him crashing back to reality. “Which is why I put the fear of God in you and you jumped?” she asked, as nicely as she could have when her words dripped with sarcasm.
He shook his head. “Not the fear of God. Something much more basic.”
His voice changed at the end, turning rough and textured. In fact, she was so caught up in this newly discovered sexual-voice experience that she almost missed the words.
Almost. Her stomach pitched and then steadied, and she wondered if he knew what he’d just done. She didn’t dare look up, but she sensed the change in the air. It wasn’t the salt of the sea or the hint of black fruit in the bouquet of the wine. This was heady and strong, and sent bright bursts of fever rushing through her.
“So this is okay?” she asked, her breath thin and forced, coming from freshly squeezed lungs.
His hand curved around her waist, his fingers stroking softly, straying into the no-man’s-land between her bare back and the elastic of her swimsuit. Her body shivered, nerve endings descending into pleasured chaos.
There was something so private, so personal about a man’s and woman’s gazes meeting, and Catherine didn’t do it often. People thought she was shy, but cowardly was the better description. In her chest, her heart thudded painfully, and slowly, questioningly, her eyes raised to his, her Odysseus. Desire darkened the gray to black smoke, and he didn’t look lonely. Not anymore. Catherine couldn’t look away. Not now. Probably not ever.
Her hand reached out, touching the cotton shirt that covered his chest. One touch, to feel him. To touch him at last.
Her palm rested flat on him, over his heart, and she could feel the heated blood pounding there.
Warm flesh was so much better than art. The hard contours of his body weren’t cold granite, or marble, but overflowed with muscle, bone and blood that called to her. She considered herself an expert on the male body in theory, but she wasn’t even close when it came to the real thing. Right now, she was shaking like a kid. Gently, he inched her toward him, until her whole body was aligned with his, sternum to sternum, pelvis to pelvis, woman to man.
Bliss.
Then he lowered his head, covering her lips with his own.
Oh.
Oh.
She felt his mouth tremble, or was that hers? Catherine wasn’t a virgin; she’d been kissed before, but not like this. Hesitation and reverence melted together under the heat in the air. Automatically she moved into him, his arms closing around her, wrapping her in twin bands of strength and steel.
Catherine sighed with relief, and when her mouth opened, his tongue eased inside, all hesitation gone. He stroked the inside of her lip, slipping back and forth until the drugging rhythm was ebbing through her blood, igniting her skin, pulsing between her thighs.
Her hands explored and she couldn’t believe that this man, this masterful creation, was alive. A momentary doubt stole into her brain, but some things didn’t lie, and the thick erection burning her thigh was proof enough. She wanted that proof inside her.
He broke the kiss, lifting his head, his breathing as ragged as hers, and she thought he was going to leave her.
“You’ll stay with me?” she asked, needy, the doubts stealing back.
His face was tight with tension, his fingers biting into the curve of her hip, but she didn’t care. She wanted his touch, and now the need overcame fear, overcame pride, overcame dignity. Her body needed this.
“Bed.”
Catherine nodded because intelligent speech was impossible. She led him to her room, her nerves simmering, threatening to boil.
He was going to love her, touch her, kiss her, caress her, and she was dizzy with the thought of it. That amazing body that was currently hidden by his clothes was going to be hers. At least for one night.
“Can I undress you?” she asked, the words out before she could think, but how could she think? How could any sane woman think?
“That’s what you want?” As if women didn’t ask to undress him every day. Heckuva job, Catherine.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He was going to think she was obsessed. A nympho ready to pounce, and okay, she wanted him. Badly. But there were other forces at work inside her—namely the desperate desire to see him naked to know if her currently overworked imagination was right.
“Catherine, you don’t have to apologize for everything.”
“I’m—No, I’m not sorry. I wanted to see you because okay, this part is embarrassing, but not exactly for what you’re thinking. You know that I draw, and, well—you have a perfect body for sketching.” Her cheeks burned, and maybe now he thought she was weird, but weird was oodles better than sleazy.
“Really?” he said, as if he didn’t think she was weird…or sleazy. In fact, he sounded…pleased.
“Absolutely. Certainly.” And then, because he was watching her so thoroughly, she drew his T-shirt over his head, struggling to be the artist she told him she was. “See this line here. It
’s the axis of your body, your dawn line, perfectly dividing the détente muscle, those are those…uh…little ripples.” Her index finger traced the path, and she nearly sighed, but that would totally snooker the “dedicated artist” image that she was going for.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You should. I do this for a living.”
“Really?” he asked, teasing her.
“Not this, but—” she drew a horizontal line across his shoulders, feeling the heavy muscles jump wherever she touched “—this.”
Her palms felt the hard planes of his chest, absorbed the soft whirls of hair, the tight nipples, and she knew that she could never capture that vitality and strength on paper. Ever. Only in her hands.
She followed the trail of hair down, lower, and she knew the instant that he stopped breathing. Daringly, her fingers delved beneath his shorts, and then she stopped breathing, too.
But her curiosity wouldn’t let her stop. Slowly, the soft boxers slid down hard thighs and then…
Then…
Oh, she wasn’t going to look, but she had to look. She had to see, and heaven help her, she gasped.
Yes, like a total dilettante, she gasped.
For a second she could do nothing but gaze upon him with deep-seated lust, then her eyes studied his face.
He didn’t look happy. He looked stressed.
“Can I see you?” he asked, and she nodded once before she realized that she needed to steer his expectations toward something resembling reality because she wasn’t anywhere close to the perfection that he was.
“I’m not nearly as well-proportioned.”
He drew down the straps of her bathing suit. “That’s an entirely subjective statement. I think you’re very well-proportioned.”
“I weigh too much.”
He slipped the suit off her hips and along her legs and looked at her for a long time, that comprehensive gaze making her nervous. He wasn’t missing a thing. Not the half dozen cupcakes that resided happily on her butt, or her mushy thighs that didn’t get nearly enough exercise or the pooch in her belly that four million sit-ups could easily cure.
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