by Nancy Warren
The wind caught her hat and sent it flying, leaving her long raven-colored hair to blow wildly, shine darkly in the brilliant morning sun. She turned, took a step toward the hat now rolling across his lawn, then looked at her watch, hesitated, and again headed for the beach.
Every muscle, tendon, and sinew in Dane’s body tightened, shot to a sexual alert he hadn’t felt in too long to remember.
He draped the towel around his neck and tried to ignore the board-stiff erection between his legs. Feeling voyeuristic and painfully aroused, he watched Esme until she disappeared along the path to the beach, watched until her head bobbed up farther along the shore, watched until she spread a blanket on the sand and kicked off her shoes. When she’d done that, she raised a hand to cover her eyes, first scanning the ocean and shoreline, then swiveling to look back at the house.
He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew a buck-naked male with a massive hard-on watched her through an upstairs window.
As if in response to his thought, she raised her eyes and appeared to gaze straight at him. About the time he started to wonder about the effectiveness of one-way glass, she sat down on the blanket and took a large drawing pad from her case. She centered it on her lap, bent her dark head, and started to draw. She didn’t look back.
Dane studied her a few seconds longer and made his decision. Whether or not it was one of his sane and logical ones was yet to be determined. But Esme Shane had captured his interest, and what captured his interest, he pursued. Relentlessly.
Hell, he’d already made love to her all night in his mind; why not go for the real thing?
Plus, he could use the diversion.
Twenty minutes later he headed for the beach. The morning, all bright sun and warm gusts of wind rippling the water, seemed lost on the woman rapt in the drawing of sand and curves of seagrass the ocean had gifted the shore with during the night’s high tide.
She didn’t notice his arrival until his shadow flowed across the surface of her pad, which gave him ample time to study the glossy darkness of her hair, the enticing curve of her neck, and the dedication she gave to her work.
She blinked, shielded her eyes from the sun, and looked up at him. “Oh, good morning.” She frowned, but didn’t drop her gaze. “Did you want to leave early?”
He shook his head, lifted the thermos. “Coffee with chicory. And Peggy’s handmade beignets. You in?” He waved the sack of beignets in front of her, not above using the aroma of Peggy’s fresh baking to gain points.
She hesitated, looked momentarily confused, then moved her drawing to her side and patted the empty blanket beside her. “I’m in.”
He sat, poured them two coffees, and handed her heaven with sugar on it. Thank you, Peggy.
“These are incredible,” she said after her second bite of beignet.
Dane used his thumb to brush some sugar from beside her lip. When he touched her she froze in place. Then, in an unusually awkward movement—for her—she looped her hair behind her ear, and turned away from him to look at the glistening ocean. “You live in a breathtakingly beautiful place,” she said.
“Yes, I do,” he agreed, following her gaze. “I’m a lucky man.” And I’ve decided to get luckier.
“That’s nice.”
“Nice?”
“Nice that you know that. Sometimes people don’t, uh, appreciate the things they have.” She took another bite of her beignet and brushed some crumbs off her skirt. She looked uneasy under his gaze. “Although I can’t imagine not appreciating this. Have you lived here long?”
“Five years. I built it before I sold the business. I’d owned the property for years and finally decided to do something with it.” With the property and my life, he amended silently.
“It’s a big house—you must have—” She stopped, straightened, and shot him a piercing glance. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” He drank some coffee.
“Like . . .” She lifted her beignet. “Like I’m one of these and you’ve been on a month-long fast.”
He leaned back and propped himself on an elbow. “You’re much more interesting than that”—he gestured toward the pastry in her still-raised hand—“and if we make the beignet a metaphor for sex, it’s been a lot longer than a month.”
She settled her gaze on him with ferocious curiosity. “And you’re telling me this because?”
“Could be because you’re a therapist and I need help with those sexuality issues you mentioned.” He smiled and arched a brow. “Or it could be a lot less complicated.”
“Go on.”
“That as beignets go, you’re proving hard to resist.”
“You want to have sex with me?” she said, not hiding her surprise. “And here I had the impression you didn’t much like me—worse than that, you distrust me.”
“You know that old saying, ‘you never get a second chance to make a first impression’ . . . ?”
She eyed him noncommittally. Waited.
“It’s not true,” he finished.
“And have I somehow done something to indicate I actually want to impress you?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you usually so full of yourself, McCoy, or is it something I bring out in you?” Now she looked annoyed, seriously annoyed.
Okay, so he was a little rusty at the old mating game.
He studied her a moment, thought about what she’d said. “You. Definitely.” He picked up a handful of sand from beside the blanket, let it sift through his fingers. “Truth is, I’m not too fond of women with agendas—even if they are initiated by my sister. So last night I wanted your butt out of here. This morning. . .” Watching the sway of your hips when you walked to the beach, seeing the sun on your hair, remembering your nipples hard against me—“I changed my mind.”
Her mouth slackened. “You really are . . . stunningly arrogant.”
“So I’m told.” He got up, stood over her, and looked down at her. When she didn’t say anything more, he offered her his hand to help her up.
When she was standing in front of him, he touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Stay or go, Esme. Your call.” He gestured at the arc of beach fronting his home. “But now that we understand each other, you might as well make use of the place, take the two weeks and finish what you started.”
“Understand each other? You and me?” Looking puzzled, she added, “Maybe you should explain that.”
He lifted her chin. “You understand I’m not interested in Marilee and your brother’s business venture. You understand I want you.” He stroked her jawline. “And I know you want me.”
“You know I—” Her expression showed equal parts shock and amazement. “I don’t know what to say.”
He took his hand from her face. “Nothing to say. Unless, of course, you’d like to deny what came across in that kiss last night.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, then turned away from him. When she turned back, she shook her head. “Now I really don’t know what to say.”
“Easy. Say yes. We’ll have dinner tonight, try not to insult each other, and see where things lead.”
That intensely curious look again claimed her face. “Do I need to lock my bedroom door?”
“No. What you need to do is decide when to open it . . . to me. Until you do, nothing happens.”
“Nothing?”
He nodded.
“This conversation is utterly bizarre.”
“This conversation is honest.”
“And that’s something that matters to you? Honesty.”
“That and not wasting a lot of time going after what I want.” He touched her hair. “Which doesn’t mean I don’t know how to go slow . . . when slow is needed.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Of myself? Yes. But not of you.” Another truth, because something told him Esme was a natural born challenge.
“Marilee says you’re ‘unstoppable’
when you go after something you want.”
Dane thought a moment. “She’s right, but in this case all it will take is a two-letter word. No.”
She studied him for a long time, then a strange, enticing smile played across her mouth. “This could be fun.”
He bent his head to be sure their eyes met. “Seduction should be fun. Isn’t that what you tell your clients?”
She gestured toward her sketch book, raised a brow. “I don’t have clients. Not anymore. Remember?”
He brushed his lips across hers, once, lightly, because he couldn’t stop himself. She tasted like sea salt and sun, and he had so much adrenaline pumping through him at the thought of what was to come, he could damn well swim in it. “You do now.”
Dane headed toward the house, turned to say over his shoulder, “If the weather holds, we’ll eat on the patio. The sunset’s worth the wait.”
Two days, I’ll have her in two days.
Esme, her fingertips touching her lips where Dane had kissed her, stared after him in utter amazement. Amazed at him. And herself, because she was still standing there, like the village idiot after a lobotomy.
She was crazy. She should shake the sand out of her shoes and run at top speed to the nearest airport. She was insane if she stayed within a hundred miles of Dane McCoy.
Instead, she plunked herself on the blanket, hugged her knees, and stared at the Gulf, not moving a muscle. Her mind, on the other hand, boiled with confusion and the shivery possibilities that had arrived gift-wrapped in that kiss she’d shared with Dane last night.
Not possibilities, Esme. Lust.
Of course . . . what was happening here was pure textbook. Going back to when the female of the tribe instinctively sought out the strongest, most dominant male to mate with, believing him the one most likely to provide healthy children and protection in a harsh and hungry world.
Sexuality 101.
Nice intellectual try, but it didn’t wash.
She didn’t live in a harsh and hungry world, and she’d never lacked for male attention. She liked men, she loved sex—and didn’t game-play to hide either fact—but she’d never met a male specimen quite like Dane McCoy, either. One who felt so . . . oddly unsettling.
Her breathing turned as choppy as the sun-crested waves she stared at. She wasn’t sure she even liked Dane, let alone wanted him, sexually speaking. Did she?
She couldn’t . . .
Damn it, she did want him.
Some of him.
For a while.
What she didn’t want was the mess of a relationship. Her divorce, ugly and rancorous, still scabbed her psyche. She didn’t relish the idea of living her life alone, but she liked the idea of walking over the flame pit of divorce even less.
And aren’t I getting ahead of myself!
Dane didn’t want a relationship; he wanted sex, neat.
He couldn’t have been more clear, yet here she was divorcing him already. She laughed. At herself. At the situation. She stopped laughing abruptly when she thought of the other possibilities. The sexual ones. Dane, the heat of him, his long, lean body. What they might have . . .
Sex with no strings attached. Sex for sex’s mind-numbing, universe-tilting sake. Stop-the-world-I-want-to-get-off sex.
She sighed, closed her eyes a moment.
Sex in a king-size bed on black satin sheets.
Sex with candles burning, their flames twisting in the air to cast shadows over naked straining bodies.
Sex with a man who looked like a god.
Sex with a man who turned her on by touching her cheek.
Making love with a . . . stranger.
The last made her frown, but the heat, rising now, encircling her throat, made it difficult to draw a full breath, more difficult still to smother the concern. Esme had always been careful, discerning, about her lovers—and she’d at least known them for more than twenty-four hours!
She straightened abruptly.
A week; she’d give it a week. That would give her time to decide for sure if she wanted Dane in her bed, and if she was ready for a short-term affair.
She smiled and picked up her pencil and sketch pad; she’d speak to him tonight, set some ground rules—give him time to cool his too-arrogant heels.
Yes, I’ll give it seven days . . .
Esme stood in the patio doorway. It opened westward toward the Gulf, and the panoramic view of the silvered waters beyond took Esme’s breath away.
Then she saw Dane.
Dressed in casual khakis and a blindingly white shirt, he eclipsed the view and weakened her knees. He was pouring wine when she arrived, stopped when he spied her standing in the open patio door. The wine bottle clasped in his hand, his glance slid over her, slowly, hot and invasive, from her head to her sparkling sandaled toes. Esme’s mouth went dry, and she stepped onto the cobblestone terrace, determined to play the game as a sophisticated, poised woman. Which, considering inside she was more of a bitch in heat, would be a challenge.
“You look wonderful.” He held her gaze a moment, then returned to pouring the wine. He brought her a glass and held it out to her.
His scent, a subtle musk and citrus, overpowered the mysterious aroma of the aged burgundy in her glass. She breathed deeply, took in more of him to savor, before he tipped her glass with his, and she took a sip of the smooth, expensive wine. “Hmm,” she said, her tone a hard-won mild one, “You have great taste in wine.”
“You’re still here,” he said, ignoring her comment, his expression unreadable.
Esme glanced around the patio. There were several tables, some larger than others, the smallest abutted the railing. It was set for two in multicolored earthenware; a nest of candles burned at its center, fighting a timid battle with the brightness of the setting sun. “It doesn’t look as if you doubted I would be.”
“The result of wishful thinking.” He looked at her over the rim of his glass.
She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
He arched a brow in question.
“For not being sure. A woman needs to retain some mystery.”
“Every woman is a mystery. Impossible to solve. And endlessly intriguing.” He took her glass, then her hand, and drew her to the terrace rail. Looking down at her, he added in a low voice, “You, most of all.”
“Ah . . . the seduction begins.” And not too badly either. Her knees suddenly felt as though they’d been built from matchsticks and paste.
“Seduction?” He smiled—or nearly did—and Esme couldn’t take her eyes off the easy mobility of his mouth, the promise of it. “Maybe. Or just a simple truth? Because you definitely intrigue me.” He touched her chin, turned her face from his to the seashore. “Look. I don’t want you to miss it.”
The sun, low in the sky, and now a deep shimmering orange, turned the Gulf into burning glass, set it aglow as if it were seeded with flaming coals.
Dane stood beside her, his shoulder touching hers. “Something, isn’t it?”
Esme looked up at him, reached up to stroke his clean-shaven face. “So are you, McCoy. So are you.” When he turned to look at her, she stood on her toes and kissed his mouth, a feather kiss, a stolen taste, because, for now, that was all she’d risk. She stepped back.
His eyes were an inky burning blue when they met hers. “You sure you want to eat . . .”
Ignoring her breathing, which came perilously close to a most unladylike pant, she forced a light laugh. “Oh, yes. I definitely want to eat . . .” Not above a little seduction of her own, she ran her tongue over her lower lip, touched his mouth with one finger. “. . . Peggy’s wonderful cooking.”
“Jesus!” he murmured on an extended breath. “This is going to be the longest meal of my life.”
She cocked her head, looked at him from under her lashes. “Good sex is all about patience, the art of anticipation.”
He rolled his eyes, gave her another brief smile. “If that’s true, I probably do need therapy.”
“Which I
’ll be happy to provide”—she tapped his chin playfully—“after we eat.” And if I can get down enough to sustain a hummingbird, it will be a miracle.
Maybe seven days was asking too much . . .
As if on cue, Peggy came out with a tray, laden with a large salad and an array of tantalizing finger food. Delicate scents drifted toward the sunset, fused with the aromatic spices of cajun cooking and the fiery kick of Mexico.
“I didn’t know what you liked.” Dane gestured toward the table. “So I asked Peggy for a selection.”
“Perfect.”
He pulled out her chair, filled her wineglass, and took the seat across from her, turning away from the table and stretching his long legs in front of him, apparently in no hurry to eat.
The setting sun shadowed half his face and burnished the other side to pale copper.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he said, settling his unearthly blue eyes on her in a very earthy way.
“I’m not certain I can say the same. Not yet.”
“Then I’ll have to make you certain.”
Four
An hour later a breeze blew in from the Gulf, light but laden with chill. When Dane saw Esme rub her bare shoulders to warm them, he rose. “It’s turning cold,” he said, stating the obvious, and looking for any opportunity to move, escape the sexual hunger twisting his gut like a badly applied tourniquet. “Let’s go inside.” The last interminable hour had rattled Dane, and he’d learned something. He’d forgotten how to wait, forgotten how not to have what he wanted when he wanted it, and forgotten how to make charm-talk.
And he’d underestimated Esme’s effect on him. Jesus, he’d gone hard, then harder, watching her simply savor an oyster . . . or a goddamn cracker. Esme was trouble—and he couldn’t wait to get into it.
Unless he missed his guess, she was playing him, and even knowing it, he enjoyed it. He might not trust her, but when his cock left him brain enough to think on it, he discovered that while he was frustrated, he was enjoying himself for the first time in what seemed forever.