by Ann Bruce
“Stop!” Her voice was an embarrassing squeak, but he paused. She cleared her throat, then managed to glare at him. “Have you no modesty?”
“You’re the one who’s still staring,” he pointed out, laughter threaded through his voice.
Her mouth opened, but there was nothing she could say to dispute that statement since she was avidly taking in every inch of him with her eyes. He closed the distance between them, placed a finger underneath her delicate jaw, and closed her mouth for her.
Parker took a hasty step back, but not hasty enough to evade his hands. He caught the bottom edge of her T-shirt and tugged. “I took mine off,” he murmured. “It’s your turn.”
She slapped his hands away. “I can do it myself.”
Chuckling, he braced his hands on his hips and waited. Her eyes met his challenging ones, and, in one swift movement, she pulled her T-shirt off over her head and tossed it aside. His eyes fell to her breasts—and the silky, black sports bra that covered them. A dark blond brow inched up.
He slipped a finger under a wide shoulder strap, his skin unbelievably warm and rough against hers, and her pulse jumped. “This needs to go, too.”
“You took off a shirt, I took off a shirt. We’re even.”
“I wasn’t wearing anything under the shirt. You are.”
“Well, tough. Next time I’ll lend you my spare one so you won’t feel so exposed.”
He chuckled again. “Next time you can leave it off.”
“I will n—”
Parker broke off with a gasp. “Stop that!” She captured the trailing finger that brushed the side of her breast and dragged his hand away from her. Before she could pull back, he twined their fingers together. A single tug and they were skin to skin. Parker couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips. Or her free hand from coming up and flattening against his chest. Her fingers curled, digging into skin that was as warm and supple as it looked.
Soft lips nuzzled her ear and she heard a low, needy sound, only belatedly realizing that it came from her. Her lashes drifted down, narrowing her world to the scent and feel of him around her, and heat and desire stirring under her skin and in her blood. She felt the scrape of teeth on the outer rim of her ear and was forced to lean further into him because her knees were suddenly jelly. His arms went around her waist, tightened, arching her body into his. His erection, hot and hard, pressed into her belly, separated from her bare skin by a thin barrier of nylon. Air rushed out of her lungs and past her lips in a sigh.
Stretching up onto her tiptoes, she turned her head, blindly seeking his lips with hers. She found them and sighed into his mouth.
He kissed her, soft and slow, his tongue tasting her in gentle forays that she mimicked in turn. He broke the kiss, trailed damp, searing kisses along her jaw back to her ear. And whispered something that sliced through the fog surrounding her.
“Say yes.”
He immediately noticed the sudden tautness of her body and his own went still. Her name was a desperate, whispered question.
Gathering the remnants of her tattered strength of will, she closed her eyes and gave a single shake of her head.
He cursed vehemently, his voice hoarse. His hands tightened reflexively on her flesh. He sucked in a breath, cursed again and said, “I need a minute.”
So did she. She managed to uncurl her fingers so she was no longer clutching at him, but she couldn’t make herself break all contact.
For an endless space of time, they stood there with his body wrapped around hers, the warm water caressing their feet and the breeze and warmth from the sun caressing everything else. Their harsh breathing intermingled with the pounding of heartbeats and filled her ears, a strangely lulling mix.
After long seconds, with stiff movements, he withdrew his arms, his body, his warmth, leaving Parker feeling more cold and naked than if she’d been standing in her birthday suit on the ice in front of a capacity crowd in Madison Square Garden.
Without a word, Dean ventured into deeper water and, when it reached his hips, cleanly dove in.
After a long, silent moment, Parker scooped up her damp T-shirt, socks and shoes and made her way back to the house.
By the time Dean returned to the house, water dripping from his hair and glittering on his bare upper body and legs, Parker had showered and changed and was making herself at home in the kitchen. She had the electric waffle iron out and plugged in and a large ceramic mixing bowl filled with smooth, creamy batter beside it. A smaller bowl of puréed strawberries sat next to an empty serving platter.
She’d heard footsteps on the deck and glanced up to see Dean coming through the kitchen’s open French doors. Just as quickly, her eyes dropped back down to the LED screen on the waffle iron.
“They should be ready by the time you shower and change,” she said.
“I’m not angry,” said Dean, startling her enough to make her look at him. He stopped with the island between them. “Frustrated as hell, but I’ll deal with it.” His lips twisted ruefully. “A lot of laps and a lot of cold showers, but I’ll deal with it since I promised that you’d call the shots while we’re here.”
Her lashes lowered, veiling her eyes. “There’s a simpler solution.”
His eyes hardened. “You’re not leaving early,” he stated, his fierce voice brooking no argument. “You agreed to six days and I’m going to have those six days.” His tone softened. “Is it so bad here?”
No, she thought, and knew she couldn’t tell him that.
“If I stay, we need a few ground rules.”
He didn’t respond right away.
She waved a hand toward the beach beyond the French doors and, in a rush, said, “What happened out there can’t happen again. I don’t want it to happen again.”
“Spell it out,” he said, his face and voice both devoid of emotion.
She gripped the edge of the thick granite slab that topped the island until her fingertips went white. “I want you to stop touching me. I don’t want you to touch me even casually.” Because even the most casual touch from him could lead to so much more.
He studied her face, his own still a shuttered mask.
“Anything else?” he asked finally with a blandness she couldn’t decipher.
She stared at him blankly, not fully grasping that he hadn’t outright objected to her condition.
“You said ‘rules.’ Plural.”
“Oh.” She glanced away. “Nothing else. Only that one rule.”
“Good. I’ll see you in fifteen.”
“Why did you start the auctions?”
Parker paused in the act of cutting another square of strawberry-laden cinnamon waffle and looked up. Orange juice spun around like a mini-whirlpool in the tumbler Dean held in his hand. His empty plate was pushed toward the center of the table, knife, fork and linen napkin carelessly tossed on top.
“Because I knew only something outrageous would draw in people and their checkbooks. The city has more than its fair share of charity dinners and galas and silent auctions and marathons.” Her shoulders rose and fell in a Gallic shrug. “People want to be entertained, and the auction definitely entertains.” Her mouth pursed and she eyed him pointedly. “Especially this year.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “You didn’t leave me a lot of room to move.”
She flushed but kept quiet, not willing to touch the double entendre. Very deliberately, she took off the piece of waffle pierced on the tines of her fork with her teeth and chewed.
“Why do it in the first place? Or is this a publicity gimmick?”
A frown marred her features as she swallowed. “You’re a little cynical.”
“You said yourself that New York has more than its fair share of charity events. Every time I turn around, there’s someone wanting me to write a check.”
“And you write them?”
He scowled, looking uneasy. “It’s the easiest way to get them to leave me alone.”
She picked up her tumbler of ju
ice and hid her smile behind it. “Right,” she murmured before taking a sip of the tart liquid.
“Well?” he prompted.
She set the tumbler back on the table. “It’s not a publicity gimmick. I know how difficult it can be to be a single mom struggling to raise a family.”
“You’re not one.”
Her gaze became considering. He wasn’t asking but stating.
“No, but my mom was one,” she told him.
And my sister.
“Where was your father?”
“He took off one day after my sister turned two and never came back. Guess he decided he couldn’t handle it.”
Dean’s lips thinned. “He should’ve thought of that before having kids. If you have children, your own wants and needs should come in second.”
Parker stared at him, her lips slightly parted. Those weren’t the words of a man who would callously tell his lover to abort a child.
“What? You don’t agree with me?”
She shook her head. “I completely agree with you. I—I…”
He lifted a brow.
“Nothing,” she murmured, realizing she couldn’t go any deeper. “It’s nothing.”
Appetite gone, she set down the utensils on her plate, stacked it on top of his, grabbed both and stood up. He followed her to the sink with the tumblers. Taking refuge in the mundane task, Parker was silent as they followed last night’s routine and scraped the dishes before stacking everything in the dishwasher.
“I still have to place a call to my mom,” she reminded him as she closed the dishwasher door and turned it on.
“The satellite phone’s in the library,” said Dean over the low hum of the dishwasher and the sound of running water. “I’ll show it to you.”
“Why were you there that night?” asked Parker.
Dean finished rinsing his hands and dried them on a dishtowel. “My sister needed an escort.” He offered the dishtowel to Parker after she killed the water. “It was either that or baby-sit for her.”
A dark brow arched questioningly.
“Vanessa has a fifteen-year-old daughter who’s going through a pink and fluffy stage and likes to get together with her girlfriends and giggle hysterically over everything. Escorting Vanessa to your event sounded like the lesser of two evils.”
She laughed. “Did your niece watch Legally Blonde one too many times and take it to heart?”
“Something like that,” he said with a disapproving shake of his head.
Parker leaned back against the counter, enjoying the image of the man before her hopelessly lost when confronted with a gaggle of teenage girls. “She’ll grow out of it,” she reassured, open amusement threading her voice. “They all do.” She paused, then corrected herself, “Well, most do.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Did you go through that phase?”
“Well, no. But I had other priorities at that age.” Before he could probe, she smiled crookedly. “If I did pink and fluffy I’d look like a cupcake. No one in the industry would take me seriously.”
“I’m not so sure,” he drawled, his blue eyes gleaming as they leisurely traveled the length of her. “Depends on the garment.”
The suggestiveness in his husky voice had heat crawling from her neck up to her cheeks.
“You’re looking flushed. Maybe you need to lie down. I can take you to your room and tuck you in.”
Her gaze narrowed, filled with wariness. “Remember our ground rule.”
“How could I forget?” he murmured, unfazed. “And it’s your rule, not ours.”
She blew out a breath. “My life would be so much more peaceful had you picked door number two.”
He rested a shoulder against the stainless steel refrigerator door and crossed his arms over his chest. “I can do peaceful.”
Skepticism crossed her face. “Of course, you can,” she remarked dryly and made to move past him.
He sidestepped, blocking her, and she just managed to stop short of slamming into him. With a startled sound, she jumped back like she expected him to pounce. An admonishment died on her tongue when his wide chest filled her vision as he braced his hands on the granite, one on either side of her, effectively caging her in. She shrank back and drew herself in, as if to make herself smaller so no part of her would brush any part of him.
“I’m not touching you,” he said, his warm breath stirring her hair.
Parker drew a deep breath—and wished she hadn’t when his scent, clean and musky and vitally male, filled her nostrils. It enticed her to bury her face in his chest and pull his body against hers, and wrap herself in his scent and the heat she could feel buffeting her bare skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and rolled her lips inward, hardly daring to breathe.
The air around her stirred and she felt his mouth very close to her ear. Close, but not touching. Her own fingers curled into fists and she had to keep them wedged between her back and the counter to stop herself from reaching for the man so expertly, so effortlessly seducing her. And all without a single physical touch.
“I can do peaceful,” he repeated, each word a hot puff of air skirting the sensitive rim of her ear, “in the aftermath when we’re both too exhausted to move and you’re draped over me like a blanket.”
Her breath caught in her throat as heat pooled low in her body.
Then he was gone, taking the warmth of his body with him, leaving her with only the lingering scent of him and a body embarrassingly weak with desire. She opened her eyes and was transfixed by the sight of him. Blood had darkened his face and tension had hardened every muscle in his body. But it was his eyes, blue and hooded and glinting with a primitive darkness, that didn’t allow her to turn away. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips.
A soft growl rumbled from his chest, but he didn’t close the distance between them. A disappointment she couldn’t deny stirred in her chest, leaving behind a hollowness. He started to hold out his hand, then, with a tight, humorless half smile, slid it into the front pocket of his shorts. “Let’s make that phone call.”
She didn’t move away from the counter. She couldn’t move away from the counter.
That half smile again, still humorless, but tinged with a dark satisfaction. “On second thought, you stay here while I go get it. I’ll be back in a minute.”
One minute stretched into five. After another five, Parker, her legs no longer having the constitution of overcooked pasta, decided to track him down. Maybe he was lost in this mausoleum of a hideaway home.
She did a partial circuit of the main floor and, following the low, deep murmur of his voice, found him in an office. The space made her want to curl in one of the armchairs that flanked a pristine, oversized fireplace. The room was masculine, but not overbearingly so, with its comfortable furniture and earthy fabrics. Light streamed in through tall windows, warming the space. Built-in shelves reached the ceiling and were filled with books of varying sizes and subject matter. She would have to browse the collection for something she could enjoy on the hammock she’d spied on the beach during her morning run.
Dean was seated in the chair behind the desk, a big, weighty receiver, which brought back to mind the handset that used to sit on the side table in her mother’s living room, against his ear. He caught sight of her and waved her into the room. She hesitated.
“Sweetheart, I’ll be back by the end of the week,” he said into the telephone. “I’ll take care of it then.” As he listened to the speaker on the other end, twin lines formed between his eyebrows.
Parker took a half step backward, not wanting to be within hearing distance while he conversed with someone he addressed using a term of endearment, but Dean noticed her retreat and firmly shook his head, gesturing for her to take a seat in the room.
Lips pursed in irritation, Parker stepped over the threshold and crossed the room to determinedly peruse the books where a familiar author had caught her eye.
“I’ll work something out, Candi. I promise.”
Candi
? Parker mentally winced and wondered if she could cover her ears without drawing a smartass comment from Dean about it once he was off the telephone.
“Okay. I love you, too. I’ll see you when I get back.” He sighed. There was silence as she felt his eyes on her stiff back. “You can stop the pretense,” he drawled wryly.
It took effort to force her expression into one of detached amusement. She slowly spun around and ambled over to him, a dark brow arched. “Candi? Does she spell her name with an i?”
“No,” he replied, pushing the receiver’s large retractable antenna back into hiding. A reluctant smile lifted his lips. “But if she did, she’d dot it with a little heart.”
“Perhaps we should go back to New York early.” She knew she was bordering on pettiness, but she couldn’t stem the flow of words. “She sounds like she really needs you.”
He got up from the chair and skirted around to the front of the desk. He leaned back against the edge of it and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re not getting off that easily.” Another quirk of his lips, but, thankfully, he resisted the double entendre. “My niece can wait a few days.”
Parker froze, still a small distance from him, and wondered if she could blame the flush working its way up her neck to spread across her cheeks on the sunlight warming the room. “Your niece?”
He nodded, looking too damned pleased by her poorly veiled discomfiture by far. “My sister’s daughter.”
“Your sister named her daughter Candy?” she asked, embarrassment overshadowed by incredulousness.
“Charlotte, actually. But Candy’s first word was ‘candy’ because she has a sweet tooth that needs to be witnessed to be believed. My sister blames me for that because I was always sneaking Candy chocolate.” A pained look crossed his face. “Of course, I’m paying for it now because all that sugar’s made her hyperactive twenty-four/seven. I estimate the sugar high will wear off when she hits thirty, give or take a couple of years.”
She chuckled. “What was she trying to wheedle out of you?”
Another sigh escaped him as he rubbed his hands over his face. “Candy wants to audition for a Broadway play.”