by Shelby Reed
He shouldn’t have kissed her earlier. She certainly hadn’t given him a signal to do so. Had she? Maybe she should ask him. After all, he was awake. Maybe she should come clean and tell him that he was creating all sorts of problems for her, and by God, if anyone was going to rock her boat, it would be her own damned self, not some man. Men were pain-in-the-ass wolves, thieves, and liars, and she could hardly tolerate them.
Well, some of them.
She turned off her work light, shut off Joan Baez, and headed out of the studio without bothering to lock it.
The guesthouse porch light was still on, but the windows were dim. It didn’t stop her. One knock, two, the second one significantly sharper, and then Colm answered the door. She’d obviously awakened him. His short hair stood in spikes and he squinted at her in the amber porch light glow. “Here to play truth or dare again?” He glanced at his watch. “At four a.m.?”
Sydney swayed and grabbed the side of a porch rocking chair, which instantly listed her sideways. When he caught her elbow and straightened her, she shook him off. “I’m here to say . . . to tell you off.” God, she sounded tipsy. Deep down, the part of her that wasn’t buzzed completely panicked. What was she doing?
“I have a few things to say,” she continued, sounding less confident with every slightly slurred word. “Some truth and some other stuff.”
His mouth twitched. “Okay. Do you want to do this inside, or out here on the porch where it’s freezing?” He glanced at her breasts in her thin sweater, and she instantly went hot all over. She would not look down to see if her nipples were as perky as he’d implied.
She looked down. They were.
“Inside, if you don’t mind.”
The living room with its fifties hunting lodge décor set a cozier scene than she remembered from the couple of times she’d been in the guest cottage. Hans had decorated it and lived there a brief time while the big house was being built three years ago. The man had a surprising eye for creating atmosphere with his hunter green and gold plaids, the red chenille sofa and maple tables.
The only light in the room was a small hurricane reading lamp beside the sofa and the flickering glow from the fireplace. Much too intimate, she decided, and turned to leave . . . just in time to see Colm shut the door and lean his back against it.
“Have a seat,” he said.
“No, thank you. I’d rather stand.” But the floor rolled beneath her, so she perched carefully on the sofa arm. “I have things to say.”
“I’m ready.” He pressed his palm against his abdomen, that muscled, six-pack sculpture Sydney would never, ever touch, or caress, or lick. Especially no licking, even though she knew his flesh would be tough and smooth under her tongue.
She waved a hand. “You shouldn’t have done that . . . that thing at the playground.”
His smile widened. “What thing, Boss?”
“Don’t call me that.”
He sobered and looked at her, the fire’s dancing glow reflected in his eyes. “What thing, Syd?”
As if he didn’t know. She hated when he spoke to her quietly and softly. It made her go all light and funny inside. “You know what thing. The kiss.”
Colm pushed away from the door and came to sit a proper distance from her, on one of the old-fashioned rocking recliners. It squeaked under his weight when he leaned his forearms on his knees and said, “I know. It was an unfair thing to do, and I apologize.”
She opened her mouth to argue and realized there was nothing to contradict, so she stared at the fire rather than the flames in his green, green eyes. “Does that mean you wish you hadn’t done it?”
He didn’t reply, just sat there and watched her.
“Say something,” she ordered, and finally he straightened, but before he could speak, a wave of nausea brought burning wine into her throat. She swallowed a few times but it didn’t help. God, she was going to throw up. She leaped to her feet and bolted for the hallway. “Bathroom!”
She didn’t wait for his directions. The first door she opened was a closet.
“End of the hall on the right,” he said calmly, and she made it to the toilet just in time.
Sydney had heaved the last of that godforsaken wine when she became aware of his bare feet to her right, then his long, strong legs in those low-slung pajama bottoms, then the rest of him. Damn, she hadn’t shut the door.
“You can’t be in here,” she groaned.
“Oh, but I can. This is my cabin for eight more days.” She sensed him move, heard the sound of the water splashing in the sink, then jolted as something cool and damp touched her nape.
“Just a washcloth,” he said.
It did feel good. “Go away.”
A gentle hand settled on her back. “Think you’re done?”
“I’m definitely empty.”
“Why did you drink all that wine?” Damn that voice. Soft and low, soft and low. The way he would kiss her body if she let him.
She quickly flushed the toilet and got to her feet with his hand at her elbow to help. “I’m confused. About stuff. Not about you, of course.”
“Of course not.” He opened a drawer in the vanity and withdrew a toothbrush and toothpaste. “Brushing my teeth always helps me feel better after I puke my guts out.”
A warm flush seeped from her cheeks to her ears. “I did not.”
“Did too.” He paused in the doorway. “Come to the kitchen when you’re done.”
She didn’t want to go to the kitchen, she wanted to run like hell for home. Why was she here again? Oh, yes. Because she couldn’t stay away. And she was tipsy. And he was a magnet and apparently she was a shaky paperclip sculpture like the one on Max’s desk in the library. All tangled, clingy pieces and confusion.
She brushed her teeth, and he was right, it did make her feel better. When she stopped in the kitchen doorway, Colm swung open the fridge, reached inside, and handed her an ice-cold sports drink.
“To replace the electrolytes you lost. Now hold out your other hand.”
She obeyed, and he dropped two aspirin in her palm. “For the thundering headache you’re going to have if you don’t take these.”
Obediently she took the pills, then he handed her a piece of fluffy, delectable smelling bread. “Plain white bread.”
She preferred whole grain.
“This stuff is glue in your gut,” she said flatly, but took a reluctant bite. Oh, it was soft and so delicious in that starchy, loaded-with-preservatives way she remembered from childhood.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m so sorry I don’t have brioche or croissants, Your Highness. Eat the whole thing or your stomach will hate you in the morning.”
She stood in sulky silence and finished the bread. Then he led her by the hand, unresisting, to a darkened room near the living room.
When Sydney saw the queen-sized bed, she immediately stepped backward and bumped into him. “Are you kidding?”
“No,” he said, “and you’ve got a dirty mind.”
“I can’t spend the night here.”
“Why not?”
“How will it look?”
“To who? Hans? I don’t think he’ll rat you out.”
“He told you I was at the playground,” she said. “He’s the enemy. He cannot be trusted.”
Colm studied her. “Maybe he’s the only one you can trust.” Then, “Are you going to sleep or not?”
While she stood there, dancing a mental jig of indecision, he went to the closet and pulled out a couple of blankets and a pillow. “I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours so you won’t have to take the walk of shame back to your house in the blazing sun.”
“But . . . I can’t take your bed.” She sat down on the edge and closed her eyes. “Where will you sleep?”
“Sofa, remember? You’re fading fast. Lie down.” He slipped her unlaced Keds from her feet and helped her stretch out.
“I’ll only lie here a minute,” she said, without opening her eyes.
&
nbsp; “Uh-huh.”
The weight of a blanket settled over her, scented with cedar and so soft and warm. She snuggled into it and drifted off, but not before feeling him push the hair away from her face. No one had tucked her in since she was a kid. Months had passed since anyone had touched her so tenderly. Sure, she’d feel embarrassed later. But for now . . . oh, it was sweet. He was sweet.
She slept.
* * *
Sydney awoke at daybreak with a bitchy little headache and what felt like a mouthful of cotton. The floorboards creaked under her as she crept to the bathroom, where she found he’d left her a fresh washcloth, her toothbrush, and mouthwash. Nice birthday present, she thought. Happy birthday to me.
She scrubbed her teeth and swished, wiped her face, drank a glass of water, and felt human again. She vaguely remembered Colm saying he’d wake her before sunrise, but when she peeked into the living room and saw him still asleep in the sliver of golden dawn peeking through the curtains, his long form cramped up on the too-small sofa, she couldn’t blame him for sleeping through his promise. All she wanted was to climb back into his cozy bed and snooze till noon.
Max was out of town. Hans wouldn’t tell. She already knew the valet had her best interests at heart. Before she went back to bed, though, she had to get a good long look at Colm.
She crept closer, her footsteps muffled on the living room’s braided rug. He slept on his right side, still bare-chested, his pajama bottoms slid low on his hip. Even utterly relaxed, his body remained hard and sculpted. Art at rest, she mused, her gaze taking in the bulge of his biceps, which pillowed his head, the other arm folded over his stomach. Not an ounce of fat on him.
A wave of chill bumps spread through her, raising the fine hairs on her arms. The fire had died with the night, and a stark cold that reminded her of her mother’s house in Nebraska pervaded the room. Moving gingerly so as not to wake him, she drew up the blanket he’d kicked aside and tucked it around him. It didn’t look like enough. She headed back to the bedroom, grabbed her own blanket, and returned to spread that over him, too.
Then she studied his profile, the long lashes resting on his cheeks, the perfect, uninteresting nose, those soft lips and stubborn chin. What would it be like to wake up every morning with such a man beside her? She’d slept alone so long, she could hardly remember what it felt like not to be an island in her bed. Even in the old days, Max hadn’t been a cuddler; he liked his space, and so Sydney had often awakened hugging her side of the bed to keep from rolling into him in the middle of the night. What would Colm be like? No doubt a lot of women knew. His wife. God. The one who’d died in the accident.
Her eyes shot to his face again, and she wondered what it had been like between them before the car wreck. Sydney pictured a smart, witty brunette, no doubt with a bod to die for, someone capable of keeping up with him. They would have been the golden couple, turning heads wherever they went. How did he live with her loss? The crinkles around his eyes weren’t all from smiling. Grief did the same damage. She couldn’t imagine him crying. If a man like him cried in front of her, she would cry harder. She couldn’t stand the thought of him grieving.
Suddenly Sydney felt like a Peeping Tom, peeking into his life as he slept unaware. Half-ashamed, she crept back to his room and this time slid beneath the sheets. They smelled so good, so clean and masculine. She buried her face in his pillow and inhaled the scent of his skin, then hugged the softness to her breasts and rested her cheek against it. She would doze a little longer, just a few minutes more.
When she woke again, late-morning daylight poured through the half-open curtains. The clock read ten thirty. Colm was sitting on the edge of the bed watching her.
She scrambled to a sitting position. “What are you doing?”
“Watching you sleep.” He was dressed in a pair of jeans and an unbuttoned, untucked shirt. His hair was damp from the shower and the scent of Irish Spring and shampoo tickled her senses.
Despite the knowledge that he’d been watching her, she didn’t feel violated. She wanted him to look at her. She wanted to strip off her clothing and let him see all of her, naked and shivering and wanting. Naturally she said, “You have no right to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” he replied. “You’re in my bed. I slept like hell on the sofa because of you.”
Her eyes dropped to his mouth, to the vague smile curling the corners.
He brushed the hair back from her cheek. “Keep looking at me like that and you’re going to get yourself kissed.”
She should have averted her eyes. Said something. Ended it right there. Instead she leaned forward to taste him.
He drew in a sharp breath at the first touch of her lips, and for a moment they both froze, mouths so close they nearly breathed for each other. Then she grasped the open edges of his shirt, pulled him to meet her, and tentatively brushed her lips against his again. Again. Again. She heard him swallow and she scooted closer, one leg sliding across his thighs and the other behind his backside, so they fit like puzzle pieces. She drew back enough to search his gaze and found his lashes lowered as he stared at her lips.
“Sydney,” he whispered. “Don’t do this unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.” She slid her fingers into his damp hair and opened her mouth over his, and this time he came to life and took her face in his hands, holding her as his tongue dipped between her lips and tangled with hers. Back and forth, thrust, retreat, while she felt herself go soft and wet, and thought she’d never been kissed like this in her life, that she’d never known such want. Beneath her leg he was hard, and she loved it, she wanted more, to feel that beautiful, perfect part of him in her hands, to caress and stroke until he lost all his confident control.
They explored each other’s mouths for what seemed like forever, tilting their heads this way and that, bumping noses and coming at each other a different way until he groaned and held her still and took control. He tasted like mint and warm, wet heat, his tongue silky as it stroked hers. He stopped only to kiss the corners of her lips, her cheek, her chin, then her mouth again, probing and hungry.
Only when his hands slid away from her jaw and moved down to cup her breasts through her sweater, only when piercing pleasure darted to the wanting place between her legs, did she put a palm to his chest and push him back.
Instantly he straightened, flushed and tousled from desire and her gripping fingers.
Oh God. What had she done? “I’m not thinking straight.”
“I like the way you’re thinking.”
But she shook her head and untangled herself from him. Grabbing her pants from the floor, she thrust one leg in, then hopped to get her foot through the material, humiliated and excited, refusing to look at him, because if she did, he would win. She would drop to her knees before him, slide her palms up his hard thighs, and take him, then beg him to put his hands on her everywhere, his mouth and tongue on her flesh, his fingers inside her.
If Colm knew what she was thinking, he didn’t show it. His mouth had thinned to a grim line. He grabbed up her paint-stained tennis shoes and tossed them to her one at a time. She was surprised he didn’t wing them at her head.
“And here,” he added, throwing her the bra she’d left draped over the night table, “you might need this in case someone’s watching your walk of shame and runs to call Max.”
“It’s not a walk of shame.”
He uttered a humorless laugh and leaned back on the bed. “All the girls say that.”
Face burning, she wadded the bra in her hand and headed to the living room. He didn’t follow. When she reached the door, she hesitated. Hollering a belated thanks for letting her stay, for taking care of her while she puked, for being so good as he always was . . . it would have seemed patronizing, so she said nothing. She slipped out and ran for the house, regret burning deep in her chest.
Chapter Twelve
A fiasco. A failure like none he’d known since Azure’s invention of Colm Hennessy. So which side of
him was falling for Sydney Warren, she who was no more than an unknowing customer and the victim of the greatest deception in which he’d ever taken part?
One hour after she’d left his cabin, Colm shoved a hand through his hair and stood barefoot on the guesthouse porch, watching for Sydney to make her way from the big house to her studio. No sign of her. She was probably already there working. There might be no further interaction between them today, no steps toward seduction after all; his lust had chased her off.
Nothing was sexier than a woman he could barely keep his hands off of reaching for him, taking him by surprise, laying her lips on his, digging her fingers into his shoulders and inviting him between her legs. All he’d had to do was ease her back on the pillows, kiss her when she tried to renege, sway her into her own much-needed compliance with hands and mouth.
Why hadn’t he? Why couldn’t he read her when she was ready for the next step? Instead, he and his lack of savvy had all but helped her out the door, watching the extra funds disappear with her.
He drained his mug, went back inside for his shoes, then headed for the studio. As he’d guessed he would, he found her there, her head bent over her palette as she mixed colors and prepared herself for an everyday session with him, as though they hadn’t stood on the precipice of sex only hours before.
By God, if she could fake it, he could, too. It was his job. He drew a breath, determined anew, and stepped quietly through the door, letting his gaze sweep over her slender frame and well-curved ass, letting his desire for her flow through him, no playacting, but the real thing, the true role of his lifetime. But he would follow Max’s path to damnation.