by Robyn Grady
Above the music, his deep voice infiltrated her daydream. “That was nice.”
She heard the smile in his voice. Then guilt convulsed in her throat and her eyes flew open. She inched away from the hard plateau under his dress shirt, the masculine lure of his hips.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
His brow buckled before amusement hooked up one side of his mouth. “Asking Summer to be your maid of honor,” he explained. “That was nice.”
She sighed and smiled. “Oh. That.”
His brow wrinkled again while his own smile widened. “What did you think I meant?”
The press of his hand on her back increased so subtly, she might have imagined it. Of course, she might not have imagined it either.
Her gaze skated over to the band.
Subject change—quick.
“I love this song.”
She felt the heat of his eyes on her, trying to penetrate her veneer. “So I was right in asking you to dance.”
She inwardly groaned. The simmering effects of slow dancing did little to strengthen the answer she’d given to his tempting but unacceptable suggestion this afternoon.
She cocked her head and thought more deeply.
But he wasn’t acting improperly now. Merely adding to the picture they were building on. Reunited lovers. The we-simply-couldn’t-deny-our-feelings-any-longer façade.
At least it was supposed to be a façade.
He rocked her around in a tight circle. When they returned to more regular steps, she was closer, the bodice of her gown touching his shirt. Through the sheer fabric, the tips of her breasts rubbed rhythmically back and forth, and when he threw in a fancy one-two-three, they rubbed a little harder.
The points of contact began to burn. The burn became an ache.
She broke from his hold.
Enough!
“I think we should eat dessert,” she told him firmly.
He cut such an impressive picture, silver beams of light casting shadows over the chiseled planes of his face and dynamite cut of his tux. Without a scrap of effort, his presence dominated the massive room. The energy of his masculinity was lawless.
And dangerously close to irresistible.
He smiled as his hand reached for hers. “Our dance isn’t over.”
She gave him a wide berth.
Oh, yes it is.
Heartbeat clamoring, she wove through a field of besotted couples to find their table.
This was much worse than she first thought. Now that she knew his mind—that he wanted her in his bed—it wasn’t enough that she’d made a choice. No matter how he tempted her, she couldn’t jeopardize her chance with Meg by getting mixed up with Gage on a sexual level. She needed to be sharp, not lovelorn. And yet…
After just one dance, her breasts were on fire and her mind was spinning like a top. All her poor brain could register was the agony-ecstasy of being embraced by the only man who could make her feel like a woman should feel. Desirable, unique. Wanted…cherished…every inch…every minute.
The waves of arousal that had swamped her in her teens were back with a devastating vengeance. Yet, if she gave in to the pleasure and allowed herself to be carried away, no doubt about it—she would drown. Twelve years ago she’d come close to sinking, and the stakes were far higher this time.
She smiled as warmly as she could at Summer and Nick and folded back into her seat.
Summer’s spoon fell against her dish with a click. “Well, that was the world’s quickest dance.”
Gage appeared and pulled his chair in, too. “Seems my skills on the dance floor can’t compete with my fiancée’s sweet tooth.” He gave his napkin a sharp flick and set it on his lap.
Nick slid Summer a questioning look. Summer conveyed a secret shrug. Gage downed the rest of his water and Jenna shifted in her seat.
Awkward moment.
“If I recall correctly, you have a sweet tooth, too, Gage,” Jenna injected brightly to cover everyone’s discomfort. He opened his mouth to speak but Jenna talked over him. “Now, don’t deny it.”
A muscle in his jaw clenched as Gage slid his plate closer. “I was about to say you were the one who changed my mind. I didn’t think I liked dessert until I met you.”
Jenna went limp.
She watched him sample the torte, suck some cream off his thumb, and got the strongest feeling his line wasn’t the least manufactured. One week after they’d first kissed all those years ago, she’d bought a tub of ice cream to share while they watched TV in the pool house—their after-hours hideaway. He’d told her he didn’t like sweet food, only savory—steak, potatoes, thick crusty bread. He simply was not interested in toffee brittle or cupcakes.
But she’d pounced and force-fed him a mouthful of premium French vanilla. Laughing, he’d rolled her off his chest, then swallowed and finally hummed out a big smile.
He’d been so sure about not liking sweets…but a week together and she’d changed his mind.
“Something wrong with your cheesecake?”
At Summer’s murmured question, Jenna brought herself back. She focused on her plate and inhaled the tangy scent of passion-fruit pulp. “I’m sure it’s delicious.”
Gage dabbed his mouth and kicked off a conversation with Nick regarding the strength of the Australian dollar against the greenback. He drew Summer, a leading chartered accountant, into the conversation, too.
A chill crept up Jenna’s spine.
Was he giving her the cold shoulder, annoyed that she’d left him on the dance floor? Or was he frustrated over her unwillingness this afternoon to let him clarify his feelings more fully? Had he changed his mind? Not about ice cream this time, but about spending the rest of his life alone?
Nick’s voice came from far away. “Mate, she doesn’t look too well.”
“Perhaps we should call it a night,” Summer suggested.
Jenna touched her forehead and found it damp. Her smile quivered. “Maybe I shouldn’t have had that second glass of champagne with dinner.”
But champagne bubbles hadn’t lit the fires sparking through her system. A different, unanticipated new spin on things had.
Gage tipped close. “Would you like to leave?”
She nodded then spoke to Nick and Summer. “Sorry to be a bore.”
Nick got to his feet. “Not at all. We can do this again soon.”
Summer stood too and kissed Jenna’s cheek as she rose. “In just under three weeks, in fact. But we won’t be eating torte that day. It’ll be a scrumptious wedding cake.”
They all left the building together. Nick and Summer slipped into a cab while Gage turned in the direction of his penthouse.
But Jenna held back. “Do you mind if we go for a walk?” A blush singed her cheeks as he studied her, and she added, “I could do with the fresh air.”
“You won’t be cold?”
Little chance of that with her internal furnace working at maximum capacity whenever he was near.
She smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
They strolled in silence down a busy city street, headlights flashing in their faces and the Harbour Bridge twinkling like an arc of supernova stars in the distance. Within minutes, they reached Darling Harbour. Al fresco restaurants hummed with life while, farther down, the replica of Captain Cook’s Endeavour sat quietly moored outside the Maritime Museum.
The wind picked up, flapping the massive sails and swirling around Jenna’s hem.
Gage shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her bare shoulders. “Don’t argue,” he chided when she went to object. “The breeze is chilly coming off the water.”
Standing behind her, he positioned the jacket’s big shoulders to fit her far smaller ones.
“Thank you.” She hugged the jacket close, taking secret pleasure in the male scented warmth enveloping her. “And thanks for the lovely evening. I had a nice time.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed Nick and Summer’s company.”
“I enjoyed your c
ompany, too.”
A dark eyebrow lifted. “As long as I don’t get too close,” he observed as they resumed walking.
She tingled, remembering his arms around her, his granite chest and sizzling body heat so agonizingly tempting. What was the safe answer?
She decided there wasn’t one.
The diamond on her finger flashed beneath the city lights and she found herself smiling.
“Jenna Cameron…It has a nice ring to it.” She’d always thought so.
“Cameron was my mother’s maiden name.”
Jenna felt a stab of pain for him—over the loss of his mother, growing up without a father, of being unable to share a father’s name.
“I didn’t know that,” she murmured.
He nodded. “Whenever my mother had one too many and got out the old snaps, she’d insist that our line of Camerons had descended from kings.” He chuckled and kicked a pebble with the toe of his polished lace-up shoe.
“Perhaps it’s true,” she said, but his wry smile said he doubted it. “Have you ever tried to look up your family tree?”
His smile changed. “You’re kidding, right?”
She took him in, the uncompromising jut of his jaw, the lock of inky hair lifting in the salty breeze. “You might discover she’s right and you do have royal blood in your veins.”
That might help explain his exceptional abilities as a leader.
“More likely I’m descended from convicts. Only took a dozen generations to crawl our way out of the squalor.”
He grinned but she didn’t see humor in the single line bracketing his mouth.
“Guess it doesn’t matter where we came from. Just who we turn out to be.”
He stopped just as a cloud swallowed up the moonlight. “Jenna, where we come from is who we are.”
“If that were true, you’d be wearing some type of crown or dragging chains.”
“Yes,” he said, “I would.”
Dropping his gaze, he kicked another pebble. It skipped clear across the ground and plopped in the water. Needing a little time to think over his last remark, she followed it toward the water’s edge, but he called her back.
“Hey, I thought we were walking.”
She shrugged. “I walked over here.”
“I prefer dry land. Blame the psychogenetic memory of great, great granddaddy locked in the hull of that convict ship. I don’t think he could swim, either.”
She laughed. “I promise not to push you in.”
His arms raveled over his chest.
Jenna grinned.
Stubborn man.
She moved back and, equally determined, set her hands on her hips. When her elbows jutted, the jacket dislodged. Jenna grabbed to save it, but Gage moved first. He caught the sleeves, pinning them against her upper arms. The action also drew her in and toward him—wonderfully, dangerously close.
With his chest inches from hers, he searched her eyes. Her toes curled as sensual longing ignited a sizzling trail through her body. It was all she could do not to press a little closer, a little harder.
“Let’s keep walking,” she murmured, and then to ease the tension, “You can impress me with your knowledge of yachts.”
“I know nothing about yachts.” But he loosened his hold, rounded the jacket up over her shoulders, and they began to walk down the pier.
“You don’t have a hundred-foot cruiser?” She’d seen pictures of the excessive luxury available on such vessels. Surely Gage would have one or two documented on his assets list.
“I don’t like water, remember? Italian sports cars, corporate jets, no problem. Boats? Not even a little bit.”
She hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but whenever he’d visited her at the pool house years ago, he had always stayed well clear of the pool itself. He really didn’t like water? But why? There must be some good reason.
The pocket of his jacket buzzed—his cell phone. Jenna grinned. As if he would ever leave that behind.
After asking permission, he dug into a pocket and checked the cell’s screen. “Excuse me.” He thumbed a button. “This is important.”
As he spoke—something about Dubai—she breathed in the briny air, examined the rows of vessels and stole sidelong glances at his profile, wondering. Maybe even hoping.
Phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, Gage asked permission again to rummage through his jacket. This time he retrieved a pen and scribbled a few words on his hand. Another few seconds and he disconnected.
“Guess the Cameron shop never shuts down,” she said.
He reread the message on his hand. “I’ve neglected a few matters.”
He was about to slot the pen away, but it flashed in a pier light and, on impulse, Jenna reached for it. He seemed reluctant to give it up.
She weighed the pen in her palm. “Hmm, heavy. It’s not pure gold, is it?” His expression was noncommittal and she looked closer. “It is pure gold.”
“That’s not so unusual.”
“Maybe not for you. What’s this?” She rotated the pen and squinted in the hazy light. “An inscription? No. A symbol of some kind.” She passed over it with her fingertip. “A vertical line with an arc at one end. It’s a tree. Or an anchor.”
“It’s a plane. Why would I buy a pen with an anchor etched on it?”
She rolled her eyes theatrically. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t like water. But you do like jets.” And your Maserati. Leading examples of speed and power.
He reached for the pen. Unprepared, she fumbled and it fell then bounced on the rough decking. Gage swooped and caught it a second before it might have rolled off into the harbour, lost forever.
Horrified, Jenna’s hands flew to her mouth. “Gage, I’m so sorry.”
He rose from his haunches. “No harm done. I would’ve hated to see you jump in there to get it though.”
When he grinned, so did she.
But her smile faded. “It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
He slipped the pen into his trouser pocket. “I bought it on a whim after a stock market gain, and signed my first big contract with it. I used it constantly until it started to wear. Now I generally keep it for important documents.”
Yet he carried it around with him even when there were no contracts in sight? “Sounds like that pen is your good luck charm.” And quite possibly more than that…a connection.
He shrugged. “Either way, I don’t want to lose it.”
“The pen with the plane, not the anchor or tree.”
He winked. “Now you’re catching on.”
“Am I?”
As their gazes held, the atmosphere changed from relaxed to suddenly steamy. The heavy weight of lost years shrank and crystallized into a single, bright, hypercharged moment.
Was she reading too much into how adamantly he defended what that pen represented? Wealth, travel, independence, freedom. All the things he’d let her know were important to him a week ago.
Ice cream was one thing, life choices another. And, no matter how much she secretly wished it were otherwise, Gage seemed set on his choices. Beyond that? He was quite simply a magnificent enigma. No matter how many times she second-guessed herself, she would never know Gage Cameron. The reality was—to try might mean her downfall.
A cold, wet drop fell on Jenna’s nose. At the same moment lightning flashed and a roll of distant thunder rumbled. Distracted, she looked up, and as if on cue, the rain came down.
When she shrieked, Gage swept the jacket over her head. A second later, he cursed and also ducked under cover.
While his arms made an awkward umbrella of the jacket, her palm landed against the hard wall of his chest. His heartbeat resonated through her fingers then spread like an electric current through her body. Crazy, and yet, for the first time in too long, she felt…safe.
His big shoulders were hunched. “We’re soaked through.”
She grinned. “I noticed.”
“You said you wouldn’t make me swim.”
She grinned more, then couldn’t help but think, Would it really be so scary to swim, Gage? Couldn’t you get used to it?
This seemed the ideal as well as the most inappropriate moment to ask. “Why do you have such an aversion to water?”
“Ever wonder about the scar on my lip? I knocked three of my baby teeth out when I was washed down a storm pipe at age five. On top of swallowing a whole lot of mud, I almost drowned.”
Jenna gasped. She couldn’t imagine how terrified he must have been. “Did you ever think of seeing a professional to help you get over your fear?”
He smiled in grim amusement. “Avoidance has worked very well up till now.”
Yet they continued to stand in the downpour, beneath the jacket. They should have run for shelter, but neither one moved while the rain pounded at their feet and his heart thudded near her palm.
“Jenna?”
In the dark, she imagined his mouth was incredibly close. “Yes, Gage?”
He seemed to move nearer.
She did the same….
Seven
Standing in the pouring rain, both huddled beneath his tuxedo jacket, the reality was unavoidable. Gage was going to kiss her.
How would she react? Jenna couldn’t think past the frantic beating of her heart, or the way her every fiber cried out for him to do it now.
She held her breath, waiting…
Then Gage groaned deeply and took her hand. “We’ve had enough fresh air.”
The jacket came down and they ran off together, splashing through the puddles.
Ten minutes later, they entered the penthouse, shaking their wet hands and slipping off sodden shoes.
“Can I get you a towel? Something warm to drink?” Gage crossed to the bar, threw the drenched jacket over the back of a stool and reached for a crystal decanter. He poured himself two fingers in a heavy glass. No ice.
A convulsive shudder rippled up Jenna’s spine. She was freezing, but a hot chocolate would suit her far better than scotch.