by Lyric James
She took in the room more clearly this time, with its large dimensions and open space, telling herself it wasn’t so she could get to know the man but so she would have more filler for the story she would eventually write when she left here.
The room was painted a rich, burnt orange and she knew even if she searched a hundred stores she wouldn’t be able to find the beautiful mahogany furniture anywhere. It was large and unique. She walked to the tall six-drawer dresser and traced the tips of her fingers over the intricately carved pattern duplicated on the face of each drawer.
“It’s a phoenix,” she said and smiled, looking over her shoulder at Jordan.
The expression on his face was unreadable. “Yes. My guardian’s father made it all for me, years ago.”
Her mouth fell open. “Your grandfather made all these pieces?” she asked, astonished at the amount of craftsmanship and expertise it must have taken.
Layla explored the room as he watched her, trailing her fingers over different pieces. Beside each nightstand were tall bookshelves that almost reached the ceiling. Each was filled with books she’d also read herself, which made her smile. There was a carved phoenix that looked like it was in the middle of flight sitting on a pedestal in the corner by the door.
She could imagine Jordan sitting in the brown leather chair every morning, reading the financial section of the newspaper with a cup of coffee on the small, round table beside the balcony doors he’d left open.
She ran her fingers over the silky burnt-orange, brown and cream duvet, knowing it was a thread count so high it probably felt like water when you were underneath it. She was tempted to snuggle into the plump pillows clustered against the headboard and fall asleep. Underneath her bare feet, she felt the plushness of the cocoa-colored carpet. Damn, she could get used to this.
She honestly couldn’t keep still. She was in new territory here. What the heck were they supposed to do now? Have sex again?
“Well,” she said and smiled hesitantly. “Do you um…have something I could put on?”
He looked at her quizzically before running his gaze over her from head to toe. He stood and grunted. “Sure.”
When he came forward, her smile faltered. He held her gaze, before his eyes dropped to her mouth, then to her cleavage exposed above the towel she had wrapped around herself. She felt her nipples peak, her breasts warm as heat coiled low in her abdomen. How could she possibly want him again after what just happened between them?
“I need to get to the drawer behind you.”
“Oh. Sorry,” she said and stepped to the side. His nearness alone triggered intimate thoughts, visions of hot sex. A mental picture of Jordan, naked and aroused, grew in her mind. Had he turned her into a sex freak?
“Here you go.”
He gave her a black cotton T-shirt almost identical to the one she’d had on earlier, only larger. After she turned her back to him, she let the towel drop to the floor and slipped the shirt over her head. It fell to the middle of her thighs and the cool air of the room reminded her she didn’t have underwear to slip on too.
When she turned around, he was standing right there.
His eyes locked with hers. With a fingertip, he traced the neckline of the T-shirt from the pulse beating madly at her throat, down the edge of the sleeve, down her arm. Did he know what she was feeling again?
“Are you ready for bed?”
Her mouth closed and opened again. For a second, she saw a look that flashed in the depths of his eyes she didn’t understand. He wanted her. She knew that but something about the way his irises flared to life almost took her breath away.
“Yes.”
Before she could tell him to stop, he swept her off her feet into his strong and capable arms.
“This isn’t necessary. I’m a big girl. I can walk two feet to the bed.”
Jordan chuckled before placing her gently on the bed. “I want to make sure you don’t get away.” He kissed her knuckles. “For a few hours anyway.”
What happened to her nerves of steel? She’d agreed to this challenge, damn it. She wanted her story, didn’t she? But Jordan was making her want more, to question the real reason she was here. Yeah, she’d had sex with him but she wasn’t supposed to make it this easy for him. She wasn’t supposed to develop…feelings.
“You’re used to getting your own way,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“What’s the point otherwise?”
Layla moved away from him. His nearness caused little tingles all along her nervous system. “You can’t possibly believe this secret of yours will stay that way after tonight,” she retorted.
“When you decided to break into my home, you made your first error of the night.” He wrapped fingers as unyielding as handcuffs around her wrists. Long, lean fingers with well-kept nails and a spattering of dark hair across the knuckles. “Come on. It’s time for bed.”
Had she ever felt like this in her life? It was as though he’d mesmerized her. Her heart began to beat a fast, steady rhythm and the warmth from his touch spread throughout her limbs.
Minutes later, she was snuggled next to Jordan on his huge bed, his arm slung over her waist. But for some reason, sleep wouldn’t come.
The door to the balcony was now closed but the soft glow from the moonlit sky illuminated the room. He was curled against her back, his breath wafting over her neck as if he was supposed to be there, as if what happened between them tonight was perfectly natural.
Chapter Four
Jordan lay on his back and listened to Layla’s even breathing. He hadn’t expected to feel anything for her. Sure, he’d had an ulterior motive for blackmailing her into staying in his home and having sex with him. He’d needed time to figure out how to deal with her and coerce her not to tell his story.
He hadn’t expected the sex to be so incredible. He hadn’t expected to experience comfort and a general sense of well-being while he was with her. He never thought he’d hear her personal thoughts and want to kiss her so badly he’d have to mentally and physically stop himself from doing so.
If he’d given her the phoenix kiss…it was something he didn’t want to think about. Something he’d never encountered with any woman.
Number one, he never brought women into his home. Layla broke in but that was beside the point. She was still there. Even now, he resisted the urge to turn on his side and pull her close to him so he could feel her body next to his.
Number two, he’d expected to be able to maintain a distance from what happened between them. He’d wanted to treat this night exactly like any other business deal and strategize until he reached his ultimate goal. He hadn’t become the head of a vast international network of businesses and hotel chains by sitting back and not going after what he wanted.
He’d actually fallen asleep with his arm draped over her, knowing that what he wanted more than anything was to wake up in the morning with this woman in his bed.
Jordan shoved himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her sleeping form. Her face in sleep was without guile or purpose. It was beautiful, with high cheekbones, a delicately tipped nose and graceful chin.
Her beautiful brown skin looked like warm caramel next to his stark-white sheets. He couldn’t believe this woman hunted down and investigated the most intimate secrets about people and published them for the world to see.
But he needed to remember that. It was the reason she was in his home, to reveal his secrets to the world.
Jordan willed a cold lump of clay into his heart and rose quietly out of the bed, strode to the alarm system beside the door and entered the sequence of numbers to turn off the interior doors. With a last look behind him at her sleeping form, he left the room.
He marched downstairs to his kitchen and flung open the refrigerator. His eyes raced over the food inside and, as his mind began to formulate a plan, he decided what he wanted to cook and began to pull out items.
He didn’t want to discern why he was so grumpy. With the smallest glimm
er of humor, he knew he was being ridiculous. So she’d gotten under his skin a little bit. After tonight she’d be gone again and he’d find an even more willing woman to fill his bed and remove any memory of Layla Martin from his mind. The thoughts of hers he heard didn’t really happen. It was his imagination.
But Jordan knew for some reason she’d touched him in a place he’d never before been touched in his life. In the phoenix soul he’d buried so deep he thought it would never surface again. He’d never allowed it before. Had never wanted to, had become an expert at blocking it.
However, the instant he found her toppled over on his closet floor, it was if he’d had no choice but to her let her in. In a way he bitterly resented, she’d pierced each and every one of his defenses.
After he broke the spaghetti noodles in half, he dropped them in the boiling water and drained any excess oil from the lean hamburger meat he’d cooked. He began to roll out dough on a cutting board. Forward and backward, he pushed the rolling pin and wished he could remove the ache in his heart the way he flattened the lumps out of the floured dough.
Instead of moping, he should be trying to figure a way out of this mess. It was his fault for not turning on his alarm system. Hell, he never did. When he was out in his phoenix form, he always left his balcony doors open and the alarm system off so he could fly directly into his bedroom. Today, he’d come to regret that decision.
Again, he pounded the dough, pressing, pushing, until all the lumps were out, reminding himself that even though the sex had been extraordinary…thank God he hadn’t kissed her. Then he’d really be in trouble.
She’d tried to several times but he’d become an expert at avoiding that particular mating ritual. Literally. If he kissed her, he would be stuck with the damn woman for the rest of his life. He refused to believe she was meant to be his mate. A damn reporter.
He’d almost succumbed, her mouth had been so tantalizing and sweet. He’d congratulated himself that he was able to withstand the driving need to capture her lips between his. But he’d come close. Really close.
Jordan shook it off as he took his rolling cutter and sliced perfect three-inch by twelve-inch rectangles to make homemade cinnamon rolls. He’d made them so much over the years, the recipe came so easily to him, it was like adding one plus one without using his fingers.
He decided to take his mind out of it, stop thinking about it. He’d already told himself he would treat it like business. A solution would come to him soon enough.
So he cooked. He drained the spaghetti noodles, added the meat seasoned with onions and bell pepper and then stirred in the spaghetti sauce. He rolled the rectangular squares for the cinnamon rolls into perfect circles and sprinkled them with a mixture of brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar before putting them in the oven to cook for twenty minutes.
While he waited for the spaghetti to bubble hot, he poured a glass of wine, leaned against the counter and stared out into the night.
But he knew he was in trouble when he immediately sensed Layla had woken up.
Shit.
Layla swung her legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the tips of her toes through the soft carpet. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand behind her. Two thirty.
She had six more hours.
Her stomach began to make a most unladylike sound and she smelled a slight whiff of cinnamon and some type of Italian sauce.
He was cooking.
She stood, more than aware she had nothing on under the black T-shirt Jordan had given her earlier. But the smells that assaulted her nose were more important to her than impropriety right now. She was freaking starving. She hadn’t had a chance to eat dinner before she broke in…visited Jordan’s home tonight.
About to open the door, she stopped herself and looked at the green light flashing on the alarm panel. She hoped it meant the alarm system was off. Surely he wouldn’t lock her in the room. Would he?
She grasped the doorknob and pulled, relieved a horn didn’t start blaring. She vaguely remembered where the kitchen was even though she’d bypassed sightseeing through his home when she’d broken in. The one thing on her mind had been finding his bedroom. She’d told herself she’d explore later. But right now, the monster growling in her stomach took precedent. The only room she wanted to explore was the room with the food.
When she found Jordan, she stopped cold and stared. Cerulean-blue paint covered the walls of the huge kitchen and polished cherry-wood cabinets lined three sides. Above the large farmhouse sink was a backsplash of glass tiles.
The floors were a light wooden-gold tone that gleamed, and a stainless steel double refrigerator, regular oven, confectioner’s oven and microwave took up one wall. An octagon-shaped island sat in the center with a black granite top. The man loved granite. A tall crystal vase was in the center, bursting with ice-blue hydrangeas and white roses.
What surprised her most, though, was Jordan. In one hand he held a glass of red wine. In the other, he was wearing one of those baking mittens and pulling a pan out of the oven.
She swooped in and stood beside him. “Are those cinnamon rolls?”
He turned to look at her. “Yes.”
“Oh my goodness, they smell divine.”
And they were her absolute favorite dessert.
Unlike Jordan, from what she could tell from the items that still littered the countertop, she didn’t make hers from scratch. All she did was make a quick run to the grocery store to find the refrigerated section and the Pillsbury Doughboy.
Jordan set the round pan on a cooling rack and turned the oven off.
She moved to sniff the rolls and closed her eyes in anticipation of savoring one in her mouth.
Jordan sagged against the island and sipped his wine, with one arm hugging his middle, and watched her as she moved from the pan of cinnamon rolls to the stove.
She lifted the pot and grinned like an idiot. “I think I’ll move in here with you,” she jokingly said, glancing over her shoulder.
“Are you trying to say the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach? I thought that was just men.”
Beside the pot on the stove was a utensil holder. Layla picked up a fork, twirled it around and pulled out a steaming mouthful of spaghetti. She held her other palm under the fork, blew on the food and put it in her mouth.
After she chewed, she said, “No. That’s just me. Most women like a man who buys her purses and shoes, jewelry. Me, cook me a meal and you’ll have to push me away. That was so good, by the way. Did you make the sauce from scratch too?”
“Yes. It’s an old family recipe. I take it you’re hungry.”
Why she felt so at home, she didn’t know. She began to open drawers and cupboards until she found a plate. When she turned around, he was standing so close she could still smell the soap from their shower several hours ago.
He reached for it. “Allow me.”
She quirked a brow but gave him the plate.
He nodded to the barstools on the other side of the island. “Have a seat.”
Layla couldn’t help but watch him. He was so comfortable in this space, as if it were an extension of who he was. And damn if he didn’t look sexy. Because he’d only put on the pajama bottoms, his muscular chest teased her with every move he made.
She bent over the counter. No shoes either. He even had the nerve to have sexy feet. Why didn’t he have one flaw? A bunion on his big toe. A huge, grotesque boil on his back. Something.
Before long, she had a steaming plate of spaghetti and a cool glass of white wine sitting in front of her. Jordan stood across from her and ate also. An awkward silence stretched between them, which would have been fine with her but she had to get her game face back on and start thinking like a reporter. There were questions to be asked and answered.
Plus, undeniable proof needed to be found so she could tell the world what Jordan was. This was the exposé of her career and she was not going to blow it. No matter how good the sex was.
Yeah, she’d agreed to a little bit of quid pro quo to get the information she needed but spending a night with Jordan Gaines was hardly a sacrifice. The man was gorgeous and sexy and the sex was, needless to say, outstanding.
Except she needed a plan of action that involved more than salivating over the man she planned to write an exclusive feature about.
He turned to pour himself another glass of wine. “How does a Brown University graduate end up working for a newspaper like the Tattler?”
The fork heading up to her mouth stalled and she lowered it back to her plate. “How did you know that?”
Jordan glanced at an alcove in the corner of the kitchen she hadn’t noticed and back at her again. A laptop sat in the center. From this distance, she could see the logo for her newspaper and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a picture of her from her bio page.
“I’m also quite capable of doing research,” he said.
All the insecurities, fears and shame she’d harbored at the beginning of her career came roaring back. She shook it off. “It’s the job I wanted.”
“Oh no.” He shook his head and smiled. “You’re not getting off that easy. You broke in my house to get a story, to ask me questions. You can at least answer mine truthfully. Tell me how the daughter of a renowned doctor and a judge ends up working for a tabloid.”
Layla set her fork down and looked him straight in the eye. “It was the only paper that would hire me. Satisfied?”
His shoulders rose and fell. “Has to be more to it than that.”
“I tried, okay. The Atlanta Herald. The San Francisco Chronicle. The New York Times. I tried them all but evidently I didn’t have what it took to work for any of them. I was desperate. My parents were giving me those looks they give you. What’s wrong with her? We raised her so well. All that money spent on college for nothing.”
Layla could still remember it. Six months after she’d graduated with honors from Brown, she still didn’t have a job. She’d moved back home with her parents, had been sending out resumes for months, going on interviews. But no one would hire her. The disappointment in her parents’ eyes had killed her.