by Day Leclaire
“This is a mistake,” she informed him.
He could barely contain his groan. “How can it be when we feel like this whenever we touch?”
He scorched a pathway of fire along her bared shoulder to her neck. Cupping the back of her head, he drew her up for a kiss. A low, delicious moan escaped her and her lips parted, surrendering beneath his. She tasted amazing. How had he survived two whole months without tasting her again? Without having her in his arms. And soon—very, very soon—he’d have her beneath him, be inside of her again. One way or another, before he left Vista del Mar, he’d quench the insatiable thirst she roused in him.
He pulled back and smiled down at her. “You’re overdressed, sweetheart.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She offered a swift, gamine-like grin. “I rather like having you naked and at my mercy.”
“And what do you plan to do with me?”
“This…”
Her hands slid downward, over steely abs, and lower still. She cupped him, her hands unbelievably soft, shaping the length and breadth of him with gentle strokes. He almost lost it. But when he attempted to pull away, she shook her head in mock disapproval.
“Ah, ah, ah. You’re at my mercy, remember?”
Hell. “Is there any point in begging you to be gentle with me?”
“None.” A sultry smile drifted across her mouth and deepened the color of her eyes. “Since you’re one of those types who likes to be in charge all the time, you have to play this my way or we don’t play at all.”
“I’m not sure I like those rules,” he complained.
Just when he thought he couldn’t control himself a moment longer, she slid her hands upward and wrapped them around his neck. “But you’ll play by them, won’t you?”
He shot her a look filled with a combination of threat and warning. “For now.”
She tilted her head to one side in assessment. “Something tells me you’re a dangerous man to cross,” she said slowly.
“That something is called sheer self-preservation. I’d listen to your instincts.”
She simply laughed. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”
“How can you possibly know that? We’ve only been together for a handful of hours.”
Her laughter faded beneath the challenge of his statement and she studied him, pinned him in place with a penetrating stare. In that moment, he could see the father reflected in the daughter, the same fierce determination. “Is that the sort of man you are? Do you deliberately try and hurt people?”
“No. Not even a little. Will I hurt you? I hope like hell I won’t. It depends on where this takes us and what we decide to do about it if we continue down this road.”
A shadow flickered across her face. “I don’t want to worry about what happens next. If we’re going to do this, I can only handle tonight.”
“Then let’s make tonight count,” he suggested, allowing her a glimpse of the intensity of his passion.
She teetered, but she’d already made her decision, had made it shortly after he’d dumped her on to the bed. Whatever they’d ignited in his penthouse apartment in New York had continued to burn, the embers buried but still white-hot and ready to burst into flames with a simple touch.
“Please make love to me,” she whispered into the darkness.
“My pleasure.”
She pulled him in for another kiss, this one slow and languid, expressing a longing that matched his own. “Undress me,” came the hungry command.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He found the zip beneath her arm and lowered it. The bodice loosened, parted, allowing him access to the soft roundness of her breast. He shaped it in his hand and felt the nipple tighten and swell. She was so elegantly made, delicate and fine-boned. And yet there was a supple strength beneath her softness that spoke of someone well-honed in both body and spirit.
He pulled her up off the bed and into his arms, allowing the gown to drift downward. It snagged at the swell of her hips and she gave a quick shimmy that sent it sliding to the floor. She stood before him clad in garter and stockings, a small pale triangle of silk panties protecting her modesty. He eased her back onto the mattress.
“You’re beautiful, Emma.”
The words seemed so inadequate. Shallow. And despite what Rafe claimed, Chase didn’t find anything shallow about Emma. Granted, he didn’t know her well. Yet. But her intelligence glittered in her eyes, and enthusiasm exuded from her, a quiet, wholehearted joie de vivre filling her up and overflowing onto everyone around her.
With swift, economical movements he loosened the straps of her heels and tossed them aside. He took more time removing her garters and stockings, tripping his fingers along the outer edge of her shapely legs and then up again along the sensitive inner length. She shivered when he reached her thighs. Moaned as he approached the apex. Released a soft cry of need the instant he cupped the very heart of her through her silk panties.
Just that one touch left her teetering on the brink, as close to going over as he was. At the last possible moment he remembered to grab a condom from the nightstand table. Then he swept her panties from her hips and settled down on top of her. Her lips were swollen from his kisses and a flush ran feverishly high along the curve of her cheekbones. Passion turned her eyes dark with need, a ripe, blistering ardor that more than matched his own.
“Why did you leave me last November when we have this between us? When it only takes a single touch for us both to go up in flames?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were or how to find you again?”
“I was afraid.”
“Afraid of me?”
She shook her head, her hair forming a pale, tangled halo of white gold. “Not of you. Never of you. I was afraid of this. Of wanting someone like you so much.”
“Afraid of how you respond when we come together?”
In one swift move he mated their bodies, one to the other. The breath sobbed from her lungs. “Yes. Oh, please don’t stop. I’ve been waiting so long to feel like this again.”
“Look at me, Emma. I want you to know who you’re with.”
Anger burned alongside her desperation. “I know who I’m with, Chase. How could I possibly forget how it was between us?”
The admission threw him off stride, but only for a moment. “It’ll be even better this time,” he promised.
Because this time he knew what she wanted. What made her sing. What made her explode. What made her soar within his arms. And he’d do everything within his power to give her all that and more.
As much as he wanted to take her fast and hard, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He needed that slow build, to experience that climb every inch of the way. To absorb her breathless moans with his every kiss and have that soft, soft flesh brushing against his. To savor the sweet scent of desire gathering in the air and taste it on her mouth and skin.
He sampled first her lips, then her breasts. And he moved with her, a slow, gliding waltz. He caught her hands in his and locked them over her head, their fingers entwined. Her legs slid along his, her toes pressing into his calves in joyous welcome, then wrapping around his hips, anchoring him tight. The tempo increased, moving from waltz to tango.
Sighs turned to murmurs of demand. Control escaped his grasp. How was that possible? He never lost control with women. Always maintained a safe distance even in the most intimate of situations. Never allowed anyone to glimpse his raw emotions in case they were used against him. But with Emma… The dance grew ever faster and he surrendered to the drive, to the magical music the two of them made whenever they came together. She arched beneath him, bowing upward as her climax slammed through her. He couldn’t help himself. He followed her up and over, leaping with her into that glittering place of rapture met and fantasy realized.
Silence reigned for endless seconds afterward, while they both struggled to catch their breath. “How do you do that?” Emma asked at last, gasping for air. “How do you take us so much further than I ever beli
eved possible?”
Her heartbeat thundered against his, a perfect counterpoint to his own. “It’s a skill.”
“One you have down pat, apparently.” She spared him a speaking glance. “Lots of practice?”
“Some. But with you—” He broke off before he revealed too much.
“With me…what?”
“It’s different.” And that’s all he intended to say.
She slipped out from beneath him and curled tight against his side, one leg thrown across his. “Different how?”
How the hell had he gotten into this? He decided to take the manly way out. “Why ruin the moment by picking it apart?”
She simply laughed. “Oh, please. You can’t get out of explaining yourself with that old dodge. You’re the one who brought it up.”
“You know it’s different without my explaining how or why,” he insisted gruffly.
“I just wanted to hear you admit it.” She relaxed against him. “And if it makes you feel any better, I don’t understand why we’re like this together, either.”
Chase had always been good at analyzing disparate elements and organizing them into a recognizable shape. It was one of the factors that made him such an outstanding investor. The instant Emma admitted that her reaction to him didn’t mirror what she experienced with other men, a puzzle piece clicked into place, causing that night in New York to assume a new and fascinating shape.
“You realized it the first time we were together, didn’t you?” he asked. “You realized that what we feel when we’re together is different somehow.”
She reluctantly nodded. “Yes.”
He dropped the other shoe. Hell, a closet full of shoes. “And that knowledge scared you.”
She hesitated for another telling moment before asking, “Doesn’t it scare you?”
“Anything I can’t control scares me,” he admitted.
“So what now?”
“Now we go to sleep.”
She didn’t speak for a brief moment, then remarked, “Wait until the cold light of day when we’re both running scared before discussing what happens next?”
His mouth twitched. Her sense of humor always took him by surprise. It was something he was learning to appreciate about her. “Better than making rash or stupid decisions in the post-heat of passion.”
“Okay.”
He slid his fingers into her hair and turned her toward him. “You’re still going to be here when morning comes, right?”
“As you pointed out, I don’t have a car. Plus, you know where I live.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I’d just as soon you not come pounding on my father’s front door demanding to know why I’m not still in your bed.”
“Fair enough. Tomorrow we’ll discuss this rationally over breakfast like two mature adults.”
Chase woke to an empty bed and shot upright. Son of a bitch! So much for discussing their situation like two mature adults. He touched the sheet beside him, expecting to find it stone cold. To his relief it was still warm, which meant Emma couldn’t have gotten far. He escaped the bed, and almost tripped over her dress. It rested in the middle of the floor in a crumpled pearl-gray heap of silk where he vaguely remembered tossing it.
He checked the nightstand table for his car keys. They were there, right beside his BlackBerry. Okay. Chances were Emma hadn’t taken off naked and hitchhiked home. That meant she was around here, someplace. He noticed the bathroom door was closed and smiled.
Gotcha.
He padded across the room naked and rapped lightly on the door. “Why don’t I get the coffee going?” he offered.
“Fine.”
Chase paused. Her voice sounded odd, tight and almost pained. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
There it was again, that underlying edge of despair. It didn’t take much thought to figure out what caused it. Morning-After Regret. Well, tough. She’d have to deal with it because he didn’t regret what happened one little bit. And he intended it to happen again at their earliest convenience…like immediately after breakfast.
He snagged a pair of jeans and yanked them on before heading toward the kitchen. At the last second he pocketed the car keys, just to be on the safe side. He wished he’d remembered to add beans and water to the coffeemaker last night. If he had he’d be enjoying his first hit of caffeine right this minute—the most crucial part of his morning—instead of waiting the endless five minutes it would take to percolate.
But he’d had more important matters on his mind the previous evening. Like Emma. He made short work of the coffee and opened the refrigerator to rummage through the contents, not that it offered up much in the way of real food. He spent most mealtimes in a restaurant entertaining clients or, occasionally, a woman. So what did he have that qualified as breakfast?
Beer. Okay, he considered that real food, at least it was in his world. Still, probably not the best option to offer Emma for breakfast. He shoved the beer aside and pulled out a carton of eggs. That would work. Bread and butter. He still had some left over from last night. And a pint of half-and-half. Fair enough, he decided. It could be worse.
He consumed his first cup of coffee while making some halfway decent scrambled eggs, even if they were a tad rubbery, and toast that wasn’t too badly burnt. After dumping everything onto two plates and placing them on the breakfast table, he poured a second cup of coffee for himself and a first one for Emma. Based on what she’d ordered after their one dinner together, she liked it heavy on the milk and light on the sugar. Considering he spent his day putting together million-dollar deals and handling tens of millions worth of investments, he was inordinately pleased with himself over throwing together such a simple breakfast. Now he just needed someone to share it with him.
“Emma?”
He entered the bedroom, his brows snapping together when he saw that she still occupied the bathroom. No sound of running water. No feminine splashing or fussing. Just a nerve-wracking silence. Hell. She’d been off-color last night. Was she sick? He tapped on the door.
“Sweetheart? Are you all right?”
“Go away,” she moaned.
“The hell I will. Fair warning, I’m coming in.”
“No, don’t—”
“Too late. I’m in.”
To his concern, he found Emma curled up on the tile floor, her face buried in the knees she’d drawn to her chest. He’d have found it amusing that she wore his dress shirt from the night before if she didn’t look so utterly wretched. He crouched down beside her and smoothed her damp hair away from her brow. Her complexion was as snowy white as his shirt, with just the merest hint of green for contrast. Not a good color combination on her.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said sympathetically. “I didn’t realize you were unwell. What can I do to help?”
“Other than go away?”
He smiled. “Sorry, sweetheart, I’m not made like that. What’s option number two?”
“Hold my head while I get sick again?”
He winced. “Stomach virus? Food poisoning?”
“That would be nice,” she replied in a muffled voice.
Okay, that didn’t make the least bit of sense. “Why would a stomach virus or food poisoning be nice?” he asked cautiously.
She lifted her head, her eyes dark and bleak. “Think it through, Chase. You’ll get there.”
Maybe if he’d downed that second cup of coffee it would all make perfect sense to him. After all, his analytical skills were pretty damn impressive. But for some reason they seemed to be on the fritz this morning. He shook his head, indicating his bewilderment. “I’m obviously missing something here. Care to fill me in so we can both be on the same page?”
She sighed. “Take one woman. Add a tablespoon of gee-she’s-sick. Toss in a cup of second-missed-period.” She made a small stirring motion with her finger. “Mix with hey-it’s-morning. And guess what you get?”
No. Oh, hell no. “You’re pregnant?” He meant to ask the question calmly,
with the same stony cool attitude with which he’d learned to handle all of life’s crises. Unfortunately, somewhere between “you’re” and “pregnant” his voice had risen to a roar.
She flinched. “I don’t know for certain. But I’d say all the signs are there.”
“You said…” He shot a hand through his hair, struggling to think straight. What the devil had she said? “You said second missed period. As in January, minus two equals November. We were together in November. We were together, together in November.”
“You know something, Larson?” she asked, an edge in her voice. “You really are a genius when it comes to numbers and statistical analysis.”
“Can the sarcasm, Worth. I’m not the one on the floor puking my guts out. As I recall we used protection each time we made love that night.” He never, ever made love without precautions, since he’d never risk the possibility of history repeating itself.
“Yeah, that bothered me at first, too.” To his horror tears filled her eyes. Huge, gut-wrenching, I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening tears. “It was the shower that did us in.”
“The shower,” he repeated stupidly.
“Exactly. The shower. It came off, remember?”
He winced. That’s right. It had. “You think the baby’s mine?”
“No,” she shot back, insulted. “The baby’s mine. You were simply involved in the conception.”
He bit off a sharp retort. Sniping wouldn’t get them anywhere fast. First things first. “Have you seen a doctor? Had a pregnancy test?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’ve been deluding myself the past few weeks that I was simply late.”
“Two months late?”
“It happens,” she retorted defensively. “Or so I’ve heard. But now…”
“Now you’re not so sure.”
She buried her face in her knees again. “No.”
He struggled to think logically, to tackle the problem—assuming a baby could be considered a problem—one step at a time. “First, is there anything I can do to help with the sickness?”