The Magic of Love Series

by Margaret Locke

  Convinced herself? She’d thought of the two of them together? He had, late at night when sleep wouldn’t come, but hadn’t wanted to admit it, had wanted to chalk it up to sexual frustration and an attempt to relieve himself of the stress he was under.

  Something in her voice caught at him, some undercurrent he didn’t care for. Shame. Shame is what he heard.

  “Hey now,” he said, his hand reaching up unconsciously, his fingers dropping just before they brushed her cheek. “You weren’t brazen. I just ... we can’t. Cat, Ben ... ”

  She nodded stiffly. “If you don’t mind, my head is spinning. I think it best if I retire.”

  Guilt slammed into him. Of all the times to stick his foot in his mouth, why did it have to be now? How had he managed to make such a gorgeous woman feel so rejected?

  Because you rejected her, you idiot.

  He said nothing as she stumbled to the guest room. She didn’t look back.

  They could talk about it in the morning. If she even remembered. In the meantime, she needed to sleep it off, and he ...

  He needed to work it off.

  Chapter 18

  When Amara woke the next morning, her head pounded like thundering cannons, a steady rhythmic pain she’d rather do without.

  Why did men drink, if the aftermath was like this? Her body ached, her stomach roiled. She never wanted to move again. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, she could go back to sleep and forget where she was, forget what had happened. She’d made advances to Matthew Goodson, and he’d told her outright he didn’t want her.

  She didn’t know which upset her more, his rejection, or her own behavior, which went against everything she was trying to do. Didn’t it?

  No, a different inner voice said, one obviously clothed in red and carrying a pitchfork. There’s nothing wrong with a liaison—or fling, as Eliza’d termed it. And if she was going to indulge in a fling, Matthew’s physical beauty made him the ideal candidate. There was no denying it; she was wildly attracted to him. That thick, closely cropped brown hair. Those eyes, the way they burned right through her. That chiseled mouth. Those cheekbones, high and prominent. Yes, his face did everything to her it shouldn’t.

  Then there was his body. His height excited her, made her feel petite, dainty, a way she’d never felt before, considering she towered over her sisters. And the very maleness of him, with the ridges of muscle across his chest and shoulders ...

  What would it be like to touch the rest of him, to feel his naked skin under his shirt or, heavens, lower, in his trousers? Heat spread across her skin, unfurling in her belly, vying against the upset there. She chuckled weakly. What an odd combination; the desire to cast up her accounts alongside the desire to have her way with Mr. Goodson.

  Noises in the kitchen indicated he was up, and the smells drifting in her room roused a surprising rumble of hunger, considering how nauseated she’d felt but moments before. Now all she felt was hungry. A hunger of many types.

  She sat up but immediately regretted it when the pounding in her head multiplied tenfold. It was then she noticed she was stark naked. Her skin flushed to nearly the color of the cherries Cook baked in her tarts. She’d removed her clothing and slept without a stitch on? Mortification warred with excitement, the pleasure at having done something so ... forbidden.

  After a moment, the pain in her temples abated slightly, so she stood, retrieving her sweater off the floor. Pulling it on over her head, she reached for the leggings, but her arm bumped into the nightstand, knocking over a cup of water Matthew must have placed there sometime in the night. Next to where the glass had been were two small, round objects and a note: Take these, it said. They’ll help your head.

  He’d come into the room? While she was sleeping? Had he seen—? She had no time to contemplate that, for it only took a second to realize the water had saturated her leggings.

  What should she do? Donning wet clothing held no appeal, but she couldn’t go out without trousers. She glanced down, tugging at the sweater with one hand. It hung low, nearly to the middle of her thighs. There wasn’t much difference between it and the sweater dress she’d worn here on that first day. Surely it’d be all right, at least until the leggings dried?

  Bending down, she picked up the soggy leggings and spread them out over a chair. Her head pulsed, but it was tolerable, so she made her way to the door, taking the tiny round objects with her. As much as she didn’t wish to face Matthew—his rejection still stung—she was hungry. Besides, food might help settle her stomach.

  She padded her way into the kitchen and raised an uncertain hand in greeting to Matthew, who was at the stove cooking something in a pan. “Good morning.” Her voice wavered.

  His eyes were earnest. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve felt better.” She stood, hesitating. If she sat down, would the sweater rise too much? Not that he’d notice. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested.

  He took a plate and flipped a golden circle from the pan onto it, then held the plate out to her. “Pancake?”

  As she reached for it, his gaze traveled down her body, his face reddening as he saw her legs. He cleared his throat.

  Perhaps he wasn’t as immune as she’d thought. The idea satisfied her. If Matthew Goodson must possess the ability to throw her off kilter, she’d only like the same in return. Plate in hand, she sat at the table, not bothering to adjust the sweater when it rose higher on her hip.

  Hussy, her mind screamed. Scandalous jade. Yes. And she was “okay with that,” as Eliza would say. She’d spent years bottling up her desires. Why not let them loose? Why not seek out physical companionship? That’s all it had to be.

  She swallowed the medicinal objects from her hand with the help of the water, then took a bite of the pancake. It was tasty, if somewhat bland.

  “The syrup’s right there,” Matt said, indicating a bottle on the table.

  Syrup? Amara reached for it, pouring a small amount over the bready circle. It looked and smelled a bit like treacle. She took a second bite. “Goodness, this is heavenly!”

  He chuckled, but his eyes didn’t meet hers. “I’m glad. Secret Bisquick family pancake recipe and all.” He placed a cup of water in front of her before he set his own plate down, laden with several of the round pancakes. They ate in a not-uncomfortable silence.

  After a minute, he rose and crossed the living room. “Mind if I play some music?”

  Her head hurt, but she wasn’t about to confess that. “Of course not.”

  He pushed buttons on a black box sitting on the shelf to the side of his desk, and the room filled with a rich, heady voice crooning about heartbreak and a hotel. She paused mid-bite, listening. This music differed from what she’d heard last night—simpler, the focus on the voice rather than the accompaniment. She liked its slower cadence, its less frenetic pace. “What song is this?” she asked as Matthew returned to the table.

  His eyebrows rose as he sat. “Heartbreak Hotel, by Elvis Presley. King of Rock and Roll.” When she didn’t respond, he rattled off more words. “Jailhouse Rock, Suspicious Minds, Love Me Tender?”

  She ducked her head, toying with her pancake before setting the fork down and looking him full in the face. “I was not raised with this kind of music. Most of the songs last night were new to me.” She paused, an idea forming. “Could you teach me?”

  “Teach you?”

  She leaned over the table, excitement threading through her. “About modern music? Today?”

  Matt took another bite of pancake, debating. He’d had great plans of grading, then writing the midterm. A typical Sunday—work, work, work. Yet the idea of spending the morning with Amara, listening to music? Nothing sounded more appealing.

  You’re treading on dangerous ground, Goodson. She hadn’t brought up last night, thank goodness, though it left him not knowing if she didn’t remember, or just didn’t want to acknowledge it. But if she stayed here for the day, wearing only that soft-looking sweater, would he be able to
resist?

  His groin pulsed, and he shifted in his seat. Yes, she was a damn temptation. On the other hand, when did he have the opportunity to share his love for music with anyone? When would he ever find someone who’d never heard Elvis, or the Beatles, or disco? Duran Duran, U2, hell, even Justin Bieber?

  His music library was vast, cultivated over years, and collected into playlists by genre, artist, and era. Music had always been there, even when work left him time for little else. It was his constant companion, sometimes his only companion, and one of his great passions.

  His eyes met hers. Did she have an ulterior motive? Was she trying to seduce him again? Again? You should be so lucky. Maybe he should have said yes last night, the way he’d throbbed for her. But no, he could never be with a woman who didn’t truly want to be with him, and alcohol precluded the ability to know that.

  He’d made the right decision. He’d just expressed it poorly. And the Coopers were a factor. Matt couldn’t sleep with his advisor’s wife’s cousin, not without potential repercussions he’d rather avoid.

  He rubbed his forehead. He was overthinking this like he overthought everything. But there was one thing he had to know. “Where are your leggings?”

  She yanked on the sweater, her cheeks flushing a darling apple red. “I, uh, knocked the glass of water on them. They are drying.”

  That answered that. She wasn’t trying to seduce him. She was just clumsy.

  “Do you want to borrow a pair of sweats?”

  “Sweats?”

  “I’ll grab them and you can decide. I’m sure they’ll be way too big, but, well ... ” He gestured toward her legs. Great, make her feel self-conscious. He stole a glance at her. One corner of her mouth inched up as if she were amused.

  Wonderful. Now he felt self-conscious, having revealed how much those naked legs got to him. He hopped up and practically ran to his room, grabbing a pair of navy sweats from the closet. Returning to the kitchen, he handed them to her.

  She rubbed the cloth for a moment but then said, that side of her mouth still quirked up, “No, thank you. I’m quite warm, so I’d rather stay like this if you don’t mind. Do you mind?”

  He reared back before he caught himself. Did he mind? Did he mind having to stare at those creamy thighs, thighs his fingers itched to stroke, to slide up so that he could stroke her even higher? He sat down quickly, lest his body betray how much at least one part of him didn’t mind. “No, just didn’t want you to be cold.”

  His voice had not squeaked on that last word. Had not.

  Despite the music, a strained silence enveloped the room as he took another bite of pancake. Looking up, he caught her watching him, and he gulped down the mouthful without thinking. What was her game? Her eyebrows rose, and he popped one in return.

  “Well, will you?” she said.

  Would he what? Ravish her right here on this table, his hands roaming over every enticing inch, clothed or unclothed? Hell, yes. Good Lord, Goodson. Knock it off. He shook his head. What had she been asking him?

  She folded in on herself, like a flower in a drought. “My apologies for having taken up so much of your time. If you’ll return me to Cat’s, I shall be—how do you say it? Out of your hair.”

  “Wait, what? Oh, no, that wasn’t at you. I, um, yes. Yes, I’d be happy to play you music. I’d love to, in fact.” Because he loved music. Not because he wanted to extend his time with her.

  He walked to his desk. “The best way to experience music, in my opinion, is through headphones.” He held up a pair. “I have two sets, so we can listen together.”

  She eyed the headphones dubiously but came over to him. Opening them up, he carefully settled them down onto her ears. It felt surprisingly intimate. He could hear her breathing, see the rise and fall of her chest. His fingers grazed her cheeks as he adjusted the headphones. “That good?”

  Her own hands moved up, clasping the earpads. “Yes,” she said, a bit louder than necessary. Well, those were his high-quality, noise-canceling ones, the most expensive pair he had.

  He grabbed a second pair, then motioned for her to sit on the couch. Reaching over to the end table, he picked up his phone and plugged in his headphones. “Yours are wireless. Bluetooth,” he said when he caught her looking at the cord dangling across his lap. At least he thought that’s what she was looking at.

  Amara giggled. “Music from a phone? How is that possible?”

  He didn’t question how she could be unfamiliar with iPods and the like. The girl didn’t even know rock or pop. Something tugged at him again, an uneasy curiosity about how anyone could be in the dark about so much, but she’d said it herself; she’d lived an incredibly sheltered life. He nearly made another Amish joke before scrolling for his ’50s playlist and hitting play.

  As music flooded through the headphones, Amara yelped, leaping a good six inches off the sofa. He reached over and pressed on the side of her headphones to turn the volume down. It hadn’t been all that loud, but perhaps her ears were particularly sensitive. Or she had one hell of a hangover. Chagrin hit him; he should have thought of that.

  “Can you hear that?” she yelled. Her eyes rounded in astonishment and wonder as the cutest little grin settled on her face. She pulled one of the headphones off as if testing the atmosphere around her. “It’s only in my ears?”

  He had to chuckle as he put on his own headphones; he couldn’t help it. Her reaction was delightfully endearing, like a newborn foal walking for the first time, or a child’s first ride on a merry-go-round: half-joy, half-fear.

  “This is Elvis. Same singer from earlier. The song is called Teddy Bear.” They sat side by side on the couch, the bouncy tune and unmistakable voice saturating their ears. “Next up, Buddy Holly.”

  They listened their way through several more ’50s songs, then moved on to the Beatles. He had to ask. “Heard of the Beatles, by any chance? British, biggest band of all time?”

  Her eyes looked troubled as she shook her head, but she quickly turned her nervous expression into a big grin. “But I like what I hear. ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand!’”

  Both of their gazes fell to their hands, which resided within inches of each other on the sofa. She yanked hers up and made a show of adjusting the headphones.

  Holding hands. When was the last time holding hands had sounded remotely sexual? Remotely appealing? In an era where sex on the first date wasn’t out of the question, holding hands didn’t carry the weight it once did. And yet, the idea of sitting here holding Amara’s hand consumed him. Just the chance to touch her skin, to touch her.

  Instead, he sat as the music flowed, letting it be the bond between them. He couldn’t say how much time had passed. Song after song played, and he told her the band, the artist, maybe a few words about them. She listened to everything, rapidly soaking it in, though she admitted Jimi Hendrix wasn’t her favorite. “Too much screeching.”

  “Wait until we get to the ’80s hair bands,” he said, laughing.

  At one point, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. Her head lolled against the sofa, and her eyes were closed. It gave him the chance to study her face, her fine features, that sexy arch of her neck. A tendril of hair curled in front of her ear, and it was all he could do not to brush it back.

  Lovey padded into the room and flopped down on the carpet in the block of sunshine streaming in from the window. The fact that the sun was there told him it was nearly noon; any earlier and that window didn’t catch the light.

  He should take her home. Get to work. And yet, he didn’t want the morning to end.

  Her eyes popped open. Crap. She caught me watching her. “What does this one mean? What is Afternoon Delight?”

  Sure. Don’t ask him about Three Dog Night or ABBA. Ask him about this song. “It refers to having sex in the middle of the afternoon.”

  Her eyes widened. “They’re singing about intimacies?”

  He bellowed, a full belly laugh. “Most of this music is about ‘intimacies,’ as you put
it. Have you not been listening?”

  She flushed as her eyebrows crumpled. Was she angry? Embarrassed? “You needn’t mock me,” she muttered.

  He reached out and touched her leg. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to mock. In truth, when I was a kid, I never caught on to the lyrics, either.”

  “Yes,” she said with a sigh, “but you were a child. I am not, and I’m hopelessly ignorant.” She tugged at her sweater, looking so forlorn he nearly laughed again.

  “No. Not hopelessly. We’re remedying that right now.”

  She moved her head so that she looked at him full on. “Can we? Can we remedy all of it? Now?” Her hand moved to his cheek. “I’m sober, Matthew.”

  Chapter 19

  He stilled.

  It was beyond the pale, propositioning him in such a way. But she couldn’t fight this physical desire anymore, this overwhelming need whenever he was around. It ate at her, settling under her skin, never letting go. She wanted Matthew, wanted his mouth, his hands on her.

  When he said nothing, she dropped her hand, embarrassment and shame coursing through her. Twice. Twice now, she’d offered herself fully to this man. Twice now, he’d rejected her. She leapt off the couch, tearing the headphones from her ears and throwing them on the cushion. “I want to go home.”

  Home to Cat’s. Home to Clarehaven. This was too much: the technology, the foreign customs, the people. Matthew Goodson.

  He grabbed at her hand. “Amara.” His thumb rubbed her skin. She looked down at his fingers. He stood, keeping hold of her hand, moving until less than an inch separated their bodies.

  “I lied last night. I want you,” he said, the force of the words nearly bowling her over. “Hell, yes, I want you. But have you thought this through?”

  She bit her lip, her eyes entranced with his, with the storms raging through the ice.

  “I’m not looking for a relationship.”