Heart of Steel

by Jennifer Probst

  Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

  He stood in front of her in casual dress slacks which emphasized muscled thighs and lean hips. She couldn't stop her gaze from roving over him, overwhelmed by the sheer power of the male figure before her. She opened her mouth to halt this strip tease which took her very breath away, but his hands moved toward the buttons of his crisp white shirt and slipped them from the buttonholes one at a time. He revealed a line of curling dark hair. Her thoughts turned to wicked, sexual fantasies of popping the rest of the buttons in one sweep, ravishing him on the floor, then pulling off the rest of his clothes by using her teeth. And the things she could do with his belt--

  His fingers stopped on the third button.

  "It's in the bedroom."

  She managed a strangled squeak. "Bedroom?"

  "Yes." He paused. "Do you want me to go get it?"

  "Get what?"

  "The thing I wanted to show you."

  She cursed herself the moment her gaze dropped. She hurriedly glanced away. "Yes, that would be fine. Do you want me to come with you?"

  One black brow shot up. "Do you want to come with me to the bedroom?"

  Chandler reached up to push back her hair. "No, no, I'll wait here." With a relieved sigh she watched him turn and walk up the stairs. She sank into the deep folds of the sofa and groaned. Why did Logan Grant always turn her into a stuttering idiot? The man constantly made her look foolish and she had no other excuse except for her overactive hormones. Why was she on guard with him? Because he declared she would be in his bed one day?

  Would that be so terrible?

  She rested her head back on the plush leather sofa and studied the ceiling. Laura's words spun through her mind, already foggy from the alcohol. If a man met the right woman anything was possible.

  Was he the right man for her? His kisses made her body burn for more. His quick wit and dry humor challenged her mind--she liked that. And, when he talked about his mother she ached to hold him and take away his pain. Were her emotions all caught up with lust, or could there be something more? Something like love--

  Chandler's eyes widened. Love? No, she couldn't be in love with Logan Grant. She needed someone she could trust and depend on. Someone who could love her in the same way she loved him.

  Like Richard Thorne.

  Her mind flashed to the last time they had seen each other. He'd escorted her to a wonderful vegetarian restaurant, then proceeded to involve her in an enriching conversation about the philosophy of life. Obviously, Richard was the type of man to build a future with. Unlike Logan, he worked in the business world but was not controlled by the culture.

  Or was he?

  She shifted as a sudden thought took hold. Why did she have an uneasy feeling he lied to her? Something glimmered in those chestnut eyes--something she didn't seem to trust. Staring at the ceiling the most disappointing revelation came to her--the truth of her feelings.

  She did not love Richard Thorne.

  She was falling in love with Logan.

  Chandler shivered with a small sliver of pure, unbridled fear. Could a man who always needed to be in control let go and allow himself to love? Did she really want to take a chance on someone who may never be able to give her what she needed? At least she was happy with her life now. She had peace and stability. She had work. She had friends and students she cared about. She had--

  She had no one to come home to at night or wake up with in the morning. She had no one to make her body burn and her heart sing. When Logan took her in his arms she felt like she could fly. Was that wrong?

  Maybe she needed to take a chance on life. On Logan.

  Logan walked back into the room. He propped a large flat package up on the thick beige carpeting and pulled off the wrapping. The image he revealed made her gasp with pleasure.

  It was a painting. Her senses were assaulted by the stark beauty it depicted. An ancient castle rose above the earth, surrounded by rich gardens of flowers that climbed up the walls in an almost desperate attempt to mask it. Gaping windows peeked through wildly clinging leaves, finally breaking free to rise into the sky. The old broken castle stones told a story of time. Struck by the sense of history, Chandler wondered how many wars the castle had stood through, how much bloodshed or laughter or births had taken place within its walls.

  "What country?"

  "Spain. It's one of the oldest castles still intact. I spotted it in a gallery and knew I had to have it." They stared at the painting together for a while, not speaking.

  "I was going to hang it over the fireplace."

  She nodded. "It's stunning." He studied her face, and nerves tightened again in her belly. Chandler brought the glass to her lips and found it empty. He hid a smile as he carefully re-wrapped the painting and poured her another glass.

  "Be careful with this stuff, sweetheart. It's potent."

  "I'm fine." She watched him from under her lashes. He filled another glass for himself and walked over to a leather reclining chair, rubbing his temple. A slight frown creased his brow.

  "Are you feeling okay?" she asked.

  He waved his hand in the air. "I had a long day. Tommy told me one of my executives has to go before we complete the deal. He screwed up and cost us money. We can't afford any other mistakes."

  "Who?"

  "Jim Chrisetta."

  She sat up. "Jimmy? Oh, Logan, you can't fire him, his wife's expecting a baby. Didn't he just get a promotion a few months ago?"

  He looked at her in surprise. "How did you know? Wait, don't tell me, you had a heart to heart chat about his stress."

  "Very funny."

  "The promotion made this whole damn thing complicated. He did so well in his last position, so I moved him to management. Now those department's figures are down from last quarter. I have no choice."

  "Of course you have a choice. Jimmy told me he's been under a lot of pressure with this promotion. He works around the clock and never gets to see his family anymore. You gave him too much responsibility. Management doesn't suit him."

  Logan shook his head. "We had a serious discussion before the promotion and he knew what the job entailed. His old position is already filled. Besides, Tommy was insistent."

  Chandler crossed her arms in front of her. "You own the company, and you call the shots. Jimmy doesn't deserve to be fired because he thought he could handle something and made a mistake. This will crush his spirit. You can't fire him."

  "Sweetheart, it's business. I can't get emotional."

  Her eyes grew sad. "I've heard the explanation before," she said. "So sorry a person has to get hurt in the pursuit for money and glory, Chandler. It's all for the good of the company, Chandler."

  His face hardened to stone. "I'm not your father," he stated coldly.

  "No," she agreed. "But you are a businessman, aren't you?"

  The challenge simmered in the air. She watched him struggle with his temper. He held himself rigid and still in his chair as he fought for control. A surge of adrenaline ran through her. Dizzy from the alcohol, angry at his logic, she recognized the driving need to make him lose his temper. As he pulled himself together she felt a flash of disappointment she couldn't mask. She stood up and stumbled. "I'd like to go home."

  "Sulking?"

  She sputtered in indignation. "Sulking! I am not sulking. I think this conversation is over and I want you to take me home."

  "This conversation is not going the way you want," he corrected patiently, "and that is why you want to go home. I refuse to let you throw me in league with your father, even though I've never met him. Maybe I'd understand better if you tell me what happened between you and him."

  "I don't want to talk about it." She shifted her feet for better balance.

  "Okay, if you don't want to talk about your father, or the reason you left his company, can you do me a favor?"

  "What?"

  "Can you help me get rid of this headache?"

  She studied him with su
spicion. He massaged his temple, seemingly annoyed he'd be bothered by pain. He looked harmless enough, but Chandler knew him well. His admission could be part of his master plan to get her into bed. "You have a headache?"

  "Yeah. It's been pounding at the back of my head all day. I'm afraid it'll turn into a migraine."

  "Maybe you wouldn't have these health problems if you didn't fire Jimmy." He glowered at her. After a few moments she realized he was serious. "You really do have a bad headache, don't you?"

  "No, it's all in my master plan to get you in bed." She bit her lip. "Yes, I really have a headache. Didn't you say something in class about pressure points?"

  "Yes." She walked over and set to work. "We need to switch positions. I'm going to sit in the chair and you're going to sit, legs outstretched on the floor with the back of your head between my knees."

  "I like this kind of therapy."

  He ignored the look she shot him and did as told. Chandler leaned over to position his shoulders. Her hair fell forward and brushed against him. He let out his breath in a hiss and jumped.

  "Are you okay?"

  He muttered something she couldn't catch. "Fine. I just hope I know what I've gotten myself into."

  "Relax. Take some of those deep cleansing breaths I've taught you."

  His shoulders rose as he drew air deeply into his lungs. The heat of his skin burned against her palms and made the thin fabric of his shirt a flimsy barrier. Slowly, the muscles in his shoulders started to unclench. She kept her voice low and soothing. "Focus on your breath. Feel the air being drawn in and out, letting your belly expand like a balloon. Allow your muscles to relax while all thoughts scatter away." Her palms skated lightly over his shoulders and down his upper arms. She kept her tone even and drew him into a hypnotic state.

  She pressed her thumbs into the back of his shoulder blades and massaged the muscles. Resistance met each stroke, but she eased her fingers back and forth until he responded to her touch. As she spoke, she worked each muscle in his shoulders and upper back, enjoying the sleek feel of his body. Hard muscles rippled beneath her palms. His steady breath whispered through his lips.

  Chandler leaned over the edge of the chair. Her fingers traveled up the nape of his neck to his scalp. Dark crisp strands of hair clung to each fingertip as she massaged his scalp with gentle kneading motions. She turned him to sit and face her as she lingered at his temples and pressed. She caressed his hairline and forehead, smoothed down the line of his brow, and explored the carved features of his face.

  A groan escaped his lips as his head bobbed closer to her breasts. "I see why this technique is considered dangerous. I'm your helpless victim."

  Chandler smiled and pulled at his ears, moving her thumbs in small circles around the sensitive flesh. "Is some of the pressure lifting?"

  "Yeah. Most of it was in my right shoulder."

  "Hmmm, you have a nice knot there. Stretch out on the floor face down." She moved from the chair to straddle his back as she probed the spot. "Focus your breath on the area while I work on it a little more."

  She kneaded the muscles but still felt resistance. Concentrated on relieving his pain, she slipped her hands beneath his shirt and continued the massage. She squeezed and released, letting her hands glide over his bare skin. Muscles jumped beneath her touch as she explored the hard body before her. It felt like steel sheathed in satin.

  Electrical currents raced through her. Suddenly, she realized Logan's breathing turned ragged. His muscles stilled beneath her hands. She stopped and dug her nails into his shoulder as the swirling tension enveloped the room.

  She became aware of their positions. Bent forward, her hair fell over his left shoulder and brushed against the bare skin at his neck. Her thighs shifted and rubbed against him as she massaged him. Her nipples hardened against the thin silk of her dress, begging to be touched.

  He suddenly rolled onto his back, leaving her still sitting on his torso. His shirt gaped open and revealed his upper shoulders to her hungry gaze. Her legs were spread wide as she straddled him, and one of his hands rested on her upper thigh for support. Those five fingers burned into her skin as he squeezed lightly.

  "Chandler?"

  His husky question made her heart race. He seemed to fight for control. She knew all she had to do was pull away and proclaim the evening over; she'd be safe for another night.

  Chandler decided she was tired of being safe.

  Her fingers glided over his face and neck in a caress. She gave in to the pleasure of freely touching him, glorying in his strength and suppleness as a woman now, not as a teacher.

  A hiss of air escaped his lips when he realized she wasn't running away. She lay sprawled across the heavy weight of his thighs and looked him straight in the eye.

  "You're not running." He pressed his thumb gently against her mouth. Waited for her response.

  "I can't," she said simply. "You win."

  She watched the emotions flicker over his face, partly surprised that she spotted no gleam of triumph for his victory. In fact, a slight frown marred his brow. With a muttered curse, and one rapid motion, she was on her back, his mouth covering hers. Chandler forgot every thought she ever had except the way Logan Grant bestowed pleasure.

  With a single thrust Logan parted her lips and hungrily plundered the honey sweetness he found, over and over again, melding their mouths together in a fusion of desire and need. He became ruthless in his victory, demanding every response she had to give.

  Her senses were overpowered by the scent of brandy on his breath, the musk and soap from his skin, the dark heady taste of raw male hunger. His teeth tugged gently on her lower lip, then bathed the flesh with his tongue. With a low moan, she reached up and plunged all ten fingers into sable strands of hair.

  One hand shot out to hold her still as he led her in a game of attack and retreat. His tongue led a teasing dance and urged her to play. She gripped his shoulders and tried to drag him closer to her arching body.

  He gave a low laugh and dropped tiny kisses along her jaw, down her neck, the hollow of her throat.

  "Tell me what you want." His hand cupped her breast and teased her nipple through the thin silk.

  She struggled for breath. "I want you to touch me."

  "I am touching you," he murmured. His teeth nipped at her shoulder while his fingers plucked at the hard crest.

  "No, under my dress. Take it off."

  "Yes, ma'am." Deftly, he undid the buttons and pulled it over her shoulders. His eyes burned hotly over the lacy scrap of bra that revealed more than it concealed, before he snapped open the clasp.

  Cool air rushed against her skin as she was bared to his sight. Shyness overcame her, but the look in his eyes made her flush with pleasure, knowing he wanted her, knowing she pleased him.

  "God, you're more lovely than I remember." He worshiped the creaminess of her skin with his gaze, the silky feel of her with his hands. "Tonight I want to teach you to fly. You'll see how good it can be, Chandler. Only with me. Then you'll know we were meant to be together." His words made a throbbing need pound between her thighs, and she curled her nails into the hard muscles of his shoulders.

  His mouth lowered to one breast, his breath warm on her skin. A whimper caught in her throat as she arched upward and begged for more. His lips rubbed over the hard crest, back and forth, the slight scratchy feel from his five o'clock shadow a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

  He suckled gently, then scraped his teeth across the hard nub, making her cry out. Liquid heat coursed through her body and her fingers clenched in his hair, urging him on, frantic with need.

  She tugged at the buttons of his shirt and tossed it aside. Her hands ran over his broad chest and reveled in the hard, lean muscles rippling under her palms, the crisp dark hairs that swirled in an intriguing pattern and disappeared into the waistband of his slacks. A long stream of words escaped his lips, either a curse or a prayer, and she let her fingers trail down his chest to trace th
e edge of his slacks. Then lingered.

  Slowly, she let her hands drift downward, testing the hardness of his desire, the raw strength and masculine power pulsing beneath her fingers. His stomach muscles clenched under her touch, his body hard.

  Chandler looked up and watched his face. His eyes were half closed as he fought for control, his gun-metal gray gaze glittered with hot, male need as she wrapped her hands around him.

  Carefully, she squeezed.

  With a muttered groan, he lifted her off his thighs and turned her so that her back pressed against his chest and his hips cradled her buttocks, spoon style. She reached back and gripped his thighs for balance, and he chuckled when she tried to twist back around.

  "Oh, no you don't, you little witch. I haven't waited this long so you could push me over the edge in a few minutes."

  "But I want to touch you," she insisted. "I want to make you feel the way I do when you open your mouth on my breasts, and touch my skin."

  "And how does that make you feel?" he asked.