But a tropical beach with Tom beside her? With the proper restrictions in place, that could be heaven, too.
"I thought the word vacation wasn't in your vocabulary."
He grinned. "I admit, I've never taken one before, but… You and me, away from everyone and everything? The idea holds a certain appeal."
Though she didn't feel like smiling, she couldn't resist a grudging one. "Maybe then you'd quit telling me no."
"And maybe you'd stop saying it, too. Maybe…" He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small enough to hide in his hand. For a moment he hesitated, then he laid the item on the table between them. "Maybe you could use the time to get used to wearing this."
It was a small jewelry box, the right size for a ring, in the burgundy velvet used by Bethlehem's only jeweler. As Holly stared at it, the sounds of the diner faded to a distant roar until all she heard was the rapid thud of her heartbeat and the too-slow, too-shallow sounds of her own breathing. She wanted to reach for the box and open it, wanted to shove it out of sight. Most of all she wanted to jump and run. But in the end, she did nothing. She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak.
Tom leaned toward her and lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. "Do you want to see it?"
Mutely she shook her head once.
Disappointment darkened his eyes and tightened his jaw. "It's not extravagant. I think you'll like it. It suits you."
She shook her head again.
Grimly, he swept up the box and folded his fingers around it, making it disappear from sight. She felt a moment's relief, but it was short-lived. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white, and a good deal of the color drained from his face. With jerky movements, he returned the box to his pocket, then forced a couple of short, choked breaths. "I take it your answer to a trip is also no."
Slowly she nodded. It would have been answer enough, but something inside her made her explain. "A vacation from all my problems sounds wonderful … but, Tom, you are one of my problems."
"So you'd be happy to go, but not with me."
Thankfully, this time she managed to keep her mouth shut.
Maeve brought their meals then, filling the stillness with friendly chatter. Once she was gone, Holly's discomfort doubled. She picked up a fork and poked at her lunch, then laid it down again. "I'm sorry, Tom. There's just so much going on right now…"
He offered no response.
"Look, don't push me, please. Don't make any demands. I just can't handle that now."
"Let me get this straight. Wanting to give you an engagement ring—that's pushing? And wanting to spend time alone with you—that's making demands? What can I do, Holly? What am I allowed to want from you?"
Her hands trembled, so she clasped them in her lap. She was afraid her voice might tremble, too, but it was strong, raw. "Nothing. That's all you'll ever get from me, Tom. You have no right to expect more."
Tom sat back numbly. Nothing. That was the way deals went sometimes. You went into negotiations wanting it all. Sometimes you got it. Sometimes you got part of it. And sometimes you got nothing.
But this wasn't business. It was damned personal. And damned painful.
He'd known from the beginning that the odds were against him, but the idea of losing hadn't been so bad when all it would cost him was a few weeks of his time. But somewhere along the way he'd invested a hell of a lot more than just his time. Somewhere along the way, he'd fallen in love with her, and that wasn't so easy to walk away from.
You have no right to expect more. He'd known that from the beginning, too—had known she deserved a better man than he'd ever been, someone who hadn't spent his entire life looking out for himself. But he'd thought … he'd thought he might get lucky, might change her mind. He'd thought she had begun to care for him. The way she kissed him, the way she smiled when she saw him, the way she seemed happy that he was there…
Unable to sit still one moment longer, he grabbed his overcoat and slid out of the booth. He dropped a twenty on the table, then looked at Holly. There were a dozen things he wanted to say—arguments, mostly, and pleas. But since he wasn't about to beg her in the middle of Harry's noontime crowd, he simply looked at her and said nothing.
And then he walked out.
His car was parked a block away, in front of the jeweler's. He was tempted to walk in the door, toss the velvet box on the counter, and walk out again. Hell, how was it that, after spending a couple of not-so-small fortunes on jewelry for the women in his life, he'd found a woman who not only didn't want his gifts but refused even to consider them? If he couldn't give her diamonds and emeralds, what could he give her?
Distance. Privacy. Freedom from his presence. He'd bet she wouldn't turn those down.
"Tom?"
He opened the car door, then slowly turned. She stood on the sidewalk, looking distraught and even wearier than when she'd first sat down across from him. Fifteen minutes ago he might have wrapped his arms around her and simply held her, stroked her, let her lean on him. At the moment, he settled for shoving his hands into his pockets.
"I told you from the start that I wouldn't marry you," she whispered.
She had, but he hadn't believed her. He'd looked on her refusals as something of a game, a challenge to overcome. He'd thought that with time she would see things his way. He'd thought he would win—at first because he never lost, and more recently because she'd become too important, too much a part of his life.
But she wasn't playing a game. She didn't want to marry him. Didn't want to spend the rest of her life with him. Didn't want him, period.
Except for sex.
"It's not your fault. I thought…" He could change her mind. Thought she could find something in him worth caring about. Thought she could come to trust him.
"Nothing has to change," she ventured nervously. "We can still be friends. We can still go out and dance and"—she offered an unsteady smile—"and so much more. We'll just agree not to mention marriage again. Okay?"
His first impulse was to let out an angry roar. Nothing would change? Still be friends? Go out and dance and so much more? Not only no, but hell no! If he couldn't have her for his own, he didn't want to be friends with her. He sure as hell didn't want to mean no more to her than the men who had come before him. If that was the way things would be, then he didn't want even to see her again.
Except he couldn't imagine living without her. No, that wasn't true. He could imagine it far too easily—the emptiness, the loneliness—because that had been his life before her. He didn't want to go back to that. But what could be emptier or lonelier than being with a woman who cared no more for him than for the last nocould-special she'd taken to her bed?
"Tom?" she murmured, coming close enough to touch him, though she didn't. "We can still be friends, right?"
"Sure." He had only one friend in his life. He should be pleased by the prospect of having a second. But the friendship she was offering was a poor substitute for what he wanted. Hell, it was a poor substitute for friendship. But he could settle for it. For a time. "How about dinner this evening?"
She smiled, relieved. "That sounds fine. Where would you like to go?"
"Let's stay in. One phone call, and you can have the best food in town served right in your apartment. Or so you once bragged."
The smile strengthened. "All right. The cook's best, in my apartment. What time?"
"Seven."
She came close enough to rise onto her toes and brush a kiss across his mouth. "Any special requests?"
"Yeah. Wear one of those dresses."
Her smile was coquettish, seductive. "I have an entire closet full of dresses. Which ones do you mean?"
"The kind that makes every man in the room forget who he's with and stare at you instead."
"Oh, darlin'." She brushed her hand across his cheek in a practiced touch. "Have I got a dress for you. My apartment. Seven o'clock. Prepare to be dazzled."
Tom watched her walk away
. When she turned the corner, he realized his fingers hurt from being clenched so tightly in his pockets. He forced them to relax. He would be dazzled tonight, all right. Dazzled, delighted, and, when the evening was over, disheartened, despondent, and dismayed.
Because when it was over, it really would be over.
He ran a few errands before returning to the office. There he sat through a conference with Ross, then answered a stack of correspondence, scheduled a trip to Paris for the following month, and reviewed the reports from the fire marshal on the blaze that had destroyed the Alabama factory.
And he never, not for one moment, managed to stop thinking about Holly.
He left the office at six o'clock and was home—no, not home. He was at the inn by ten minutes after. He showered, shaved, and dressed, took care of some last-minute business, and was downstairs at Holly's door at precisely seven o'clock.
Prepare to be dazzled, she had warned, and she hadn't been kidding. She was wearing a little black dress, very short, very snug, very sexy. The deep V neckline exposed pale creamy skin and the swell of her breasts, and the narrow straps left most of her shoulders bare.
She gave him one of those practiced, seductive smiles, and one of those practiced, coquettish looks. Part of him wanted to grasp her shoulders, give her a shake, and tell her to knock off the games. There was no need for them tonight. At least this Holly wanted to have sex with him. The real one didn't want him at all.
"Do you like my dress?" she asked, resting one hand on her hip, bracing the other against the doorjamb.
"It's nice."
"Faint praise, darlin'. But you haven't seen anything yet." With that teaser, she slowly turned and sashayed down the hall inside her apartment.
Tom swallowed hard. Truth was, there wasn't much to see from the back … except lots and lots of Holly. The two thin straps connected at her nape, and narrow strips of fabric swept down her sides before finally meeting in the middle below the small of her back—way below. The skirt molded over her bottom, then flared into a flirty flounce that tormented and enticed with every step she took.
He watched until she turned into her dining room, then he drew his hand across his forehead. His palm came away damp, and his hand was less than steady. By the time he reached the dining room, he'd regained a bit of his composure. "It's a nice dress, but don't you get a little cool when you wear it?"
She smiled. "Funny. Everyone else who's seen me in it said I looked hot."
And who was everyone else? How many men had seen her wearing nothing but that little bit of fantasy? How many men had helped her out of it?
"Thank you for the flowers. They're lovely. I can't believe you got Herbert Thomas to let you have some of his orchids."
He glanced at the deep red roses on the table, then at the more delicate orchids on the sideboard. He'd asked Melissa Thomas for roses and orchids, and she'd told him her only hope of getting orchids on such short notice was to persuade her husband's uncle Herbert to part with some from his greenhouse. She'd already heard that Tom had bought a ring at the jeweler's that morning, and, assuming that he was going to formally propose to Holly that evening, she'd been more than happy to do what she could to make the evening perfect.
He hadn't bothered to correct her mistake. He'd wanted the orchids and hadn't thought his real reason for them would impress her nearly so much.
Anyone who saw the setting for this private dinner would likely make the same mistake as Melissa had. The chandelier above the table was dimmed to a mood-setting glow, and tall white tapers flickered all about the room. A linen cloth overlaid with lace covered the table, and the dishes were part of the inn's oldest, most delicate set. With the soft music playing in the background, it was the perfect setting for romance.
Too bad her only goal was seduction.
He held her chair for her, his fingers brushing her skin, then took his own seat. While she filled their wineglasses, one of the waitresses came from the kitchen with a loaf of crusty bread, hot from the oven, and salads of fresh mozzarella and roma tomatoes.
Holly was the perfect hostess. She talked steadily about absolutely nothing, but she made the conversation so personal, with private smiles and intimate touches, that he didn't care what she said. She was flirtatious at times, very brash and sexual, and at other times quiet and introspective. At those times he wished he could believe that she was thinking about him—about wanting him, trusting him—but he didn't believe it for a minute. He couldn't.
She talked her way through roasted duck with orange sauce, asparagus spears, and wild rice dressing, through a bottle of wine and a dessert of white pears in crepes. Tom talked enough to keep the conversation going, but mostly he just responded to her—verbally, emotionally, physically. He watched the expressions cross her face and tried to remember each one, tried to imprint in his memory the different tones of her voice. He knew even the best memories wouldn't be enough, but they'd be better than nothing.
At last she rose from the table, blew out about half the candles, then extended one hand to him. "Dance with me?"
Her fingers were so slender, her hand so delicate. She was delicate, for all that she was also strong and capable. He could crush her, could overpower her, but he could never defeat her or bend her to his will. He could never make her see reason.
There wasn't a great deal of space in her dining room, but the kind of dancing they did didn't require much space. He drew her into his arms, found himself holding nothing but scraps of silky fabric and expanses of velvety skin, and swallowed back a low groan. She was so soft, so warm, and fitted so perfectly against him. He wanted to sweep her up and carry her to her bedroom, and at the same time he wanted to stay like this forever.
But they didn't have forever. All Holly believed in was the present. She wasn't looking for Mr. Right, she liked to tease, but Mr. Right Now, and the only thing he wanted less to be to her than right now was never.
The music she'd chosen was older than either of them—lush tunes, big bands, Ella Fitzgerald, songs about love won, lost, betrayed. He held her against him, closer than close, and stroked her back, her sides, all the way down to the edge of the skirt. He made her shiver, sigh, and raise her head from his shoulder to kiss his throat, then his jaw, then finally his mouth.
Boldly she thrust her tongue inside, and he let her tease, probe, taste, before he took control from her. His kiss was hotter, greedier, damn near desperate, and it brought her onto her toes, making her press harder against him, cling to him as if, dammit, she did need him. At some point they stopped dancing, though the music continued, and focused instead on the sensations of touching each other, rubbing, creating heat and friction. He felt her fingers at his throat, fumbling open his shirt buttons all the way to the waistband of his trousers. There she stopped and slid her hands inside his shirt, her delicate hands caressing, restlessly exploring. He wanted to grab her wrist and guide her fingers to exactly the place where he needed her touch, but to do so he would have to give up his own explorations. She would find her way there soon enough … if he lasted. If he didn't strip off his clothes and that nothing little dress first. He'd waited so long … wanted so much … needed so badly…
Freeing his mouth from hers, he left a line of kisses down her throat, then followed the deep slash of the fabric to the hollow between her breasts. For a moment he groped with the fastening at her neck, then gave up and impatiently brushed the material aside. Her breast was rounded and soft, a seductive contrast to the hard, swollen peak of her nipple. He dragged his tongue slowly across it and made her gasp, sucked it between his teeth and made her groan. Sliding her fingers into his hair, she held him tighter for a moment, then reluctantly pushed him away.
"You're killing me," she whispered, her voice as taut as his muscles. "Please tell me you're going to stay. Please say"—he slid his hand inside the bodice to toy with her other breast, and she caught her breath—"say we d-don't have to wait."
"Make your choice, quick—the dining table or yo
ur bed."
Surprise crossed her face, followed immediately by relief. Catching his hands, she pulled them from her could, pressed a kiss to each palm, then clasped them tightly in hers. "We'll try the table later," she said as she started down the hall. "But right now…" Glancing over her shoulder, she gave him a sensual-as-hell smile that sent a shock of lust through him and made him throb. "Right now I want you in my bed."
* * *
Chapter 17
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The bedroom was shadowy, lit only by the light that came through the doorway. Holly walked to her bed, perched on the edge of it, and removed first one strappy black heel, then the other. Standing again, she peeled off the sheer black hose that were all she wore beneath the dress, then raised her hands to the clasp on the straps.
Tom stopped her, not with words but with his hands. He pushed hers away, turned her so her back was to him, and brushed the lightest of kisses to her neck, raising goose bumps all down her spine, weakening her so that her head fell forward. For a time he lingered there, kissing her, touching her skin as if it were a new and different experience. When her breathing had become shallow and heavy, he finally turned his attention to the straps, unhooking them, letting them fall, letting his hands follow their path. His hands were cupping her bare breasts, his erection pressing against her bottom, when he nuzzled her ear, then murmured, "Look at us, Holly. You are so damned beautiful."
Though it required effort, she raised her head and caught sight of their reflection in the mirror across the room. Light from the hallway fell across them in a wedge, showing his hands on her breasts, his fingers dark against her pale skin. It was an erotic sight—Tom fully clothed while her dress bunched around her hips, just waiting for the chance to fall. It was damned tormenting, watching him pinch her nipples and feeling the sting turn to pleasure between her thighs.
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