by Nora Roberts
"Would you take your top off?"
All but hypnotized, she blinked at him. "What? Oh."
"Slowly," he said, laying a hand on hers before she could yank it free. "No rush."
She did as he asked because her limbs were so heavy. His gaze took a lazy journey from her face, down her torso and back again, before he took the thin cotton from her, set it aside. His eyes stayed on hers as he eased her back.
"You keep looking at me," she murmured. Her skin trembled when he slid his hands further under her skirt, when he curled his fingers around the waistband of her panty hose and began to draw them down. "I don't know what you expect."
"Neither do I. I thought we'd find out together." He lowered his head and pressed his lips to her inner thigh. "Now I know why you always walk as if you were ten minutes late for a five-minute appointment. It's all this leg. All this long leg."
"Byron." She was burning up. Good God, couldn't he feel it? "I can't take this."
But she would, he thought, and unhooked her skirt. "I haven't even started yet." He slipped the skirt off and quivered himself at the sight of that slim, angular body in his bed. Resting a bent knee on the bed, he cupped her. She bowed back, pressing desperately against him.
His eyes darkened dangerously as he watched her face, the play of sensations and light, the helpless trembling of lashes and lips. Then the utter surrender to self and to him when the orgasm rippled through her.
Wanting more as wildly as she, he closed his mouth over her breast and built her relentlessly toward peak again.
"I can't." Nearly terrified at what he'd pulled out of her, of what he seemed to create inside her, she dragged at his hair. "I'm not—"
"Sure you can." He gasped out the words before his mouth fused with hers. Heat was pouring out of her, all but pumping out of her pores. He'd never known a woman to be so responsive and so resistant at once. The need, the drive to show her he was the one, the only one who could bring that response and break that resistance made him hold off that final pleasure for the tortured maze of sensations between.
It seemed he owned her body. She had no control, and had lost the will to find any. His hands, his lips were everywhere, and each time she thought he would rush to finish it, he would cause her to erupt again, then move patiently on.
She was painfully aware of her body, and his, the melding and the contrasts, the race of pulses. Candlelight flickered over his face, those sleek, slick muscles, making it all almost too beautiful to bear. The taste of him was potent, like some dark, slow-acting drug that had already seeped into her blood to addict her.
He braced himself over her, waiting for her eyes to open and focus on his. "I didn't want you," he said in a voice strained to the edge of control. "Then I wanted nothing else. Understand that."
"For God's sake, Byron. Now!"
"Now," he echoed and plunged into her. "But not just now."
The warm red haze over her mind cooled slowly. She became aware of the world outside of her own body. The candlelight continued to flicker against her closed lids in soft, surreal patterns. The night wind had risen, causing the curtains at the windows to whisper. She could hear the music again, the low throb of bass from the stereo downstairs, the answering wail of a tenor sax. The smell of hot, pooling wax, and sweat, and sex.
She had the taste of him in her mouth, and the good, solid feel of him beneath her. He'd rolled her over so that she lay sprawled across him. Concerned, she supposed, that he would crush her. Always the gentleman.
Just how did she play this? she wondered. How did she handle the aftermath of such wild, spectacular sex? Initiating it was one thing, participating was clearly, and fabulously, another. But she felt certain that these first few moments of the after would set the precedent for how they would go on.
"I can actually hear your mind clicking back in gear," he murmured. There was a hint of amusement in his voice as he smoothed down her messy cap of hair. "It's fascinating. I don't know that I've ever been quite so attracted to a woman's brain before." When she started to shift, he ran his hands down her back, gave her butt a friendly squeeze. "No, don't move yet. Your head's ahead of me."
She took a chance, raised her head to look at him. Those gorgeous green eyes of his were at half-mast. The mouth that had so recently sent her system into overdrive was softened with a faint smile. He was, she decided, the perfect picture of the fully satisfied male animal.
"Is this going to be awkward?" she wondered aloud.
"Doesn't have to be. It seems to me that we've been heading here since the first minute we met. Whether we knew it or not."
"Which poses the next question."
Ah, that tidy, practical, ordered mind, he thought. "Which is, what direction do we take from here? We'll have to talk about that." He rolled her over and, before she could speak again, took her mouth in a long, deep, mind-hazing kiss. "But first, the practicalities."
He scooped her off the bed, into his arms. Her system gave a fresh jerk. It was so odd, being carried this way, experiencing the arousing vulnerability of being physically outmatched. "I'm not sure I like the way you do this."
"Let me know when you make up your mind. Meanwhile, I vote for a shower and dinner. I'm starving."
No, it wasn't going to be awkward, she concluded. In fact, it was amazingly pleasant to be wearing one of his faded T-shirts, listening to Bob Seger's sandpaper vocals grinding out rock. Byron had trusted her to put a salad together while he grilled the steaks. She was finding the process enjoyable—the colors and textures of the vegetables he'd set out for her. The summer-garden scent of them. She couldn't remember being quite so aware of food before. She liked to eat, Kate thought, but taste had always been the main stimulus. Now she decided there was more to it than that. There was the feel of the food, the way different ingredients played off each other, harmonized or clashed.
The moist, feathery layers of an artichoke heart, the firm snap of a carrot, the subtle bite of cucumber, the delicacy of salad greens.
She set down the chef's knife and blinked. What the hell was she doing? Romanticizing a salad? Good God. Carefully, she poured herself half a glass of the wine he'd set on the counter to breathe. Though she hadn't had any recent flareups, she was still leery of alcohol. She sipped the wine gingerly.
She could see him through the glass doors, talking to the dogs as he turned the steaks. Flame and smoke billowed.
They were cooking together, she thought. She was wearing his shirt. Dogs were begging for scraps, and music was playing.
It was all so quietly domestic. Terrifying.
"Honey—" Byron slid open the doors. "You want to pour me a glass of that? These steaks are about done."
"Sure." Easy, girl, she warned herself. This was just a nice, pleasant evening between two consenting adults. Nothing to get jittery over.
"Thanks." Byron took the glass she brought to him, swirled the wine before drinking. "You want to eat out here? It's a nice night."
"Okay." And more romantic, she thought as they carried out the dinnerware. Why shouldn't she enjoy a little starlight and wine with the man who'd just become her lover? There was nothing wrong with that.
"You've got that line between your eyebrows," he commented, sampling and approving her mixed salad. "The one you get when you're trying to calculate your bottom line."
"I was calculating how much of this steak I can eat without exploding." Eyes on her plate, she cut another bite. "It's wonderful."
"While I find it surprisingly satisfying to feed you, the food isn't what's bouncing around in your mind like a pinball." He started to ask her to look at him, then took the more direct route. He laid a hand on her bare thigh and watched her gaze shoot to his. "Why don't I make it easy for you? I want you to stay with me tonight."
She picked up her wineglass, fiddled with the stem. "I don't have any clothes."
"So we'll get up early, give you enough time to Swing by your place and change before work." He reached out, ran a fingertip
down her throat. Such a long, slim throat. "I want to make love with you again. I want to sleep with you. Is that simple enough?"
Because it should have been, she nodded. "I'll stay, but I don't want any complaints when the alarm goes off at six."
He only smiled. It was a rare day for him not to be up already and jogging along the beach by six. "Whatever you say. Now, there's more. I said there were strings. I meant it."
That was what she'd been trying to keep neatly locked in the back of her mind. Wanting to choose her words with care, she continued to eat. "I'm not involved with anyone," she began.
"Yes, you are. You're involved with me."
A quick chill of warning ran down her spine. "I meant I'm not involved with anyone else. I don't intend to see anyone else while we're… involved. However it may seem by the way I came here tonight, sex isn't casual for me."
"Nothing's casual for you." He topped off his wine, then hers. "But sex is the easy part. It doesn't take a lot of thought, instinct kicks in, the body takes over."
His gaze rested on her face. Her eyes were wary, he noted, like those of a doe that had unexpectedly come across a stag in the woods. Or a hunter. "I have feelings for you."
Her heart bumped. She used knife and fork to cut meat as if the precise size and shape of it were paramount. "I think we've established that."
"Not just desires, Katherine. Feelings. I'd planned on sorting them out before we found ourselves at this stage. But…" He shrugged, ate, let her absorb the words. "I like maps."
Her already baffled brain clicked over into complete confusion. "Maps."
"Points of interest. Routes from one place to the next. I like plotting them out. One of the reasons I'm interested in hotels is because they're like a world. Self-contained, full of movement and places and people."
As he spoke, he cut the bone from what was left of his meal, then did the same with Kate's. He gave each of the wide-eyed dogs a feast.
"Hotels are never really stationary. Just the building is. But inside there are births, deaths, politics, passions, celebrations, and tragedies. Like any world, it runs more or less a certain way, along a certain route. But the detours, the surprises, the problems, are always there. You explore them, enjoy them, solve them. I fucking love it."
She pondered as he sat back, lit one of his cigars. She had no earthly idea how they had shifted from a discussion on their relationship to his work, but it was fine with her. Relaxed again, she picked up her wine.
"That's why you're so good at your job. My aunt and uncle consider you the best, and they're very picky."
"We generally do our best with something we enjoy." He watched her through a haze of smoke. "I enjoy you."
Her smile spread slowly as she edged toward him. "Well, then."
"You're a detour," he murmured, taking her hand before it could become too busy, bringing it to his lips. "When I map out the particular world I'm moving in, I always anticipate a few detours."
"I'm a detour." She was insulted enough to tug her hand free. "That's flattering."
"It was meant to be." He grinned at her. "While I'm on this intriguing and very attractive alternate route, I don't intend to worry how long it will take to navigate it."
"And I'm along for the ride? Is that it?"
"I'd prefer saying we're in this together. Where we end up depends on both of us. But I know this. I want you with me. I haven't completely figured out why, but I can't get past the wanting part. When I look at you, it's enough."
No one had ever made her feel more desired. He'd used no soft, alluring words, composed no odes to her eyes, and yet she felt vital and alive and very much wanted. "I'm not sure whether I'm confused or seduced, but it seems to be enough for me, too."
"Good." Most of the tension he'd been holding in seeped away as he brought her hand to his lips again. "Now that you're relaxed, why don't you tell me about this fascinating day of yours?''
"My day?'' Absolutely blank, she stared at him. Then her eyes cleared, went bright. "Oh, Jesus, my day. I'd completely forgotten."
"I can't tell you how gratifying that is." He laid a hand on her thigh again, slid it slowly up. "If you'd like to forget about it for a while longer…"
"No." As she pushed his hand firmly away, she chuckled. "I was bursting to talk about it, and then I started thinking about getting you into bed, and it slipped down a couple of notches on the priority list."
"How about I let you get me in bed again, and we talk later?"
"Nope." She scooted out of reach. "I've already had you, pal. The encore can wait."
"That sound you hear is my ego deflating." He sat back with his cigar, his wine, gestured with the glass. "Okay, kid, spill it."
She wondered how it would feel to simply say it aloud. "In March I found out that my father had embezzled funds from the ad agency he worked for before he was killed." She let out a breath, pressed a hand to her stomach. "God."
It was, he thought, the piece he'd been sure was missing, falling into place. "In March," Byron repeated, studying her face. "You hadn't known about it before?"
"No, nothing. I keep expecting people to be shocked. Why aren't you shocked?"
"People make mistakes." And his voice softened when he calculated just how much she'd suffered. "Cut you off at the knees, didn't it?"
"I didn't cope very well. I thought I was. I thought I could bury it, just push it in. Didn't work."
"You didn't talk to anyone?"
"I couldn't. Margo found out she was pregnant, and Laura, she's handling so much and… I was ashamed. That's what it comes down to. I couldn't face it."
And had made herself ill, he thought, with worry and stress and guilt. "Then you got hit at Bittle."
"It didn't seem that it could really be happening. Some sort of cosmic joke. It paralyzed me, Byron. I've never been so afraid of anything, or felt so helpless. Ignoring it seemed the only solution. It would go away, somehow just go away. I'd just keep myself busy with other things, not think about it, not react, and it would get better."
"Some snap," he murmured, "some collapse, and some dig their trenches."
"And I pulled the covers over my head. Well, that's done." In a half-toast to herself, she lifted her glass. "I talked to my aunt and uncle. Instead of making it better, that made it worse. I hurt them. I was trying to explain why I was grateful to her and Uncle Tommy, and I said things wrong. Or I was wrong, and it came out badly. She was so angry with me. I don't remember her ever being that angry with me."
"She loves you, Kate. You'll square this with her."
"She's already forgiven me. Or mostly. But it made me realize I had to face it. All of it. I went to Bittle today."
"Now you're digging the trenches."
She let out a shaky breath at his response. "It's past time I did."
"Now are you going to beat yourself up because you weren't iron woman, because you needed time to pull your resources together?"
The corner of her mouth twitched. She'd been tempted to do just that. Apparently he knew her very, very well. "No, I'm going to concentrate on dealing with now."
"You didn't have to go to Bittle alone."
She looked down at the hand that had covered hers. What made him offer support so easily? she wondered. And what was making her count so heavily on the offer?
"No, I did have to go alone. To prove to myself and everyone at Bittle that I could. I used to play baseball, in school. I was a good clutch hitter. Two out, a run behind, put Kate in the box. I'd concentrate on the feel of the bat in my hands because my stomach would be churning and my knees shaking. If I concentrated on the feel of the ash solid in my hands and kept my eyes dead on the eyes of the pitcher, I'd still be terrified, but nobody would know it."
"Trust you to turn a game into life or death."
"Baseball is life or death, especially in the bottom of the ninth." She smiled a little. "That's how I felt when I walked into Bittle. Two out, bottom of the ninth, and they'd already winged two str
ikes past me while I stood there with the bat on my shoulder."
"So you figured if you were going to go down, you'd go down swinging."
"Yeah, now you get it."
"Honey, I was a starting pitcher all the way through college. Went All-State. I ate clutch hitters like you for breakfast."
When she laughed, some of his worry eased. She took a moment to sip her wine, study the star-strewn sky. "It felt good. It felt right. Even being scared felt right because I was doing something about it. I demanded a partners' meeting, and there I was, back in the conference room, just like the day they fired me. Only this time I fired back."
She took a deep breath before launching into a play-by-play of what had happened inside the conference room. He listened, admiring the way her voice strengthened, her eyes hardened. Perhaps her vulnerability pulled at him, but this confident, determined woman was no less appealing.
"And you're prepared to deal with the fallout if they press formal charges?"
"I'm prepared to fight and to face all the fallout. And I'm prepared to do some serious thinking about who set me up. Because somebody did. Either because they were focused on me or because I was convenient. But someone used me to cheat the firm and the clients, and they're not going to get away with it."
"I can help you." He held up a hand before she could object. "I've got a feel for people. And I've spent my entire adult life dealing with the intrigues and petty pilfering of a large organization. You're the expert with figures, I'm better with personalities, motivations."
He could see her turning it over in her mind, weighing the possibilities. He smiled. "Let's use baseball again. You're the batter, I'm the pitcher. You swing away. I finesse."
"You don't even know any of the people involved."
He would make it his business to, he thought grimly, but he kept his voice mild. "So, you'll tell me about them. You're practical enough to admit there's an advantage to a fresh viewpoint."
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Thanks."
"We can start working on the bios tomorrow. I can see why you were wired. You've had quite a day."
