Home to the Riverview Inn

by Molly O'Keefe

  In fact, she was so enthralled by the spicy tuna she almost didn’t hear the speaker begin to introduce Jonah.

  “He’s done more for the environment in the tristate area than any one developer,” the balding man said. He was red under the spotlight, his forehead shining with sweat. “To say nothing of the fact that he’s made several agents in this room very, very wealthy.”

  A few people laughed but mostly, people turned and stared at Jonah. Whispers started up behind hands and his back straightened. His jaw got so tight Daphne worried about his molars.

  “In light of his new charity, Haven House, the Organization for Tristate Realtors would like to present Jonah Closky with a donation to Haven House of fifty thousand dollars.”

  The room rang with applause and Daphne nearly choked on a tuna roll. That was a lot of money. Especially considering these people didn’t seem to like him, and he positively didn’t like them.

  The applause went on. And on. The speaker, now holding a giant check, coughed uncomfortably and it broadcasted through the whole room.

  “Jonah?” she whispered. “You have to—” She stopped. He knew what he had to do, he just didn’t want to do it. It was written in every hard line on his face. Every clenched muscle.

  He was going to cut off his nose to spite his face.

  And she wasn’t done with her oysters.

  I could walk out, Jonah thought, liking the idea. Meanwhile the people around him stopped smiling and the claps in the corners of the room began to die off.

  Some of these people had tried to rob him. All of them had bad-mouthed him, whispered malicious things about Gary and him and what they were trying to do. A few people had gone so far as to try to sabotage him.

  None of them knew him. And now all of them would want something from him, and, because of the money, he’d be obligated to listen. To pretend. To join in the falseness of it all.

  His skin literally crawled at the thought.

  He could leave. They could take their money and—

  Daphne’s hand, naked and warm, slid into his and squeezed until he looked at her.

  Her big green eyes were wide and wise. “Sometimes, Jonah,” she said, “you have to let love in. Even when it hurts.”

  “It’s not real,” he whispered to her, appalled that she would mistake this political posturing for something honest or genuine.

  “The money is,” she said giving his hand a good shake. “And that’s enough from these people.”

  The woman was right.

  He squeezed her hand and headed for the stage, for that big check and the false sentiment. He concentrated on the good that money would do and on Daphne.

  Daphne who was turning out to be the biggest surprise of them all.

  12

  She’d had four glasses of champagne. Four. Was Daphne drunk? Jonah didn’t think so. She walked a straight line. Didn’t slur her words.

  Feeling a little guilty, are we? Jonah’s conscience, asleep for the past fifteen years, had been talking his ear off most of the night. Thinking you want to take advantage of a woman you’re already screwing thanks to that land purchase? A woman who might just be a little drunk?

  I am scum, he thought.

  “That—” Daphne sighed as the doors slid closed and the elevator jumped slightly before sending them upward “—was a lot of fun.”

  He tried not to look at her, because frankly, looking at her was turning into foreplay. She was doing wicked things with those gloves and his internal engine had been running hot all night.

  But in the end he couldn’t resist a glance. She was standing in the corner, braced slightly against the gold handrails. Her reflection doubled over and over in the mirrored walls.

  “I’m glad you had a good time,” he said.

  She eyed him shrewdly. “Did you have fun?”

  He could lie, stay on his side of the elevator and watch the numbers illuminate over the doors. Or, he could tell her the truth. He could look her in the eye and say, Yes, I had fun. I had fun looking at you and those wicked gloves and that tight dress. In fact, I had so much fun my pants don’t fit right.

  Well, he clearly wasn’t going to say all that.

  So he simply nodded and the elevator still nearly burst into flames.

  “Jonah,” she said, her voice tugging him free from his thoughts. She no longer smiled like Mae West. Instead it was just Daphne there. Daphne who’d known he wasn’t what the whole world thought he was before she even had proof. Daphne who’d rushed to his defense. Stood by his side. Who’d told him she didn’t do this kind of thing, the last time they’d been in this position.

  He shifted sideways, boxing her in slightly and her breasts rose with a hard breath. Her eyes dilated.

  It was time to get to the bottom of this.

  “Daphne—”

  The elevator pinged and the doors slid open.

  Jonah, frustrated, grabbed her hand and pulled her into the hallway toward their room. He jerked the key card into the reader then threw open the door. Holding it for her, he caught the surprising green grass scent of her as she passed and his frustration built. His blood beat hard.

  “Daphne,” he said when the door closed behind them, leaving them in a dark cocoon, lit only by the city lights outside their windows. The whole world glittered and it was reflected in her wide eyes.

  “Jonah,” she said, facing him. Her face was a perfect canvas for the glow from the city. She was made more stunning, more mysterious in the shadows and light.

  “You told me last week that you couldn’t do—” he lifted a hand, waved it between them to indicate all the teasing, the pounding blood, the long looks, the smell of sex that practically rolled off them “—this.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “I am ready to respect that and say good night—”

  “No!” She surprised both of them with her vehemence. “I don’t want that.”

  Ah, the window of opportunity beckoned.

  “What do you want?” he asked, slowly advancing on her. He tossed the key on the floor. Her purse fell from limp fingers.

  “I want—” She paused and he kept advancing, stalking her practically. She took another deep breath, those breasts, those marvelous breasts trembling in the gilded shadows. “You.”

  He’d expected it, had practically fed her the line. But like the way she looked tonight, he wasn’t ready for the impact.

  Every other woman who said that to him—and there had been plenty—had uttered the words because it was something sexy to say. They’d been talking about his body. His dick. His money. Hell, who knows what else, because they certainly hadn’t been talking about him.

  But Daphne knew him better than any woman he’d ever slept with. And still she wanted him. Jonah Closky.

  It stopped him in his tracks.

  She blinked at him as the silence between them stretched and he struggled to shut up his conscience while remembering the steps to this particular dance. But she’d stripped away what was familiar and left him feeling naked. And young.

  “Okay,” she finally said, brightly as if she were suddenly wrangling kindergartners. “We’ve got that settled. So, maybe if we could—”

  “Are you trying to organize this?” he asked, smiling incredulously. Ah, Daphne. Only she could make him want to laugh in this particular scenario.

  “No,” she said, then winced. “Well, maybe. I’m a bit…rusty.”

  The hum in his blood intensified and he took those few long steps necessary to stand right in front of her. He felt the heat of her along his chest, his legs. She tilted her face up and he could smell the sweet champagne on her breath.

  “I want this Jonah,” she whispered. “I really do.”

  “Good,” he said. “So do I.”

  Warmth flared in those green eyes. Her hands, clad in those unbelievable black gloves, stroked the center of his chest, from tie to belt and back again.

  All the while her eyes bored into his, searching ou
t his secrets.

  His fingers traced her collarbone, ran its delicate length until he found the hard pounding of her blood in her throat. He bent his head and kissed her there, sucked her flesh into his mouth and when she groaned, straining against him, he pulled her into his arms and bit her. Just a little.

  “Oh my.” She sighed.

  He felt her kick off her shoes then she went after his jacket, then his belt. His tie was yanked off and suddenly he didn’t have a shirt on. He let her strip him because he was far too preoccupied by the trembling tops of breasts, pushed up so dramatically by her dress. He couldn’t stop running his hands along the boning at her waist.

  It was all so delicious.

  But then she started to pull off her gloves and he had to stop her.

  “No,” he said.

  “No what?” she gasped.

  “Leave the gloves on.” He smiled, the surge of lust hitting a new height.

  “Okay,” she whispered. He touched her hands, her waist. Cupped the flesh of her breasts through the dress and she bit her lip as if to stem a cry.

  Then, as he had wanted to do from nearly the moment he saw her, he let down her hair.

  The chopsticks fell to the thick carpet as she sighed and lifted her gloved hands to her head to shake out thick curtains of nearly white blond hair. It fell past her shoulders almost to the center of her back and it was everything he’d thought it would be.

  He reached his fingers into the silky depths, fanned it out over her beautiful shoulders.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said, and she blushed. The colors of Daphne—white, red, pink and black—were so dramatic and erotic he could barely stand it.

  “So are you,” she said, running a finger over his chest, down this stomach to the waistband of his pants.

  She ducked her head and he brushed back some of the hair that fell forward just in time to see her bite her lower lip before sliding that hand over the fly of his pants to press against his erection.

  He sucked in as much air as he could and it still wasn’t enough. His heart pounded so hard his hands shook. To keep himself steady he pressed her hard against the nearest wall, lifting her slightly, so when his body came to rest against hers, it rested in all the right spots.

  “Yes,” she hissed, digging those gloves into his hair, over his neck, holding on tight to his shoulders.

  Pressing fevered kisses to her neck and breasts, he found the small zipper at her waist. Leaning back, so he could see what was unwrapped, he pulled the zipper down her body and the dress loosened, gaped and finally fell in a red silk puddle at her feet.

  He opened his mouth, ready with a compliment but his brain went blank at the sight of her. The heat coursing through his body welded his tongue to the roof of his mouth and he was speechless.

  This…this body and the lace and the satin had all been hidden under that dress. He was never going to be able to look at her the same way again. The next time he saw her wearing mud-splattered jeans he was going to imagine this moment and he’d fall to the ground at her feet in thanks.

  Her laugh, empowered and feminine and hot, made him lift his eyes to hers.

  “That look is the best compliment I’ve had in years,” she said, running her hands along her sides, around her waist and then, her gaze still engaged with his, she ran those gloves up to her breasts. Her nipples peeking out from the blond hair and black satin.

  Her eyes were as naked as her body and he could see himself in them. A reflection that he didn’t recognize, colored all wrong by her feelings for him. Feelings he knew were perilously close to love.

  Oh, Daphne, he thought. Don’t feel this way. Don’t hurt yourself on me.

  Tenderness and this sneaky regret weren’t wanted at this moment, they certainly weren’t what the beauty in his arms wanted as she arched against the wall, her body vibrating so much he could hear it.

  He growled low in his throat and turned her around so she faced the wall. So he couldn’t see himself and all those things she shouldn’t be feeling in her eyes. Pressing his chest to the cool skin of her back, they both groaned. He cupped her hips, followed the lace edge of her underwear around to the front and ran his finger along the hot center seam of her body.

  She arched against him, her bottom against his erection and he pushed away her hair to expose her neck. In the morning she’d be marked and the thought made him even hotter.

  Daphne braced her hands against the wall and he felt the lace under his fingers grow wet.

  “I’m so ready for you,” he growled in her ear, and she whimpered, tucking her head against him, her hips pulsing against his hands. “You feel ready for me.”

  “I am.” She panted and swore and he smiled, feeling feral. Raw and wild.

  Using his free hand, he dug out his wallet and the condom he had there. Not breaking stride with his fingers he undid his pants and kicked free of them.

  “I need a second,” he said and she cried out, grabbing his hand when he would have pulled away. “A second,” he murmured, nipping her neck.

  She let him go and he grabbed the waist of her lace panties and pulled them over her hips, down to her ankles. He rolled the condom on, straightened, then inserted one leg between hers.

  “Spread your legs, Daphne.”

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Your legs, baby. Let me in.”

  She shifted, the smell of her arousal intensified and he bent his legs, positioned himself at her entrance and in one smooth, hard thrust pushed himself all the way home.

  Daphne came immediately, as if she’d been waiting for him to do this all night. It took every ounce of control he had not to follow her right over the edge. She was so hot and sweet in his arms, crying his name and shaking. And it seemed to Jonah, at that moment, that this was different.

  This wasn’t just sex.

  And he was way out of his league.

  Daphne stared at Jonah.

  Pulling the million-thread-count sheets around herself, she sat up and stared at him while he pretended to sleep. “Open your eyes, you big faker,” she said.

  And he smiled, his face relaxed and handsome under his rumpled hair. She wanted to avert her eyes, as if by not looking at him she could somehow repair the damage that had already been done. But it was too late. Even if she were blind, she’d be mostly in love with Jonah Closky.

  Her body hurt, ached, pulsed and throbbed in places she’d thought were ghost towns. But her heart…her heart was singing.

  “You know what will happen if I open my eyes,” he mumbled, still smiling. And her heart sang louder, deafening her to the screams of her common sense.

  “Come on, I’ve taken them off,” she said, knowing what he referred to.

  His eyes snapped open in horror. “You didn’t.”

  She waved her naked hands at him. “You pretty much ruined them with that last trick of yours.”

  Sighing, he leaned up to kiss her shoulder. “We’ll have to get you a new pair.” He rearranged himself on the bed, so he rested against the headboard, the sheet pooling in his lap.

  Moonlight crept through the room, leaving sharp slices of shadows in the corners and across one side of the bed.

  But Jonah sat in a shard of white light, his body like stone, smooth and hard. The light played tricks on her perspective. He was here, so close she could count his eyelashes, see the scar at the corner of his eye that he’d said was from chicken pox, yet he seemed so far away. The shadows added distance where there wasn’t any.

  Daphne, because she couldn’t help it, because he was here right now and tomorrow night he wouldn’t be, ran her hands down the muscled hairless expanse of his chest, over the slight ridges at his stomach. She hooked a thumb in the sheet and he caught her hand, laughing.

  “Baby, even if we still had those gloves, four times in a night is beyond me.”

  She wrinkled her nose, eager to hoard him, stock up so when she went back into her long hibernation she’d have enough memories to survi
ve. She’d had a night like she’d never had—a sexual experience so rich and erotic she couldn’t believe she’d been the one against the wall, or in the shower or all over this bed.

  But it was her. And she couldn’t be happier.

  She patted the lump under the sheet and smiled, removing her hands. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” he said, grinning expansively. “As long as it isn’t what you asked me while we—”

  “Stop!” she cried, covering his mouth with her hands, embarrassed by those things she’d done in the heat of sex. “Don’t.”

  He laughed, kissing her hands before pulling them down. “What’s your question?”

  Cradling his face, she sighed, wondering if this would end the night. End them. But she figured she’d never be in a place to get a more honest answer from him. And while he’d be gone from her life at some point, the Mitchells would be around forever.

  She stroked his shoulders and, before she even said the words, he tensed as if waiting for them. “Why are you so mad at Patrick?”

  Why am I so mad at Patrick? Jonah thought, turning the words over and over as though they were foreign and he couldn’t quite make out the translation between what he felt—the cold pit in his stomach reserved for Patrick Mitchell—and the word mad.

  For some reason, sitting in this bed with Daphne, Jonah remembered being nine, after recovering from the chicken pox, when Sheila took him to the pool. Jonah would sit on the bottom underwater, looking up at the silver disk of the sun and the above-water world shimmering over his head. He’d hold his breath until he thought his lungs would burst, then he’d push off, reaching for that silver disk, and explode out of the water with a pop and gasp.

  He looked at Daphne, thought about the Mitchells and his mother and held his breath. But he knew it was futile. Daphne was the glittering disk and he was running out of air.

  But still, stubborn and hardheaded, he held on until the last minute.