The Bedroom Business

by Sandra Marton

  He gritted his teeth, tuned her out, and concentrated on the road. There it was, just ahead. The turnoff. And yes, the guy had cleared it. He signaled for a right turn, not that there was anybody in back of him. Who’d be fool enough to be out on a night like this?

  Only a man who’d been letting his gonads lead him around for the past week.

  Well, no more.

  He’d had lots of time to think, the past few hours, and what he’d thought was how dumb this whole escapade was.

  He’d set out on a mission of mercy, been snared by his own hormones, and now he was taking a woman to the last place he’d ever thought he’d take a woman.

  Not just a woman. Emily. Emily, for God’s sake, who probably thought sex was another word for romance and love and lace-trimmed Valentine’s Day cards. He’d backed him­self into a corner he was going to have trouble getting out of, and for what? For a couple of hours in bed?

  Jake almost laughed.

  He could have taken the prim and proper Miss Taylor to bed one hundred and sixty miles ago. Back in the city, at his place. Or at hers. Or at some damned hotel, in a suite over­looking Central Park, if that was her preference. He could have had her anyplace but here, in a house that was his own personal hideaway from the real world.

  He didn’t want her here. He didn’t want any woman here but, thanks to a momentary lapse in judgment, he sure as hell had one. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, it looked as if they might end up stuck here for at least part of tomorrow.

  What would they talk about? What would they do when the sex was over? It wasn’t as if he’d never spent a whole weekend with a woman but it had always been in a place where there were things to do so you didn’t have to sit around, looking at each other. Besides, those women knew how to play the game.

  Emily didn’t. She’d expect... What? Earnest conversation? An exchange of life stories?

  Jake bit back a groan.

  And come Monday morning, what would his life be like? Could he still walk into the office and greet her as if they were nothing more than two people who happened to work together?

  No. Dammit, no. Women weren’t like that. They put on a good act, said they were the same as men, said sex was sex and that it didn’t have to be confused with love. And, he supposed, some of them even meant it.

  Not Emily. Certainly, not Emily.

  She was naive to a fault. She’d probably only been with a couple of men. Every instinct warned him that she’d turn this one night into more than it was, more than he’d ever meant it to be. If he’d had himself under control, he’d have figured that out a lot sooner.

  And that was another thing. He didn’t like the feeling he had when he was around her, as if he weren’t quite in charge of his own destiny, because he was.

  Of course he was.

  If only the roads were clear. If only the snow weren’t com­ing down. If only he’d thought of all this before he’d asked her to come with him, before he’d started dreaming about her and yeah, okay, he dreamed about her, and wasn’t that a laugh? What kind of man had dreams like that, when he knew that there were a dozen beautiful women just waiting to do in reality what Emily only did in those dreams?

  Jake glared out the windshield. The house was just ahead. Normally, he felt good just at the sight of it, but not tonight. One huge master suite with an oversized tub and shower, a den, a living room, a half bath the Realtor had insisted on calling a powder room, and a country kitchen.

  It was plenty big enough for him, but for him and a woman? For him and Emily?

  It was too late for turning back but not too late for regrets.

  Jake reached to the dashboard, depressed the button for the automatic garage door opener. The doors rolled up; he drove the Corvette inside and shut off the engine. Okay. Time to make the best of a bad situation.

  “Well,” he said, trying for pleasant and not quite making it, “here we are.”

  Emily wrenched open her door. “Thank you for telling me,” she said coldly. “I’d never have figured it out if you hadn’t.”

  Jake sighed. Oh, yeah. It was going to be a memorable night. It was just a good thing the sofa in the den was com­fortable.

  He walked ahead of her, unlocked the door that led from the garage into the kitchen. The house was dark and cold. He was half tempted to leave it that way. It suited his mood. But he did the right thing, turned up the thermostat, then went from room to room, switching on lights before returning to the kitchen.

  Emily was still standing where he’d left her, her back to him. Jake thawed, just a little. She looked lost, small and lonely...

  No, she didn’t. She turned around and she looked as if she’d been carved from the icicles that dangled from the eaves.

  Okay, fine. That was the way she wanted it, that was the way it would be.

  “I’ll bring in your things,” he snapped.

  “What things? You mean, the stuff you bought today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t bother. None of that’s mine. You picked it, you paid for it. You can return it.”

  Jake peeled off his gloves, stuck them in the pockets of his leather jacket. “We’ve been all through this, remember? In Saks.”

  “How could I forget? You made such a scene...”

  “I simply said you were to consider the clothes a gift.”

  “And I,” Emily said sharply, “told you that I wouldn’t.”

  “Dammit, I am not going through this again. Buying all that stuff was my—”

  Emily unbuttoned her coat and shrugged it off. Jake swal­lowed dryly. He’d almost forgotten how she looked in that rose-colored dress and those high-heeled leather boots.

  “It was my idea,” he continued. “And it’s a ridiculous thing to quarrel over. You’d never have done all that shop­ping if I—if I hadn’t—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Nothing, unless he kept wondering what she had on under the dress. How come he hadn’t thought of that before? How come he hadn’t seen any underwear going in and out of that fitting room?

  “Well, I’m not keeping the clothes.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are, and that’s the end of it.” Jake ripped off his jacket and tossed it on a chair. What did it matter, what she was wearing under the dress? He didn’t care. For all he gave a damn, she could be wearing red flannel long johns. “I’m going to start a fire. How about you check out the kitchen and see if you can rustle up something to eat?”

  “Oh, I see. You’re the man, so you get to build the fire. I’m the woman, so I get to open a can of soup.”

  Jake threw out his arms. “You want to start the fire? Great. Be my guest. I’ll be more than happy to switch jobs.”

  Emily lifted her chin. “I’d just as soon do the cooking, thank you. Why risk ptomaine poisoning, at your hands?”

  She turned on her heel. Jake glared at her. “Women,” he muttered, and then he marched into the living room, squatted down before the fireplace, and set to work.

  Half an hour later, Jake sat on the carpet, cross-legged, before a roaring fire.

  He was feeling a little better. A good fire always did that for him. And there were interesting smells coming from the direction of the kitchen.

  He sighed, thought about the endless hours that lay ahead and figured it probably made sense to make the best of them. So he added another log to the blaze, got to his feet, h for the wooden wine rack at the far end of the room, and frowned.

  Red or white? He had no idea what Emily was cooking and he didn’t much feel like invading her territory to ask. It was peaceful right now; why spoil things with a question about wine?

  Red, he decided. Red seemed to suit a cold, snowy night.

  Jake opened a bottle of Merlot, sniffed the cork and de­cided he’d made a good choice. Mmm. What was she making in there? Whatever it was, it smelled wonderful. His stomach gave an anticipatory growl. Damn, he was h
ungry. Starved, was a better word, but then all he’d had for breakfast was that bagel. Now that he thought about it, they’d managed to blow right past lunch.

  Well, that figured. Why would he have thought of lunch, when his sparrow had been turning into a songbird, right before his eyes?

  Jake plucked a pair of wineglasses from the shelf.

  The truth was, she’d always been a songbird. She’d just managed to keep it hidden from the world. You didn’t see the real Emily until you took a long look. A long, wonderful look. Then you realized that she was beautiful.

  Jake poured the wine.

  More beautiful than any woman he knew, and maybe part of the reason was that she didn’t think so.

  But she was. That soft mouth. Those dark, drown-in-me eyes. That elegant little nose, the incredible hair, the lovely, curvy body... And her smile. Her laugh, so open and easy. Her honesty, her intelligence, her lack of pretension...

  The amazing thing was that Pete Archer had seen the real Emily right away, despite the fact that Archer was an ass. So had Thad Jennett. And now Eric had been added to her list of admirers. Eric, who probably had his hands in the hair of more gorgeous women in a day than most men did in a year...

  Was he the only guy who’d been so blind?

  Jake picked up the glasses of wine and headed for the kitchen.

  Emily was at the stove. She’d put on the denim apron he’d bought for himself but never quite found the courage to use, even though it said Chef on the front in bright red letters. The apron was enormous on her; the sides overlapped in the middle of her back. She was stirring something in a big pot. That was what he’d smelled and now he sniffed the air again, smiling appreciatively at the mingled aromas of garlic, to­matoes and­—

  “Sausage?”

  Emily spun around. Heat from the stove had flushed her cheeks; steam from the pot had turned her hair into a riotous mane of curls and she had a smear of something red on her chin.

  Jake felt something twist around his heart.

  Beautiful, he thought, Emily, you’re so beautiful...

  He stiffened. Okay, so she was beautiful. So were a million other women. And there wasn’t a reason in the world to get into an affair with her when he knew it would end badly.

  Jake fixed a smile to his lips and strolled towards her.

  “Vino for the cook,” he said briskly, “but only if you tell me that really is sausage I smell.”

  She hesitated. He could almost see her weighing the ben­efits and drawbacks of a temporary thaw. After a few sec­onds, she gave him a little smile and accepted the glass he offered her. A truce had been declared, at least for the mo­ment.

  “It is,” she said. “You said to poke around the kitchen. Well, I did—and I found some sausage in the freezer.”

  “You could have found a mastodon, and it wouldn’t surprise me. I bought the freezer when I bought the house, filled it—and never opened it again.” He held out his glass. “Salud.”

  They touched glasses. Emily took a sip of wine.

  “Mmm. That’s lovely.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure what your preferences are.”

  “Except when it comes to cephalopod mollusks.”

  Jake grinned. “Dangerous things, those mollusks.”

  “Mmm.” She drank some of her wine. “Actually, I don’t know much about wines. I just know what I like.”

  “Yes. So do I.”

  Their eyes met and held. Emily’s color deepened and she turned away. “Anyway,” she said, “I found the sausage. There were some canned tomatoes in one of the cupboards, along with a box of spaghetti. And you had garlic and cheese in the fridge, so I figured I’d make a sauce. It won’t be anywhere near as good as that stuff at La Gondola, but—”

  “How could it be?” Jake leaned back against a granite­-topped counter and crossed his feet at the ankles. “I mean, heck, without some tentacles and a blob of ink, who’d want to eat spaghetti?”

  Emily laughed. “Who, indeed?”

  “Is the sauce going to take a while to simmer? We had a neighbor when I was a kid, lady named of Mrs. Rossini. She used to make this terrific sauce—it would make the whole street smell great. I remember it took forever to cook.”

  “Oh, this won’t take that long. Just another half hour or so.

  “Good. ‘Cause I’m as hungry as a bear.”

  Emily picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the sauce. “So, where was this, where Mrs. Rossini used to make her sauce? Pennsylvania?”

  “Uh-huh. How’d you know that?”

  She shrugged. “You mentioned Pennsylvania before, when we were in the car.”

  “Ah. Yeah, Pennsylvania. That’s where I grew up.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “Not much to see in my part of it,” Jake said, and smiled. “Trees, trees, more trees.. .and coal mines.”

  “Coal mines, huh? That sounds interesting.”

  “It isn’t,” Jake said flatly. He stepped away from the counter. “Looks as if we have just enough time to sit by the fire and enjoy our wine.”

  “All right,” she said, after a second’s hesitation. “That would be nice.”

  Yes, he thought, yes, it would be. Sitting beside the fire, his arm around her shoulders, her head on his chest...

  Jake put down his glass. “The thing is,” he said gruffly, “I’m not a guy who believes in forever after.”

  He spoke before he could stop himself, because the words needed saying, but if he’d taken Emily by surprise, she didn’t show it.

  “I know that, Jake.”

  “Do you? I want you, Emily. Hell, I want you so badly it makes me ache.” He took a slow step towards her. “But I don’t want to hurt you. And I’m not sure what you expect out of tonight.”

  Emily didn’t have to think about her answer. She’d come to grips with reality while she’d been making the sauce. She was an adult and so was he. Oh, she’d tried to pretty things up by telling herself she wasn’t a woman meant for a one­-night stand but the truth was, just as the sauce was made up of a bit of this and a bit of that, so was life.

  Tonight was about sex, not romance. That was fine. She didn’t believe in romance, anyway. This—being with Jake, learning what other women knew—was part of life. And here, at long last, was her chance to live it.

  “Just tonight,” she said softly, her chin level, her eyes steady on his. “That’s all I expect, Jake. I just want—I want what you said you’d give me. What you said you’d teach me.”

  She sounded calm, almost cool. She wasn’t, though. Jake could see the glass trembling in her hand. She was afraid, and excited, and the knowledge that she was both sent a lightning bolt of anticipation through his blood.

  He took her wineglass from her hand and set it aside.

  “Come here,” he said softly, and drew her to him. “Em.” He ran his hands down her back, then up again. “Em, you’re so lovely.”

  “You don’t have to lie to me. I know I’m not—”

  Her voice was shaking. Well, why wouldn’t it? She was terrified. Where was she supposed to put her hands? What was she supposed to do and say?

  Her breath caught. Jake had nuzzled her hair aside. His mouth was hot against her neck.

  “It’s true, though,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful, and sweet, and perfect.”

  “Jake.” Emily shut her eyes. “I don’t—I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  He took her hands, looped them behind his neck. “Just do whatever you want to do, sweetheart.”

  “Yes, but I—I—”

  He kissed her gently, the brush of his lips against hers like a feather against her skin. Emily caught her breath.

  “Jake? I don’t think...”

  “Good.” He put his hand under her chin, tipped her face up to his. “Don’t think, Em. That’s it. Don’t think. Just feel.”

  His eyes were deep and dark; she knew she could tumble into them, get lost in them forever. “Jake
? Maybe we were right the first time. That coming here was a mis—”

  He kissed her again. His lips pressed hers more firmly this time but his mouth was soft. Soft, and cool, and wonderful.

  Her heart began to race. And there was a strange tingling sensation low in her belly.

  “Jake. Jake, listen. I said that maybe coming here was—” He silenced her by fitting his mouth carefully over hers, stroking the tip of his tongue against the seam of her lips.

  “Emily,” he said gruffly, “just turn off that brain of yours and kiss me back.”

  She did. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed him, and knew, at long last, that being here, with Jake, being in his arms, was what she’d waited for, all her life.

  Jake groaned as she opened her mouth to him. He cupped her face in his hands, accepted her invitation, delved into the heat and sweetness of her mouth. Emily moaned, lifted her­self to him, against him, pressed her soft, soft body against the hardness of his.

  “Emily,” he said, and he lifted her into his arms, carried her into the living room, to the fireplace, before he lowered her to her feet.

  She’d knotted the apron; he’d always been good at knots, he thought incongruously, hell, he’d almost been a Boy Scout when he was a kid. He’d have sewn a hundred merit badges on his shirt if his mother ever had enough money for the cost of the uniform. But his hands were shaking now; it took forever to undo the knot and get the apron off.

  Ah, he was right. She was beautiful. The rose-colored dress matched the color in her face. Her eyes were dark pools, wide with expectation and wonder. Her breasts were high, the nipples hard and visible beneath the soft wool.

  “Em,” he whispered.

  He watched her face as he lifted his hand, brushed his thumb over the distended bit of wool. She cried out; her head fell back and Jake caught her, gathered her close, eased the dress off one creamy shoulder and pressed his mouth to her flesh, to the pulse racing in the hollow of her throat. She smelled of roses and sweet cream; she tasted of honey and heaven, and he told himself to go slow, go slow...

  How could he?

  The blood was pounding in his veins. And Emily... Emily was whispering his name as he cupped her breast, teased it to life.