by Renee Roszel
“I’ve seen a few.”
She started. Abruptly straightening, she peered toward the front door. How had he come outside so quietly? “I didn’t know you were still up.” Why did it have to be the very man she was working so hard not to think about?
“I told you,” he said. “I don’t sleep.”
Mary knew why she couldn’t sleep and wondered what his reason was. Her curiosity would never be satisfied, however, since the last thing on earth she intended to do was ask.
“So what’s the miracle?”
Her face went hot with humiliation. She hadn’t meant for anyone to hear. Leaning back, she feigned calm, and lied. “I’m hoping you’ll turn into a pillar of salt by daybreak.”
His chuckle was less mirthful than cynical. “Oh?” She heard him approach over the redwood planks. “You’d be surprised how often I’ve heard that.”
“I’d be less surprised than relieved.” She tried to sound flip, though her heart had begun a wayward hammering. “It restores my faith in humanity.”
He walked to the porch railing and lounged against it, crossing his arms at his chest. He looked yummy, to use Pauline’s kitchen-romp description from the night before. Mary hadn’t noticed the moon was full until its golden illumination paid subtle homage to Bonn’s wide shoulders. Though his face was in shadow, moonbeams glanced off the outer reaches of his chiseled features, hinting at the sharp-edged strength of his bone structure. Frustrated by how the vision of him casually loitering there made her feel, she shifted her attention to the heavens and the calming purity of its stars.
“I thought we might have that dance, now.”
His comment startled her so badly she forgot her resolve not to look at him. “Have what?”
“We promised Miz Witty.”
She stared, dumbfounded that he would even make such an outrageous suggestion. “So?”
“So, a promise is a promise.” He held out a hand as though he expected her to take it. A night breeze whispered through the branches of the evergreens. The astringent fragrance of the pines cavorted with the light perfume of Miz Witty’s hybrid roses, a heady mix.
The zesty bouquet affected Mary in a most unexpected, provocative way. At least that’s what she chose to believe was the cause of her shortness of breath. It certainly wasn’t the vision of Bonn, standing in the half-light of night, backlit by the moon. Even motionless, he exuding a relentless charisma—with his breeze-tossed hair and dark, penetrating eyes. His extended hand seduced without the need for words, slyly compelling her to come into his arms.
Put yourself out of your misery and take his hand! a rebellious imp in her brain shouted. You know you want to! Stand up! Walk into his embrace! In an effort to defy the mutinous voice clamoring in her head, she clamped her fingers around the metal chair arms. “Oh? A promise is a promise, huh?” she jeered, as angry with herself as she was with him. “And you’re strict about keeping promises?”
“Aren’t you?”
She frowned, disconcerted. “Aren’t I—what?”
“Strict about keeping promises to Miz Witty.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. What was he doing, reminding her that she’d promised, that her promises meant something, even if his didn’t? “Well—I was just—I was simply—telling her what she wanted to hear. I had no intention of actually dancing with you.”
He lowered his outstretched hand to the porch railing. “I see.” He canted his head, giving the moonlight greater access to his features, highlighting them to intolerable perfection. Wicked, cruel moonlight! “So, it’s acceptable for you to tell her what she wants to hear, and not mean it, but it’s reprehensible when I do it?”
“Yes!” Uncomfortably aware her response lacked logic, she scrambled mentally to correct the inconsistency. “Because—because I’m not hurting her when I do it!” Ha! That told him!
“Are you sure? She’s the one who wanted us to dance.”
Mary didn’t appreciate feeling like she was under cross-examination. “Look, I don’t care if you were captain of your fancy school’s debating team, or if you think it’s fun to take a subject and twist it to make your case, but the bottom line is, I don’t intend to dance with you, now or ever.” She had another thought and threw it out. “You’ve been in too many courtrooms listening to your lawyer’s convoluted justifications for your bad behavior. It’s rubbed off.” She stood abruptly, intent on escape. “We’re not in court, Mr. Wittering, and no matter how you spin the facts, you have no case.”
“Now who’s flimflamming to make her lie sound honorable?” he asked.
She halted a foot from the door. Annoyed by his truth-twisting, she whirled to face him. “Flimflamming? Me?”
One broad shoulder rose and fell in silent affirmation. “It’s only a dance,” he said. “The last thing Miz Witty said to me after I carried her upstairs was, ‘Promise me you and Mary will have that dance. Don’t disappoint me.”’ In the pause that followed, Mary grew uneasy. She knew he spoke the truth, since that was also the last thing Miz Witty made her promise before she tucked her in for the night.
“I promised her we would,” he said, at last.
Mary fought her unruly desire to dance with him, promise or no promise. Every moment at the party she’d longed to be held in his arms, and she’d fought it all evening. She still yearned for it so badly she could cry, but she didn’t dare weaken. She opened the front door, planning to hurry inside. Soft, sultry music wafted through the open doorway. Startled, she frowned over her shoulder at him. “You turned on the compact disc player?”
He no longer lounged against the rail, but stood close, closer than her determination to resist could withstand. How had he walked so quietly across the porch? “Dancing is nicer with music,” he said, his voice beguiling in the darkness.
Darn the man! If she didn’t keep herself under harsh control she might…
She made a guttural sound, banishing the mental picture of what she might do. It was certainly nothing unique, at least not for him. She imagined a hundred other foolish women like her had succumbed to the exact same fate with this man. She had to resist becoming one hundred and one! She mustn’t surrender! Not even for something as innocent as a dance. She feared that once surrendering, she would not have the strength to resist—anything he might ask of her. Sex was a sport to him, women a challenge. She had to keep that sad reality at the forefront in her mind.
The song played on, slow and sexy. By now it was half over. Mary wanted to reject him sternly, with some pithy jab at his ego, but found herself debilitated to the point where she could hardly form words, let alone anything pithy enough to wound.
“Well…er…” She swallowed, attempting to remove the breathy squeak from her voice. Was she weakening, or facing the fact that she had a promise to keep? Though her emotions brawled, she kept her head, made a pact with herself. She would dance with him, but the dance would be brief and she would remain strong. “Okay—just to the end of this song.”
“Good enough.” He moved into her personal space. She felt the intrusion like static electricity, prickling all over her body. As he took her in his arms, the prickle became a pleasant tingle. Oh, heaven! Oh, joy! She fairly melted, her hard-fought vow of indifference taking a beating. He smelled delicious. His hand at the small of her back, radiated a pleasing heat. No! Don’t think about him! She clamped her jaws together, stared into his shirtfront, telling herself not to notice his scent or his touch. Be emotionally and physically detached, she admonished silently.
To save face, she murmured, “Just so we’re clear, I’m dancing with you only because I promised Miz Witty.” She lifted her gaze to his face, eyeing him with a look she hoped spoke volumes about her distaste for this exercise.
Even in the deep darkness, she sensed his intent expression didn’t change. Perhaps it was too dark for him to discern her rebuking look. She was afraid that wasn’t it, since she was facing the moonlight and her expression would be easier to see.
His eyes glinted in the darkness, cunningly sensual, holding her gaze. “I’m trying to be all Miz Witty could ask for in a grandson,” he whispered, the sound of his voice washing over her like a warm, lulling wave.
Mary battled its effect without success. Anxiety gnawed at her. She was worried, restless, not breathing well. “I must admit,” she said, stiffly, “tonight, your imitation of a gentleman was flawless.” She felt suddenly disoriented. Had she said that out loud? It was a thought she hadn’t meant to broadcast.
His lips parted in a crooked grin. She could see the glint of his teeth. Witnessing such a rare phenomenon as his smile, at such close range, even if it merely mocked her, was almost too much to cope with. She felt weak-kneed and breathless. “Damning me with faint praise isn’t going to get you out of this any sooner, Miss O’Mara.” The warning came in a whisper, caressing her cheek.
The crispness of the night air, the spicy tang of his after-shave, mingling with that special zest that was utterly him, was more exhilarating, more erotic than a mortal woman could bear.
Mary tried to ignore his charisma, but floundered. At that moment in time he was all she could ask for in a man. Nothing she wanted, but all she could ask for. How crazy was that? Discouraged and resentful, she thought, “So this is how playboys get to be playboys. They become experts at being irresistible!”
“I thought your little sister would be at the party,” he said, drawing her from her troubled reverie. She almost blessed him for giving her something to think about besides how irresistible he was. She nodded. “She was but—but Joe said she had a cold and wouldn’t let her come.”
“That’s too bad.”
She looked up, met his gaze. He was no longer smiling, and seemed sincere. “It’s more than too bad,” she said, her anger at Joe resurfacing. “Becca doesn’t have a cold. Joe was being is usual shabby self. Keeping us apart was pure maliciousness.” She swallowed, working to keep her voice from breaking. “It’s cruel. Becca’s looked forward to this party—for weeks.”
Bonn was silent, contemplative, his expression somber. Unsettled by the provocative effect of his quiet, thoughtful side, she wrenched her gaze from his face. Shouldn’t the confounded love song be over by now?
“Would you like me to talk to him?”
Once again, Mary was jolted from her anxiety-ridden musings by a confusing statement. “Him? Who?”
“Becca’s father,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. “Do you think because your name is Wittering, you’d have some kind of power over Joe?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I knew you had an immense ego, but I had no idea you fancied yourself a supreme being!”
“I’m not quite that egocentric,” he said. “But, ego aside, I have been known to be persuasive.”
She made a pained face. “Your reputation is no great secret. I’m sure with your charm, you could persuade almost anybody to do almost anything. But I know Joe pretty well, and I have to say he’s a sliver more pigheaded than you are charming, so stay out of it. You’d only make things worse.”
He nodded. She thought she detected a muscle flex in his jaw. Had she hit a nerve? She experienced a stab of guilt. She’d been critical and severe when he’d offered to help. She supposed nobody was one hundred percent bad, including Bonn Wittering. Sucking in a breath, she said, “Look, I’m sorry. I’m sure you meant well. It’s just that Joe is a bull-headed jerk, and I’m afraid he’d just punish Becca and me, keep us apart even more, if he felt bullied—”
“I understand,” he broke in, quietly. “Forget it.”
His hand on her back shifted slightly, his fingers spreading. Mary sensed he’d drawn her infinitesimally closer. Their thighs brushed and she experienced a thrill. In an effort to nip her arousal in the bud, she bit down hard on her lower lip. Now you can concentrate on the pain, nitwit, she reprimanded inwardly, instead of the man!
Their dancing gradually turned them around, allowing the moon’s glow to spotlight his face. Unprepared for the dramatic beauty the silvery light lavished on his ruggedly handsome features, Mary could only stare. Her pulse skyrocketing, she searched for any visible imperfection to focus on, but could find none—only bold, dark eyes and the heart-fluttering planes and angles of his face.
He looked compassionate and troubled. What she saw in his expression, so poignant in the moonglow, touched her, short-circuiting her vow to remain numb to his touch, his scent, his charisma. Her long-fought hunger to know again the taste of his kiss rushed back full-force. Her hand, resting on his shoulder, slid to his back, drawing him closer. She lifted her chin, parting her lips in a primeval invitation. Even knowing how stupid she was, how wrong this was, she couldn’t stop herself. Kiss me, she cried inwardly. Make love to me! Now! Before I regain my wits!
She sensed more than saw in him a slight hesitation, a half-startled wariness, as though he couldn’t quite trust her silent solicitation. Could she blame him? How often had she made it explicit that he steer clear of her? No trespassing! Touching verboten! Even casual conversation outside Miz Witty’s presence, she’d huffily rejected. And now, in the blink of an eye, she was asking him to kiss her, offering her lips with abandon—the foolish moth fluttering carelessly into the fire. A misty doubt flitted across her mind, but it was too wispy, too swiftly banished, to weigh or heed.
Suddenly they were kissing, Mary’s wordless, witless request granted. His kiss was tender, like his first, still burning in her memory. The touch of his lips was unlike anything she’d expected a selfish, egotistical good-for-nothing’s kiss to be. The taste and texture was truly heaven on earth, exactly as she remembered. Her toes curled, her body quivered and she had the strangest sensation she no longer stood on solid ground. She fairly floated like some airy, scudding cloud, but not nearly as cool. She felt warm. Hot, even.
Seeming to sense she had arrived at the brink of total surrender, Bonn’s tongue teased her lips, subtly claiming mastery of the secret recesses of her mouth. She abandoned herself to his sweet sovereignty as he explored and stimulated. Wanting more, much more, she molded every curve of her body to his. She could feel his powerful, male hardness against her. Heat, wild and fierce, spread through her veins, filling her with a throbbing need—mindless and wanton and wonderful.
A part of her, the logical part she’d ruthlessly shoved aside, protested, but the part of her that sizzled, trembled, craving deep intimacy, drove logic and intellect back with bulldozer determination.
Desolate and terrified that what she was about to do would cause her damage that couldn’t heal, her rational side screamed, pleading, protesting, reminding her she’d only managed to lure him here with her threat that Miz Witty would cut him out of her will. This man, with the sexy-yet-tender kiss and deceptively sincere eyes, was the same money-grubbing snake he’d been before his arrival.
Even with all his broad-shouldered gorgeousness and that rare, mind-melting grin, he was a self-centered rogue. In the midst of her mindless tailspin, even as she reveled in the lusty joys of his scent, his lips, the hard strength of his broad back beneath her fingers, his bold maleness and the promise of dazzling gratification to come, her reason battled back, recapturing its rightful dominance.
What in heaven’s name are you doing, Mary?
Horrified at herself for such an abysmal mental slide, she shoved at his chest, crying wretchedly, “If you think getting into my pants will do you any good with Miz Witty, you’re mistaken! My opinion won’t change! But,” she admitted brokenly, “…you’ve probably—succeeded in what you came to do, so—so making love to me is a chore you can avoid!” She knew how absurd that sounded, considering who had initiated the kiss, but she couldn’t let herself admit that. It was too awful to think about.
She stumbled away, only halted in her blind retreat by the porch rail. Instinctively, she grabbed it to keep from toppling into the ornamental plantings.
She heard an exhale from behind her that carried the growled undertone of a curse. “I feel a
case of whiplash coming on,” he muttered, sounding hoarse. “How about you?”
She supposed she deserved that, considering her abrupt about-face from “make love to me” to “stay out of my pants”! Her U-turn had been so violent, it was enough to cause physical injury. Dizzy and disoriented, she faced away from him, leaning heavily on the rail to keep from collapsing. “I’m—fine.” She squeezed her eyes shut, condemning herself to the deepest pit in Hades. How could she have done anything so stupid? She knew better!
Ordinarily she was a crisp, clear-headed logical thinker. But right now her thinking was muddled and contradictory. Her goals—at least where Bonn Wittering was concerned—had scattered like defecting cowards, and she was tottering on the edge of hysteria.
Shaken and angry over her lapse, she pulled herself together as well as she could, ordering her voice and her pulse to settle down. “You know, Mr. Wittering—you’re awfully good,” she said. “I’m impressed as—as heck.”
There was a pause, so long she wondered if he’d gone inside. If he had, he hadn’t shut the door. She could still hear the music.
“Heck, huh?” he said, finally. “That’s pretty strong language. I’m curious to know what you’re so impressed about.”
She refused to face him. That was unwise, even if she hadn’t been so mortified she didn’t think she’d ever be able to look him directly in the eyes again. “You’ve perfected the New Alpha Male icon. Women can’t resist it.” Quiet filled the night and she strained to hold on to her fragile poise.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll reserve judgment on your flattery before I say thanks.” The plaintive sound of an owl invaded the lull, its melancholy outcry dying away before he spoke again. “Just what is a New Alpha Male?”
She inhaled, gaining both emotional and physical strength. Not looking at him helped. “It’s the same as the old Alpha Male, the status thing—money, power—but with sensitivity thrown in.” She shook her head, befuddled. “The only thing is, the sensitivity is supposed to be real. And I swear, sometimes when I look into your eyes, I actually believe…”
