by Jane Graves
Good Lord. He couldn’t win.
He hated that Tom was gone tonight. He’d finally talked Tracy into going out with him, so he definitely wouldn’t be home until dawn. On this night, when Brandon really could have used some kind of distraction, he was sitting there in that big old house by himself with nothing but bad TV, an intrusive Siamese cat, and his own irritating thoughts for company.
Then heard a knock. A very loud, very insistent knock.
He scooted Jasmine from his lap and went to the door. He looked out the peephole, and suddenly he felt a little breathless.
Alison? She was here?
Yeah, she was. But, boy, did she look pissed.
He opened the door, and she blew into the house like the Hurricane Alison of old. She spun around. “Well, Brandon. It looks as if you’ve blown it again.”
“Huh?”
“I know, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re sick and tired of me telling you that you screwed up. But to be fair, this time you admitted it first.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were right. Justin’s a bore. What were you thinking when you set me up with him? At this rate, I’m going to be a hundred and twelve before I finally get married!”
“Wait a minute. I don’t get this.”
“What’s not to get? I broke up with him.”
“You did?”
“Yes. What else could I do?”
“Hold on. Didn’t you tell me—”
“We were about an hour down the road, and he started talking about how the beds at the hotel had Posturepedic mattresses and hypoallergenic linens. And I thought, hot damn, I’ll wake up with a spine in perfect alignment and not a sneeze in sight. But will he throw me on that Posturepedic bed and ravish me? Not likely.”
Brandon just stood there in disbelief. Was this the woman who had defended Justin not two hours ago?
“And he made sure I knew the hotel has no bedbugs,” she went on. “And how did he know that? Because he went to bedbugregistry dot com and checked it out.”
Brandon winced. “There’s an actual bedbug registry?”
“Yes, but only incredibly anal people know about it. And is it romantic to talk about it? No, it is not. And get this. We pulled into a truck stop for gas. There was a rack with bumper stickers. I pointed at one and laughed. Keep honking. I’m reloading. He didn’t get it. He lives in Texas, where guns outnumber people, and he didn’t get it. You set me up with a man with zero sense of humor. Why did you do that?”
“But I tried to tell you—”
“So I guess you’d better find me another match. And this time, could you at least try to get it right?”
“I have been trying! But for some reason—”
“You call that trying? I mean, it’s not as if Justin is a felon like Greg, but—oh, wait. Yes, he is. He committed third-degree boredom.”
“Alison—”
She held up her palm. “Is it really that hard?” she said, her voice softer now. “Really?”
Brandon lifted his shoulders helplessly.
“After all, I think I’ve shown you quite clearly what I want.”
“I know, but—”
“Sometimes I think the right man could be standing right in front of me,” she said, her voice strangely quiet now, “and you’d never even know it.”
“Come on, now. That’s not fair. I’ve been really good at this with other clients. Just because I can’t seem to get it right with you doesn’t mean—”
Oh.
From one second to the next, it was as if the whole thing with Justin fell into the background, and the world tunneled down to just the two of them staring at each other. Alison swallowed hard, and the anger he thought he’d seen in her eyes gave way to what was really beneath it. Hope. Vulnerability.
Desire.
The grandfather clock ticked rhythmically in the hall, which was the only sound Brandon heard except for the blood pulsing through his ears. He took another step toward her, feeling every beat of his heart like a jackhammer pounding his chest. When he drew closer still, she turned away, resting her hand on the back of the sofa, refusing to meet his eyes. She was probably afraid of what she’d see there if she looked. And could he really blame her for that?
“This is your last chance to find me the right man, Brandon,” she said softly, her eyes drifting closed. “Please get it right this time. Please.”
He inched up behind her and slid his arm around her, splaying his hand beneath her breasts, and pulled her gently to him. He heard her soft intake of breath, and when he pushed her hair aside with his other hand and touched his lips to her neck, the tiny gasp became a sigh. Then he turned his head and whispered in her ear.
“I found him, sweetheart. He’s standing right behind you.”
Chapter 25
Alison’s first thought was, He doesn’t mean what you think he means, but there was really no other way to take it. And when he turned her around and took her in his arms, she caught a flash of his dark, demanding eyes right before he kissed her, and she knew. He wasn’t stopping this time. Instead he slid his fingers through her hair and pulled her close, crushing her against him, and he felt so warm and solid and strong that she could have stayed in his arms forever.
This was it. This—this—was what she’d wanted all her life, what she’d dreamed of night after night but swore she’d never have. A man like Brandon. A kiss like this. A night to remember. And then another night…and another…
“Are you sure it’s not Justin you want?” he said, dragging his lips along her cheek, then kissing her neck.
“Justin’s very nice. But I don’t want nice.”
“What’s the opposite of nice?”
“This,” she said, and he smiled at her, a hot, wicked smile that sent a warm, melty feeling right down her spine. Then his hands were under her shirt, lifting it, tugging it off over her head, and she was thankful for the wanton woman underwear, even if it had ended up in the hands of the wrong man. Who was really the right one. And then she was unbuttoning his shirt, which was nearly impossible to do when her hands were quivering with anticipation. She fumbled so much with the third button that he finally just ripped it off over his head, and she heard one of those buttons tear loose and plink against the hardwood floor. He grabbed her and kissed her again, backing her up at the same time. When her legs met the edge of the sofa, he lowered her to it.
“Here?” Alison said.
“Yes, here,” he said, breathing hard. “You need some excitement. The sofa barely qualifies, but it beats a bed. I’d rent a hot air balloon, but I’m a little desperate here.”
Oh, God, she was, too. Desperate to touch him, to kiss him endlessly, to make love until they couldn’t stand up so she’d have to stay in bed with him forever. She’d spent weeks trying to decide if she wanted to sleep with Justin, and all it took was a single touch from Brandon and she would have gotten naked in Times Square if that was what he wanted.
“What about Tom?” she said.
“Out for the evening. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”
Just you and me. Those words made her feel singular and special, and she realized now that she’d wanted it to be just you and me almost from the first moment she’d met him.
“Too fast?” he asked, his hands hovering over the button of her jeans.
“God, no.” She ripped the button open herself and jerked the zipper down. He grinned and grabbed the legs of her jeans, yanking them off and slinging them aside. He turned back and stopped short.
“Wait a minute,” he said, looking at her bra and panties. “Red underwear? I would have sworn you wore blue.”
“It usually is blue. Red’s a little out there for me.” She paused. “I was hoping to be ravished tonight, and I wanted to look the part.”
“I hope you’re not disappointed at who’s doing the ravishing.”
“God, no.”
She sat up quickly, unhooked the bra, and tossed it
to the floor. Seconds later he had her completely naked, tossing those skimpy red panties aside with a flick of his wrist. She had a fleeting thought that maybe she should be self-conscious. After all, she was with a man who gave women whiplash just by walking past them, but things were moving entirely too fast for that. And when he looked down at her with an expression of pure lust, she forgot all about her body image issues. She merely dropped her arm lazily over her head and watched him rip off the rest of his clothes, thoroughly enjoying the show.
There was a tense moment when Brandon wasn’t sure he had a condom, but Alison produced one from her magic purse. He praised her organizational skills and tore it open. A moment later he rose above her and sank into her, and the feeling was so intense that for several seconds she couldn’t find her breath. And then he was moving inside her, hard and fast. She wrapped her legs around him and gripped his shoulders as he drove her toward a climax so quickly it astonished her. Finally, finally she was one of those heaven‑blessed women who knew what it felt like to be with a man who could make her nerves hum and her stomach turn upside down and her brain spin around inside her head in a blur of wild, crazy, gotta‑have‑it sex.
She felt a spark deep inside. Yes. This was good, so good, so good, and in a few moments it was going to be even better. More, more, more…
Then all at once, Brandon froze, his breath coming in sharp spurts.
“Brandon?”
“Hold still,” he said, squeezing his eyes closed. “No—absolutely still.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s okay. Wait for just one second—”
“No! Don’t stop. More, Brandon. Please…” She arched her hips against him, squeezing her muscles tightly around him.
“No! Sweetheart, no! Don’t do that! Don’t—oh, God.”
Then all at once he was moving again, as if he couldn’t not move, and after three or four strokes, he let out a guttural groan and buried himself deep inside her. She felt a shudder pulse through his body, his back muscles bunching and releasing. She tightened her arms around him, and after a moment he collapsed against her, his breath harsh and raspy.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
She turned her head and placed a warm kiss against the side of his neck. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop. I know it was too soon, but I couldn’t…there was no way…”
He sounded so distressed that Alison couldn’t help smiling. “It’s all right.”
He rose to sit beside her on the sofa, still breathing hard. “For future reference, when I say don’t move, I mean don’t move, or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else it’s over before you want it to be. Before I want it to be. But I’ll make it up to you.”
He looked so serious that she almost laughed out loud. “Brandon. It doesn’t matter. Nobody’s keeping score.”
“When it’s one to nothing and I’m the one, I’m keeping score.” He huffed with irritation. “I haven’t lost control like that since I was eighteen years old.”
“Yeah, that is kinda weird,” she said with a sly smile. “I thought men were supposed to outgrow that. Now that you’re an old man, I thought it went the other way.”
“Hey! This is not funny. And it wasn’t even my fault!”
“Uh…then whose was it?”
“Yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yes!”
“Why was it my fault?”
“You moved.”
“Oh, okay. I understand. No movement.” She paused. “Do I have to hold my breath, too? Because I’m telling you…that’s going to be damned near impossible.”
Brandon looked down at her, a subtle smile playing across his lips. “Have you always been a smart ass, or do I bring out the worst in you?”
“The best,” she said, trailing her fingertip across his thigh, thinking she could lie here and look at him forever. “The very best.”
“I didn’t lie,” he said, serious now. “It was your fault. Your fault just for being here. And being you.”
But how could that possibly be? She’d always been the average girl, the one most men passed by without even noticing, the one who had a hard time standing out in a crowd of two. But here she was with this gorgeous man who was staring down at her as if she was the most beautiful woman on earth. It was an amazing feeling of feminine power she’d never experienced before.
He lost control because of you.
Brandon dipped his head and kissed her neck. “The score may be one to nothing. But I have all night to even things up.”
She loved the way his words tumbled off his tongue, low and sexy, and landed gently on her ears. He gave her another kiss, then rose from the sofa and went to the bathroom, and when he came back, he picked up his jeans.
“Tell you what. Let’s sit out on the patio for a while.”
She didn’t know how that was supposed to even up the score, but she didn’t really care. Anywhere Brandon wanted to go was the place she wanted to be.
He pulled on his jeans, and she reached for her clothes.
“No,” he said, tossing her his shirt. “Wear this.”
She looked down at it. “Uh…okay.”
She put it on. Buttoned it down the front. It very nearly swallowed her, but still it felt soft and warm and smelled like Brandon. She rolled up the sleeves and reached for her panties.
“Nope. That’s enough clothes.”
“You want me to sit outside wearing nothing but this?”
“You’re covered. And there’s no light. Not even a moon tonight. Just you and me, sitting on that glider in the dark.”
There it was again. Just you and me.
The modest woman inside her wanted to object further. After all, she wasn’t completely covered—there was the matter of a ripped‑off button. But he looked so incredibly hot standing there barefooted, bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, that she decided she’d follow him anywhere, no questions asked.
A few minutes later, they left the house through the back door and walked across the patio to the glider. Brandon sat down and stretched one leg out, then pulled Alison down to sit between his legs, her back to his chest. She lifted her feet up into the seat of the glider and relaxed against him. He leaned against the arm of the glider and wrapped his arms around her, enclosing her in a cocoon of warmth.
“Nice night,” Alison said. “Especially for October.”
“But still a little cool. You have goose bumps.”
“I like the way it feels.”
It was just the two of them, a soft night breeze, and darkness. In the far distance, Brandon heard a siren. Then a dog barking. Then silence. He rocked the glider back and forth, just a little, back and forth. His gaze drifted to Alison’s legs stretching out from beneath his shirt, those gorgeous legs he’d been dying to touch since that night in the bar when she’d been wearing those hot pink shoes. She had flawless skin. Narrow feet with a high arch. Toenails painted cherry red.
Beautiful.
“How did Justin take it when you broke up with him?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.
“Really well, actually. I don’t think he was any more in love with me than I was with him. I wanted a family. He wanted to check one more life goal off his list. To make those things happen, both of us were willing to overlook the fact that we were totally incompatible.”
“For a while, anyway.”
“Yes.”
“So I failed again.”
She smiled. “Miserably.”
Thank God.
“Have I ever told you I love this old house?” Alison said.
“A time or two.”
“Which bedroom was yours when you stayed here?”
“The one on the front of the house that looks out on the driveway.”
“So what were you like as a teenager? I bet you had a lot of girlfriends.”
“A few. Did you have a lot of boyfriends?”
“Nope. I was a really ugly teenager.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No, seriously. Ugly ducklings didn’t come any uglier than me. I was really gawky, with a nose I hadn’t quite grown into and your standard teenage complexion problems. The boys weren’t exactly interested.”
“So how old were you before you turned into a swan?”
She laughed a little. “Are you kidding? I’m still waiting.”
“No,” he said. “It happened. You just must not have been paying attention.”
She smiled when he said that, and he wondered how many times in her life a man had told her she was beautiful. If they were as blind as he’d been in the beginning, it hadn’t happened nearly enough.
“It was so good of your grandmother to take you in when you were a teenager,” Alison said. “That way you got to stay in one place for a while. That’s important for kids.”
Please don’t talk about that. Not now.
But he knew she was only continuing on with the picture he’d painted of a father who wanted stability for his son and a grandmother who had so kindly offered to provide it. But he was tired of trying to keep up the façade that he’d had a the life of an average teenager with a little bit of attitude and a touch of vandalism thrown in. Because it hadn’t been like that. Not even close.
He just didn’t want to lie anymore.
“I didn’t have a choice about living with my grandmother,” he told her. “And my grandmother didn’t have a choice when it came to taking me in.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I told you that night at McCaffrey’s about my father wasn’t quite right.” He paused. “He wasn’t a professional pool player. He was more like a pool hustler.”
“Hustler?” She paused. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“No, not illegal. Immoral, maybe. But my father didn’t care about that. And when I told you he taught me everything he knew about pool, that included hustling.”
“He taught you that?”
“We did it together. I would play the part of a cocky, obnoxious kid who’d had too much to drink, wanted to bet on pool, and didn’t know when to quit. My father would play the part of a levelheaded guy who would beat the crap out of me three or four times, then tell me he just couldn’t take my money anymore. After that, there was always some greedy guy who would step up to take me on. Then I’d squeak out a win and walk away with the money.”
