by Aimee Carson
Memphis winced and shifted on his feet, already impatient. “I’m perfectly capable of picking out my own clothes.”
Capable, and a lot quicker than two choosy females.
“Remember our agreement?” Kate said, clearly biting back a smile. “I do the selecting.”
Stifling the groan was difficult. “But I could have it done in five minutes.”
“I booked the private fitting room for considerably longer,” Kate said.
At her amused look, Memphis narrowed his eyes. Was trapping him in designer hell her way of paying him back for cornering her in the closet?
“And my time is a part of the service, Mr. James,” the clerk said, interrupting his thoughts and turning her full-wattage smile on him. “I’ll select a few suits appropriate for the formal event.” After a lingering glance at Memphis, the clerk headed off.
“She looked eager to help,” Kate murmured, clearly entertained as she watched the woman for a moment before turning to face Memphis.
His lips quirked. “Eager is a good description.”
“I think she might even offer to undress you herself.”
“Intriguing suggestion,” he said dryly. “Though I doubt it would speed up this process.”
“Obviously she’s willing to go above and beyond the call of duty,” she said, stepping closer to reach a rack of white dress shirts.
Which, unfortunately, brought her scent to his attention.
Last night his dreams of Kate had been the ultimate in erotic. It was easy to blame them on the lavender that lingered in the air in his home, or the memories of sparring with her in his closet, but Memphis knew better.
Though beyond tempting, it was best not to dwell on the dreams. He turned to eye the clothes on the rack beside them. “What is tomorrow night’s dinner party for, anyway?”
“A pleasant way for the members of the reunion committee to celebrate while ironing out a few last-minute details,” she said. Sliding the hangers on the rack of dress shirts, she studied each one critically in turn, taking a whole lot longer than he liked. “And discussing any updates that need to be made to our website,” she said.
“You have a website?”
“Of course, it’s the best way to find classmates and generate excitement about the event. Didn’t you go to your ten-year reunion? It would have been, what …?” She paused, as if trying to remember, staring down at the shirt in her hand as if its selection was paramount to the future of the world. “Three years ago?”
“Two,” he said. Growing impatient with her inspection of a simple shirt, he reached out and selected one from the rack. “I’m two years older than you and about a hundred years wiser.”
Which seemed to sum up their relationship through the years.
She sent him an amused look, clearly disagreeing with his statement. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”
“Because no one in their right mind needs to sort through a rack of dress shirts where every one of them is white.” He held up the one in his hand, his brow pinched with skepticism. “Outside of the correct size, what else is there to choose?”
She took the shirt from his clasp. “Cut. Style,” she said patiently, but Memphis got the feeling it was a struggle for her. “The collar and the thread count, just to name a few.” She lifted an eyebrow at him. “You want to be comfortable, don’t you?”
“I won’t be comfortable until these functions are behind me,” he said with a small frown of frustration. “And who really cares what I’m wearing?”
“You should. As my companion, the press is likely to analyze and criticize your every move, including your choice of attire. Take it from someone who knows,” she said. “You don’t want to give them any ammunition beyond their own twisted imaginations.”
She studied him for a moment before returning the shirt in her hand to the rack. And Memphis had the distinct impression he’d just taken a step backward in his mission to complete the afternoon of torture.
“Why did you put that one back?” he said with a groan.
“The fit will be wrong,” she said. “You’re in excellent shape, so you’ll look best in a tailored style.”
He picked up another shirt she’d rejected. “And what’s wrong with this one?”
“The thread count. All other things being equal, the thread count is important in how it feels against your body.” Obviously the skepticism rolled off him in discernible waves. She steadily held his gaze. “You don’t believe me.”
In answer, he simply hiked a brow.
She removed the two he’d selected from the rack and handed them back to him. “Okay,” she said, holding up the ones she’d chosen. “Let’s go take them all for a test drive.” She bunched her brow in amusement and went on. “I bet you’ll feel a difference.”
“I bet you’re wrong.” He followed close behind as she headed for the private dressing room in back. “At least tell me you don’t try to control the clothing of every guy you’ve dated since Dalton.”
“I haven’t been out on a date yet.”
Stunned by the news, Memphis stopped short. Her ex was engaged, albeit at record speeds, but she hadn’t even found the time to go out with another man. Kate must have sensed he was no longer following her, and she stopped and turned to face him.
He shouldn’t be so curious. “Why not?”
“No time.”
Memphis scanned her face, wondering what was stirring behind those blue eyes of hers, a disturbing thought working its way into his brain. “I hope that’s not just an excuse because you’re pining for your ex.”
“Trust me, Memphis,” she said, her lips twisting. “I’m not pining for a man.”
Both relieved and disturbingly challenged by the news, Memphis leaned in close. “Not even for me?”
She blinked once as she met his eyes, the emotion unreadable. “Least of all you.”
Although he’d started out teasing her, as Memphis stared at Kate’s steady blue gaze, a small stab of resentment flared, and he struggled to tamp down the unwanted emotion in his chest. There was a time in his teens when he would have loved to have Kate pine for him, despite their age difference. And how could she throw herself so passionately into a night of making love with him only to go back and spend another four years with her husband? He sure as hell hadn’t entered into the moment with forever in mind, but it still grated that she could nonchalantly walk away.
As if he were a dress shirt that wasn’t suitable.
“Well,” he said softly. “I know you like what I did to you.” Her eyes widened a fraction, and he went on. “There’s no denying that.”
He enjoyed the way, these days, she held his gaze instead of visually scurrying for cover when confronted. But she didn’t look quite as composed now, her breaths coming a little faster. Whether it was from attraction, nerves or irritation at his reminder of her less-than-noble moment, he wasn’t sure.
“It was simply sex, Memphis,” she said in a low voice.
“There was nothing simple about it.”
She bit her lower lip. “That night had everything to do with my state of mind and nothing to do with you.”
“It was me you wrapped your arms around while you cried.”
“I’d had a huge fight with Dalton and left with the intention of never going back. I was looking for an escape from it all. I didn’t expect to find you at my brother’s apartment.”
He paused, letting the memory wash over him. After years of being away from Miami, he’d been disappointed his friend was out of town, but crashing at Brian’s place on his way through had only made sense. Until a sobbing Kate had let herself into her brother’s apartment, so inconsolable she couldn’t speak. Thrown by the sudden appearance of his old crush and disturbed by her profound sadness, he’d pulled her into his arms to console her. It was the first time he’d ever felt sorry for Kate Anderson.
And it would definitely be the last.
“I know you were upset, Angel Face.” Althoug
h his voice was soft, he couldn’t contain the edge to his tone. “But after twenty minutes of sobbing against my chest, when you’d finally recovered enough to speak, all you did was beg me to make love to you.”
And in the span of a fleeting two seconds, he’d debated waiting until she was less emotional. A fleeting two seconds of brilliant insight that had been followed by hours of blissful—pleasurable—ignorance.
As the silence grew, tension infiltrated the air.
“Memphis …” Kate closed her eyes, and her voice grew wearily frustrated. “I made a mistake. All I can do is say I’m sorry. What else do you want from me?”
Edgy, feeling the sudden urge to leap off a tall building, he was beginning to realize he didn’t know the answer to that question himself. He hated being considered a mistake. And what did he want? Another apology? A hundred of them? Or maybe a chance to prove she wasn’t as delicious as he remembered …
He tamped down the thought. For now he’d settle for a little acknowledgment. Starting with the truth she dodged when convenient. All pretense and teasing gone, he said, “I want you to admit out loud that you wanted me that night as much as I wanted you.”
She lifted her lids, the blue eyes troubled, but said nothing.
The need to hear the words grew more acute, and he shifted closer, determined to use any means necessary. “And when you spend the night with me again,” he went on. “I’d prefer you didn’t sneak away without saying goodbye.”
Her mouth worked for a moment before she responded. “I won’t sleep with you again.”
Damn, he should be agreeing with her.
Why wasn’t he agreeing with her?
Unfortunately, the only thing he wanted right now was to pull her into his arms and verify that she didn’t taste as good as she did in his memories. Without pausing for a second thought, he reached for her, Kate’s lids stretched wide in surprise—and they were interrupted by the redheaded sales lady.
“Here you two are.” The clerk beamed at them as if she’d just bought the winning lottery ticket. “Follow me and I’ll take you to the VIP room.”
Still wobbly from the disturbing near-miss encounter, Kate gratefully sank into one of the copper-colored silk armchairs of the luxurious private fitting room as the salesclerk loaded the rack with their selections, along with her own. The large room came equipped with a well-stocked bar and an offering of gourmet cookies. The latter didn’t interest Kate at all, but the former might come in handy before the afternoon was over.
The bumpy trip down memory lane had left her shaky. She’d spent the first two years of her marriage convincing herself time would make things better, and the second two years feeling neglected. Her fight that fateful night with Dalton had left her horribly confused and hopeless that things would ever improve. She’d needed to feel that she was important to him. He’d needed her to accept the life of sacrifice as a future politician’s wife. Going to her parents afterward to confess her relationship was over had been a mistake, because they’d simply said that marriage was hard, Dalton was a good man and to go back to her husband. In that moment, she’d never felt more alone. Brian’s company would have helped.
Memphis had been a dangerous substitute.
“I don’t know why I’m going along with this,” Memphis muttered as he stood in the center of the dressing room, as if unclear exactly why he was still here.
Kate pushed the memories aside and crossed her legs. “Just start with trying on a few shirts,” she said. “It can’t be near as bad as hitting an air bag from a hundred-foot drop—”
Memphis pulled his T-shirt over his head—cutting her sentence short—and tossed the garment aside. Kate was grateful she was already sitting. Now clad in nothing but jeans, Memphis’s form elicited a full-scale assault on her senses. The vision of a lean, muscle-adorned chest brought back a slew of powerful memories….
Memphis, frowning as he finally relented to her pleas and claimed her mouth with his.
Her, beneath him, clinging to his hard torso as passion drove away the years of loneliness.
“Can I get you anything from the bar, Ms. Anderson?” the clerk said. Now that Memphis was shirtless, the woman’s voice sounded strained.
Kate blinked, and the vision of a bare-chested Memphis returned. A drink? Absolutely. An alcoholic beverage was definitely in order.
Kate sent the saleslady a beyond-grateful smile. “What do you have?”
“Champagne.” The redhead’s gaze slid to Memphis, and she looked as if she needed a drink too. “We also carry a nice selection of wine and several imported beers.”
“Wine,” Kate said. “Red, please.”
The saleslady complied, and as she poured the drink Memphis said, “She’s a lightweight, so I wouldn’t be too liberal with my portions.”
Kate shot him a look. Memphis obviously felt no need to send the saleslady away, and the clerk was clearly loath to leave. Kate was simply glad the woman provided a buffer, so she accepted the glass with a smile. After a sip that curled low in her belly, she took another—all in the name of fortification, of course—and sent the saleslady a bigger smile.
“Have a seat and we can rate the selections,” Kate said.
The clerk’s return grin was brilliant as she complied. “If you insist.”
Kate glanced at the masculine chest on display and restrained the sigh. “Might as well enjoy your job,” she muttered.
“Some days are definitely better than others,” the clerk murmured.
Memphis headed for the rack, the corded muscles and sinew in his back rippling as he shifted through the selections.
Eyes on the vast expanse of masculinity on display—and trying hard not to remember how long she’d gone without—Kate picked up the basket of cookies, offering the clerk one. “If you can’t have wine, at least enjoy a baked good.”
Kate turned and saw the clerk was just as pleased with the view.
“I probably should,” the redhead said. “I think my blood sugar just dropped.” Her smile was wan. “I’m feeling a little woozy.”
As if oblivious, Memphis turned and lifted his arms over his head, spearing them into the sleeves of a dress shirt, the muscles in his chest shifting. Kate heard the clerk catch her breath at the beautiful display that highlighted his athleticism, his power and his dedication to his job by how meticulously he maintained his physical condition. And with the sexily rumpled style of his brown hair, Memphis always looked as if he’d just climbed out of bed after enjoying a satisfying night….
Kate briefly pressed her lids closed. Dear God, maybe that perception was more a reflection of her than him. She took another gulp of wine that her hit her empty stomach and burned, the warmth spreading lower.
Shirt now buttoned, Memphis turned to face the two ladies, clearly underwhelmed by their participation to date. “Well?”
Disappointed the shirt covered the nicest thing about the room, and feeling a little fuzzy, Kate murmured, “Nice. But I’ll need to see the rest of them.”
“Absolutely,” the clerk said in agreement. “No need to be too hasty.”
After several more rounds of the same, she and the clerk were no closer to choosing, and Kate was feeling even more light-headed as she drained the last of her wine. At this rate they could be here all day, and Memphis would have to cart her out of the private dressing room in a wheelbarrow.
Halfway through the shirt selections Memphis tried on one of his choices.
“How does that one feel?” Kate said.
He shrugged into the oxford. “Strangely enough,” he said with a touch of sarcasm. “It feels like a shirt.”
She rose from her seat, surprised to find her legs even more rubbery than they’d felt while sitting. Handing him the shirt with the higher thread count, she said, “Now try this.”
Kate waited as calmly as she could as he slipped out of the first and into the second, pivoting to face the mirror.
She turned to inspect his reflection. “And?”
He cocked his head, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I suppose if I have to attend this fancy freak show, I might as well be comfortable,” he said. “This one is definitely softer.”
A big I-won smile spread across her face. “I told you so.”
His grin was deliciously tiny but big on meaning. “You’re gloating.”
“I’m just pleased that Memphis James can admit when he’s wrong.”
His voice lowered an octave. “Too bad Kate Anderson can’t do the same.”
She froze, staring at his reflection, wondering what, specifically, he was talking about. That she thought she’d been prepared for Memphis’s presence in her life again? Or perhaps he was referring to her recent assessment of the night she’d made love to him, stating it had been a mistake? Or maybe her declaration she wouldn’t repeat the same mistake again?
Feeling wobbly, Kate pivoted on her heel to face him, her back to the clerk, her voice low. “I’m not wrong.”
“You are about several things.”
The intense look on his face and the heat in his gaze seared her to the soul.
Seemingly oblivious to the tension, the clerk said, “If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. James, how did you get those scars on your chest?”
Eyes on Kate, Memphis pulled off the shirt and handed it to her, a hint of humor in his gaze as he pointed to a small patch of purplish skin on his left side. “I got this as a teen when I tried a burn before I’d had any formal training.” Memphis looked at the clerk and pointed to the well-healed, angry puckered line along his right collarbone. “Two years ago I took a fall and broke my clavicle. Despite the fracture, I did the stunt two more times to get the gag just right. By the time I was done the break was bad enough to require surgery.”
And then his gaze switched back to Kate. “This last one is from a spill I took jumping my dirt bike six years ago,” he said, pointing at the scar just below his navel, and the memory sent Kate’s belly spiraling with all the stomach-dropping sensations of one of his high falls.
During the longest night of her life, she’d used her lips and tongue to trace the mark on his flat abdomen before moving lower. The wine was definitely having an effect now, because she was feeling decidedly unsteady.
