ONE NIGHT, SECOND CHANCE

by Robyn Grady

  Holding her ankles on either side of his ears, he let his gaze travel all the way down her body. He studied her rumpled skirt and, higher, the swell of her breasts encased in two scraps of lace. Releasing her legs, he scooped one breast out from its cup. Between finger and thumb, he twirled the nipple, lightly plucked the tip. When the tingling, beautiful burn was almost too much to bear, she reached out, inviting him down.

  His tongue circled her nipple, flicked around the edges, before teasing the tip. As his mouth covered the peak and he lightly sucked, she sighed and knotted her fingers in his hair. She murmured about how amazing he was—how incredible he made her feel—as the pulse in her womb beat stronger and the fuse linking pleasure to climax grew alarmingly short. She adored the suction, the careful graze of his teeth but, so much more now, she needed him to open her—to enter and to fill her.

  He shifted his attention to scooping her other breast from the bra. As he turned his head and his mouth worked its magic there, his hands slid under her shoulders. When he drew her toward him, she was raised up and then off the desk to stand before him. His mouth left her nipple with a soft smacking sound before he unsnapped her bra and released her skirt’s clasp. The skirt dropped at the same time she shrugged off her bra and he whipped open his belt, unzipped his pants and fell back into his big leather chair.

  She was down to hold-up stockings and briefs. He tipped forward and two fingers slid under the elastic strips resting on each hip. He pressed a moist kiss high on her leg just shy of her sex before he dragged the silk triangle all the way down. The tip of his tongue drew a slow, moist path across her bikini line as a palm filed up over her belly, her abdomen and then high enough to weigh one breast. When his tongue trailed lower, fire shot through her body. Gripping the hand kneading her breast, she dropped her head to press kisses on each fingertip.

  Reclining, he drew her along with him until she straddled his lap. She hadn’t noticed until now but he’d already found a foil-wrapped condom. To give him room, she grabbed the back of the chair and pushed up on her knees—which relocated her sex at the level of his mouth. As he rolled protection on, he dotted kisses on one side of her mound then the other. Then he guided her down until the tip of his length nudged at her opening and eased a little inside.

  The rush was so direct, so entirely perfect, Grace shuddered from her crown to the tips of her still-stockinged feet. He held her in that position, hovering, as his lips trailed her throat and he told her how much he’d missed her, missed this. When she clasped his ears and planted her lips over his, he eased her down a little more.

  He rotated her hips in a way that put pressure on an internal hot spot that already felt ready to combust. When he eased out and in again, deeper this time, a trail of effervescent sensations drifted through the expressways of her veins. Hands on her hips, he urged her up until the tip of his erection was cupped by her folds. Then he brought her down again, more firmly, filling her completely this time.

  The slam hit her everywhere and all at once. Her walls squeezed at the same time her head dropped into his hair. She wanted to keep him there, buried deep inside of her. She needed to hold onto the fringes of this feeling that let her know she was already hanging so close to that edge. With each and every breath, the world dropped farther away. She’d become only the rhythm beating in her brain, ordering her movements, stoking those flames.

  As his tempo increased, her breath came in snatches. When a thrust hit that hot spot again, she let go of the chair and pulled his face up to hers. Her fingers knotted in his hair as their tongues darted in and out.

  And then his movements slowed to an intense, controlled grind. When his tongue probed deeper, everything started to close in.

  As Wynn thrust forward, she flopped back, wrapping her legs around his hips. When he moved harder, faster, she couldn’t hold on. The force of her orgasm threw her back more.

  As she stiffened, he drew her toward him, his arms holding her like a vice. When his mouth closed over hers, it only pushed her higher. She came apart, every fiber, every thought. She felt as if she’d been released into the tightest, brightest place that had ever existed. Nothing could interrupt the energy, nothing could defuse the thrill. Nothing...except...

  Except maybe...

  She frowned.

  That sound.

  Who was knocking on the door?

  With the throbs petering out, reality seeped back in. She was crouched over Wynn, naked but for stockings, one of which was pushed down below the knee. Wynn at least still had his pants on, even if they weren’t covering what they normally would.

  When the knock came again and a man called out, she looked to Wynn, who put a finger to her lips. A sound filtered back from the other side of the room—the knob rattling. With her eyes, she asked, What do we do? and he gave her a don’t worry look. Then the rattling stopped.

  After a long moment, he whispered, “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen—the interruption, I mean.” He stole a deep kiss. “Not this.”

  When he leaned in close and flashed her his slanted smile again, she turned her head, let out a breath and gathered herself. The lights were so bright. Had the person at the door heard any telltale sighs or groans?

  She held her damp brow. “We got carried away.”

  He was nibbling her shoulder. “Uh-huh.” His mouth slid up her throat. “Let’s do it again.”

  Pulling back, she gaped at him and almost laughed. “You’re crazy.”

  “It’s my office. My company.” He dropped a kiss on her chin, on her jaw. “I can be crazy if I want.”

  He pulled her closer and she felt him still thick and rigid inside of her. She’d been so involved in her own responses, she hadn’t thought about him, although now she got the impression he was dangerously close to climaxing, too. But what if that knocking came again? Wondering if someone was still hovering around out there wasn’t so great for the mood.

  As if reading her thoughts, he nodded toward a connecting door. “I have a suite through there I use if I’ve had a long day and feel too beat to drag myself home.”

  “Let me guess.” She arched a brow. “There’s a bed.”

  His lips grazed hers. “Coming right up.”

  * * *

  Later, as she and Wynn lay in the adjoining suite’s bed, her blood hummed with warmth, as if every drop were coated in soft golden light. She felt so high, she couldn’t imagine enduring a less satisfied state. She wouldn’t worry about whether this had been a dumb move or merely inevitable. Now that Wynn had finished to supreme satisfaction what had begun in his office, Grace only wanted to bask in the afterglow...although she did feel unsettled about one thing.

  With his arm draped around her shoulders, Wynn was nuzzling her crown while Grace snuggled in and asked, “Any idea who knocked on the door?”

  “Christopher Riggs. I put him on here at my father’s recommendation. Guess he had something he wanted to share.”

  “Something urgent?”

  “Right now, this takes priority.”

  When he leaned forward and grinned, she pushed up on an elbow. “It sounded urgent.”

  He lay back and cradled his head. “He’s full of ideas. Good ones. But nothing that can’t wait till tomorrow.”

  When Wynn rolled over and his mouth once again covered hers, thoughts of Christopher Riggs evaporated. All that mattered were the shimmering emotions wrapping around her body and her mind. She could lie here with Wynn like this all night, but she winced at the thought of slinking out of the building after dawn. He might not like it, either.

  When his mouth gradually left hers, his strong arms bundled her closer still. “I’ll book another ticket for Sydney.”

  Cupping his raspy jaw, she brushed her lips back and forth over his. “I haven’t said yes yet.”

  “But you will,” he said with a confi
dence that made her feel somehow safe.

  Before they’d begun to make love outside in his office, yes, she had decided to change her mind and go with him. Naturally his family would be curious about her life, but she didn’t need to answer any questions she felt uncomfortable with.

  Wynn’s hand trailed down over her hip. “And we could spend more time together,” he murmured against her lips. “More time like this.”

  Mmm. So nice. “You’ve convinced me,” she said, brushing her smile over his. “I’ll go.”

  His dark eyes lit and his smile grew. “I’ll let Cole know tomorrow. Teagan will be stoked, and you’ll love Tate. I think he’s the one I’m looking forward to seeing again most. Dad must be counting down the days.”

  Did Wynn mean counting down the days to the wedding, or, “Has Tate been away?”

  He hesitated, frowned and then propped himself up. “There’s been some trouble back home.”

  He relayed details surrounding the problems Guthrie Hunter had experienced with a stalker. Unbelievable, Hollywood thriller type stuff.

  “Tate was with Dad the day he was assaulted,” Wynn said. “We all thought it best that he be removed from that situation until they catch the guy. He stayed with Teagan first. Now he’s with Dex.”

  “But he’s going back to Australia next week, right? So, the stalker’s been caught?”

  “Not yet.”

  The pieces of the puzzle began to slot into place. She thought back. “Last night, when I assumed your brother’s wedding would be a huge event...”

  “It was decided that a small and therefore more easily controlled ceremony would be wise.”

  “So where’s the wedding being held?”

  “At the family home. They have a huge mansion overlooking the harbor. Obviously security will be of the highest priority. We have a top gun in the security world on the job. Brandon Powell is the best.”

  “Does my dad know about all this?” She hadn’t seen any reports in the news. Obviously the Hunters had worked to keep the whole ordeal as quiet as possible.

  “We’ve tried to keep it out of the media, but our fathers have spoken about it. Brock and I touched on the subject the other night, too.”

  Clearly the problem was serious—serious enough for a father to ship his youngest halfway around the world. What lay behind it all?

  Wynn eased out a breath. “It’s been months since that last incident, and the investigation is still going strong. If anyone thought there was any possibility of danger, Tate wouldn’t be coming home.”

  “So, he’s staying home for good?”

  Wynn hesitated. “Not decided yet.” His hand wrapped around hers. “I’m looking forward to seeing all the family again together. It’ll be good having you be a part of that, too.”

  An odd feeling crept into her stomach. The idea of some psycho searching out Guthrie Hunter, intent on doing major harm... It chilled her to the bone. On the other hand, Wynn seemed so certain that everything was under control. Hopefully Brandon Powell would find some answers, and fast.

  Six

  Brock Munroe commuted to Manhattan from Long Island each weekday for work. However, rather than ask her father for a lift, Grace hired a car to drive herself to the French-inspired manor she’d once called home.

  On returning to New York last week, Grace had, of course, arranged to drop by. That day she’d been welcomed by fifty of the family’s closest friends. Everyone had been so careful not to mention Sam. Even her mother, perhaps his biggest fan, seemed to try. But Grace wouldn’t run the risk of being swamped again. She’d decided that on subsequent visits, including this one, she’d show up unannounced.

  Grace drove up the wide, graveled drive and took in the manicured lawns and the manor’s grand provincial theme. A moment later, the Munroe’s soaring front door was opened by a woman who had just joined the house staff earlier that year.

  “Miss Munroe!” With a wide smile, the housekeeper ushered her through. “Your mother will be pleased to see you.”

  “Thanks, Jenn.” Grace stepped onto the white-oak hardwood flooring of the double-story foyer. Absorbing the familiar smells of cypress beams and jasmine-scented incense, she glanced around. “Where is she?”

  “The sunroom. I need to consult on the dinner menu with your mother. I’ll walk you through.” Jenn headed down the hall. “Your sister’s here.”

  “Tilly?”

  The youngest Munroe girl was in her final year of high school. Popular as well as a brain, Tilly seemed to breeze through life, blithely knocking down whatever obstacle got in her way.

  “Matilda’s upstairs,” Jenn said, “dancing to one of her routines, I expect.” Pointing her rubber-soled toes, the housekeeper gave Grace a cheeky grin. “I learned dance when I was young.” She looked ahead again. “Rochelle’s here, too.”

  Grace’s step faltered and she groaned. Guess she’d catch up with everyone, then.

  A pattering of footfalls filtered down the hall before a little girl turned a corner and trundled into view, her mahogany curls bouncing in a cloud around her head. When Grace’s five-year-old niece saw her, April squealed. Putting her head down, she ran in earnest, sending layers of play necklaces jangling and clinking around her neck. Laughing, Grace knelt and caught her niece as she ploughed into her open arms. April smacked a kiss on her cheek.

  “The bell rang and Granma sent me.” April held her aunt’s face in tiny, dimpled hands. “We didn’t know it’d be you!”

  They rubbed noses. Then Grace pushed up to her full height and took her niece’s hand.

  “What’ve you been up to, princess?” Grace asked as they strolled on.

  “Daddy’s working hard. He has lots of people to fix.”

  “Your daddy’s a surgeon. Very important job.”

  “Uh-huh. He’s busy.” Innocent brown eyes turned up to meet her aunt’s. “Mommy says he has to stay away a while.”

  At the hospital? Or was Trey at a medical convention? No doubt, she’d hear the entire story from Rochelle soon—one more treat in her sister’s chocolate box of “perfect married life” tales.

  Nearing the sunroom, April skipped on ahead. “Gracie’s here!” she called.

  Looking exquisite in an apricot jersey dress, Suzanne Munroe pushed up from a white brocade sofa. Grace couldn’t remember a time when her mother had looked anything other than exquisite. As a girl, Grace wanted to grow up to be just like her and had sought out her mother’s approval in everything. If Mom suggested she tie ribbons in her hair, ribbons it would be. If her mother proposed singing lessons, Grace would do her best to reach those high notes. As she’d gotten older, she’d come to understand that she had her own identity and dreams to pursue.

  The dynamics of their relationship had needed to change.

  But apron strings made of steel weren’t easy to break. As her mother crossed over, Grace imagined those same high-tensile tendrils reaching out to coil around her now. But at age twenty-six, whose fault was that—her mother’s for not listening, or her own for not making herself heard?

  Grace walked into an extra-long hug from her mother at the same time Suzanne Munroe instructed Jenn to come back with some suggestions for tonight’s menu, which, she reminded the housekeeper, needed to be free of all nut and egg products. April was allergic. Then, pulling back, her mother gestured toward the stash of costume and kids’ jewelry littering a coffee table. Lit by afternoon sunshine steaming in through a bank of picture windows, piles of red, green and yellow “diamonds” glittered like a children’s book treasure.

  Her mother explained. “April and I have been trying on our jewels.”

  Grace crouched beside April, who was holding up another bundle of necklaces in front of her pink pinafore bodice.

  “When I was young, I loved dressing up,” Grace told
her niece.

  “You had more costumes than regular clothes,” her mom pointed out. “One minute you were a princess, then a mermaid...the next, a bride...”

  On the surface, that last remark was harmless; however, Grace didn’t miss the lamenting tone. The connection. Sam hadn’t been the high-flying lawyer or doctor her upper-crust mother might have preferred for a son-in-law, but his family was extremely wealthy and, having saved two young boys from a raging inferno a couple of years ago, he’d been known as a hero. Before Sam’s accident, how many times had her mother announced that she couldn’t wait to see Grace in a white gown and veil? Couldn’t wait for her to make them all happy as a bride?

  “Your costumes...can I have the princess one?” April cupped the top of her head. “Does it have a crown?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Grace replied. It went way back to a time when she’d first known Wynn Hunter.

  Her mother took Grace’s hands. “I brought Nan back with me from Maine. She’s been asking about you.”

  Grace remembered how frail her grandmother had looked three months ago, one hand resting on her husband’s rose-strewn coffin, the other pressing a lace handkerchief to her cheek.

  “How is she?” Grace asked.

  “Still feeling lost.” Her mother gave Grace a “you’d understand” look before flicking a glance toward the stairs. “She’s napping.”

  “Nanna naps all the time,” April lamented, slotting a multicarat “ruby” on her middle finger and then scooting off up the stairs, presumably to check.

  “When she sees you,” her mother went on, “I’m sure she’ll perk up. You’ll stay for dinner.” She dropped her chin. “Now, I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Grace was about to say that of course she’d stay—she also wanted to ask where Rochelle was hiding—but then two items resting on the mantle of the French limestone fireplace drew her attention and the words dried on her tongue. When her mother’s attention shifted to the mantle, too, her shoulders slumped. Crossing to the fireplace, her mother studied the photos—one of Grandpa, the other of Sam.