And naturally, he looked fabulous, she thought, covertly studying him. The tuxedo he wore was obviously not rented, further confirming her suspicions about his clothing. Clearly it had been custom made, tailored precisely to accommodate his glorious frame. The material draped flawlessly over his massive shoulders, down his trim middle and his trousers hit the tops of his gleaming shoes at that difficult but magical point to prevent bunching.
“You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “No doubt he’d like the tickets better.”
The song drew to a close, much to the chagrin of Foy and his audience, and another slower one took its place. Lady Antebellum’s “Just a Kiss.” A quick glance toward the band revealed a hastily retreating Cora, who’d obviously just made a request.
No doubt everyone in the room had noticed it as well and they were all looking on at the pair of them with expectant smiles.
Sophie felt more heat creep up her neck, heaved an inward sigh and tapped the dwindling reserves of her patience.
Left with little choice, Jeb turned to her and, smiling, offered his hand. “Would you like to dance, Ms. O’Brien?”
“Yes, thanks. Better to go ahead and get it over with, I suppose.” With as much reluctance as anticipation, she carefully put her hand in his—there it was again, that almost crippling sizzle—and, wobbly-legged, followed him out onto the parquet floor.
His smile didn’t waver, but something in his gaze shifted as he pulled her into his powerful arms. “I’m sorry?”
Sophie clamped her mouth shut to keep from moaning aloud. He felt wonderful. Big and hard and muscled and warm and the scent of him flooded her senses, that woodsy, musky fragrance. A hint of something else reached her—oranges, maybe?—but the impression fled as others filled her. Tendrils of heat wound through her middle and spread vine-like through her limbs, settling hotly in her womb. The only thing that kept her from nuzzling his neck was physics—she couldn’t reach it. She should have worn the higher heels, Sophie thought absently, feeling his chin brush the top of her head.
“I only meant that we wouldn’t want to disappoint everyone,” she finally explained.
“Disappoint everyone?” He drew back and looked at her, his gaze brooding and slightly confused. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
She could tell by the tone of his voice that “not following” wasn’t something he was accustomed to and admitting it even more so. For whatever reason—insanity, probably—she found that oddly endearing.
She grinned, pleased, then gestured covertly toward the rest of the room. “They’re all watching us,” she said. “And, as I’m sure you’ve figured out, this crowd never misses the opportunity to throw a party, but this? This is a little much, even for them.”
Though he didn’t visibly look around the room for confirmation, she felt his muscles stiffen when realization hit. “No,” he said disbelievingly. “Surely they didn’t— Foy, er…Gramps told me this dance had been in the works for months.”
Sophie chuckled. “Gramps lied. This party was manufactured out of thin air because Cora and her Party Planning Posse are in full-throttle matchmaking mode, and the men are going along with it because there’s food, alcohol and the potential for mischief. Like pieces on a chess board, we’ve been well-maneuvered.”
“Matchmaking? Us? But I…” He glanced around again, as though needing additional confirmation. Cora and her group were all huddled together, looking on with self-satisfied smiles. Foy danced by, waggled his brows meaningfully at the two of them, and then winked at Jeb.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Asking me to dance was enough. I don’t expect a proposal.”
He drew back once more, looked at her again with that shockingly blue gaze as though she were some sort of foreign entity or a riddle he couldn’t quite figure out. “You’re teasing me.”
It was a statement, not a question.
Ah, Sophie thought, as pleasure warmed her chest. Something else the badass former Ranger wasn’t accustomed to. “About the proposal? Yes. The matchmaking bit and this party being hosted solely for our benefit? No.” She winced regretfully. “That’s all true, I’m afraid.”
“I’m…shocked,” he said, giving his head a small shake.
She rolled her eyes. “Hang around a little while longer. You’ll get used to it.”
Heaven knows she could get used to this, Sophie thought, feeling his masculine thighs brush against her body as they swayed to the music. Despite the just-a-kiss theme of the song, Sophie concluded she must be more slutty than she’d ever realized, because at the moment she’d be monumentally disappointed with just a peck. Anything less than a proper back-against-the-wall, legs-around-his-waist screaming orgasm would leave her heartbroken and miserable.
And the kicker? She’d never been a sex-against-the-wall kind of girl. She’d always been a clean sheets and controlled lighting kind of girl.
Of course, she’d never been this attracted to a man either. She’d never felt so consumed with awareness that it had literally infected her, made her itch for the remedy. Fantasize about the cure. Crave it. Be her own best friend, as it were.
He chuckled softly. “Thank you.”
Sophie frowned, perplexed. “For what?”
“You said I smelled good.”
She did? Out loud?
Evidently seeing her confusion, he laughed again and humor lit his gaze. His wicked mouth tilted at one corner, making the dimple appear in his cheek. “You smell nice as well.”
“It’s soap,” she said, mortified, sucking on the insides of her cheeks. Good Lord, how long was this song, anyway?
He hummed under his breath, leaned in and took a breath. “Ah, yes. The cherry vanilla, right?”
Shock bloomed through her and she looked up at him. He’d been smelling her soaps? Had paid close enough attention to be able to differentiate one scent from another? That was a first. Men typically didn’t appreciate her work. Though he’d never been stupid enough to say it, she’d been able to tell that Luke thought it was frivolous. That this man evidently had been interested enough to smell each one pleased her more than she would have ever imagined.
Smiling, she inclined her head. “I see you’ve been checking out my display in the general store.”
“I have,” he admitted. “I like the packaging. It’s simple and wholesome and allows the product to speak for itself. I bought a bar of the citrus and sandalwood,” he said, then leaned down so that she could smell him, putting her mouth in dangerous proximity to his neck. Unable to help herself, Sophie’s eyes fluttered shut and she breathed him in. Her insides melted.
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice,” he said, his voice not quite as level as it had been a moment ago. He straightened and she felt his fingers flex against the small of her back.
“I’m so used to them,” she lied. No wonder she’d smelled oranges, Sophie thought. That hint of something else had been familiar because she’d designed it. Something about knowing that his big hands had used something she’d touched—she’d made—on his wet, naked skin made her belly clench and her feminine muscles contract. Warmth seeped into her panties and she resisted the urge to squirm against him.
If she didn’t get away from him soon, she was really going to embarrass herself. Hell, she’d already told him he smelled good, for pity’s sake, without even realizing it. Heaven only knew what she’d say next. “I want to lick you all over.” Or “You could lick me all over.” Or even, “Why don’t you bend me over that chair and take me until my eyes roll back in my head.”
Her poor nerves couldn’t take it and the stress of the unrelenting attraction—the seemingly endless pull of his gaze—was wearing down her resolve.
At long last the song ended and he reluctantly released her. She immediately missed his warmth, wanted him to draw her closer again.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked, gesturing toward the refreshment table. Another smile twisted his lips and he leaned forward and lowered his voice
. “Since they’ve gone to all this trouble on our behalf, we should probably make a good show of it. I don’t mind if you don’t.”
Wonderful. So much for making an escape. At least one with any dignity. And now, if she said she did mind, she’d just look ungrateful and bitchy. What had happened to her plans? The one where she avoided him and lusted from afar, most specifically. Sophie heaved a resigned sigh.
But she’d pretty much thrown that plan under the bus when she’d agreed to come tonight, hadn’t she?
Yes, she had. And she grimly suspected it was a decision that was going to haunt her later, with unforeseen but far-reaching consequences.
“I don’t mind at all,” she lied, her mouth stretched into an unnatural too-bright smile. But… She gestured wordlessly toward the foyer, where the restrooms were located. “I’m just going to run to the…” She purposely left the sentence unfinished so she wouldn’t have to tell another fib. Honestly, she’d been telling so many untruths of late she was surprised her nose hadn’t started to grow.
He nodded knowingly. “Right. I’ll see you in a few minutes then.”
Sophie merely smiled and took off, dodging Cora with the same bathroom ruse. She might have been willing to change her Avoid Jeb plan for the evening, but she wasn’t about to change the other one. Mere seconds ago, Marjorie had been dance-napped by Fred Holcolm and would easily be occupied for the next twenty minutes. Fred was a slow talker—he gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “Southern drawl”—and could turn a trip to the mailbox into a drawn out event.
This was her chance. That the timing gave her an opportunity to regroup and gird her loins, as it were, was just a happy coincidence. Right? Right.
With one last glance into the ball room, Sophie zigged toward the restrooms for appearance sake, then zagged and ran out the side door.
6
JEB WATCHED SOPHIE’S retreating back as she exited through the double doors and released an agonizingly slow breath. He felt like he’d been holding it since she walked in this evening and his stomach ached with the effort.
But how was a man supposed to breathe when she looked like that?
He’d known the instant she’d walked in, of course, because the tell-tale knot behind his naval had given its warning and the hair on the back of his neck had prickled with awareness. He’d only turned around to confirm it and the second he’d caught sight of her in that dress he’d damned near choked on his tongue.
Because Sophie O’Brien had a body that wouldn’t quit.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed before. How he could have possibly missed it even beneath those plain unisex clothes she typically wore? Clearly he needed his eyes examined, because her breasts were full and lush, her waist so small he could span it with both hands—he knew because he’d done just that while they’d been dancing and he’d gone so hard he’d had to put a little distance between them to keep from embarrassing himself. And her hips… Mercy. Her hips were mouthwateringly generous and curved. Hips like those put a man in mind of how he’d fit between them, how they’d cradle him as he plunged into her silky welcoming heat.
Rather than her usual ponytail, her dark hair had been left down and loose and had brushed over the tops of her slim shoulders. Those melting brown eyes had been outlined with a smoky green, giving her an exotic, sexy look which had only enhanced her appeal.
Oddly enough, he’d never paid particular attention to her mouth before tonight—another sign he needed to see an optometrist, he thought with a dark chuckle—but one look at her ripe cupid’s bow lips had left him so turned on his hands had actually begun to shake. They were a natural rosy color, pillowy soft, with a distinct extremely sexy V in the middle of her upper lip. He’d wanted to taste that V, trace its outline with his tongue.
Ultimately, though, how she looked was negligible to the way she felt.
Simply taking her hand to lead her onto the dance floor had left him oddly shaken. The blistering zing of awareness aside, there was something about the way her small but delicate fingers felt against his, the fleshy vulnerability of her smooth palm nestled against his bigger one that made an odd sensation wing through his chest. A curious mix of expectation, familiarity, of all things, and longing. That irrational urge to protect had swelled again as well, coupled with the even more disturbing need to possess.
Jeb didn’t need a degree in psychology to understand the significance of these caveman-like inclinations. They were easily enough, alarmingly deduced. Had he been a dog, he would have merely pissed a circle around her, marking his territory.
That was a singularly unique development, one that had evidently reached his twin because his cell phone had vibrated in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t checked the message yet, but was certain it contained a call back request.
It would have to wait.
Jeb cast a glance toward the doorway and frowned when Sophie didn’t emerge back through it. She’d been gone for several minutes—typical, he imagined, she was a woman, after all—but, because he was a glutton for punishment, he wanted to dance with her again. He wanted to hold her sweet, curvy body next to his, feel her small hands wrapped behind his neck, her lush breasts against his chest. He even liked the way her hair tickled his chin, the scent of her wafting up around him.
She felt…right.
Gratifyingly, her petite frame had hummed with the same sexual energy, the same hammering need, the same helpless desperation. It had taken every atom of willpower he possessed to keep from leaning down and kissing her, tasting the desire on her tongue.
Because he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t be content with just a kiss. He’d want to devour her. Taste every part of her—the arch of her neck, the curve of her hips, the swell of her belly, the fluted edge of her spine, the dimples in her lower back, the plump crowns of her pouting nipples, the soft moist skin between her thighs. And when he’d finished feasting on her, he’d want to take her so hard that their resulting release would tilt the friggin’ world off its axis.
For a start.
Jeb felt his lips quirk, exhaled mightily, then shifted to relieve some of the pressure behind his zipper.
On a personal level, suggesting that they spend the rest of the evening together for the benefit of their senior citizen matchmakers probably hadn’t been the wisest decision, one that was no doubt going to result in a perpetual hard-on, chronic sexual tension and the inability to relieve himself without soaking a ceiling tile, but…
If he was going to ask for her help, as Payne had suggested, then this was as good a time as any. Since the seniors were determined to matchmake, they’d undoubtedly grant him and Sophie the privacy necessary to hold the conversation.
Privacy, with her, was a tricky bit of business, but if it meant that he could get the job done, then he was simply going to have to make it work.
He knew that Colonel Carl Garrett—one of the toughest old bastards Jeb had ever had the pleasure to serve under—had recommended him for his current position. Not until he’d given up trying to get Jeb to change his mind, of course, but he could hardly blame the veteran soldier for that. The Colonel had been convinced that a promotion and the benefit of time would alleviate the damage of that bedamned mission in Mosul, but Jeb had been equally certain that it wouldn’t.
Recognizing a stalemate when he saw it, the Colonel had reluctantly let him go.
While coming out of the military wasn’t ever going to wash the blood off his hands—there wasn’t a day that went by when he didn’t think about his fallen team—Jeb had consoled himself with the fact that he’d never again have to execute orders against his better judgment. That Payne had made a recommendation instead of an edict was a monumental relief and gave him the benefit of his own judgment and experience.
And while he’d never experienced anything close to the myriad of feelings Sophie O’Brien’s presence elicited, instinct told him that she wasn’t the thief and that she was the key to solving this mystery. A single look around the
ballroom—at all the trouble this group had gone to on her behalf—was only further confirmation that she was the perfect person to help him catch the perpetrator. Hell, they’d put together this event for her in less than twenty-four hours. She’d said they’d done it for their benefit, but Jeb certainly didn’t think so. Admittedly, everyone seemed to like him well enough and he supposed that he should be flattered that they all thought he was good enough for Sophie, but this was her party, not his.
Which begged one important question…
Why?
Why was she still single? Why was the Metamucil Brigade doing her match-making for her? Why were they so determined to see her with someone?
“Haven’t lost her already, have you, son?” Foy asked, sidling up next to him. Looking distinguished in his tux, a Mason’s ring winking on his finger, his pretend grandfather pulled a small silver flask from his inside pocket and took a drink, wincing with the burn.
Jeb bit back a wry grin. “She’s gone to the
restroom.”
Foy inclined his head. “Women,” he breathed with a smile. “Aren’t we lucky?”
Jeb didn’t know how one related to the other, but nodded all the same.
The older man’s gaze followed Mary around the room, a fond glint in his eye. “They’re soft and sweet-smelling. They can be tender and nurturing one moment, and fiery and fierce in the next. Younger men don’t appreciate that,” he continued. “They’re too slick, determined a girl’s not going to get their hooks into them, and can’t see past the end of their peckers.”
In the process of taking a sip of his own drink, Jeb choked.
“That’s because they’re weak and stupid,” Foy continued, darting him a concerned glance. “Only a real man, one with an evolved mind and a firm sense of self can appreciate the complexity, the strength and vulnerability—the sheer magnificent beauty—of a woman.” He turned to Jeb, arched a graying brow. “Have you ever witnessed the birth of a baby?”
The Professional Page 7
