She squatted down and eased open the oven to peek. It was a fluid motion that sent heat rippling along his body. His mouth had gone dry and neither swallowing hard nor taking a slug from the long since gone warm lemonade sitting beside his computer helped in the slightest.
“It’s,” he managed in a lame croak. “It’s lasagna.”
She turned to grimace at him, then tried to cover it for his sake.
“No. No carb-laden pasta. Instead I used thin slices of roasted eggplant, low fat cheeses, and homemade red sauce. There’s a tossed salad in the fridge, just needs some avocado sliced over it right before I serve it.”
“That sounds absolutely amazing.” Melanie flowed back to the table.
“I…” his pulse jumped significantly as she settled in the closest chair. “I cheated. I used Angelo’s red sauce, mine takes a couple days to meld flavors properly. So does his, but he always has a large batch of it going. I actually stole his recipe.” Babbling again. Since last night, her smell was such a part of his memory that he could pick it out despite the aromatic kitchen.
“What are you working on?”
“An article for Angelo. Did you have a good day?” Do you have any idea how constantly I was thinking about you?
“I did. I sat with Perrin and showed her the business plan we wrote up. It took away some of her fear, but she hasn’t bought in the whole way yet. Which is not a bad thing. The plan is still very rough and she has more than enough common sense to see that. I’m not sure what is missing, but we made progress.”
Joshua nodded and tried some more lemonade.
Melanie smiled at him coyly.
Joshua tried to remember how to breathe, because his autonomic systems had just shut down.
“It would be a shame to waste such a meal.”
“Waste? Why would it be wasted?”
Melanie took his hand and pulled him easily to his feet.
He stumbled after her as she returned to the kitchen, leading him like a puppy on a leash.
She turned off the oven and the timer. Then she led him toward the bedroom. Her bedroom.
“No. Wait. No!” His brain finally cut back in and he dug in his heels, her fingers almost slipping from his.
She looked at him in surprise, “Don’t you want this?”
“Like I want a glass of Cots de Rhône after eating Robuchon’s Steak au Poivre,” Josh swallowed again. “That means yes, desperately. But you don’t want me.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“Oh. Okay, I don’t. I’ll admit that.”
“Excellent,” she tugged on his hand, but he resisted.
“You don’t want me. No, scratch that. Speaking for you again. I. Me. I don’t want to do this.”
“And yet you said, Oui, désespérément.”
“And I meant it.” He pulled his fingers from her grasp so that he stood some chance of thinking coherently. “But I’m a mess.”
“So you keep assuring me. And I’m not any better. I simply know that I want you in my bed and you are now the first man to ever tell me no.”
She reached for him, but he backed off. Dragging his hands through his hair did nothing to help.
“Melanie,” he tried to sound calm and rational. “I don’t want you as my rebound lover. I don’t want to bring my feelings of hurt and betrayal from my ex-wife into your bed. You deserve so much more than that. So much more than…me.”
Melanie laughed at him. She actually laughed at him. “Cassidy was so right about you.”
“Cassidy? What does she have to do with this?”
“She said,” Melanie took his hand again and once more led him, “that you were one of the most decent and charmant men she’d ever met. She was right.” She stopped just inside the bedroom and closed the door behind them.
He felt as if he was now on the wrong side of the bars around a lion’s cage. Lioness’ cage.
“Joshua, just answer me one question. Honestly.”
He looked into that perfect blue of her eyes and nodded, “Always. That’s what I’m trying to do is be hone—”
“Shh,” she rested a finger across his lips. “One word answer: yes or no. Okay?”
He nodded, not wanting her to remove her finger.
“Do you want to be with me?”
“Heavens yes. So much—”
“One word, Joshua.” Her laugh sparked his own smile to life. “Just one, Mr. Writer.”
There was only one answer to the question. He pulled her into his arms, buried his face in her hair and held her tightly against him. So tightly that he never wanted to escape.
Melanie had never met such a man. He didn’t grab, pinch, didn’t even kiss her. For a moment she half feared it might be a hug and then a “no.” But it wasn’t. It was a man holding her so close simply because he wanted to. As if the holding was more important than the lovemaking. It was, but no man ever understood that.
In turn, she simply wrapped her arms around his neck, rested her head on his shoulder and hung on. A gentle swaying motion came over them, building to a slow dance in which their bodies rubbed, nestled, warmed, heated, and finally burned.
When at last he kissed her, any sign of the gentle lover had vanished. Joshua was replaced by a man with need. Désespérément indeed. His hands roved over her, not grabbing, but rather studying, learning, memorizing. Such strong hands, as if custom-made to appreciate a woman’s shape. Her shape.
Though the bed was a bare two steps away, that was too far. He pushed her against the door as she wrapped herself about him. Most men were too rough, and she had to warn them to take care as she bruised easily. Not Joshua. Without holding back, he perfectly judged where pleasure soared without harm.
Except that his kiss was overwhelmingly powerful. For all he was doing to her body, their kiss had yet to end. He swallowed her purr of raw pleasure and his deep-throated moan in response vibrated right down her body.
She had unleashed the wild beast inside the gentle man.
Melanie gave herself to him to be consumed.
Josh felt the moment of change. He wasn’t sure from which of them it had come, but it was change. One moment he’d been holding Melanie the gorgeous supermodel. The next he’d been holding a woman with no name; not that she was nameless or faceless, but rather that no single name could describe her or contain such a person. A woman who offered her very being for him to hold, to discover, to revel in. A woman who embodied desire and passion and joy.
He lost himself as well. There was no Josh. There was only a man who wanted to bring this woman pleasure like none she’d ever imagined. There would be no tender moment. Not this time. The need was too great, as if they were male and female genders personified and all passion, heat, and fire of the species must be expressed only through them.
Their bodies knew what they themselves couldn’t possibly. They simply belonged together in a state like none he’d ever tread before.
Melanie had died. She knew it for a fact. And she had slaughtered the best lover she’d ever had. She lay upon the chest of the dead man and listened to his heart continue to hammer just as hers did. When she compared this experience to her past, it was like calling Josh’s gourmet eggplant lasagna a Stouffers frozen dinner. They just weren’t the same thing at all.
Melanie always had retained control, maintained command. Even when appearing submissive, she still stood a half-step aside to monitor, shift, or shape the moment. Not this time. Dieu! Not anywhere close to control.
And now they were both dead. Had to be after that.
Impossibly, showing a muscle control she knew she lacked, Joshua placed a hand on her back and began slowly stroking up and down her spine. As he went, she could feel him slowly sorting her hair from the tangle it must be, finger-combing it back to some sense of order. They must still be alive. Heaven, even if it felt this incroyable, would never include Melanie having tangled hair.
“There’s no way we can ever repeat that.” She tried not to
feel sad at the thought. She was glad to have been there even once.
He kissed the top of her head. “Maybe not, but we can sure try.”
She nodded. That was encouraging.
They ate a silent, candlelit dinner. Words would be too much, too big. Joshua had pulled on jeans without underwear, and Melanie had slid on one of her overlarge t-shirts that kept sliding off one of her shoulders. She kept pulling it back into place so that she could watch Joshua’s eyes go dark with heat each time it slid off again.
The only thing that kept her from completely fawning over the food was that if she started to talk about the amazing food, then she’d give voice to the otherworldly experience they’d just shared. And she liked that a man so full of words wasn’t able to speak in her presence.
But the pressure of the silence built. Finally it grew until it wrapped so thick and warm between them that it filled the condo wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling.
She set down her plate, removed his from his nerveless hands and set it on the table.
He didn’t move. He simply looked up at her with those wide dark eyes. The candlelight caught highlights in his hair, glimmered in his eyes, and made her feel understood and welcome.
Joshua was not some casual lover. This was not to be some one-night stand, or even a few months then c’est la vie.
“So,” she whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the distant jazz music coming in through the open kitchen window. “Are you going to resist me in the future?”
“I don’t know why I was dumb enough to try the first time. Your slightest whim is my command.”
“Well, there is this flower that only grows in ancient Tibet—”
Joshua groaned, “I’ll wager that going there will not turn me into Batman, which is a pity. I’ve always lusted after his car.”
Melanie rewarded him with a kiss atop his head for understanding her joke. She’d gone to the movie to see Christian Bale; he was ever so enjoyable to look at. She used to do that, make obscure comments, but no one ever understood. It made people uncomfortable, including her. But Joshua kept getting her obscure jokes. One more piece of herself that she could be around him.
“Okay. Here I have for you une question that you have carefully avoided every single time I’ve asked. This time, you have to answer it.” It was fun to tease him with the French model, especially because he saw the real Melanie so clearly.
He shrugged a yes with those very nice shoulders of his.
“What are you writing, and why is it making you so très misérable?”
“What makes you think—” Josh didn’t bother finishing the question. Even Russell had caught on that he was unhappy with his writing, which meant he was being pathetically obvious about it.
He wanted to hide his face against her shoulder, tucked close and safe, with her golden hair sheeted over him like a cloak of safety. But he knew he wouldn’t get away with that this time and sat back to give the best answer he could find.
“I’ve had this idea since forever. A foodie mystery. Hercule Poirot meets, I don’t know, Julia Child. But every time I try writing, it just sounds contrived or pompous. I write, wrote for a living. And now I’m wondering if I should get my old job back.” Had Shirene already contacted Elric? Yes, he’d left New York and quit the magazine almost two weeks ago and she had a magazine to run. She’d probably hung up the phone with him and speed dialed Elric. No call back for other suggestions probably meant he’d leapt at the opportunity as predicted.
Melanie didn’t say anything. He’d seen her in the bookstore at Bainbridge. He knew she was an avid reader. Maybe she was thinking what an idiot he was to imagine he could jump from journalism to novel-length fiction.
“I tried opening with a punch like you suggested, but since I don’t know what I’m punching, it just comes out lame. Angelo and Russell cooked up this deal where I’m writing him a set of marketing press releases and website copy for the restaurant. A phased campaign. He’s thinking about a third restaurant but wants to build up some attention beforehand.”
“It is sidetracking you from your novel?”
Melanie smelled so spectacular. He ran one hand up her back, enjoying the feel of her even through her t-shirt, again appreciating her deceptive strength. His other arm remained cinched about her waist to anchor her securely in his lap.
“I see. I am the one sidetracking your attention.”
“Perhaps tonight a little more than usual,” he admitted. His hands, his senses, his brain was reeling from the floodgates this woman had opened inside him. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Nor I.” Then she shifted out of his arms until she was once again sitting across from him. She stretched out her forever-long legs, the tail of her t-shirt hiding almost none of their glorious length and rested them on his knee.
He began massaging her feet.
“But that is not answering my question again, monsieur. And that will never do. Tell me of your story.”
Again the image of the lioness struck him. The deadly, powerful, beautiful queen of the savannah, with the power to transform herself into passionate lover, or abandon herself to the moment.
“That’s the problem. I don’t have one.”
“Okay, tell me of your characters.”
“They’re all bland, or flat, or… I don’t know!”
Melanie closed her eyes as he found a knot down in the arch of her foot. Her breathing picked up pace a bit.
“Oh,” she breathed when the muscle had loosened up and he’d eased off. “If you ever want anything from me. Personal shopping, someone to order takeout, crawl into your bed, just do that again.”
He’d have to remember that. He didn’t think it would be hard to recall. He was well into the other foot by the time she spoke again.
“Maybe your problem is like a runway show.”
He couldn’t imagine how, but was glad to listen. She could read the Wall Street Journal, all of it, and he’d be glad to listen to her voice. Especially if she was wearing nothing but that thin t-shirt.
“You are starting with the finished show.”
“Huh? What? No I’m not. I’ve got nothing finished. I haven’t written a single paragraph worth saving.” He looked from her half smile to her amused eyes.
“You are starting with the show. A designer never begins with a show. They start with a piece: a jacket, a dress, or…” she wiggled a toe against his ribs which tickled, “…or an emotion. Then another. It is only then that they can build an entire outfit, when they have found the unique qualities of all of those pieces.”
“Then you have a show.”
“Silly man,” she rubbed a foot along his leg, impossibly eliciting a response from his body that he’d have bet was long past recovery. “Then you have one outfit. A twelve-outfit show can easily take twenty or thirty outfits to discover, for some designers it can take hundreds to put together a twenty-piece fall line. Then, it must all be in the right order. Do you write reviews?”
“Sure.”
“Non! You write about a restaurant, you set it in a city, perhaps a neighborhood. Then you tell the story of its ambience. You might give a hint of a dish as a tease, but you do not describe the whole dish at once. That is for later, to be discovered by the reader as they wind through your review. That is why I like your reviews so much.”
Josh had to fight down the distinct urge to preen a bit at the compliment. However he could see what she was after and it made sense. He went to speak, but Melanie was on a roll, sitting up, leaning forward, her feet now on the floor.
“You think I just walk. Any girl can just walk. It is all most girls do is walk. Look, I show you.”
Oddly, with this different kind of impatience she didn’t slip back into New Jersey, but actually back into her model-world French. No, it wasn’t impatience or anger. That’s why. It was excitement.
She jumped to her feet. “This walk. The Grand Pas, ‘Big Stride.’ This one. Watch the walk, not me.” She set off a
cross the living room with a hard punch that made the t-shirt flounce and bounce in an interesting way, but did look a bit ridiculous.
“Or this one!” Her abrupt tone forced his attention wholly onto the walk. A purposeful stride, more appropriate to a power suit at a Fortune 100 meeting than a t-shirt in a condo.
She continued back and forth, showing him a dozen walks or more, each so unique he could still identify them, even if he didn’t know how she did it. Each as unique as a character. She started giving them names. Veronica was practically a streetwalker. Jessie clearly wore a tennis skirt. Razz would be in leather and chains and was so smokin’ hot that he wouldn’t mind running into her a time or two.
“This one. Her name is Shelley. A new fashion editor I have only met a few times. She is a powerful woman, if a little unsure of herself. She shows that to no one. But there is a tiny slice of it that only the right man can see, that least bit of vulnerability.” And she walked away from him with a near perfect, almost military confidence. Three steps from the front door, she half turned to look back over her shoulder, but didn’t quite finish the turn. Just that flash of uncertainty totally changing the character. An eyeblink and he would have missed it. If she hadn’t told him, he’d certainly have caught the feeling though not why he felt it.
Melanie stood at the far side of the room, her fists on her hips. “Oui?”
“Oui,” she was absolutely right. He was trying to write a novel. He needed to write a character first, after that maybe a scene.
Then Melanie came walking straight toward him rather than up and down the length of the room. She walked with a perfect awareness of how the t-shirt skimmed the top of her thighs, shrugged the t-shirt off one shoulder at just the right moment to jack his libido through the roof. Head down. Just enough tilt for her face and chest to be wholly hidden by her swinging hair, forcing all attention to her legs and hips. She let each leg carry her weight in turn and her hips completely relax. It caused them to sway in a way that was making him sweat.
The Complete Where Dreams Page 97
