Suited (St. Martin Family Saga)
Page 8
Tears streamed down Isa’s face at a steady rhythm. Cash held the rings on his open palm. When they caught the light, Isa’s breath hitched—she recognized their significance immediately.
She whispered, “Croatian wedding bands.” She reached her hand out and rubbed them in her fingers. She picked up the ring that was to be hers and slid it on her ring finger. A sob escaped from her throat and echoed around the auditorium. She picked up the second ring, took Cash’s hand, and slid the ring onto his finger. Then she clasped their ring-laden hands together and leaned forward. She kissed him on the lips and said, “Cash, it would be an honor to be your wife.”
After the concert—a concert that Cash couldn’t remember—he drove them to the French Quarter boutique hotel where they always stayed when in New Orleans. He’d been humbled at Isa’s last words, and they’d both been speechless during the drive. No words were exchanged as Cash carried a trembling Isa to their room. He laid her on the bed and removed her clothes, his touch reverent. He savored her nakedness, committing every curve to memory. He undressed himself and joined her in the bed.
He rested his body between her welcoming legs. He kissed her abdomen and set his ring-clad hand, palm open, on her stomach. Isa’s hand joined his, the gold on her finger shining in the lamplight. Neither had wanted to remove the rings, so they’d left them on. Their hands connected, and then their fingers laced together. Cash kissed her ring finger. Then he kissed across her abdomen where their baby slept. He leaned to one side and bent Isa’s knee. Then he kissed the skin below her abdomen and the light scars she’d acquired eight years ago when she’d carried their son. He traced the scars with his index finger. His finger lightly trailed down to the skin at the crease in her leg before rubbing the seam of her pussy. He kissed her tenderly everywhere his fingers had been. When she started panting, he parted her flesh and bent to taste her. To drink from her.
As his tongue caressed her flesh, Cash slid the ring-clad hand at her abdomen down to the soft skin between her thighs, and his thumb sought her clit. He massaged her rhythmically as he continued tonguing her crease. Isa moaned, and Cash increased the intensity of his touch. When she was nearly there, he rose up on his knees, parted her wide, and slid his cock slow and deep into her wetness. He made love to his fiancée. To the mother of his child. To his future wife.
When they were both sated, he rested on his side and pulled Isa close. He kissed her, held her cheek in his palm, and said, “Our love cradles the child in your belly. Our little baby is going to be born beautiful and strong. Then his sister will come along and she’ll give him hell.”
Isa giggled softly and set intense eyes on Cash. “Cash, you’ve given back everything that was taken from me, replaced it with so much more. Thank you. For always, I am yours.”
Cash couldn’t speak, her words echoed his thoughts so closely. She’d given him back his life and his father. His entire world had been dark, and Isa had made it light. His life began the moment he’d met her. She had always been there, even during the darkest moments, shining her light. Showing him with her quiet confidence which path to take. He would stop running now. With Isa in his arms, he had everything he needed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Gina Watson is author of the St. Martin Family Saga. She lives in Texas where she leads a double life: university instructor by day, romance writer by night. She loves to be contacted by readers to discuss all things romance.
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LINKS TO MY OTHER BOOKS:
SCORE
SHAMELESS
SHATTER
SUITED
SMOLDER
THE SAGA CONTINUES IN
THE EMERGENCY RESPONDERS TRILOGY:
Sizzle
Secure
Soothe
Coming 2014
SMOLDER
Excerpt, book four, St. Martin Family Saga by Gina Watson
Available Now!
Excerpt Suited
At a sound from down the hall, Camp looked up from his computer, but it was just one of the workmen. He was in Lake Charles through the end of the week. Right now he was supposed to be meeting a Jennifer Roberts, but she was already fifteen minutes late. Her inconsideration irritated him; she could have called.
She probably wouldn’t even care that his company was paying for her to stay in a suite, just as he was. The rooms needed to be large enough to serve as temporary offices. St. Martin Commercial Construction had been hired to oversee the revamping of the casino hotel’s west wing. It was to be aimed at high rollers. The developer wanted the wing to drip opulence, and this Jennifer had been hired to meet that design requirement. Camp wasn’t impressed. He never worked well with designers, and it seemed that trend would continue.
Pleasant feminine tones hit his ears. Who was singing? He didn’t mind at all, the sound was lovely and hypnotic, easing his cantankerous mood. He punched a few keys on his computer, the beautiful voice was getting closer.
Heels clacked down the hall. Not work boots this time. Camp lifted his head and that was when he first saw her, striding into his suite, humming of all things, late as she was. He took in her long wavy and windblown nut-brown hair streaked with copper highlights. Her slender neck accentuated her prominent jawline, a jawline made for nibbling. Thick dark lashes framed her chocolate eyes. Her teeth peeked through pillowy lips, and the slender bridge of her nose culminated in a button. She held her phone in one hand and clutched three portfolio folders to her chest with the other. She wore black dress slacks and heels. Her blouse was a cream color and made of a silky material. She hadn’t used all the buttons, leaving the skin of her upper chest exposed.
The woman set her folders on the table in the suite, turned to Camp, and extended her hand.
“Hi, I’m Jennifer Roberts. You can call me Jenny.”
Her voice suited her. It was a bit edgy, but low and smooth, and breathiness made it sensual. He wanted to hear it again. Hell, he wanted to record it so he could listen to it forever. Camp took her small, soft hand into his.
“Campbell St. Martin.”
She nodded at him. “Campbell, how about I call you Camp?”
His hand sizzled against hers. Their eyes locked, and her lips parted as she inhaled sharply. He let her hand go quickly. He would do well to remember his fiancée, Kim. Always think of Kim and get this chick out of your head.
“How ’bout you call me Campbell or Mr. St. Martin.”
“Huh.” Jenny shrugged and under her breath said, “Suit yourself, old man.”
Did she just call him old man? “Have something to say?”
She smiled tightly at him. “Nope, I’m good. Shall I show you the room sketches I’ve been working on?”
“Seeing as you have already wasted fifteen minutes of my time, I should think so.”
The phone in her hand beeped, and she looked down at it. She silenced it and set it on the table next to her folders.
She leaned forward and jerkily slammed opened the folders. Her blouse gaped when she moved. The top barely contained her tits. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and Camp could see the shadow of one nipple. He swallowed hard. Here was a woman not inhibited by her sexuality. He felt himself growing hard. He shook off his thoughts and tuned in to her words. She was talking about balustrades and damask linens. Camp didn’t care about the details, just the overall look and above all, the cost.
“How much is the cost per room?”
Her phone be
eped again, and she picked it up to check the screen. Her lips thinned and her forehead creased. She straightened herself up and looked Camp square in the eye. “I don’t have that information completed in detail just yet.”
Camp cut her off with a raised hand. “I don’t have time to meet with you until you have all of the details in order. You come highly recommended, but maybe you should tend to whatever it is that’s distracting you so you can focus on what I’m paying you for.”
She started to speak, but he cut her off. “You may go.”
Her phone continued to beep. Camp loathed cellphones and especially people who couldn’t live without being attached to one. She stepped into the hallway, ignoring his directive to go. With a worry-tinged voice, she answered her phone.
Camp sat on the couch near the windows. He couldn’t believe the nerve of this woman. Did she really conduct herself like this at all her gigs? He couldn’t see how she would have created such a following if she did. He listened to her say, “It’s in his backpack—did you check there?”
He assumed she had a child, but he didn’t see a ring. Not caring about her privacy, since she didn’t seem to care, he listened to the one-sided conversation.
“Did he drink it already?” Her voice was full of concern. “Put him on the phone, please.” Her voice calmer, she said, “Hey, Andrew. What’s going on?” When she caught Camp’s eye, she pivoted, turning her back to him. “Well, I can’t do that; I’m in Lake Charles until Sunday. Remember I wrote it for you on the calendar?” She sighed. “So will you please just drink the grape?” She inhaled slow and deep. “Thank you. I love you.”
She slipped the phone into her pocket and returned to stand in front of Camp. “Mr. St. Martin”—she overenunciated every vowel of his name—“have you ever had a bad day?”
She was tapping her foot, waiting for a reply. The audacity of the woman. He’d give her an answer. He stood and said, “Everyone has bad days, but one mustn’t let personal life interfere with business. It’s all about balance.”
Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth opened on an arrested exhale. “Balance. Really?” She cocked her head. Her voice was louder and clear when she said, “Funny you should say such a thing because I heard when you found your wife in bed with another man, you botched a crucial element in the Dunbar development that ended up costing them thousands of dollars.” She started to walk toward the table but whirled around and jabbed a finger toward him. “Haven’t you ever heard those who live in glass houses mustn’t throw stones? Honestly, who even talks like that?”
Camp was seething mad and jumped up, advancing on her with an anger-fueled pace. What she said was true, but he thought no one knew about the fuck-up since his father had diligently worked to cover it up. He wanted to wring her smooth ivory neck for mentioning the flaming fiasco.
“Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t speak to me like that.” Camp’s voice was a shout.
Her voice was raspy when she said, “You can’t tell me what I can and cannot do.” She gathered her things and hurried to the door.
He grabbed her upper arm, jerking her back. “Hey, we’re not done.”
She yanked her arm out of his grasp. “Oh yes, we are. I’ll send you a bill for my initial sketches and quotes.”
Camp narrowed his eyes at her. Still yelling, he said, “You didn’t give me any fucking quotes.”
She turned and stomped up to him. “You want a fucking quote? Here’s one!”
She slapped his face. Hard.
Camp couldn’t believe what had just happened. He held his palm to his warm cheek. The crazy bitch had slapped him. Her eyes were large and luminous, her breathing agitated. Camp instinctively moved his hand down to his crotch to adjust his painful erection. This was far from over.
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