A little snap of sexual heat sizzled across her pulse points. She resisted licking her lips.
He sat again, those incredible eyes narrowed and glued to hers. There was something familiar about him, something. . . She couldn't put her finger on it. It was probably just his Cupid's Cavalry membership photo tripping her up, but his expression was definitely off. He didn't look remotely happy to see her. Men were always happy to see her.
How odd.
Mesmerized, she stared and stared, as though she were looking down a tunnel, unable to tear her gaze from his. Bells rang and fireworks exploded, just like the women in her family had always claimed. The rest of the restaurant and its patrons faded into soundless white mist at the periphery of her vision. For several long, hard beats of her heart, they were the only two in existence.
"Miss. . . Kelly?" the man said, and she shivered. His voice echoed down the silent tunnel, rough and deep. The rumble slid inside her bloodstream like molten lava, igniting tiny flames atop every nerve ending it touched.
Crap-crap-crap.
Licking her suddenly dry lips, Allison nodded, her field of vision widening slowly to take in the rest of him. And oh, what a vision. A weathered face of granite-hewn features carved by a master sculptor, a strong neck, and militarily-erect posture. Deep-set, boldly green eyes, and even deeper grooves alongside his wide, unsmiling mouth. Surely those grooves meant dimples, if he'd only smile. A hard, square chin, those lips. . . And a body designed for the spectacle of the Colosseum.
"Miss Kelly?"
Oh, my.
"A-Allison, please," she stammered, willing her voice to work. "And you're Benjamin."
He dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Ben," he said, the firm line of his mouth kicking up at the corner in a slight smile. "Ben Turner."
Wow.
His deep voice slid along her skin like a caress. Rapid-fire images of a lifetime spent with this man flashed behind her eyes—a baby in his arms and another hanging off his shoulders. Teaching a toddler to ride a bike, high school graduations. Insanely passionate lovemaking. An entire history. It made her dizzy and breathless, even as her mind shouted at her to stop the insanity.
Overheated, she grabbed the glass of water at her place setting and sipped when she wanted to gulp it straight down and grab his, as well.
Cupid's Cavalry hadn't done his membership photo justice, and she must have skated right over his stats. The man was enormous, all broad shoulders and bulging biceps outlined beneath his close-fitting black sweater. His chiseled features and deeply tanned skin spoke of many hours spent outdoors. Was he in construction? Her mind had blanked. His name floated alone in the emptied space between her ears, the only concrete bit of information she could grasp.
No, military! He was ex-military. And he liked to swim. That explained the shoulders.
Sharp cheekbones jutted high and smooth, paler than the upper half of his face, though they looked slightly sunburned. His hair was gorgeous. Silky and full, perfectly cut, it waved back from his face like a glossy pelt of many colors—chocolate, russet, bronze, gold, deep red. An urge to run her fingers through it swept across her skin, making her fingers tingle.
"H-how do you do?" she managed.
What the hell was wrong with her? She was the seductress, the man-magnet, the woman who snagged her selections from a never-ending parade of available men. They flocked to her. She graced them with her presence—or not—on her whim. Yet here she was, stammering like a school girl, dangerously close to a blush, her wits scattered about her like a deck of cards flung into the air.
He's just a man, Allison!
Just a man, perhaps, but her sixth sense—the famous Kelly women's Soul Mate Detector—was tapping a furious tattoo against the wall of her shaky denial. His eyes. . .
This could not be happening now. She wasn't ready for him. For forever. Why hadn't his profile photo issued her a warning?
Testing herself, Allison held her hand across the table to shake, watching as his strong fingers engulfed hers in his massive paw. Hard calluses brushed the softness of her palm, so pale against his sun-darkened skin. The tingles turned to tremors, and she gasped. She couldn't help it. Sensations swamped her. Her scalp felt ablaze, and trails of heat shot straight to her toes.
And elsewhere.
"It's a pleasure," he said, but that indefinable something still lurked in his eyes, making her doubt the sincerity of his words.
Aware he still held her hand, Allison drew a deep breath, trying to get herself back under control when all she wanted to do was climb into his lap and wrap her legs around his waist. To plant her mouth at the corner of his and kiss and lick and chew his firm, full lips between her teeth, then kiss some more. Kiss him until his hard, unsmiling mouth softened and opened and. . .
And she needed to regroup.
Their waiter appeared, and Ben let go of her hand. The loss of contact left her buzzing with need, even as she breathed a tiny sigh of relief for the reprieve. Maybe now she'd regain her usual iron control, though her nipples ached and her panties grew steadily more damp with every passing moment. This was so not her. She'd never experienced such a reaction to a man in her life.
Some part of her had always believed the women in her family exaggerated their tales of meeting their soul mates. Not that they lied, exactly, just. . . embellished their stories for the sake of the retelling.
But now. . . now her perspective had shifted, as though she'd been knocked sideways off her lofty pedestal, victim of a hammer blow swung by a god.
It had to be a bad case of sexual frustration run amuck. It'd been a long two weeks since New Year's, and she wasn't used to going for so long without masculine attention.
Yes, that was it. Just frustration.
The server refilled Ben's iced tea and took her order for the same, uttered through lips gone numb with tension. The waiter's departure left a sea of awkward silence in his wake.
Desperate for words, Allison's brain fumbled for an opening. "I'm sorry I was late," she said, then kicked herself for repeating the apology.
Ben nodded, his head tilted just slightly to the left as he considered her, and the kicked up side of his mouth rose a bit higher. "So you said."
"It's just. . . I'm not, usually. Late. I value punctuality. I mean—"
I value punctuality? What am I, his CEO? For cripes sake!
Flustered—and she was never flustered, damn it—Allison rubbed her thumb across the inside of her opposite wrist, digging in with her fingernail, hoping the tiny crescent-shaped pain would center her cart-wheeling emotions. Wishing her racing pulse would slow. That hint of something familiar flashed in his gaze again. Something. . .
"I just mean—"
She couldn't think straight. Did he have to stare at her so intently? Those eyes of his were burning their way through to her soul, as though he could read every thought in her head. Not that there were many in there at the moment.
"I mean—" God! Form a sentence, you ninny!
The man—Ben—leaned toward her and grasped her hand again. Fresh tremors shot across her body in a dizzying rush. This time, when he smiled, he smiled fully. Strong white teeth, and yes, dimples. Deep, friendly ones that changed the entire dynamic of his face from stern and reserved to boyish and open in a heartbeat. The smile reached all the way to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners and sending dancing golden lights dashing through the green. She couldn't help but smile in return.
Oh, my God.
The Wall-Street-Rambo routine had already pushed her sexual temperature soaring past the safety setting, but the combination of his dangerous side and the pure charm now radiating from his handsome face tipped her right over the lethal edge. If a person could truly fall into the depths of another's gaze, surely she'd fall into his now. Whatever chaotic whirl of thoughts had been tumbling through her brain ceased altogether.
"Allison," he said, his lips shaping her name like a dream, "relax. It's not a problem."
"Uh. .
." She shook her head. Nope, no thoughts. No words. None at all.
Breathing deeply, seeking calm, Allison closed her eyes for a quick count of five, but when she reopened them, something niggled. Again. She frowned. There was definitely something familiar about his rough, masculine voice. A quality she recognized in his woodsy scent. The spicy warmth of it wrapped around her senses like a caress, further stoking the secret fires sizzling beneath her skin. Her already taut nipples tightened more, went nearly painful as they strained against the fabric of her lacy bra, silently begging for this man's touch.
Clearly, two weeks sans boy toys was too long. Her body had gone into withdrawals, and it was affecting her mind.
"O-okay, then," she said, her voice rasping in her throat. "Well. Thanks. For understanding."
Tugging her hand from his, she rubbed her tingling palm surreptitiously against her thigh. She'd experienced lust plenty of times, but this was something. . . else. Something more. Something that had her mentally stumbling down a steep and rocky slope, faster and faster, until she'd have no choice but to crash into a heap at the bottom.
CHAPTER FOUR
The more agitated Miss Allison Kelly became, the more Ben liked her. He couldn't say why, exactly. Maybe the glimpse beneath the Perfect Princess exterior humanized her in some way. Knocked her off her perfect pedestal. Or maybe it was simply the deep, pure blue of her eyes. Regardless, his initial resistance to her began to thaw.
The meaning of Sally's smirking mouth had become clear with his first sight of his date. Allison exuded sensuality like a drug. Every head had turned to watch her approach his table, male and female alike. Sally probably thought getting him laid by her fiery-haired neighbor would help him relax and ease him back into the dating scene.
That might be true, but sex with a near stranger wasn't on his agenda.
She was all wrong for him, in any case. A party princess like her would never suit a guy like him. He was too serious, too grounded, and not looking for a casual hook up. Sex with her was off the table. But with the pressure of those possibilities out of the way, at least he could relax and enjoy lunch in the company of a beautiful woman.
If a deeper feeling stirred, something beyond simple attraction, something not altogether welcome, it didn't mean he had to act on it. His physical reaction to her, stronger than that first moment in her garage, was insistent and unquestioning—me Tarzan, you Jane—and he wouldn't mind swinging through the trees with her in his arms, if that was all he wanted. His palm still throbbed where hers had touched, but that was just sex. Important, sure. After a six-year hiatus of all but the most basic physical needs, he'd thank whatever gods existed for his libido's return. But it didn't drive the train. He was a healthy male. He could get hard if the wind blew the right direction. Respect, trust, common interests—he was looking for more than sex. For more than a party girl like her could offer.
Practice, Sally had said. If dating Allison was out of the question, he'd at least get in some of that practice. It couldn't hurt.
"Should we, um, decide?" Allison asked, her hand on top of her leather-bound menu. "Get it out of the way?"
When he agreed that was a good idea, she dove behind the pages with a grateful nod, clearly eager for a distraction. His smile grew.
There was no fear in her gaze this time, thankfully, as he'd sensed in her garage on New Year's Day. Well, not fear exactly, but the healthy wariness of a single woman, living alone, catching a big, strange man in her space. Understandable, but he didn't want her to feel threatened.
He was used to that reaction. A lot of women were intimidated by his size, at least until they got to know him, but he went out of his way to put people at ease in his presence.
The women who came on to him strictly because of his size were worse. There was a certain darkness he sensed in their characters that put him off, as though they wanted him to dominate them. Maybe hurt them. He didn't understand those women. He didn't want to understand those women.
Allison gave off neither vibe. Maybe she was still a snob—she definitely hadn't liked the look of the hairy giant he'd been at her party—but he didn't really blame her for her reaction. That hippie-throwback style had served him in his travels. It didn't work so well in the concrete wilds of Orange County.
But he liked that he was making her nervous.
He liked it a lot.
It had been a long time since he'd been the cause of any woman's speeding pulse, but Allison's had galloped beneath his fingers when he touched her wrist. Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks flushed. With every crack splintering her confident outer shell, his own confidence strengthened.
Her mouth was a soft, lush temptation on that perfect face of hers. He wondered what she'd do if he reached over and stroked his thumb along her plump bottom lip.
The waiter returned, interrupting his musings. Just as well. He needed to remember this lunch was only practice. Nothing more.
Allison rattled off her order in a breathy rush. Had his scrutiny done that? Stolen her breath? He hoped so.
Ben raised a brow at her selections and had to work to keep his amusement to himself. She wasn't the only one guilty of stereotyping by appearance, the way she'd done to him in the garage. Going by her model-slim figure and high-fashion dress code, he would have bet on a small side-salad and a sugar-free drink. Instead, she'd ordered a double-cheeseburger with the works, cheesy fries on the side, and she'd already poured three sugar packets into her tea.
Grinning, Ben ordered the same, handing the menus to the departing waiter. He liked a woman who could eat.
He liked her, more than he'd thought he would. More than he should, on ten minutes worth of acquaintance with a swizzle-stick princess he'd already dismissed as hot-as-hell but not his type.
Allison was studying him in return, that little frown between her brows again. Trying to figure him out. What did she see when she looked at him? Her eyes roamed his face as though reading a map, looking for signposts. He didn't think she realized she was stroking her right index finger in slow, sensual circles on the linen tablecloth.
He imagined her doing so on his skin. Good thing he wore a long-sleeved sweater. It covered the goose bumps that vision raised.
Cut it out, man. No sense torturing yourself.
"So," she said finally. "What do you do, Ben?"
Distracted by her hands, it took him a moment to answer.
"I'm in the middle of several projects right now," he said, cursing himself for not having a better answer ready for that particular question. He wasn't ready to discuss his plans with a casual acquaintance, and he never discussed his financial situation.
The lines between her brows deepened. "You're an entrepreneur?"
A few of her wild copper curls had caught on the lip of her sweater's wide neckline. He focused his gaze on them to avoid her searching eyes. His fingers itched to brush the curls aside and expose the long, pale length of her throat above the wine-colored fabric. He'd like to press his lips right there, to the fluttering pulse at the base of her neck. He shifted forward in his seat, just close enough to catch her scent. Feminine, floral, mysterious. Woman.
"You could say that," he said.
The ideas he'd come up with while traveling would take him in many different directions over time. On his tour in the military, then again on his extended journey, he'd witnessed deprivation no human being should suffer. A deep, stirring need to help had surged inside his soul. He might not have to work, but he needed to give back. Needed the stimulus, the challenge, and his plans were close to his heart.
He'd found his purpose. He'd done what he could as he went from place to place, but his resources had been limited on the road—lending his hands and back had done some good, he hoped, but he would accomplish more from behind a desk than in the field. It was that fact, more than anything, that finally brought him out of his introspection, his grief, and turned his feet toward home. He needed access to people and funds, assistance with plans he couldn't imp
lement from the distant outposts of the world.
Some problems—too many—were beyond his capabilities to address, but others. . . those he could, and would, put his wealth and energy into fixing.
"I joined the army after high school," he said, "but after that, I wanted something that was mine. My decisions, my rules, not answering to anyone else."
His non-answer seemed to satisfy Allison, because she smiled and said, "Me, too. Well, not the military part, but isn't it great being your own boss?"
"I never was a good employee."
Nodding, Allison gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Me, either. I have this problem with being told what to do and how to do it."
Appreciating her, Ben grinned. "Exactly."
After that, the conversation flowed more smoothly, the voices of the other diners and the clinking of cutlery forming a backdrop to the restaurant's piped in classical music. They talked sports and hobbies, discovering a mutual love for football. Then books and music, though Ben was careful to steer them away from movies, since he hadn't seen any in so long.
He tromped down on the kicks in his pulse every time she laughed or smiled. He'd been out of the game a long time, but still, he was amazed by the depth of his response to her. The sheer power of her presence sank steadily into his bones, swam in his blood. His body revved.
Their food arrived, and he was happy to see her dig in. She didn't pretend to be full after one or two bites. In his experience, a woman who enjoyed her food was liable to enjoy other appetites as well. An image of her, naked and heaving above him, her wild hair rioting over him, her golden skin dewed with sweat, swam before his eyes. With effort, he shoved it to the back of his mind to be taken out again later, explored and enjoyed at his leisure.
Just because he didn't intend to touch didn't mean he couldn't look. And dream.
Before he knew it, the check was on the table. It was time to wind down the date. His inclination to extend it into the evening surprised him, but he cast aside a slew of options for doing just that. It was better to make a clean break, nip his one practice session in the bud, despite the light-speed force of his pulse hurling through his veins. He didn't want to say goodbye, but it was better this way.
Cupid's Mistake Page 4
