by Various
Not eager to chance another go round with the toilet-bowl-in-the-sky, I turn down the dinner service. The in-flight movie fails to hold my interest, so I dig out my e-reader. But when I read the same screen three times, I know that’s a no-go as well. So is sleep. No matter how hard I try to clear my mind, it churns with dark thoughts over Storm’s treachery.
At Heathrow, we’re greeted at the baggage reclaim area by the two limo drivers Storm Industries arranged to pick us up. Soon, they’re whisking the six of us to our hotel in Mayfair where the negotiations are scheduled to take place.
Beyond exhausted from the lack of sleep on the plane and the tossing and turning the night before, I go through check in at the hotel on automatic pilot. As soon as I get to my room, I intend to take a nap.
But that goal changes when the bellhop escorts me to the Park Suite. I’m beyond surprised at my accommodations. A basket filled to the brim with fruit and cheese rests on the dining table along with two bottles of cider. A welcome gift from the hotel, the bellhop’s quick to point out. Fair enough. But that doesn’t explain the rest of the space. The darn thing’s bigger than a studio apartment I once lived in, and boasts a wood-paneled sitting room, dining area, and a white marble bathroom, as well as a bedroom fit for a king.
This doesn’t make sense. The confirmation email I received from the hotel described a Queen bedroom with a bathroom and not much else, certainly nothing resembling this elegant space with a balcony and breathtaking view of Hyde Park.
Something’s seriously wrong.
I pick up the room phone to call the front desk, but my shoes choose that moment to pinch, reminding me I’ve worn the same clothes over twelve hours. Grungy from the trip, I reassess my priorities. Screw it. I’m taking a bath and then I’ll figure things out. On the way to the bathroom, I snag a strawberry from the fruit basket and bite into it. Just as I’m about to slip into the tub, a knock sounds on the door. Who the hell could it be? Nobody knows I’m here.
I throw on the soft terry robe, stroll across the space and open the door. And just like that the air whooshes from my lungs.
Storm, more beautiful than ever, in a gorgeous two-piece midnight blue suit, button down silk shirt, silver tie. A jewel in his tie clip winks aquamarine, the exact color of his eyes. I’m supposed to be mad, but for a moment I’m lost in the glory, the splendor, the sheer virility of him.
“Elizabeth.” His nostrils flare when he says my name.
“Storm.” Somehow, I manage to breathe.
“May I come in?” His confident tone, which insinuates his reception’s a sure thing, draws my anger.
How dare he think I would welcome him after what he did? Well, of course he would. He doesn’t know I’m on to him. Even though I’m tempted to slam the door in his face, I don’t. Can’t very well have it out with him in public. I widen the opening and reluctantly invite him in.
“Did I interrupt you?” He points to the cotton robe.
As soon as he steps into the space, I realize the mistake I’ve made. With exhaustion dragging me down, I’ll need to rest and have something to eat before I bring up his trickery. “I was going to take a bath. Is there something you need?”
“Yes. You.” He reaches for me.
I jerk backwards slamming the door shut. “Don’t.”
“What’s wrong?” His brows draw together.
I sigh. Looks like we’re going to discuss his underhandedness now after all. “I’m angry at you.”
“Why?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I had dinner last night, no, not last night, two nights ago.” Travel does a number on your time perception. “At the sports bar. You know, the one where you spent that Monday night.”
“I remember.” His fingers grab the robe’s belt and pull me into him.
For a second, the feel of his hard body against mine weakens my resolution, but then I recall the scene at the bar and shore up my will. “I ran into one of the women you talked to and she spilled the whole story.” I poke him in the chest. “You lied to me.”
He captures my hand, threads his fingers through mine. “I’ve never lied to you.” His eyes telegraph truth. Too bad I don’t believe them.
I tug. But he refuses to release me.
“You told her I was your girl and we’d had an argument. You convinced her and her friends to follow you to the sidewalk and whisper and point to you while you were on the phone.”
“And you saw what was happening and invited me into your home.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses every one of my fingers.
“Because I thought they were going to take your picture!” I tug again with no success.
“That was an improvisation on their part.” The bastard’s now nibbling the tip of one finger, sucking it into his mouth. “Ummm. You taste like strawberries.”
I wrestle him for possession and he finally sets my hand free. “You manipulated the situation.”
His gaze dips down to the carpet before it climbs back up to me. “Yes, I did.” There’s not the slightest remorse in his eyes.
“Why?”
“I was desperate, love.” He reaches for me, but I bat his hand away from my face.
“Don’t.” I’ll be damned if I let him touch me again. “You’d do anything to get in a woman’s pants, won’t you?”
The left corner of his lips lights up in that smile I just love. “Not any woman. You.”
“Am I supposed to be flattered by that?” Okay, I am. I admit it. But I’m not about to let him know.
That devil’s-own-charm smile of his disappears, replaced by flattened lips. He sweeps his golden hair off his face. It’s grown longer. Not much, just enough for me to tell the difference. And to make him even hotter than before. “Look. If you want me to say I’m sorry about the way I went about it, I will. But I’m not sorry about what happened afterward. And neither are you.”
“I would never have allowed you in if I had known.” I spit out at him.
“Yes, you would have. You wanted me. Everything you did that day pointed to that one singular fact.” His eyes spark with emotion.
“I did not.” He’s wrong, dead wrong.
“Elizabeth.” His tone is that of a grownup speaking to a child. “It only took a suggestion for you to climb into my limo.”
“I hitched a ride because I wanted to get home before the storm broke.”
“You could have taken a taxi, and yet you didn’t.”
I stamp my foot in frustration. “You were holding my duffel bag hostage and I needed it.”
“And yet, you left it behind when you ran out of the limo.”
“I . . . I . . . ” I got nothing.
“You invited me into your house—twice.” He holds up two fingers, like I can’t count.
Damn it! I know how many times I let him in. “I couldn’t very well leave you to the mercy of the elements. And that woman was about to take your picture.”
“You could have pointed out the bar across the street, suggested I take shelter there. Yet, you didn’t. And whatever camera phone that woman was holding would have captured the back of my head twenty yards away at night. Nobody would have identified me from such a blurry picture. Give it up, love. You invited me into your home, allowed me to touch you, kiss you, get inside you because you wanted me almost as much as I wanted you.” His eyes have gone all soft and lovely. “Lie to me if you must, but don’t lie to yourself.”
Memories of that day, that night, rise strong and fierce. He’s right. I fell in lust with him the moment I saw him. And once I did, there was no turning back. I hate that he knows me better than I do. “Bastard.”
“Oh, Elizabeth.” He places his mouth on mine and nibbles my lower lip. His are soft, so soft. The intoxicating allure of expensive cologne and sensual man insinuates itself into my being until all I can breathe is him.
My anger is no match against the tenderness of his kiss, and soon the fight bleeds out of me. Moaning, I thread my hands through his hair and
pull him into me, dip my tongue into his mouth, lick, nibble on him. But when my pussy pulses with hunger, I know it’s time to put a stop to this. He has to go before I reach the point of no return. “You have to leave.”
He licks my lower lip one last time before resting his forehead on mine. “I can’t, darling girl.”
Cross-eyed, I stare at him. “Why not?”
“Because this is where I’m staying. This is my suite.”
My mouth gapes open. “Yours? So how did I end up here?”
“I asked the hotel to deliver you to this room.”
I jerk away. What? “Deliver me? Like a package?”
He threads his hand through the robe’s belt and draws me close to his body again. “No. Like my guest.”
‘But, but ...” There are so many things wrong with this conversation, I don’t even know where to begin. “But you knocked on the door.”
“I knew you were inside and didn’t want to barge in unannounced.” He murmurs as he trails soft kisses down the side of my throat.
“Don’t you have a place in London?” I can’t move, trapped as I am in the circle of his arms.
“I do and I’d like to show it to you tonight. But we’re engaged in intense negotiations which may go long into the night. It’d be easier to stay here for the two weeks rather than come and go.” He sighs against my yielding skin. “At least I’d get some sleep.”
He lifts his head and, for the first time, I notice the dark circles under his eyes. Has his father’s illness affected him so much? Or is it something else? During our late night calls, I detected a note of despair in his speech. I’d chalked it up to my imagination, but maybe, just maybe, I’d been right. Something is bothering him.
I brush the back of my hand against his face. “How’s your father?” Two days after his stroke, he’d been transferred to a rehab facility for physical therapy, but last time we talked Storm expected him to be released.
The arms he’s wrapped around my waist tense. “He’s home. London, not Winterleagh Castle. It’s easier to continue his therapy here in Town.”
“So he’s doing better.”
He nods. “Gaining more function every day.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s very good.” The tension in his arms ease, but the tightness in his eyes remain. Whatever’s bothering him encompasses more than his father.
Much as I ache to soothe him, I can’t deal with this right now. Not when I’m so exhausted I could drop. I need sleep, a bed. The word beckons me, lulls me. Not his. One of my own. “Do I still have a room?”
“Yes. Room 1025. If you want to leave, I’ll have your things moved. But I’m hoping you’ll stay.”
There’s something in his eyes, a need for something that goes beyond sex. He’s hurting. Deeply. Of that much I’m certain.
“Before you ask, nobody knows you’re here with me. This hotel is very good about protecting the privacy of its guests.”
“What about the bellhop?”
“Julio. He won’t talk.”
“How do you know?”
“Because.”
He doesn’t elaborate, but I imagine he’s pulled a similar stunt before.
Still keeping me close to him, he rests his chin on my head. I’m totally surrounded by his body, his scent, his warmth. “I’ve missed you so damn much. Please stay.”
I lean into the steel of his chest. It’s hard not to be affected by him. A man has never looked at me with such raw hunger and need in his eyes. What harm could it do to stay? Oh, not for the entire two weeks of the negotiations. I couldn’t do that. But this evening? Yeah, I could do that. The Smith Cannon team agreed to be on their own for the weekend, so no one will come looking for me. “All right, but only for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll move to my room.”
His eyes light up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “Two nights. I can have your things moved on Monday while the meeting’s underway.” It wouldn’t be Storm unless he negotiated for a more favorable arrangement.
“Fine, but no more.”
His crooked smile makes an appearance. He must have been a holy terror as a little boy, charming his way out of every scrape. “I have you for forty eight hours all to myself. Now what should we do to pass the time?” For the last minute, his hands have inched up the back of my robe to the point where a definite breeze now fans my hiney.
I reach behind me and yank down the bathrobe. “Well, there is one thing I’ve wanted since I walked into the suite.”
“There is?”
“Uh-huh, and I want it really bad.” I run my hands up his button-down shirt. Rising on my tiptoes, I snag his bottom lip, suck and his erection grows hard against my belly.
“You’re a witch.” His hands climb up my thighs toward my ass, but before he can get there, I whirl away and head toward the bathroom.
“Where are you going?” His shocked tone tells me I surprised the hell out of him.
“To bathe and after that I’m taking a nap.”
I leave him slack-jawed. Good. I do have some willpower when it comes to him. Not much. But some.
I so want to enjoy my bath but I don’t. The whole experience is ruined, because a six three, blond, blue-eyed, bad boy waits for me just beyond the door. And I can’t help but want him back. Fifteen minutes later, I climb out, dry off and tame my hair into submission, before slipping back into the terry robe and wandering out in search of food. I need sustenance before I do anything else.
He’s seated at the dining room table, papers spread out in front of him, talking into his cell, Holy crap. He’s changed into a pair of blue jeans and a snug black t-shirt which display the brawn of his biceps to perfection. Even his bare feet are sexy. I thought he looked hot before, but in this get up? I want to jump him right now.
“Yes, we’ll need that,” he says into the phone.
“No, that won’t do.”
“I know it’s expensive, but I want only the best.”
He catches sight of me and signs off. “I have to go.” That focused gaze holds me captive while I pad toward the food basket and snag a box of soda crackers and a block of Irish cheddar cheese.
Sitting cattycorner to him, I grab a plate and a small knife the hotel was nice enough to provide and cut into the cheese.
He props his elbows on the table and temples his hands. “I thought you wanted to take a nap.”
“I’m hungry.” I place the slice of cheddar on a cracker, pop the whole thing into my mouth, and chew with infinite care.
“Didn’t they feed you on the plane?”
“Wasn’t hungry then.” But I’m starving now.
Gathering my free hand, he plays around with my fingers, kisses them one by one. “I can order something from the hotel menu. Anything you wish.”
I snatch back my hand. “No, thank you. This will do.”
While I gobble more cheese and crackers, he goes back to perusing his papers, making notes on the margins, striking out entire paragraphs. Every once in a while, he glances up and that gorgeous sea blue gaze warms, as if the sight of me eating cheese and crackers makes him happy.
With my hunger satisfied, the events of the night and morning catch up with me, and I lay my head on the back of the chair. To rest. Just for a second.
What seems like minutes later, I drift awake, blink. For a moment, I can’t tell where I am. I’m lying on a soft surface, a bed. The view out the window shows the sun low on the horizon. Morning? No. Afternoon. And then it clicks. The bedroom in the suite.
Storm’s voice drifts in, soothing me, reassuring me.
“So Royce got what we needed?”
A pause, then, “Thank God.”
“So when is he returning to London? We need that document as soon as possible.”
“Three or four days? It doesn’t take that long to fly from Rio.”
His voice turns rough. “Fuck’s sake, he doesn’t need a layover in Miami. Didn’t he screw enough women in Brazil?”
<
br /> “Fine.” He growls. “But make sure he’s here in four days. I don’t care if Marco has to tie him up and drag him on the plane.”
From Storm’s dossier, I know Royce is his brother, but who the hell is Marco? After I brush my teeth and comb my hair, I wander out to the dining room where he sits.
Unaware of my presence, he drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. His body slumps in exhaustion. Well, no wonder. The pie charts and spreadsheets in front of him appear even more complex than the ones before.
“You still working on that stuff?”
His head swivels toward me, and a tired smile lumbers over his face. “Elizabeth.”
Good lord. Even darker shadows bruise the skin beneath his lashes, and his eyes, usually so bright, now droop with fatigue. I can’t stand seeing him like this.
I tighten the belt around the robe, sashay toward the table and sweep all the papers from him.
“Wait, I—“ He reaches for some of them.
“Nuh-uh. You’re going to go blind.” I climb on him, straddle his thighs.
He sits up, straightens his spine. Something long and hard comes alive beneath me.
Glad my maneuver got his attention, I weave my hand through his hair. “I like it long.”
“Do you?” His hands twitch on my ass. I know what they’re just aching to do.
“Uh-huh.” When I lick the center of his sensual mouth, his cock grows longer, thicker.
I suck his bottom lip, nibble on him. He tastes of deep, rich coffee and strawberries. “Ummmm. You taste good.”
“So do you.” He yanks the robe down to my waist, cups my breasts, kneads them. They twitch with a hint of pain, but I don’t care. I want his big hands on me. I want the ache.
He plucks my nipples, rolls them with those rough-textured fingers of his, before his hot, wet mouth settles down to feast—licking, nibbling, suckling the engorged tips. He bites down on the very edge of the tip and I almost twist off his lap.
“You like that, Elizabeth?” He suckles away the pain.
I gulp. Can’t he tell by the cream pouring out of me? “Yes.”
