by Nora Roberts
“You’re full of surprises.”
“Bet your ass.” He swung her into his arms, had her blood pressure spiking when he ran his hands down her body and gripped her hips. Her body rolled against his, a wave sliding under a wave while a tenor sax wailed.
He dipped her, had her laughing even as her pulse went thick. She let her head fall back, her hair stream down as he lowered his face toward hers. His lips skimmed over her chin, just a hint of teeth, then he swept her up again, circled her, seduced her.
The lights were a warm, smoky blue, and his movements fluid so it was like moving underwater. The yearning she wasn’t ready for crawled into her belly. With her eyes half closed, she skimmed a hand into his hair, brought his face closer, that last inch closer so his mouth met hers.
“You fit, Lena. We fit.”
She shook her head, turned it so her cheek rested against his. “You make love half as well as you dance, you must have a trail of female smiles in your wake.”
“Let me show you.” He nipped at her earlobe, and felt her quick shiver. “I want to touch you. I know how your skin will feel under my hands. I dreamed about it.”
She kept her eyes closed, tried to lock away the yearning. “Just dance with me. It’s getting late, and I want one more dance.”
She rested her head on his shoulder in the limo. The music, the wine, the soft lights were all still playing in her head. She felt drenched in romance, and knowing that had been his intention didn’t diminish the effect. It only enhanced it.
He was a man who would trouble himself with the details. The large and the small. With the house he’d chosen, with the woman he wanted.
She admired that. Admired him.
“You show a girl a good time, cher.”
“Let me show you one tomorrow night.”
“I work tomorrow night.”
“Your next night off, then.”
“I’m going to think about that. I’m not being coy, Declan.” She sat up so she could look at him. “I don’t like coy. I’m being cautious. I can’t say I care much for that, either, but where you’re concerned I think it’s the smart thing to be. And I do like being smart.”
As the limo glided to the curb in front of her home, she trailed a finger down his cheek. “Now you walk me to my door, and kiss me good-night.”
He carried the silver bucket with the purple tulips. He set them down in front of her door, then framed her face in his hands.
The kiss was sweeter than she’d expected. She’d been prepared for heat, the persuasive, pervasive heat that might melt her resistance. Instead he gave her the sweet, and the gentle, ending the evening as he’d begun it. With romance.
“How about before you go to work?” He lifted her hand to his lips now. “I’ll take you on a picnic.”
Undone, she stared at him. “A picnic?”
“It should be warm enough. We can spread a blanket by the pond. You can bring Rufus along as chaperone. I like watching him jump in.”
“Damn it.” She caught his face in her hands now. “Damn it. I want you to go on down to that big white limo.”
“Okay.” He touched her hair. “I’ll just wait until you’re inside.”
“Go down to the limo,” she repeated. “And pay that driver, and tell him to go on home. Then you come back up.”
He closed his hands over her wrists, felt the trip of her pulse. “Five minutes. Don’t change your mind. Two minutes,” he amended. “Time me.”
As he bolted down the stairs, she picked up her flowers, let herself inside. If it was a mistake, she thought, it wouldn’t be her first. Or her last.
She lit the candles, put on some Billie Holiday. Sex should be easy, she reminded herself. When it was between two unattached adults with, well, at least some affection along with the lust, it should be a celebration.
Whether or not she’d been persuaded, the decision was hers. There was no point in regretting it before it had even begun.
He knocked. The idea that he would, rather than just walking in, made her smile. Good manners and hot blood. It was an interesting combination. Irresistible.
She opened the door, and Billie Holiday’s heartbreak streamed out. Declan slid his hands into his pockets and smiled at her.
“Hi.”
“Hi back, handsome.” Lena reached out and grabbed his tie. “Come on in here.” She tugged, and pulled him in the door. And, walking backward, would have pulled him straight into the bedroom.
But he laid his hands on her hips, drew her to him. “I like your music.” He eased her into a dance. “When I can see something besides you, I’ll tell you if I like your place.”
“Did you take lessons on what to say to have women falling for you?”
“Natural gift.” He brushed his lips at each corner of her mouth. Over that sexy little mole. “The streets of Boston are littered with my conquests. It was playing hell with traffic, so the city council asked me to leave.” He skimmed his cheek over hers. “I smell you in my sleep. And wake up wanting you.”
Her heart began to shiver, like something feeling warmth after a long freeze. “I knew you were trouble, the minute you stepped up to my bar.” She stretched under the hand that ran down her back. “I just didn’t know how much trouble.”
“Plenty.” He scooped her off her feet, crushed his mouth to hers until they both moaned. “Which way?”
“Mmm. I’ve got a number of ways in mind.”
What blood was left in his head shot straight down to his loins. “Ha. I meant which way is your bedroom.”
With a low laugh, she chewed on his bottom lip. “Door on the left.”
He had a number of impressions as he carried her across the room, through the doorway. Vibrant colors, old wood. But most of his senses were wrapped around the woman in his arms. The weight of her, the shape and scent. The surprise that flickered over her face when he set her on her feet beside the bed instead of on it.
“I’d like to take my time with this, if it’s all the same to you.” He trailed a fingertip down her collarbone, over the lovely curve of breast the dress displayed. “You know, like unwrapping a present.”
“I can’t say I mind that.”
She’d expected a rush—fast hands, hungry mouth—to match the reckless lust she’d seen in his gaze. When his hands took hers, linked fingers, and his lips lay silky on her lips, she remembered how ruthlessly he’d controlled his temper the day before.
It seemed his control reached to other passions as well.
She wasn’t prepared for romance. He’d realized it when she’d seen the tulips. More than surprise, there’d been suspicion in her eyes. Just as there was now as he slowed the pace, lingered over the quiet pleasure of a kiss.
Seducing her into bed was no longer enough. He wanted to seduce that suspicion into helpless pleasure.
Her lips were warm and willing. It was no hardship to mate his with them, to float on that lazy slide of tongues while their bodies swayed together as if they were still dancing.
He knew when her fingers went limp in his that she floated with him.
He lowered the zipper of her dress in one slow glide and traced his fingers over the newly exposed flesh. She arched her back, and all but purred.
“You’ve got good hands, cher, and very sexy lips.” Watching him now, as he watched her, she loosened the knot of his tie. “Let’s see about the rest of you.”
There was something about undressing a man in a suit, she thought. The time it took to remove all the layers to get to skin, built anticipation, honed curiosity. He touched her as she unbuttoned his shirt, easing the dress off her shoulders so that it clung, erotically, to the curve of her breasts. He nibbled at her mouth, never hurrying, never groping.
And when she opened his shirt, ran her hands over his chest with a little hum of approval, she felt the heavy beat of his heart under her palms.
“Some build you’ve got for a lawyer.”
“Ex-lawyer.” It was like dying, he thought, dy
ing by inches to have those long, slender fingers with those hot red nails running over him. She pinched lightly at his biceps, licked her lips.
“Yes indeed, you’re just full of surprises. I like a strong man.”
She tapped her nails on his belt buckle, and her smile was female. Feline. “Let’s see what other surprises you’ve got for me.”
They were dancing again, the oldest dance, and somehow she’d taken the lead. His stomach muscles quivered when she whipped the belt off, tossed it over her shoulder.
In his mind he saw himself throwing her down on the bed, pounding himself and this outrageous need into her. She’d accept it.
She’d expect it.
Instead, he took both her hands before she could unhook his trousers and lifted them to his lips. Watching her over them, he saw the surprise—and again the suspicion.
“I seem to be falling behind,” he said playfully. “And since I’ve been wondering what you’ve got on under that dress, I’d like to find out how close my speculations were to reality.”
He laid his lips on her bare shoulder, used them to nudge the material down her arm. And blessed the laws of gravity when it slid down and puddled at her feet.
She wore black lace.
She was every man’s fantasy. Dusky skin, tumbled hair, full, high breasts barely restrained in that fancy of lace. The slim torso, the gently rounded hips with more midnight lace riding low. Shapely legs in sheer black stockings and man-killer heels.
“Close.” The breath was already burning in his lungs. “Very close. What’s this?” He traced a fingertip over the tattoo on her inner thigh, just above the lacy edge of her stocking.
“That’s my dragon. He guards the gates.” She was trembling, and wasn’t ready to tremble. “A lot of men think they can get past him. A lot of men get burned.”
He stroked his finger up, along that sensitive valley between lace and thigh. “Let’s play with fire.”
He yanked her against him, devoured her mouth. And when that wasn’t enough, whirled her around to scrape his teeth along her shoulder, the side of her neck. With his face buried in her hair he ran his hands up her body, filled them with her lace-covered breasts.
She arched back to him, hooked her arms around his neck and offered. The spin from patient to urgent left her dizzy, brutally aroused and ready to be taken. She felt the greed from him now, and felt her own rise to match it.
His hand slid down, cupped between her legs, pressed, and brought her to the jagged edge of release. Before she could fall, he trailed his fingers down her thigh and with one fast flick, unhooked a garter.
Her breath caught. Her body strained. “Mon Dieu.”
“When I’m inside you, you won’t be able to think about anything else.” He unhooked a second garter. “But first, I need to touch you, the way I’ve been dreaming of touching you.” He rubbed his lips over her shoulder, nudged the strap of her bra aside. “Angelina.”
He turned her to face him, let his fingers dive into her hair, draw her head back. “You’re mine tonight.”
Denial, defiance, fought their way through seduction. “I belong to myself.”
He scooped her up, laid her back on the bed. “Tonight, we’re going to belong to each other.”
He closed his mouth over hers, stopping her words, drugging her brain. She turned her head to take a breath, to try to steady herself again. But his lips trailed down to her breast, over flesh, over lace, under it. The long, liquid tugs in her belly loosened her muscles, melted her will.
She yielded, telling herself she was surrendering to her own needs, and not to him.
He felt her give, the softening of her. Heard it in the low, throaty moan that was pleasure and acceptance.
So he took what he’d been aching for since the first moment he’d seen her in the morning mist.
Her body was a treasure, scented skin, female curves. He fed himself on the taste of it in slow sips and long gulps. Then freed her breasts to his hands, his mouth. His blood raged like a firestorm, but he let himself burn and tortured them both.
When he rolled the lace down her hips, she arched. Opened. He traced his fingers over her, watching her face in the candlelight as her eyes closed, her lips trembled on a groan. And when he slid them into her, into the hot wet velvet of her, she bowed up, cried out. Drove him mad.
Pressing his face to her belly, he sent her flying.
Her body was a mass of aches, of joys, with the sharp edge of sensation slicing through like a bolt of light. It burst in her, sent her helplessly hurtling.
She reached for him, closed her hand around him. He was hard as stone. She wanted him inside her as much as she wanted her next breath.
“Now. I want you.” She felt him quiver, even as she quivered. Saw herself in his eyes as he rose over her. “I want you to fill me. Fill me up.”
He clung to that slippery line of control, and as her legs wrapped around him, slid slowly, very slowly into her. Slid deep when she rose to meet him. Held there with his breath caught in his throat and everything he was lost in her.
Sighs now, and a quick, rushing gasp. They kept their eyes on each other and moved, an almost lazy pace that spread pleasure like a warm pool. Their lips met, and he felt hers curve against his before he lifted his head to see her smile.
Flesh glided over flesh, silky friction. Music, the tragic sob of it from her living room, a sudden celebratory burst of it from the street below, merged together in his head with her quickening breaths.
She tensed beneath him, her head going back to bare the line of her throat for his lips. She tightened around him, shuddered, shuddered. Once again he buried his face in her hair, and this time, let himself fly with her.
Later, he lay watching the light play on the ceiling, stroking his hand along her back. Drenched in her. “Are you going to let me stay?” he asked. “Or do I catch a cab?”
She stared into the shadows. “Stay.”
9
He woke just after daybreak. She’d curved into him in sleep, but he saw that she had her arm between them and a fist curled over her heart. As if she were guarding it, he thought. The little silver key lay against the side of her hand.
He wanted to lift that hand, gently uncurl the fingers. Bare her heart to him, he realized. He’d already lost his to her. Had lost it, he decided, the moment he’d seen her.
It was a jolt, and a shock for a man who’d come to believe he simply wasn’t capable of love. Unless it was family or friendship. His personal crisis over Jessica, who everyone—including Jessica—had claimed was perfect for him, had convinced him he’d blown his one chance at a lasting, content relationship with a woman.
It had been tough to swallow for a man who, at the core, believed strongly in family, in home, in marriage. And swallowing it, he realized, had been largely responsible for the restless unhappiness that had trailed after him like a faithful dog for months.
Now he was looking at the woman who was the answer. And he didn’t think she was going to be willing to listen to the question.
So, he’d have to persuade her. One way or the other, and sooner or later. Because he’d meant what he’d said the night before. They were going to belong to each other.
He considered waking her up and reminding her how good they were together in bed. He couldn’t think of a better way to start the day, especially since she was warm and soft and draped around him.
But it didn’t seem quite fair to wake her when they’d barely slept. Her workday started a great deal later than his.
He slid away from her, with no little regret, and eased out of bed. She stirred, sighing in sleep, and rolled into the warmth he’d left behind.
He grabbed his trousers and headed into the shower.
In his opinion, you could tell a lot about a person by their bathroom. Hers was both rigorously clean and indulgent. Thick towels of forest green offset the white fixtures and picked up the small diamond chip pattern scattered through the floor tile.
&nb
sp; Lush green plants lined the windowsill, and a trio of daffodils speared out of a slim bottle of pale green.
There were other bottles, jewel colors, and covered boxes that held fragrant oils and lotions, bath salts. She liked fancy soaps, he noted, and kept them in a pretty bowl.
He also discovered her hot water lasted longer than his. He smiled through the bliss of a fifteen-minute shower that steamed up the room like a Turkish bath.
She was still sleeping when he stepped out. Sprawled now over the sheets with the morning sun slanted over the lean length of her naked back. He turned his mind firmly from sliding back into bed with her and focused it on finding coffee.
Her living area had lofty ceilings and dark wood floors. She’d sponged the walls with a bluish paint that made them look like faded denim. Against one stood a fireplace framed in that same dark wood with a sunburst mantelpiece he immediately coveted. Its woodwork was distressed, its cream-colored paint peeling.
He understood why she’d left it that way. Its history and character came through.
To complement the faded walls, she’d hung colorful framed posters. Advertising posters, he noted. Elegant women selling champagne, sleek-looking men toting cigars.
A high-backed sofa in royal blue sat in the center of the room covered, as women mysteriously cover sofas and beds, with pillows.
He admired the style she’d formed here. Old, subtly battered tables and slashing colors. And he liked seeing his tulips on her coffee table.
He wandered through to the kitchen and found himself grinning. It wasn’t often you found black-and-white photos of nudes—male and female—on kitchen walls.
But he was happier yet to find coffee.
He closed the pocket door so the sound of grinding beans wouldn’t carry to the bedroom. And while the coffee brewed, he stood at her kitchen window, looking out at her section of New Orleans.
He heard the slide of the kitchen door.
She wore a short red robe, and her eyes were heavy with sleep, her smile lazy with it.
“Sorry, I thought I’d muffled the coffee grinder.”
