Tall, Dark And Difficult

by Patricia Coughlin

  It took an hour of rummaging through boxes of clothes she had packed away; forty minutes in a scented bubble bath; twenty minutes searching for Velcro rollers; and nearly another hour on hair and makeup; plus two more glasses of wine—then she was ready.

  At two a.m. she was picking her way along the path from her house to Griff’s, barefoot. She paused at the porch steps to slip on a pair of strappy black sandals with killer four-inch heels, and then rang the doorbell. Twice.

  It took a few minutes before she heard him making his way down the stairs, the cadence of his slow, limping footsteps music to her ears.

  He swung the door open and stood before her wearing half-zipped jeans and an expression somewhere between unconscious and enraged.

  “What the—” He paused and squinted at her, his gaze becoming wider and more alert as it swept from her bare shoulders to her Red Hot Cherry toenails and back.

  “Rose?”

  He was conscious now, all right. And stunned. Just the way she’d wanted him.

  Unfortunately, the combination of bare masculine chest and snug, faded jeans had delivered her a stunning little libido jolt of its own. She hadn’t planned on that, and it took a few seconds for her to recall her opening line.

  “Hi. Remember me? I live next door.”

  “I remember, all right,” he replied, still staring.

  “Did I wake you?”

  He nodded. “I think so.”

  “Good. I just stopped by to tell you that this is for you, Griff.”

  Slowly, her every nerve fluttering in a way she had also not anticipated, she executed a pirouette exactly as she had rehearsed, giving him plenty of time to take it all in: the short, second-skin black dress that was a relic of her former life, her long, stiletto enhanced bare legs, the neckline that teased in front and plunged several inches below her waist in back.

  She even remembered to toss her head full of loose curls, loose, painstakingly created curls, which wouldn’t last too much longer in the damp night air. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t need them much longer. She could already hear Griff breathing a little harder and feel his heightened interest and was thrilled by the evidence that her plan, fueled by wine and anger, was working.

  She had purchased this dress for the express purpose of seduction, one of many desperate attempts to reignite her marriage—but tonight she had something different in mind. She wasn’t here to seduce Hollis Griffin, just to let him know that if she wanted to, she damn well could…and without any helpful hints from him.

  “All for you,” she said again, softly, when they were once more standing face-to-face.

  “You smell good,” he said, his own voice soft, and rough.

  “I know,” Rose replied.

  “I mean, you always smell good, but you smell even better right now.”

  “I know.” She ought to. She’d soaked, sprayed and dabbed herself with the hideously expensive designer scent that Maryann had given her for Christmas and that she’d been saving for a special occasion. She’d reasoned that bringing Griff down a peg or two was about as special an occasion as she was likely to encounter in the near future.

  “So you approve?” she asked, her chest lifting with a deep breath, the dozen slim silver bangles on her right wrist tinkling flirtatiously as she ran her fingers through her hair.

  “Yeah, I definitely approve. What’s the word for really, head-over-heels approve?”

  He reached for her.

  Rose backed away with a little laugh. “Oh, no, no touching.”

  For a few seconds he looked as forlorn as a little boy who just had his lollipop snatched away, then he broke into a slow smile.

  “I get it,” he said. “This is a dream, right? Just like last night. As soon as I touch you and get you into bed, you’re going to scream in my ear again, right?”

  Rose had no idea what he was talking about, except that obviously he’d dreamed about her last night, and in that dream they had been in bed together. The image it stirred in her mind was not entirely unpleasant, but it was alarming. The wine must be wearing off, she decided, because it suddenly occurred to her that this might not be as brilliant an idea as it had at first seemed.

  Determined to make her point and get out of there, she shook her head. “I’m not going to scream in your ear.”

  “That’s right, you didn’t scream. You blew the horn.”

  “I’m not going to blow any horns, either,” she assured him, hoping her growing apprehension didn’t show. “And I’m certainly not going to bed with you.”

  He smiled, his look lazy and hungry and happy, all at the same time. On him, it was a very appealing combination, and if not for the fact that she was there to tell him in no uncertain terms that she was not now and never would be romantically interested in him, she would probably be damn interested.

  It irked her to admit it, even to herself, but facts were facts. And the fact was that she was a sucker for the sort of scruffy, wounded rogue, take me home and feed me a good, hot meal and tuck me into bed—preferably your bed—persona that he was presenting at that moment.

  “Are you sure about that, Rosie?” he asked. “Not the horn, the bed.”

  “Very sure.”

  He ran his eyes over her in unhurried appreciation. “But you said that all this…”

  “Is for you,” she finished for him. “It is. To prove to you beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were right earlier. If I wanted to…how did you put it? Oh, yes, if I wanted to take time to really ‘fix myself up,’ I could be exactly the kind of woman you like.” She took a half step back and made a little swaying motion, arms bent, palms up, her expression flirtatiously quizzical. “Agreed?”

  He smiled appreciatively. “Damn straight.”

  “Good.” She dropped her hands and her flirty smile. “That’s point one. Point two—and I want you to really pay attention here, Griff—is that I have no interest whatsoever, and absolutely no intention of ever again wasting time, fixing myself up, to please you or any other overbearing, self-centered man who thinks I’m just full of potential and has a yen to play Svengali with my life.”

  She took half a breath, refusing to be unnerved by his placid expression.

  “It was just a—”

  “To you, maybe,” she snapped without letting him finish. “Not to me. I’ve already wasted too much time trying to mold myself to someone else’s vision of what I ought to be. No more. I dress the way I do everything else, as I please. And I really don’t care to hear your or anyone else’s opinion on the subject…even if comes disguised as a compliment.”

  “I see.”

  Rose wasn’t sure she liked the nature of his response. It was far too offhand, lending the moment an unsettling, anti-climactic air. “Then we understand each other. I thought it important we do, since we’ll be working together.”

  “Definitely. Hell, with all the sexual harassment going around these days, a man has to think twice before telling a woman she’s so pretty just looking at her makes his eyes ache.”

  Rose nodded, feeling more uneasy by the moment. She wasn’t sure, but it was almost as if he was standing there, ostensibly agreeing with her, and doing it all over again. Complimenting her even while claiming to understand why she didn’t want him to.

  At least it seemed he was suggesting that she was so pretty she made his eyes ache, but she wasn’t about to risk humiliation by making that assumption incorrectly. She also wasn’t able to prevent the small ripple of pleasure his words incited. If they were meant for her. Of course, there was nothing wrong with feeling flattered, just as there was nothing objectionable about an honest, straightforward compliment, which this seemed to have been. Truthfully, the whole issue was becoming so muddled in her poor, tired head, she wondered if maybe she had overreacted in the first place.

  “Is that all you woke me up to tell me?” he asked.

  “Yes. Why are you smiling?”

  “I was just wondering if, considering how easily we got it al
l settled between us, maybe there wasn’t just a little bit of overkill in your preparation?” He took his sweet time underscoring his point by running his gaze over her. Twice.

  “Not at all,” she retorted.

  “You don’t think you could have accomplished the same thing by waiting and giving me a call in the morning to tell me to never again allude to the fact that you’re teaching me more about the true nature of beauty than I knew existed?”

  “No, I do not.”

  He was doing it again. Rose was certain. She just wasn’t sure how to go about calling him on it without appearing ridiculous…especially in the face of his calm, almost indulgently amused demeanor.

  Lord, she wished she hadn’t drunk so much wine.

  And that he didn’t seem so damn refreshed on only a couple of hours sleep, while she was finding the cushioned glider behind him increasingly more tempting.

  “Moreover,” she continued, tossing her head, determined not to let her resolve waver no matter how sleepy she felt, “the fact that you would suggest this could have been handled by phone shows me that you’ve missed the point entirely.”

  “What is the point, Rose?”

  “To demonstrate to you that I am not the kind of woman you are looking for, and that any overtures in that direction would only jeopardize our working together.”

  “I get it. You thought the best way to discourage me from wanting you was to show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night looking so good I can’t recall ever wanting a woman so much in my whole life.”

  “Yes,” she said, then quickly shook her head. “I mean no. You’re twisting it around.”

  “Why don’t you untwist it for me, Rose?” he asked softly, moving closer. She must have moved, too, because somehow one of the porch’s solid columns was at her back.

  “Cut it out, Griffin. I didn’t come here to play games with you.”

  He grinned, a slow, crooked, knowing grin. “It’s good that you pointed that out. Because a less sensitive guy than myself might jump to the conclusion that that’s exactly what you came here for.”

  “Well, it’s not—so you can wipe that grin off your face. I simply wanted to lay all my cards on the table…”

  “Oh, you succeeded,” he assured her, heat replacing the laughter in his eyes. “Admirably.”

  “…and be honest with you as to where we stand on this matter.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I do. It’s not my fault that your one-track, overblown ego causes you to interpret everything with the perceptiveness of an adolescent in a hormonal daze.”

  “Ouch. You’re a little touchy on the subject, aren’t you?”

  “Look who’s talking,” she snapped. “You know how much you hate being called ‘sensitive’? Well, that’s only half as much as I hate being told I have potential.”

  “Make a hell of a pair, don’t we,” he countered, rubbing his jaw pensively.

  His rueful smile was unexpected, and disarming. Rose gave in to a small, grudging smile of her own. “I suppose we do.”

  “Hell, there’s no suppose about it. Where I grew up, they’d say we’re like two hedgehogs in one pocket.”

  “You grew up in Manhattan,” she reminded him dryly. “I don’t usually think of that as hedgehog country.”

  “I only grew up in Manhattan in reality,” he told her. “That doesn’t count for nearly as much as where you grow up in your dreams.”

  Rose met his gaze, startled.

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding with more satisfaction than surprise. “I thought that would hit home with you. Face it, Rosie, you and I are alike in more ways than either of us could have predicted. We’ve both got sore spots that are like land mines lurking beneath the surface. And we both grew up wishing things were different than they were.”

  “You don’t know anything about how I grew up.”

  “I know enough to know I’m right,” he said. “Just like I know that at this minute we’re both standing here, wondering what it would feel like to just once defuse the land mines, let go and see what happens.”

  “I am not wondering anything of the sort,” she insisted, without a shred of conviction.

  “That’s all right, Rosie,” said Griff, his voice soft and rough and very, very close. “I’m wondering enough for both of us.”

  Chapter Six

  She ought to stop him. She could, despite the fact that he was bigger and stronger and didn’t like taking no for an answer. Whatever else he was, Griffin was a product of Devora and the military, and that was enough to assure Rose that all she had to do was say the word and he would back off.

  The problem wasn’t Griff. It was her. She didn’t want to stop him…not now. Not yet.

  Instead of pulling her closer, he leaned in to her, his strong hands on her shoulders as he held her against the porch post. It seemed to take forever for his mouth to reach hers, so long that her heart was skittering and her breathing was on hold and the first touch of his lips was like a spark tossed on a field that had been without rain for a long, long time.

  His kiss wasn’t gentle. Or rough. It was perfect…beyond perfect…beyond any other kiss in her entire life. And like parched earth, she couldn’t get enough—of his scent, his touch, his breath…of this singular moment in time.

  Pleasure flowed through her as his mouth, warm and sure and appallingly skillful, moved over hers. She grasped his shoulders and was instantly reminded that he was half dressed. There was fresh excitement in the smooth heat of his skin and the play of his muscles. There was nothing between them but the night and this sudden, sweet hunger.

  …meant to be…meant to be…

  The words flowed from somewhere deep inside her and drummed softly in her head. What had gone before and what might follow ceased to matter, as all of her yearned toward him.

  She had to go up on her toes to get closer. She had to taste more of him. She had to moan softly when she did.

  He trembled at the sound and yanked her against him, his lips coasting along her throat, his hand sliding down her back and inside the low-cut dress and the barely-there panties that were the only kind that could be worn under it. She’d spent ten minutes hunting for the ridiculous panties, and as his hand curved around her bare bottom, she was very glad she had. When he pressed her close, the contact rocked them both.

  He dragged his mouth back to hers, groaning and kissing her in a hard, hot rush. Suddenly Rose understood what it meant to be ravished, and why all those women on glossy paperback covers looked so dazed. She was lost…enthralled…a willing vassal of his tongue and hands and pure, intoxicating strength. Eyes closed, head back, she rode wave after rolling wave of pleasure, as his hands moved over her, claiming and worshipping at once.

  Breathless, her senses flooded, she clung to him, as he swung her around and began backing her toward the glider. She felt like a leaf swept up in a hurricane, and the urge to close her mind and just let it take her was powerful.

  He lifted his head only enough to meet her gaze. His eyes were black, and there was no mistaking the intent that glittered there. The thought that she should be alarmed drifted through her head and was gone.

  “What’s your pleasure, Rosie?” he whispered, moving his hands through her hair, caressing her face with his whiskered cheek.

  You, she thought, hazily. It was true. He was more pleasure than she’d known existed—maybe more than she could handle. But she was not going to think about that right now.

  “Speed or comfort?” he prodded, laughing softly when she gazed bewilderedly at him. “Here or upstairs?”

  A side of herself Rose didn’t recognize wished he hadn’t stopped to ask. But he had, and stopping gave her time to think. She supposed she ought to be grateful. Still, it took every shred of her willpower to press her palms against his chest and ignore the intoxicating scent of desire coming off him.

  “Neither.”

  His hands stilled. He rested his forehead against hers. “Pleas
e, please tell me that means you have a yen for the standing position. It might be dicey with my leg, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “It means we have to stop. This is happening too fast.”

  “Sometimes that’s the way it happens.”

  She shook her head. “Not for me. Not this.”

  “You want this.” It was not a question.

  “Yes, but I’m not crazy enough to act on every impulse—especially not the ones that take hold of me at two in the morning, when I’ve had too much wine and a half-naked man has just kissed me senseless.”

  He lifted his head without letting her go. He did not look amused. “Does this happen to you often?”

  “Actually, this is a first.”

  “Good.” He kept his arms around her, but there was no real pressure in his grip, or his tone. “And here I thought acting on impulse was your M.O. Isn’t that why you painted your truck—impulse?”

  “That’s different,” she said, reason returning slowly. “If that turned out to be a mistake, I could have painted over it. Once I give myself to someone, it can never be undone.”

  Her words sank through Griff like lead in quicksand. Once I give myself to someone… “I guess I never thought of it quite so profoundly,” he told her, knowing it was the understatement of a lifetime.

  “I never think of it any other way,” she said bluntly. Her expression was direct and unapologetic as she added, “Just for the record, I’m not into one-night stands.”

  “I guess I should have known that. I think I did, actually,” he admitted, running one fingertip across her bare shoulder with a resigned sigh. “The sight of you in this dress must have clouded my judgment.”

  She offered a rueful smile. “I think the wine clouded mine. Coming here this way was not my finest moment.”

  “I don’t know, it was plenty fine for me. Though I wouldn’t recommend it as a way to discourage unwanted male attention in general,” he drawled, permitting his hands to slide over her hips and butt, an exquisite form of self-torture now that it was clear he couldn’t have her. Not tonight, anyway.