She chuckled, but dared not look up at him because she hadn’t calmed her raging heart just yet. “I designed it.”
“It suits you. The color. The cut. The silk shows every man in the room how stunning your body is.” His breath was near her ear. Mint again. Seducing her. Thrilling her. “I missed you at lunch.”
“I decided not to come.” She met his gaze with her own bold one. “I’m here to meet someone.”
His face went lax with despair. “An arranged meeting?”
She swallowed hard on the truth. “Yes. A one—”
“A one-night stand?” The hope in his voice caught her by surprise.
“Yes,” she acknowledged with trepidation he’d think her a loser or an opportunist to have to go to Alaska to meet a stranger for a grand, if brief, affair.
“So then,” he declared in a tone so mellow she knew he understood her challenge, “you didn’t come to lunch because you were afraid?”
“Conflicted.”
“I know.” He buried his lips in the crown of her hair and hugged her closer. “I am, too. You see that’s why I’m here, as well.”
“You are?” The urge to hug him back made her quiver with the expectation that he had met no one else yet whom he liked better and no one yet whom he should like better. “So…you haven’t gotten any instructions yet?”
“None. Any for you?” he persisted.
She felt like she’d burst with joy. “I’m thrilled to say no.”
“Well, then.” He took her hand so gently, she thought he might think her made of glass. “Let’s face the music and dance.”
Breaking into a grin, recognizing the title of the song and the problem they both faced, she let him lead her out to the polished floor. From the back, in a dark suit, he looked so smart, so debonair, she wanted to email Madame Eve and tell her she’d found her man. This man.
He turned and faced her.
Her heart did stop this time. He was so stunning, she could barely think of a thing to say. Logic rose up and she blessed her meager brain cells for it. “How do I know you can dance, Mr. Santana?”
“You won’t until you’ve danced with me at least a dozen or more times.” He pulled her toward him and now, at last, she let herself feast on the man in her arms.
The man in the pool with cobalt blue eyes and wet black hair had been a sleek, charming creature. This man was more. Dry. Combed. Polished. Dressed. He was every tall, dark, handsome icon stage and film had devised. Dashing. But dangerous. He was Laurence Olivier, Cary Grant. A hint of James Bond with Hispanic machismo, thick black lashes, and a powerful frame. More than all of that, he was real, here, virile, and warm beneath her fingers, and for now, hers. She couldn’t get over how arresting he was. His forehead was high. His cheeks carved. His jaw square. A dimple, a smidgen there to the left. And then there was his mouth.
She licked her lips.
His mouth. Generous and firm. Oh, sin had never looked so irresistible.
“Darling,” he told her in a thread of sound, “we’re here to dance. Neither of us will last longer than two measures if you keep looking at me like that.”
“I love the scenery.” Her clear conviction belied the raging desire she felt in her bones.
His expression softened as he wrapped her closer. “Fox trot.”
At his command, she burst out laughing but had absolutely not one moment to think as he swept her away to do just that. And. Oh. My. God. Was he good.
She had a helluva time keeping up, but she got into the swing of it so much that other couples left the floor to watch them. Blushing, proud, counting on years of her father’s lessons and ballet and some kind of grace to get her through, she watched Gil’s face and felt his body lead her, take her, compel her to the most fascinating use of it she’d had with a man ever.
And as the music died, she was thrilled. Sad. Hating the end of it.
“God, you are wonderful.” He crushed her against him and picked her up to swing her around while those near them applauded.
“Again?” She hugged him close in glee. “Can we do that again?” She leaned back, cupped his movie-idol face in her hands, and beseeched him. “I haven’t done that in years. So many men have no idea how to dance.”
He arched a wicked dark brow and nodded toward the orchestra. “I will do anything you want. Dancing for a start. To this? Do you…do this?”
“Tango?” She wanted to kiss him! Absurd delight swept up her spine. “You tango?”
He put one hand on her waist and lifted her other hand high in the proper position. His eyes adored her own, then caressed her lips. “I hope we don’t split your dress.”
“Promise.”
“God save me,” he murmured and then took her, possessed her, and as the sultry music decreed, he made love to her in front of a hundred people or more. He commanded the floor and she followed him. He seduced her with his rhythm, his agility, the power of his arms, and the strength of his legs. She reveled in his dexterity, his drama. Like the tormented affair within the music, she played her part as the temperamental woman. She taunted him, rejected him, and he caught her back, refusing to give her up, demanding she surrender to the attraction that bound them both. Consumed them and made them one body, one mind, one soul.
Even as the music died, she stood in his arms, flush to his body, all his as she had never been with any other partner on a dance floor. Or off.
The applause this time was thunderous. Even the orchestra members joined in.
“Dinner.” Gil took her arm, seemingly unable to look at her for more than a second. “We need conversation, something to do with our hands. A table between us.”
Chapter Three
Her big baby doll eyes were gray.
Gray as a summer storm. Gray as charcoal. Dewy like summer rain on flower petals. Gil had finally gotten a good look at them as she smiled up at him when they danced. He hadn’t wanted to stop looking at them.
But if he hadn’t, he would have crashed them both into ten other couples and never had the chance to charm her or please her.
He led her from the ballroom, knowing he’d better hurry to put some space between them before he carried her off like a caveman and made love to her like one.
She suggested the French restaurant, blessedly close, with a table for two available now.
Gil asked the maitre d’ for a quiet corner. In a sumptuous leather semi-circular banquette, he slid in beside her but stayed well away. The two of them had touched enough of each other in their two brief encounters. Gil thought for sure if he got any nearer her sweet supple body again tonight, he’d go up in flames.
And you’ve got to get hold of your mind here, Santana. There is no real reason on earth to feel so bound to her if you know nothing about her. Talk, dammit.
“Do you like seafood?” he asked her, trying to be a good boy, keep his hands to himself and peruse the menu.
“I do. Anything at all. Except eel.”
He winced. “Not my favorite, either. How about for appetizer, half a dozen oysters?”
“Great, with a chaser of escargot? To split, of course.”
He glanced up at the waiter. “So it is.”
As the man left them alone, Gil fought for a way to open a neutral topic, something to take them from the simmering desire that pounded in his blood. Shocked he couldn’t find anything at once, he satisfied himself with examining her hands. Long fingers. Short nails that were her own, nothing fake. Clear polish. Small wrists. A bit of a tan on that flawless skin, despite the season. His eyes, poor willful things, couldn’t seem to stop on the way to her shoulders…and the tops of her breasts.
She shifted. “Gil Santana, it is get to know each other time.”
Recognizing her discomfort at his forwardness, he covered her hands with one of his own. “I’m sorry. I’m not being a gentleman.”
“I like you as you are, though.” She swallowed, then met his gaze dead on. “And if you look at me like a hungry wolf, I’m bad enou
gh to say, I like it. But I’m not used to it.”
“You must live near blind men.”
Falling back in her seat, she hooted in laughter and waved a hand about. “There! You see? You tickle me.”
He nodded. “I can see by the way you look at me.”
“How’s that?” she whispered.
“Like you can’t ever stop.”
Her mouth formed a perfect little O.
Wild to strip her and take her right here on this table in front of these very nice people, he knew he’d better dial back the dialogue to acceptable dining room conversation. His brows rose by silly little increments. “You do more than tickle me. My funny bone is—” He stopped short, realizing despite his good intentions, he was about to say something risqué and he didn’t want to frighten this lovely creature and make her run from him.
“Ah.” She tipped her head. “Shorter than other bones, perhaps?”
He barked in laughter. “Honey, you are definitely such a surprise!”
“So are you,” she said in that smooth contralto that put him in mind of whiskey-voiced jazz chanteuses. “I don’t usually click with men I meet. Not at first.”
“I can’t understand why not.”
She shrugged, taking her time to form her words. “I don’t do chit-chat. I work too hard. All work and no play makes me a dull girl. I don’t do a lot of parties or the bar scene, and I prefer my own company to poor company.”
“Agreed. And what do you do?”
She swept her hands down her bodice. “I’m a designer.”
“Professionally?” This time when he examined the way the sapphire corset hugged her full, creamy breasts and the silk smoothed over her ribs to a small waist and flared over her thighs, he was appreciating the artistry as well as the delicious woman inside it. “You are talented. In the ballroom when you said you designed it, I thought you meant you sewed it. I owe you an apology. It is quite stunning. The corsetry looks…expert.”
“Thank you. I am. An expert, that is. On Elizabethan period attire. I make tons of corsets or rather, now, my draper sizes them and my seamstresses fit and sew them. And did you know your mouth is hanging open?”
He snapped it shut and grinned at her. “No, I did not. But thank you for that. I hate flies. And for whom do you design all these wonderful garments?”
Her smile went wide and showed the pride she took in her work. “I was appointed costume designer to the Ashcroft, Oregon Shakespeare Festival this past September and my first season’s costumes will appear in this summer’s plays.”
“Ashcroft.” How far is that from Portland? “And have you always done period clothing? Designs, I mean?”
“Yes. My last job was in Las Vegas.”
Rambling on, she told him the name of the resort where she had worked as the wardrobe mistress. It was a five-star getaway he had visited often with producers and investors for various film projects. A place where for years, he could have found her within minutes. So close. And yet so far.
She had come to a stop, confused by his silence and maybe even the dumb look on his face. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry. I’m being stupid here. You see, I’ve been there so often. I could have seen you. Met you. Who knows? We could have—”
“Gotten to know each other sooner?” Compassion glistened in her soft gray eyes. “Life doesn’t work like that, does it?”
“No,” he said, hearing some ineffable sadness in her tone and wondering about the cause. “Sometimes it has to work in odd ways.”
“In its own time.” She squeezed his hand and let go to put hers in her lap. “I’m thrilled to be with you here now.”
What had he just said that made her withdraw from him physically? Frowning, he sat back. At once, he knew. “You don’t have affairs, do you?”
Her eyes on him, she shook her head. “No.”
He reached across to tip up her chin. “I don’t, either. Not worth it.”
Tiny tears dotted her lashes. “I am not a nun.”
“God, honey, I hope not! I’m not a monk.”
“I applied for a one-night stand because I wanted to be close to someone if only for a few hours. Someone who might understand me without all the trappings of introductions and movie dates and….”
“I understand. That’s why I’m here, too.”
The waiter appeared and they sat back, watching him uncork the bottle, offer Gil a little wine to taste, then pour it for both of them.
Cutting the icy silence, Gil raised his glass toward her. “To the two people who never took vows of celibacy.”
She feigned a horrified grimace, but he could see she was still uneasy. Dying to change that, he asked, “How do you like the wine?”
“Love it.”
Another waiter hovered over them with their oysters and escargot.
“What do you think? Look good?” Gil asked of their appetizers after the man departed. Still looking for daylight in a dark atmosphere.
Surveying their hors d’oeurvres, she got a comically dreamy look on her face and then rolled her eyes at him. “They look absolutely delectable.”
Like you. “Shall we?” He lifted his fish fork.
She raised hers, then put it down. “Because I don’t have affairs, doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
His gaze dropped to her lips as he said, “I think we should text Madame Eve and tell her she’s been terrific but we’ve found our own partners for our one-night stand.”
As if she saw a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, she straightened and stared him in the eye. “You’re right.”
The urge to kiss her welled up in him like volcanic rock. “We can’t go on like this.
“How can this feel so right if you and I are not meant—?”
“Sir?” Their waiter appeared at Gil’s side and bowed slightly. “Mister Santana, is that correct?”
Gil shot a look from the waiter’s face to his hands where he held an envelope. Oh, no, not now. Not this. If that’s what I think it is, I can’t go through with this agreement.
“Yes, I am he.” Gil put out his hand. Best to get on with contacting Eve. “Give it to me.” His head pounded with fear.
“Gil?”
Tearing into the envelope, he paused to look into pleading gray eyes.
“Gil, listen to me. Whatever that note says, we’ll get through it.”
“I know we will. It has to be you.”
“Open it.”
He tore at the edges. “Hell. From Madame Eve, all right.” He read it once. Twice. The letters swam before his eyes. Just when things were getting good. Great. Unbelievably wonderful.
Wait!
He stared at the redhead next to him who had come to mean laughter and warmth and shared values to him. Her face was tight with tension. “What’s your name?”
Her fine red brows knit together.
“You never told me your name, honey. What is it?”
“Susanna Corrigan.”
Groaning, he crushed the paper in his hands and struggled out of the damn booth, then signaled their waiter. “All this and two steaks, medium rare, my room, 342. And a bottle of Brunello. Chocolate something for dessert.”
Susanna had turned her head to one side. Clearly, she was not listening but sliding to her side of the leather seat. But as she was about to stand, he stepped toward her and pulled her to her feet. “Susanna Corrigan, I do believe you were meant for me.”
Stunned, her lovely gray eyes devoured his own. “You’re serious.”
“No doubt about it. You belong to me. You knew it, so did I, long before I got that.”
She held back, mouthing soundless objection. “But…if you got yours, where’s mine?”
He braced his feet and looked her squarely in the eye. “Maybe they couldn’t find you.”
Sunshine broke over her face. Her eyes twinkled and her nose wrinkled. Her lips spread wide in glee. “We found each other.”
***
As they hurried
from the dining room through the corridor toward the hall, the only part of him she dared touch was his hand. Warm and strong, he gripped her as they took the empty elevator up the three floors and down the long, endless hall to his room. As he extracted his key card from his trouser pocket and unlocked the door, Susanna tried to catch her breath and steal some reason from the overwhelming desire to strip him of his clothes the minute they had any privacy.
As he pulled her inside, Susanna backed up against the wall and heard him turn the security lock. In the dim light, she examined the stark contrasts of the hollows and planes of his facial features. He was so devastatingly handsome, she had to press her thighs together to quell the need to have him inside her in the next second.
His breath heavy and hot, he lifted her chin. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met. I don’t want to rush you, but I think I’ll die if I can’t have you soon.”
Quivering from head to toe at his declaration, she put her fingertips to his lips. “I feel the same, but I don’t want it over too soon.”
He pressed tiny kisses to her fingers, laughing. “You can’t believe there will be only one time.”
“Oh, no. Not merely once with you, Mister Santana.” She brushed her breasts against his chest, loving the friction of her silk dress against his wool coat. “We’ll be craven. Exhausted. And oh so happy when we’re done.”
His indigo eyes narrowed on hers. “We might never be done.”
Once more, she stilled his movement and his words with her fingertips to his mouth. “I can’t bank on that. You shouldn’t either.” If I cared too much for you and lost you, I would dissolve into a crazy mess. I can’t let that happen. Can’t.
Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her close. “For now. Let’s live for now.”
She pushed him back a bit and smoothed the collar of his crisp blue shirt and the expensive silk of his navy and gold tie. Then she began to undo it. “Let me take the measure of the man then, shall I?”
“You’ll undress me?” He cocked a brow at her as her hands got busy.
Santa, Cutie Page 2
