by Helen Conrad
He was kneeling over her, pushing a pillow under her head, his face a mixture of amusement and concern. “Better than what?” he asked lightly. “Than kissing me?”
“Oh, no.” She looked up quickly, wanting to reassure him. “That was very nice too.”
“Thanks,” he answered wryly. “But do you mind telling me just what the problem is? Surely you didn't have enough wine to—”
“No.” She reached for his hand and held it in her own. She felt pretty silly lying on the floor this way, but anything was better than the bed. Somehow she couldn't face that. Not yet. And this was kind of friendly. Like lying on the grass, exchanging confidences on a warm summer evening. Luckily the carpet was as plush as they came, and very comfortable, considering.
“I'm so sorry, Michael. But this really is your fault anyway.”
He shook his head in bewilderment. “You're allergic to me?” he guessed. “If so, you're in big trouble.” He grimaced. “We're both in big trouble.”
“No, that's not it.” She smiled up at him. “It's the food.” She groaned at the thought of it. “You made me eat two dinners, you know. And my stomach is rebelling.”
“Is that all?” He gave a snort of mock disgust. “And here I thought you were tough.”
“I am tough,” she protested, for no apparent reason. Why should she be tough, after all? What did he think she was doing, applying for a partnership in his dangerous profession? “This has nothing to do with tough. I'd like to see how you looked after two full course dinners in a row.”
“I could handle it,” he said in his best macho voice.
“Well, I can't.” She moaned, closing her eyes again. “I feel like a very large, very unhappy, beached whale.”
“That's funny,” he replied, reaching out to brush the hair back away from her eyes. “You look like a very desirable woman. I guess my mind must be playing tricks on me.” He cupped her cheek and said more softly, “Unless you are.”
She looked at him again, her eyes wide. “I'm not making this up,” she assured him earnestly. “I can't move. Really.” She put a hand on her stomach, surprised to find it still relatively flat. The way she felt, it ought to be blown up like a balloon. “You should hear what's going on in here,” she told him. “Then you'd see for yourself.”
He grinned. “Why not?” And the next thing she knew, his head was on her stomach, ear down. “Good Lord,” he said.
“What's the matter?” She craned her head to see him, but he motioned her to be still. His face was intent, as though he were listening to something very interesting.
This was ridiculous. She wanted to laugh, but she was afraid she'd bounce his head right off onto the floor.
“What is it?” she asked again, beginning to really wonder.
“Amazing.” He grinned at her. “It sounds like a whole nation of busy little workers, all bustling about their little chemical tasks.” A look of astonishment crossed his handsome face. “Wait,” he said, motioning her to silence again.
This time she couldn't hold back the giggle. “Michael, get off!” she begged. “You're making me laugh, and I'm too stuffed to laugh.”
He raised his head, his eyes glowing with humor. “I wish you could hear this one,” he said. “Sounds like a basketball game going on in center court. Something's bouncing.”
“The chocolate-covered strawberries.” She nodded wisely. “I knew they were a mistake from the beginning.”
“You see, it wasn't my fault at all.” He flopped down next to her on the floor, looking pleased with himself. “It was the first meal you ate that ruined you. Not the second.”
“Let's not talk about food.” She moaned again. “How am I going to get back to my room?” She looked at him speculatively. “I wonder if they have a cot with wheels? Then you could roll me down the halls . . ,”
“You're not rolling anywhere,” he informed her firmly. “You're staying right here.”
So they were back to that again, Shelley thought. He wanted her to stay the night. Small butterflies of panic winged their way through the other feelings she was being swamped with.
Well, what did you expect, Shelley my dear? she asked herself sarcastically. What else did you come to this resort for? Didn't you hope, deep in your heart, that just this very thing would happen? That you would find Michael and that he would want you?
Funny how easy it had seemed in dreams, and how much more difficult it seemed in reality. But she didn't feel much like laughing about it.
Luckily there was something to hide behind. “You want me to stay, even if I'm like this?” Once he realized how seriously stuffed she really was, surely he wouldn't be able to get her out the door fast enough.
He shrugged. “Like this, or any other way. All of a sudden, I can't imagine the night without you.” His grin took away the seriousness of the words. “You're in my blood, lady. You might as well face it.”
What on earth was he talking about? “Maybe you'd better tell me just exactly what facing it involves,” she said, feeling a little shaky.
He took a moment to answer her question, and she swung around to look at him again. He was lying beside her, very casually propped up on one elbow. His free hand was playing with her hair, twisting it around his fingers in a random pattern.
“I'm afraid I can't answer that question,” he said at last, his voice strangely low and lacking any trace of the ironic humor that laced most of his statements. “I don't think I've ever had a woman in my blood before. We'll have to wait and see.”
She looked into his blue eyes, searching harder, hoping to see a glint of the joke he must be playing on her. What could he mean? He barely knew her. He couldn't possibly be—
Her mind shrank from continuing along that train of thought, and he helped by saying, “In the meantime well have to find a way to fill the time until you feel like your old self. I don't suppose you'd be up to charades?”
She shook her head, smiling at his doubtful look. Of course, he'd been joking. There was no other explanation. She felt a warm blanket of comforting relief settle over their scene.
“I'm afraid singing you love songs is out,” he said regretfully. “I can't carry a tune to save my life. One of my few flaws, I might point out.” He tugged softly at her hair. “I could rub you all over,” he suggested hopefully. “A good massage to get the circulation pumping. Wouldn't that make you feel better?”
She threw him a baleful glare, forcing back the smile that threatened to cover her features. “I doubt it.”
“Too bad.” He sighed his regret, then his face lit up. “I know,” he announced like the man who'd just invented plastic wrap. “What you need is a cathartic experience. Something to get this food business out of your system once and for all.”
Shelley raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The goal sounds good,” she admitted. “Pardon me if I'm a bit leery of the means.”
He shook his head, a triumphant smile lighting his eyes. “No need to be. This is just the thing.” He threw back his head proudly. “Food jokes.”
She closed her eyes. “Oh, no. ...”
“You'll love them. Here goes.” He cleared his throat. “Why did the young lettuce cross the road?”
All she could manage was a weak cry of protest. “Michael—”
“Because it was time for him to leaf home.”
Her groan echoed from wall to wall in the large bedroom.
Michael put on his best cornball-comedian voice. “Don't worry if you didn't like that one. I've got a hundred more where it came from.”
“No!”
His eyes were huge with mock pain. “Shelley, believe me, you've got to learn to laugh at food. Control it before it controls you. It's the only way.”
She was laughing, she realized, and that made her stomach bounce and that didn't feel good at all, so she rolled over, cradling her head in her folded arms. Her move put her closer to him, and when she looked up again, she found his face only inches from hers. His eyes were a deep, beguiling
velvet-blue, the kind of blue that made her want to sink into it and lose herself, sliding down the surface and into the heart of its vibrant color. He stared down at her and she stared up at him, indulging herself, letting her mind go blank, only enjoying the blueness, and then something flickered there, pulling her back alert. She looked sharply, trying to follow the flicker, to find out just exactly what it was, and feeling like Alice chasing the White Rabbit.
“We could always tell ghost stories,” Michael said softly, his hand suddenly stroking her hair, as if to distract her from what she'd seen in his eyes. “Or I could tie a love knot from your beautiful hair.”
Her heart was beating so hard, Shelley knew he had to hear it. She wasn't sure what had set it off. It could be that her senses were noticing something she hadn't seen herself. Was it a warning? Or anticipation?
“Do you know how to tie a love knot?” she asked, more to keep the conversation flowing than to find an answer to her question.
“No.” His eyes were shaded from her now. He was examining her hair, taking it up in his fingers and spilling it out again like a pirate with a bag of golden coins. “But I'm willing to learn.” Suddenly he was smiling again, skimming above the deeper currents. “Are you?”
She wasn't about to answer that. “Why don't we tell crime stories?” she asked brightly instead. “Why don't you tell me all about your biggest cases?”
He laughed, letting his hand curl around to hold the back of her head. “And all about how I got into this profession so you can figure out what's 'wrong' with me? No, thanks, lady shrink. I can do without a session on the couch.”
“Suspicious type, aren't you?” she muttered, closing her eyes again. “I think I really should go to my room and get some sleep.”
“And you call me suspicious?”
She felt his hand on the back of her neck, rubbing softly, easing her tight muscles. The feeling was so delightfully soothing, she didn't want to stop him.
“You're going to have to stay here, my beautiful captive. I'm not going to let you go.”
Beautiful. Funny—she didn't think she'd ever been called that before. Her mother had been beautiful, and a lot of good it had done her in the long run. So Shelley had decided at an early age that she would never count on her own looks, which were fine, but unspectacular. She would count on her brain. And that was exactly what she'd done.
She'd never done anything to draw attention to her looks, and over the years she'd forgotten to look at herself in mirrors. Suddenly she wondered what she looked like, what she really looked like. Could she possibly be beautiful, lying here in agony on a hotel room carpet? Not a chance. Michael really did live in a dreamworld. Either that, or he spoke with a very forked tongue.
“Why don't we get you into bed?” he said softly, very close to her ear. “I'll carry you. “
“No!” She shook her head vigorously. “No, I'm fine right here.” She'd seen the bed, all turned back and inviting. And she'd been shaken by how tempting it looked.
His strong hand was making magic circles of warmth all across the width of her upper back. “I have no designs on your virtue, Shelley,” he told her, his voice edged with irony. “Believe me, I like my women healthy and willing.”
Of course, he did, Shelley told herself. And how many of them had there been over the years? She didn't want to think about that. A man with his looks and masculine magnetism—she had no doubt he was seldom without female companionship when he wanted it. The question was, what did he want with her?
“I don't know why you want me to stay,” she murmured, stretching under the tantalizing touch of his hand. “I'm not exactly good company this way.”
His hand stopped, fingers tightening slightly. “You have a pretty low opinion of the male gender if you think I can't enjoy you without sex,” he said shortly, his voice unusually harsh. “I can get sex anywhere.” His tone softened. “But a Shelley Carrington only comes around once in a million years.”
She opened her eyes and looked into his deep, velvet gaze. This wasn't just a line, she decided, a sense of awe growing into wary uncertainty. He really meant it. What could that mean?
Did it mean she could relax and enjoy him too? Did it mean she could let down the barriers and . . . fall in love?
Falling in love. She closed her eyes again as he continued to massage her. Why did they call it that? It made love sound like a deep hole, a sort of psychic well, that one fell into if one wasn't careful. And then there was the long, long climb back out. Was she ready to take the risk?
“Why did Shelley Carrington come around, anyway?” he asked curiously. “How did you happen to fall into my lap twice in a lifetime?”
“Oh—” She avoided his gaze. “Robin, my roommate, and I just came down for a few days of vacation.”
“What luck.” He grinned and she couldn't tell if he was suspicious. “What room are the two of you staying in?”
She told him. “We've only got it for two more nights. Then it's back to work.” She yawned and snuggled down into the carpet again, feeling marvelously relaxed.
She heard the zipper at the back of her dress being lowered and she stirred, ready to protest, but he stopped her with a soft kiss just below her ear. “Don't worry,” he whispered. “No ulterior motives. Just relax. Take a nap. Pretend I'm your nanny putting you to bed.”
“Nanny Michael.” She chuckled at the concept. “Tell me a story, Nanny.”
“All I know are ghost stories.” He unclasped the back of her strapless bra, giving him free access to her back, from the top of her spine almost to the tip of her tailbone. She scrunched her elbows in, making sure the clothing didn't fall all the way free. For some strange reason she believed him, believed that he wasn't trying to arouse her with his touch. That helped her to relax, and with relaxation came contentment.
“Then tell me a ghost story,” she said. She yawned sleepily. “A nice scary ghost story to keep me awake.”
She could hear the grin in his voice. “How about a nice boring ghost story to put you to sleep? That's the only kind I know.” He shifted his weight so that he could put more grip on the rubbing. Her muscles felt deliciously lazy now, completely limp. “I make this one up as I go along for my friend’s six-year-old. It knocks her out in about forty-five seconds. Let's see how long it takes with you.”
Shelley lay very still as he began his story. A few hours ago, if he'd told her he sometimes spent time making up bedtime stories for a little girl, she would have thought he was joking. Now she knew better. What other surprises did this man's handsome face mask?
His rambling story concerned a girl named Ginger and a big old-fashioned house with lots of mysterious rooms and things that went drip-drip-drip in the night and doors that slammed shut behind her. Shelley didn't really listen to it all. She drifted in and out of the story, in and out of her thoughts, and then closer and closer to sleep.
Michael's hand worked its way across every inch of her back. It was amazing how good that felt, and how close it could come to sensuality without quite going over the edge. Another time, she knew, another place, and a touch like that might send her beyond rationality in seconds. But right now, it merely comforted, though it didn't try to hide the promise of things to come.
Sleepily she wondered what on earth she was doing here, lying on the floor of Michael's hotel room. It was ridiculous really. She should pull herself up and get back to her own room. She knew he would let her go if she made it clear that she really wanted to.
But did she really want to? That was the point, wasn't it?
His voice was as soothing as his hand; low and rumbling, caressing her. She opened her eyes into tiny slits, watching him. As she watched he bent over her, dropping a soft kiss in the small of her back, and suddenly the embers that had been so docile leaped into flame, flaring through the danger zone, and she gasped, pulling up, remembering just in time to hold her dress against her chest.
“Sorry.” He grinned sheepishly. “All in all, you've
got to admit, I've been pretty good. Haven't I?”
Leaning on one elbow, just as he was, she smiled back at him helplessly, feeling a rush of crazy affection that was even stronger than the desire that had burned in her only seconds before. Every instinct in her body said, “Grab him, take him in your arms, hold on tightly, forget tomorrow,” and it took all her strength to stop from doing just that.
“So-so,” she said instead, hoping he couldn't tell why her voice was just a little shaky. “But like the man said, it's not over till it's over.”
He shrugged, palms up. “I don't know why you're not sound asleep. With my niece it takes no time at all.”
She couldn't hold back a grin. “With your niece I doubt if you add the complimentary back rub.”
He snapped his fingers. “So that's it.”
“Could be.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.” She started to pull herself into a sitting position, still clutching her dress tightly to her. “I'm sure I can walk now. And I really should get back to my room. ...”
“Not a chance.”
She gazed at him, wide-eyed, as he raised to one knee, scooped her up with one arm under her legs and another at her back, and stood with her in his arms.
“It's bedtime for lady shrinks,” he told her cheerfully.
“Michael!”
“Hush.” In three wide strides he had her lying back against the fluffy pillows. “Just listen to your nanny, now.” He grinned down at her, then went serious. “Shelley, listen to me. I'm not going to try to seduce you tonight. I promise. You're going to sleep in this bed and I’ll sleep somewhere else.” He gestured toward the chairs. “But tomorrow morning anything goes. Okay?”
She was helpless, utterly helpless. All he had to do was flash those pearly white teeth at her, and she was ready to do whatever he wanted. She let out a long, despairing sigh. “What am I going to sleep in?” she asked hopelessly.
He blinked. “I’ll tuck the covers over you if you're shy, and you can pull off your clothes underneath.”
