Getting Over Harry (Harlequin Romance)

by Renee Roszel

  “Are you still interested in having a wild, sexual affair with the owner of Sin Island, Miss Stone?” he asked near her ear.

  She flashed him a dismayed look. “Let go of me!”

  He shrugged his wide, exquisitely clad shoulders, and she was mortified that she could feel it in her breasts. “Answer my question first,” he cautioned.

  “Maybe you haven’t been keeping up, Mr. Gallant. I loathe you and I hope never to lay eyes on you again!”

  He grinned. “I’d love to dance, thanks.”

  Before she could deny him, he’d swept her into his arms. It wasn’t until that moment that she noticed the orchestra had recovered itself and had struck up the sultry ballad, “When a Man Loves a Woman.” He drew her against him with menacing resolve, forcing her body familiarly to his. She gasped, then couldn’t breathe at all. “We can start with how to dance seductively,” he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.

  “We can start with my knee in your groin,” she warned, her voice strained.

  He chuckled, his big hand spanning her waist, drawing her more firmly against him. Her nerves leaped and shuddered as his body moved against hers, scandalizing her with subtle misdeeds. She knew he was daring her to make good on her threat, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even talk.

  She fought for air. It was stifling. Were they in a cave or a vault? She cast her gaze around. The room was large and airy. Though the many chandeliers were only dimly glowing, she could tell the room was white but for the golden veins in the marble floor and the gilded columns that stood like palace sentinels between tall windows. There had to be plenty of oxygen in the huge ballroom, so why couldn’t she breathe?

  Lightning flashed outside the windows, and thunder boomed, rattling the glass. A wind-tossed storm was battering the island, but nature’s violent tumult was puny compared to Emily’s state of mind. She tried to concentrate on drawing deep breaths, to get her mind away from the bold feel of him, but it was no use. His touch, his scent, triggered unfamiliar longings deep inside her.

  A rebellious voice chided, Remember his kiss, Emily? Why not throw caution to the wind? Take hirn up on his offer! Hadn’t she discovered the hard way that people who succeed in life are those who grab for what they want? Didn’t she learn that lesson when her sister stole Harry from her? Elsa was always competitive. It was clear she’d decided she wanted what Emily had, and she just took it. So, what was she hesitating for? This gorgeous man was offering her lovemaking lessons. Who was she to deny herself?

  “You’re doing very well.” His low assurance drew her from her troubled thoughts.

  She jerked to look at his face, stunned that he would say such a thing. He was grinning crookedly; a dimple slashed one cheek. She was sure he was making fun of her, for she was a poor dancer. Harry had despaired of teaching her the simplest of steps. “Must you ridicule me all the time?”

  He lifted a speculative brow. “I thought I was complimenting you.”

  She frowned, baffled. Then it dawned on her. She was dancing with him—close, even intimately! Her hips moved in concert with his. Their legs were brushing and rubbing rhythmically, and she hadn’t once tromped on his feet. Her breasts had somehow pressed themselves against his chest. She even had an awful feeling her head had been cuddled in the crook of his neck before he’d brought her out of her musings.

  Oh, lord! He was not only an expert kisser, but a wonderful dancer—able to lead her, guide her, make her feel as though she, too, could dance. But there was a negative side to that talent, a side that was becoming clear to her for the first time in her life. A truly clever man could actually make love to a woman on a dance floor. Lyon Gallant was distressingly clever in that regard, for he had wordlessly, deliberately drawn her toward surrender in a matter of only a few minutes—with all his clothes on and in the middle of a room full of people!

  She swallowed hard, fighting to preserve her sanity. “You’ve had your dance. Now please go away.” It had been hard to string that many stern words together without a break in her voice, but she managed. The music changed to a samba, and she lifted her chin to reiterate her demand.

  “But, Miss Stone, we’ve only begun our lessons.” His gaze exuded confidence in his ability for wild fulfillment, and her heart stumbled over a beat.

  “I really believe you’d go through with it. I also believe it doesn’t matter to you one way or the other.” She pushed at his chest and freed herself from his embrace, working to reinforce her anger. But her mortification at the cruel trick he’d played on her overpowered her hostility, and she had to ask, “Why did you—” Though they were no longer touching, the intensity of his gaze was unnerving, and a waver in her voice betrayed her. Valiantly, she went on, “Why did you lie to me about who you were?”

  His brows rose in question. “Lie?”

  “You told me you worked for Mr. Gallant!”

  He shrugged his hands into his tux pockets, looking princely and unconcerned. “I told you nothing, sweetheart. You assumed all that.”

  “You let me!” she charged. “That’s just as bad!”

  He studied her leisurely. Lightning flashed and lit a fire in his eyes, a breathtaking sight. “To be honest, it irritated me that you fabricated an affair with—me.” At last he smiled, but the amusement was minimal. “Do you really blame me?”

  That stopped her, and she clamped her jaws shut. There was nothing she could say to redeem herself. She had lied. Not only that, she was still lying. He thought she was an interior designer. She hated herself for that, but couldn’t do a thing about it. Ivy’s job depended on her keeping that secret. She felt a creeping, sickening unease in her stomach. She was caught, both in the lie he knew about and the one she hoped he would never discover.

  She peered at him. “Okay, okay. Let’s call it even and never speak to each other again.”

  “Even?” She flinched at his sardonic repetition of the word. “What did I do to you, except offer you what you asked for?”

  She felt a whisper of desire rush through her at the reminder, but squelched it. “I’ll tell you what you did! You kissed me against my will!”

  He was silent for a long moment, his narrowed gaze appraising. She grew nervous in the extended quiet, but she was also filling up with an odd sense of excitement. It was hard to dwell on that kiss and remain untouched by the memory. “If I’m not mistaken,” he reminded softly, “you kissed me back.”

  She sucked in an offended breath. “And—and I thought he—you were a gentleman!” She nearly choked on the word. Spinning on her heel, she dashed away, vowing never again to set foot in the same room with Lyon Gallant as long as she was stuck on his island.

  After lurking in one of the sumptuous bathrooms until she felt like a silly schoolgirl, Emily entered the ballroom. Though the lights were low, it was a glittery, festive place full of music and laughter—except for the shadow that surrounded Emily’s heart.

  People were dancing or standing around the refreshment table and visiting. She could see Lyon waltzing with one of his accountant’s wives. He was smiling as she chatted. Always the striking, perfect host. Meg was nearby, her dress sparkling like blue fireworks as she danced with shy Claude.

  Sighing wanly, Emily scanned the double doors. They were flung wide, a rain-freshened breeze blowing in. Apparently the storm passed while she was in hiding. Making her way around the edges of the gathering she went out onto the patio and inhaled the storm-cooled air. It refreshed her spirits and she made her way to the far end of the patio. Scurrying down a set of steps that curved away from the house, she entered an unlit garden. Everything twinkled under a cascade of moon glow.

  Her glance moved from the lavish plantings toward the house. The Gallant mansion was an imposing, three-story residence nestled in the brow of a hill. Even as ultramodern as the buff, terra-cotta structure was, it had a classic formality about it that was dramatic, juxtaposed against the succulent tropical landscape that cradled it.

  From aboard the h
elicopter the day she’d arrived, it had been vaguely reminiscent of an Egyptian temple or some stark, walled monastery. Yet, upon closer inspection, Emily had discovered its architecture was strikingly modern. Unbidden, her thoughts veered to her host. His home seemed to reflect his personality. Contemporary yet classic, daring yet aloof.

  She spun away, wanting to laugh bitterly. He was aloof, all right, unless you happened to run into him under the moon. Then he was—he was...

  She bit her lip, not caring to think about what he was. Exciting, sensual, hard to resist. Though many bothersome descriptions flitted through her mind, aloof was not among them. Not when he’d spent all their time together teasing and insulting her.

  Noticing the moon’s reflection in a small pond in the center of the lush garden, she felt a blow to her stomach. The moon! Lyon always seemed to be popping out at her in the moonlight. Though she’d just seen her host inside, she couldn’t trust him as long as she stood under a moon—couldn’t trust herself. Maybe she was safer inside. Even better, maybe she should escape to her room.

  As she ran up the steps, she almost slammed into Meg. “Oh, there you are!” Her friend took her shoulders to balance them both. “I’ve been looking everywhere.” Her smile was victorious. “I have some juicy dish about why Mr. Gallant was late tonight.”

  Emily blinked at her friend, not caring to hear this, but knowing that interrupting when she was enthusing on a subject was worthless.

  “This is the deal. According to one of the maids, Mr. Gallant was visiting Belinda Bane, the glamorous movie star, in her Colorado hideaway, negotiating for her to appear in his catalogue. Bad weather prevented him from flying out when he’d planned.” She stopped to take a breath, giving Emily a sly look. “And don’t we all know what negotiation means when it comes to Lyon Gallant and beautiful women?” She didn’t wait for Emily to ponder that. “It means hot, wild sex!”

  Emily’s stomach clenched.

  Meg squeezed her shoulders. “Speaking of that, you did really well in there, Em. I could tell he was interested. But why are you out here? Playing hard to get?”

  “Oh, Meg...” Emily moaned, unable to push from her mind the image of Lyon Gallant and the leggy superstar entwined in silken sheets. “That man would be interested in a fence post if you put a skirt on it.”

  Meg’s smile faded. “What’s wrong with that? You aren’t looking to marry the guy, just to learn from him!”

  “I’ve decided there’s nothing I want Mr. Lyon Gallant to teach me.”

  Meg dropped her hands and took a step back, looking as though she’d been hit. “What’s the matter? Is he-weird? Did he want you to do kinky stuff, like join him in a threesome or something?”

  Emily winced, feeling a headache coming on. “Of course not. He’s just—just too—too...” She shook her head, at a loss for words.

  “Too what?”

  “I don’t know.” She felt like a fool. What was wrong? Why couldn’t she simply jump into a brief fling with the man and enjoy it? “Too cavalier, I guess.”

  Meg exhaled theatrically, eyeing heaven. “I don’t get you, sweetie. Here we’ve done the impossible and you have one of the hunkiest men in America interested in having sex with you, and you don’t want to because he didn’t barf at the idea?”

  “But—but to think he’s jumping from Belinda Bane’s bed to mine then to somebody else’s. It seems so—so...”

  “How do you think he became an expert? Self-help sex books?” Meg clamped her hands on her hips. “Try to forget any fairy-tale ideas about lovemaking having to be connected with commitment. This is reality, sweetie! And your reality needs work!”

  No matter that Meg was trying to help, that observation hurt. “You talk so big, but I bet Larry wasn’t any wild sex maniac when you met him.”

  Meg giggled. “Don’t underestimate the quiet type.”

  “I’m the quiet type.”

  “You’re quiet and inhibited. Not a good combo.” She grasped Emily by the shoulders again and shook her slightly. “Focus, Em. Let Lyon Gallant be your teacher. You’ll learn from an expert. Then, when your true love comes along, you’ll have the ammo to shoot him down.”

  “Enchanting metaphor.”

  Meg made a face. “I hate it when you toss your vocabulary at me.” Snatching her by the hand, she began dragging Emily toward the ballroom. “Now, get in there and learn!”

  Emily balked. “No, I’m going to my room.”

  Meg stopped, eyed her friend, then nodded curtly. “You could be right. Make him yearn for you.”

  Emily sighed. “Fine. Whatever. Good night.”

  Meg stuck out a thumbs-up sign and winked. “It’s you and me, sweetie, all the way.”

  Rain fell all day, and Meg and her aunt were ensconced in Ivy’s quarters, deep in a game of chess. Emily was too restive to read, and she didn’t dare take a walk in the moonlight. Not while Lyon Gallant was on the island, though Ivy had said he was entertaining. The housekeeper would never breach her employer’s privacy, but Emily had a feeling “entertaining” meant he was with a woman.

  She experienced an odd twinge about that, and couldn’t fathom why. She disliked the man intensely. His playboy life-style was none of her concern.

  Turning her mind to calmer, happier thoughts, she decided, since Mr. Gallant was “entertaining,” it was safe to wander onto the patio. His private wing was on the far side of the house with its own courtyard. There would be little danger of running into him.

  After the party last night, brightly upholstered wicker furniture had been returned to the patio, but Emily didn’t feel like sitting. She ambled to the railing, inhaling the sea-laden air and the sweetness of a tropical night. She found herself smiling. What a lovely place Sin Island was. It should be called Heaven Island or Little Eden or...Her musings faded and she frowned, listening. Was that whistling? Yes. She could hear someone whistling a tune off in the distance. She recognized the song as the same one she and her irritating host had danced to last night.

  She could also detect the sound of approaching footsteps. With foreboding building in her chest, she turned. The foreboding blossomed into full-blown panic. It was Lyon Gallant! He was strolling toward her, backlit by the light from the patio doors. He was wearing a white knit shirt and white slacks, and the golden aura highlighted his wide shoulders and trim hips. His face was in shadow, but the whistling suggested he was in a good mood. She couldn’t say the same about herself.

  Not anymore.

  “Evening, Miss Stone.” He came up beside her and leaned one of those trim hips on the metal railing. “How was that?”

  She wanted to cry, to scream, but she forced herself to remain poised, remarking flippantly, “You lounge against the railing like a professional lounger. Congratulations.”

  He chuckled. “No, I meant, the whistling. I didn’t want you to think I was jumping out at you in the dark again.”

  She stiffened, abashed by the reminder. “How kind.”

  “Now, why don’t we get started.” He placed a hand on the rail, leaning slightly toward her. “Tell me what you need to know most urgently.”

  Her breath quickened and she grew hot all over. “Haven’t you teased me enough about the sex lessons?” she cried. “I’ve put it completely from my mind, and if you were truly a gentleman, you would, too!”

  There was a spark of something indefinable in his eyes. If she was to have guessed, she would have thought it surprise. But it was quickly gone, replaced by mild amusement. “I was referring to your project.”

  “I know! You’re forever harping on that! I wish I’d never—” She stopped herself, some small part of her mind suggesting she delay her rantings for a minute and ask one important question. “Project?” It came out sheepish.

  He nodded as a cool breeze swept across the patio, ruffling his hair. “The west wing?” he prodded with a half-grin. It was obvious he was trying to remain all business, but her outraged protest was making it hard for him. “Your associate
, Mrs. Dillburg, said you had to speak with me—most urgently—on some matter about the redecorating project.”

  Meg! This was all Meg’s doing! She vowed to strangle her friend at the first possible opportunity. What was she going to say now? She didn’t know anything at all about the project.

  “Oh, I—I’m sorry.” Her mind flew in all directions to find a way out of this predicament. “It’s just that, er...” Her memory caught on something she’d read in a magazine a few days ago while she was lounging by the pool, about a new designer’s work. She hadn’t liked the man’s designs, probably the reason she recalled the story so vividly. She prayed Lyon Gallant wouldn’t, either. “I just—just wanted to make sure about one of the second-floor rooms. Um—my computer printout says you specified a gilded Bohemian style day bed with golden swags and tassels and—and black flocked wallpaper?”

  His brows knit in wry amusement. “Sounds like I’m opening a brothel.”

  She swallowed. So far, so good. “That—that’s why I’m asking. You know about our computer foul-up. Well, considering your—your classic taste, it didn’t quite sound like you.”

  “I’m gratified.” He inclined his head, his expression going from wry to skeptical. “Why are we really here?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She’d done the best she could. Those few words were the extent of her interior designer terminology. If he wasn’t buying that, she was dead.

  “I mean, I’ve never known the design firm you work for to make such a serious error.” The patio was dark except for a pale spill of light from the French doors and the dastardly moon. Shadows from the palmettos danced fitfully across his rugged features, but even so, she could see high suspicion in his gaze. She ran her hands down her cotton skirt, smoothing it, fidgeting, wondering what was running through his mind. “What do you want, sweetheart?” he asked almost gently. “Another kiss?”