Getting Over Harry (Harlequin Romance)

by Renee Roszel

  He shifted away, but didn’t go far. His heady scent was strong in her nostrils, stimulating, even mixed with the charred smell of burned eggs.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded her.

  “You know the answer to that as well as you already knew I wouldn’t model in your catalogue.”

  “But you told me—”

  “You were so darned smug, thinking you knew everything about me,” she broke in. “Pride made me say that.”

  He didn’t speak while she scraped at the pile of scrambled eggs, to no avail. When his lack of response drew out so long she couldn’t stand the quiet anymore, she tried to get back on track, asking, “Is this the way you like your eggs or should we start over?”

  “We?”

  She looked at him. He wasn’t quite smiling, but the irritation was gone from his features. “I’m starving. I missed dinner, you know.”

  “And who’s fault was that?” This time his lips curved slightly.

  She ignored the question and handed him the pan. “Put this in the sink. When it cools we can soak it. Meanwhile, I’ll get more eggs.”

  “I used them all up,” he said as he took away the skillet.

  “I bet we can find something eatable in this joint.”

  He chuckled. “There’s leftover roast.”

  “Sandwiches.” She headed for the huge refrigerator. “You find bread.”

  “You’re pretty bossy in the middle of the night.”

  She’d opened the refrigerator but turned to look at him. Lifting her chin, she smirked. “And I bet you’re a lousy cook anytime of the day or night. By the way, who did you think you were talking to when I came in?”

  He crossed his arms, lounging against the white-tiled counter. “I thought you were one of the household staff.” He shrugged. “They can’t stand the idea of my doing anything myself.”

  She shook her head in mock distress. “It must be hell for you.” She bent to retrieve the needed ingredients. When she turned around, he was standing beside her. He took the roast and condiments from her fingers before she recovered from her shock. “Must you sneak up on me?” she finally managed.

  “I’m sorry. Wooden floors and bare feet tend to cause quiet approaches.”

  “No.” She rejected that explanation, following him to a long expanse of counter. “Bare feet make slapping sounds on wood floors.”

  He looked at her, his eyes sparkling. “Who do you live with, Daffy Duck?”

  She smiled, startled at herself for being so at ease. It was probably because there wasn’t a moon above them. Or, more likely, because once Lyon Gallant kissed you, you could never be all business with him again, even if you wanted to. “So your staff hates to see you burn eggs?”

  “I don’t usually burn them. I was just...” He frowned, his glance shifting away almost guiltily. “Thinking.”

  “That can be dangerous.” She opened the bread and shoved it in front of him. “I’ve seen Meg try it. Scary. Here, you spread the mustard.”

  His frown disappeared and he took up a knife. “I like your outfit.”

  For some reason his compliment disconcerted her. Maybe it was because he was so close, or because his eyes held a lush glimmer. Hoping he wasn’t thinking about getting her naked and introducing her to lesson four, she quickly switched the subject. “Uh, I’d say you’re a prisoner of your own success, wouldn’t you?”

  He halted and peered at her. “That’s quite a switch. What do you mean?”

  She got to work slicing roast beef so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze. “You don’t even have the freedom to burn eggs when you feel like it.”

  She cast a glance at his hands. They weren’t moving, his sandwich-making forgotten. “Nothing’s perfect, Miss Stone.”

  He’d said it as though his jaws were clenched. “Oh, dear, you called me Miss Stone.” Setting down her knife, she peeked at him. “Tell me, Mr. Gallant. What exactly would be perfect?”

  He squinted, looking away as though in thought. “More success, I suppose.”

  “More!” She was aghast. “More?” she repeated, unbelieving. “How could you want more than you have?”

  He looked at her, his eyes filling with icy reproach. “There’s no such thing as enough.”

  She felt as though she’d been hit in the stomach, and all the air left her body. “How can you—where did you...”

  He smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant. “Dear old Dad taught me, ‘The man who dies with the most toys wins.’”

  She blinked. “Your father?”

  He swiped mustard on the bread without much notice. “Dad was never a happy person. Never had the recognition he wanted and needed for his ego. Never had the time for me until I took over his little catalogue business and made him rich.”

  She was surprised to discover that she and the all-powerful Lyon Gallant had childhoods in common—an overbearing father and a desire for his approval. Feeling a rush of soft kinship for him, she asked, “Where is your father?”

  “He died four years ago.” Lyon looked her way briefly, his nostrils flaring. “But he was rich.”

  She began to slice beef again, listlessly, her appetite gone. “And was he happy?”

  His chuckle was edged with bitterness. “Happier than when he was poor.”

  “Did he love you more after you made him rich?”

  He slanted a dark gaze at her, his eyes flashing offense. “He knew I was alive.”

  Her heart went out to him. How many times in her life had her father made it clear that her sister, Elsa, was his favorite? How many times had she done everything, anything he’d asked of her to win his approval? It was only after Elsa ran away to New York to become an artist that he acknowledged Emily as worthy of his attention at all. Becoming a teacher had helped, too, but nothing was ever quite enough. He’d mourned Elsa’s loss until the day he died.

  Emily had an urge to take Lyon’s hand, to hug him—one lonely little girl comforting one lonely little boy. Unfortunately, they weren’t children anymore. They were adults. And she’d already been in his arms, already knew the insanity of such an act, no matter how well-meant. Trying to turn her mind to safer subjects, she took the bread slices he’d prepared and placed lettuce on them, then added meat. “Where’s your mother?”

  “She died when I was three. I don’t remember her.”

  Emily’s hands faltered in her work. It seemed as though Lyon Gallant’s luck with parents had been worse than hers. At least she’d had her mother’s love and support for fifteen years.

  “What about relationships? Or do you think of women as toys, too?” She bit the inside of her cheek, wishing she hadn’t let that question slip out. But her heart had to know.

  “I think of women as beautiful, willing toys.”

  She closed her eyes for a split second, then gathered her poise. “I must have been a tedious change of pace for you.” She turned away, swallowing to ease the lump of despair in her throat. Straining to keep her voice placid, she said, “I like tomatoes on my sandwich. Do you have any?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “I’m sure the staff won’t mind if I check.” She headed to the refrigerator, forcing her mind to food and off Lyon’s callous outlook on life. “Do you want any?”

  “Why not?”

  After she’d checked several crisper drawers, she found tomatoes and grabbed one. When she turned around, he was there, plucking the fruit from her fingers. He grinned, and this time she was sure she saw seduction in his gaze. “You weren’t all that tedious, sweetheart. I told you once tonight that you’re beautiful. You just have old-fashioned morals.”

  She sidestepped and closed the refrigerator door, her heart hammering. She wanted him to take her into his arms—yet she didn’t want it. Her emotions were so chaotic she was hard-pressed not to shriek and run from the room. “And—and you have the cure for old-fashioned morals, I suppose?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  She took the tomato
from his hand and hurried to where the sandwiches waited. Picking up the knife, she slashed through the tomato several times before realizing she was using the dull side. By then, it was too late. The tomato looked like it had been hit by a train.

  “We have a juicer,” he commented dryly. “I thought you wanted slices.”

  Nervously, she scooped up the glop from the cutting board and piled it onto their sandwiches. “You’ll love it this way,” she muttered, slapping a slice of bread on top of the dripping mess. “They’re ready.”

  He picked up the plates and carried them to the table. “Now, about my virginity cure...” He set the plates side by side on the table.

  She stilled. “I never said I was a virgin!”

  He flashed her a knowing grin. “You said it in a thousand ways, sweetheart.” Pulling a chair out for her, he indicated that she take a seat. “I’ve kissed you, remember?”

  She was mortified, but she was also insulted. Snatching up her plate, she marched to the opposite side of the table. she had no idea why, for there was no way she could eat now. Her stomach was churning with embarrassment. Why didn’t she just leave? “I’m so inept, I should put myself in an old virgin’s home! Is that it?” She pulled out a chair and plopped down, but her glare didn’t waver from his face.

  “You could take the cure,” he reminded her after seating himself.

  Her glare became a wide-eyed stare. “If you’ll remember, you already tried your cure. I was too inhibited.”

  He leaned forward, his forearms on the table, his long, tanned fingers very near hers. She dropped her hands into her lap to safeguard herself against doing something stupid like grabbing him and begging for his love.

  Even though they weren’t making physical contact, his gaze caught and held hers, affecting her breathing. “You’re not inhibited,” he assured softly. “Just inexperienced.”

  She colored fiercely. It had almost seemed like he meant that. His tone, his eyes, the way his hands rested on the table, ready to take hers if she would only allow it. She scanned his face again, looking for signs of teasing and deceit, but she could see nothing but truth. Heavens! He’d meant it! Everything about him told her he’d really meant it. Her heart flip-flopped with alarm and exultation.

  “If you’d like we could try lesson four again.”

  She listened to his soft urging, looked into his seductive eyes. She wanted lesson four from him more than anything, but she knew if he made love to her, she would never, never be able to go on with her life as though it had meant nothing.

  He’d already told her women to him were playthings. Pleasant, willing playthings. She clutched her hands together in her lap. She couldn’t just be his toy. “I—I don’t want you to make love to me,” she lied through gritted teeth, hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt.

  “Ouch.” He grunted out a humorless laugh and shook his head. “You really know how to hurt a guy.”

  “I’m sure the pain will go away. The world is full of willing toys.”

  He inclined his head, examining her dubiously. “Let me get this straight. You want to learn about lovemaking so you can be sexy, but your morals keep getting in the way. Right?”

  When she nodded, he pursed his lips.

  She sagged against the back of her chair. “I suppose it’s crazy to think I can have it both ways.” This conversation was sordid and outrageous. She felt like such a stupid fool for even being here.

  “I have a solution,” he said quietly. When her gaze snapped up, his brows lifted in sly challenge. “It’s a little crude, but it’s helped thousands of women lose their virginity all over the world.”

  “You must really get around,” she muttered.

  At her sarcasm, his lips split, showing off one dashing dimple. “I’ve had a lot of help. Care to try?”

  “It doesn’t involve making love?”

  He shrugged. “Not in the strictest sense.”

  He was so worrisomely good-looking with that erotic half-grin, she could feel her resolve slipping. But how could this possibly work—making love without making love? “No, I don’t...” She shook her head, but the lie was sour on her tongue. She did want to know. And his probing expression told her he knew it. Ashamed of herself for her weakness, she inhaled raggedly. “Okay—what is it?”

  He watched her for a few seconds, his twisted smile remaining intact, though his brow knitted slightly. When he wordlessly pushed up to stand, she stiffened with anticipation. It was impossible for him to make love to her without making love to her. So, in a few seconds, Lyon Gallant would take her into his capable arms. He had just eased into it using sneaky semantics. And right now, she didn’t care how he’d worked it, she just knew something deep inside her needed his touch, and her need was a thousand times greater than her fear of the consequences.

  He didn’t circle the table and pull her into his embrace as she’d expected. Instead, he went to a cabinet and took a bottle from the top shelf, then retrieved a tumbler from another. When he came back, he uncapped the bottle and filled the glass with a liquid that looked like weak tea. “Drink this.” He thumped the glass and bottle on the table and shoved them across at her.

  She sniffed and frowned at him, dismayed. “It’s alcoholic.”

  “Right.” He sat back, crossing his arms over a bare chest that was incredibly male. “Ten minutes after you down that Scotch, you’ll be too soused to stand up, let alone have any inhibitions. When you can’t remember your name, we’ll have sex here on the table.” He lifted a casual shoulder. “Then goodbye old-fashioned morals.”

  She sat there, blank, dazed. He was talking to her with such cool nonchalance about something that should be meaningful between two people, she couldn’t believe her ears.

  When she didn’t respond, he lifted his arm and peered at his watch. “Drink, Miss Stone. Remember, I have an early meeting in the morning.”

  She let out a gasp, anger draining the blood from her face. “You have a—a meeting?” she rasped. “I have to get drunk so we can get rid of my pesky morals, and on top of that I have to hurry because you have a meeting?” A thought whipped into her brain so quickly she hardly had time to absorb it, let alone decide if it was smart or not. But she was too hurt to analyze it.

  Glaring at him, she jumped up. “Well, I certainly don’t want to keep you waiting! Not even ten minutes!” Shoving the bottle and tumbler aside, they crashed to the tile floor as she hiked up her skirt and dropped a knee on the table. His complacent features grew troubled when she crawled onto the tabletop and swept the plates out of the way. They clattered and clanked, sliding to the other end of the long surface, but by some miracle, they didn’t fall. “We can forget the drinking part—sweetheart!” she hissed. “That would cut into your precious time. Let’s just get my pesky morals out of the way.” Sitting down hard, she lowered herself to her back and clutched the sides of the table. “Okay, Mr. I Have a Meeting! Do me! Let’s get it over with!”

  His face showed concerned surprise as he pushed himself up in a strange slow motion. She felt a twitter of amusement at his expense. For once she could laugh at his shock! It was obvious he’d been taunting her again. Mocking her. Knowing she couldn’t go through with such a bloodless suggestion. The burn! Well, she’d had enough of his superior attitude, thinking he knew so much about her midwestern morals. She’d show him! He didn’t know what a truly angry, determined Iowa girl was capable of when pushed too far!

  He towered beside her, unmoving. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m waiting! Time’s wastin’, buster. Jump my bones, then go to your pressing meeting.”

  With narrowed eyes, he scanned her stiffened body from head to toe.

  “You’ve lost a sandal,” he muttered.

  “That’s not all I’m going to lose!” she reminded him through clamped jaws. “Why are you stalling?”

  His nostrils flared, but after only another millisecond’s hesitation, he walked to the end of the table. W
hen he got there, he unceremoniously removed her remaining sandal and tossed it to the floor. The sizzling touch of his hand on her foot sent a bolt of electricity through her and she stopped breathing. She glanced at his face. He wasn’t smiling, and the muscles in his cheeks bunched in agitation. “You want the lights on or off?”

  “On!” She hiked her chin with false bravado. “Or are you intimidated by lights?”

  “I’m fine with the lights.” His eyes flashed with consternation.

  Good lord, he was untying his sweatpants! She went suddenly light-headed, and her heart constricted painfully.

  After loosening the ties, he held them in his fists, his thunderous expression chilling her to her core. “You’ll have to let go of the table to lift your skirt,” he growled.

  She was stunned by his surliness. “Don’t—don’t you want to?”

  “I’m ‘doing you,’ not making love to you, remember?”

  That scornful reminder crushed her. Suddenly she felt cheap and dirty. He was standing there, ready to drop his pants, but his only touch had been to get rid of her shoe. She stared at him. Dark tendrils of hair fell across his wrinkled brow, and his lips were drawn down in umbrage. Her hands tingled with an urge to touch his thick, velvety hair, to languidly caress it hour upon hour. And she ached to feel the passionate heat of his mouth against hers, drawing her away from the earth toward heaven.

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be! This was so heartless. Her lips began to tremble, and she pulled them between her teeth to try to hide her torment. A slanderous tear slid from the corner of her eye and trailed into the curls at her temple. It was too late. There was no hiding her misery now. She might as well say what she felt. “I—I was wrong about your bedroom being too cold,” she cried weakly. “It’s perfect for you.”

  She didn’t think his eyes could get any harder, but they did. Like slivers of polished jet. His raw blasphemy made her flinch. Knotting the ties of his pants, he stalked to her side. Peeling her fingers from around the tabletop, he pulled her up to sit. “Take your morals and go back to Iowa, Miss Stone,” he ground out.

  He stared at her, looking as though he wanted to berate her further. But he didn’t. Scraping a hand testily through his hair, he gritted another curse, then stalked out of the kitchen.