Getting Over Harry (Harlequin Romance)

by Renee Roszel

  She lurched to shore and began hurriedly throwing on her T-shirt and shorts. “You yourself admitted you think of women as toys. Well, let me tell you, Mr. Gallant, you’re missing out on the important things in life with your male chauvinist thinking. Did you know that men who live the longest are married? And men who live the fewest years are bachelors?”

  She stuffed her bra into the end of a tennis shoe along with her socks, deciding she didn’t need to put everything on. The quicker she got away from him, the better. In the darkness, he’d never notice she wasn’t wearing her bra, anyway. Hiking up the slope, she added loudly, “I’m sure you think it’s better to live a short, wild life than a long contented one, so there’s no use arguing with you about it. To be frank, I could care less if you ever get married, because as far as I’m concerned you’re the last person on earth I’d want to marry!” When she reached the top of the rise, she could see him. He was lounging on the beach, leaning against a crooked palm tree. His legs were outstretched before him, crossed at the ankles, and he was staring out to sea. When she stopped speaking, he looked her way, unsmiling.

  “Is that all you hate about me?” he queried thinly.

  She lifted her chin in defiance. Had she pricked his ego? Good! If anybody in the world needed his ego pricked, Lyon Gallant did. “That’s enough reasons for now,” she said, reluctantly continuing in his direction. “You can go get naked if you want. I’ll find my own way back.”

  He stood. “I’ve lost my desire to swim.” When he spoke, she had just reached him. Intent on sweeping disdainfully by, she was stunned to find herself dragged into his arms. His lips came down hard on hers, taking away her breath and sapping her of any fight she might have put up if she’d had an inkling this was about to happen. She heard her tennis shoes thud to the sand, but her mind was far from concerned about such trivial details.

  He crushed her to him, shattering her with the thrilling hunger of his kiss. Her stomach swirled wildly, and her arms lifted to encircle his broad torso, though she berated them for their treachery. His softly furred chest was like heaven against her breasts, and when she heard his low moan, she sensed he was aware that only a scrap of damp fabric separated them from blissful, intimate contact.

  The raw passion in Lyon’s touch was dazzling as his hands massaged, stroked, titillated. Quickly, she became aware that she wasn’t the only one affected. They were too closely bound together for her to miss the increased thud of his heart or the pulsing heat of his arousal.

  She knew he was angry, yet his lips were velvet and warm against hers. His hands scorched sensual trails of possession down her back, breathtaking punishment for her great, horrible lie about his kisses being flawed. He meant to prove her a liar, and she was powerless to defend herself against his ploy. She could only sag into his welcome hardness, clutching, kissing him back with all her womanly strength and helpless love.

  He released her suddenly, backing away. She swayed but managed not to sink to her knees. Feeling chilled and alone, she tried to catch her breath. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a thought. Her mind was a blur, her empty arms aching with longing.

  “You have a strange way of showing hatred, sweetheart,” he muttered huskily, his features grim. She’d expected to see triumph in his expression, but she saw only anger there.

  It seemed as though he was about to say something else, but he bit it off. Instead, he jerked a hand through his hair, gritting out a curse. “I think I need that swim, after all.”

  He was gone before she could move.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IT HAD been raining off and on all day, the atmosphere as dismal as Emily’s soul. Gloom squeezed at her heart, causing intolerable pain. She didn’t know if Lyon was on the island or not, and wished she didn’t care. A sense of fury and loss bore down on her and she moaned in anguish. Oh, how could I have allowed myself to fall so hopelessly in love with a man who doesn’t believe such a soft emotion exists?

  Her sad query was swallowed by the bark of thunder. Windows rattled, proof that a storm was building. Meg’s cheerful personality would have been a welcome diversion, but she and Ivy were once again immersed in a hot game of chess.

  Emily didn’t have the heart to intrude on their last evening together, so she worked at keeping her mind off Lyon by trying to read, then attempting to sleep. Neither worked. She paced, watched the rain and avoided looking at herself in the mirror, hating the heartbreak in her eyes.

  Desperate and miserable, she found herself opening the drawer that held the Gallant’s underwear Meg had insisted on purchasing for her several weeks ago. Wondering what malicious creature had taken over her brain, she stared at the lacy bra and panties as she carried them across her room and laid them out on her bed.

  Considering Meg’s unblushing taste, her purchase for Emily had been wildly conservative. Though the bra was skimpy, it was fashioned of eyelet lace, lending it a charming, country-girl feel, rather than making it seem like something a stripper might wear. The panties were a bikini cut, also of pink eyelet. Somehow, the scanty garment seemed more sweet than lewd, yet sexy in a chaste way. She had to give Meg credit. If Emily were ever to wear anything from a Gallant’s catalogue, it well might be this.

  But she wouldn’t, she insisted, lifting the bra to look at it closely. She had promised herself she wouldn’t try to compete in his arena. She wouldn’t wear the type of clothes his women wore. She didn’t want to be just another in a long line of Lyon Gallant’s conquests.

  Yet even as she swore to herself that she would never try on the bra and panties, she was slipping out of her own underwear. A moment later she found herself staring in the mirror at someone who looked very much like Emily Stone—but this unknown woman was clad in scraps of pink eyelet.

  The racy bra was a plunging style with a cleavage-enhancing shape. She stared openmouthed. “My goodness,” she breathed in astonishment, not recognizing her boosted figure. The panty legs were cut high on her hips while the waistband didn’t even pretend to reach her waist, hugging her anatomy well below the navel. And the back of the panties—well, it was all but nonexistent. She bit her lower lip. What had possessed her to put these on? Just how weak was she, giving in to her urge to see herself the way Lyon judged all women?

  More thunder boomed, and a windswept branch thudded against the panes of her patio door, though Emily hardly noticed. In an odd trance, she made a slow turn, stifling a gasp when she saw her bare bottom come into view. Closing her eyes, she vowed this lapse would be her guilty secret, and hers alone. Even Meg would never know she’d succumbed to such an indiscreet impulse.

  An explosion shattered the window. Emily threw up her arms to protect her face, cowering away from the unknown cataclysm. What was it? Hurricane-force winds ripping away the wall? A crashing helicopter? She felt the cold bite of rain soak her bare skin and hair, the harsh gale knocking her backward. Stumbling, her survival instincts took over. She lunged out of her room, slamming into another obstruction, and cried out in panic. The whole place was collapsing!

  “Good God, Emily!” came a rough voice. At the same instant her flight was halted as strong, steadying arms held her close. “Are you hurt?”

  Her mind had been working so fast in an effort to come through whatever holocaust had befallen the mansion, it only took a split second to realize she’d hurtled herself into Lyon’s massive form. Relieved, she sagged against him, her arms going around his chest in a stranglehold. “Oh, Lyon,” she cried. “What—what happened?”

  “I don’t know. It looks like a tree fell.” He paused, and she could tell he was examining the damage from his vantage point outside her room. “I was coming to tell you to move to a lower level during the high winds.”

  She swallowed, lifting her face to look into his. “Oh.” Her heart hammered as she saw the worry on his handsome features, and she feared the blind dread that had choked her only seconds before had turned into bleak, helpless adoration. She had to get control of her emotions, distanc
e herself from him. Snaking her arms from about his torso, she placed trembling hands against his chest. “I’m...” Her voice sounded like sandpaper on rough wood, and she cleared her throat. “I’m fine. Just wet.” With great effort, she managed a brave smile.

  His expression didn’t ease, and blissful eons passed as he held her close. His gaze moved over her face, his eyes narrowed, contemplative.

  “Lyon?” she repeated. “Please...”

  The entreaty in her voice seemed to shake him from his lassitude, and he released her. As his glance raked her nearly nude form, one elegant brow winged upward. “Well,” he murmured. “I approve.”

  His comment reminded Emily of how she was dressed—or undressed. “Oh, my heavens.” Disgraced, she covered herself as well as she could, positive this would go into her diary as her worst living moment!

  With a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, Lyon began to unbutton his dress shirt. Though every fiber of her being was shouting at her to run, she could only tremble, watching him disrobe with an economy of motion that was lithe and thrillingly male. Her admiring gaze traveled along the play of muscle across his chest as he shrugged out of his shirtsleeves. She was insane, lost in her love for him. What was he going to do? Did it matter anymore? Could she stop him even if she wanted to?

  The warmth of expensive cotton came around her like his very arms, like love itself. If only it had been his love, rather than his cast-off shirt. The fabric clung to her, sopping up the dampness of the storm, taking away the chill.

  Lyon’s hand engulfed hers, and he led her away from the windy doorway to the staircase.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Out of the wind.” He headed down the steps with her in tow.

  She tugged on his hold. “Not your apartment.” It wasn’t a question.

  He stopped and looked at her. As they were standing, with Lyon several steps below her, they were eye to eye. He studied the stubborn, frightened set of her features, his gaze burning as it roved. “Emily...” He took a step toward her. When she retreated, he halted, mouthing a curse. “You stand there all damp and flushed, reluctantly desirable, with my shirt clinging to your body where my hands should be,” he growled with soft menace. “Dammit, you should be on the cover of Gallant’s looking just that way—and you should be in my bed—tonight.”

  She stared, stunned by the raw vehemence in his voice. Every nerve in her body hummed, every muscle tensed. She wanted him but couldn’t risk reaching out, touching his bunching jaw. Yet her hand tingled with the need to feel him, hold him.

  She knew if she did, he would get his way—his conquest—and she would never wholly mend from the encounter. How dare he do this to her? He was well aware of his sensual power—this womanizing scoundrel bent on victory—and she was nothing more to him than a toy!

  She lifted a rebellious chin. “Aren’t you kind to offer me a few spare minutes of your time.” Her voice was weak but dripped with sarcasm. “However, I don’t need your love lessons. I’m fine the way I am. Someday, some man will come along who will care for me—pesky morals and all.”

  He frowned, chagrin flickering across his face. “Do you realize no woman before you has ever turned me down?” His voice was low, raw. He clutched her hand as though he couldn’t comprehend her rejection, expecting her to follow him anywhere, no matter what.

  She smiled, then giggled. It was a hysterical reaction, but she couldn’t help it. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re still irresistible. Why do you think I put on this—this damnable underwear?” she blurted, tears rushing to her eyes. “Because I wanted to—just for a minute—see if I could compete with your women!” She bit her tongue, hating herself for admitting that. Hating herself for giving him ammunition. But she knew she was stronger now. She could resist the temptation of a wild, last-minute fling. There was too much to lose if she gave in. So if Lyon tried to take her tonight, she would fight him, and it would be worse than any violation Brice had intended on the beach.

  His expression remained disbelieving and hard, and the sensual heat that crackled between them grew almost tangible. She could tell her stern assertion nettled him, and that he was fighting to control himself. As their staring battle raged, she saw something new flash in his eyes and had the oddest sense it was helplessness. He didn’t know how to handle unconditional rejection. Mr. Know It All Sex God had never had to before! Stormy seconds passed before his lips finally lifted in a grim smile. “You’ve learned one thing from our association, at least.”

  She blanched. “What do you think I’ve learned?”

  “That being ravishing and sexy has its down side. I’d suggest you take self-defense classes when you get back to Iowa. Or at least learn to keep your clothes on in public.”

  Her sharp intake of breath signaled her offense, and she yanked herself from his hold. “I liked you better when you were nothing more than a conceited handyman!” A thought hit her and she demanded, “Why are you building that cabin, anyway?”

  From the abrupt furrowing of his brow, she could tell he was taken off guard by her question. It was almost as though that thought had occurred to him, too. “It’s a hobby,” he muttered. The uncharacteristic distraction and vulnerability in his eyes were so seductive she felt an unwelcome rush of caring for him.

  He must have sensed her wavering, for before she could react, she was in his arms, his lips playing softly across hers, delighting, tempting, wearing down her resistance.

  His hands were heady fire along her skin, the damp fabric beating under his touch. His fingers lingered here, tormented there, roved downward to slip beneath his shirt to cup her bare backside. She moaned, but her arms betrayed her, clutching the welcome, naked flesh of his shoulders. More than life, more than self-respect, she relished the tensing of muscle as he drew her into his hard body.

  She was swept up into his arms, their lips and tongues dancing together with joyous abandon. Her brain caught on the fact that she was being whisked down the stairs. She had no idea how he could kiss her and move so swiftly along a precarious surface. But here she was sailing down flight after flight, being expertly kissed all the while.

  After an interminable period of quandary as to how he was managing such a feat, she faced the truth. She was the one clinging to his lips, her arms wound tightly around his neck, her fingers woven in his hair. She had a niggling suspicion and opened one eye, suddenly finding herself staring into his dark gaze.

  Pulling away, she objected, “Your eyes aren’t closed!”

  He grinned. “Somebody had to navigate, sweetheart.”

  The silver sparkle of triumph in his eyes gave her a jolt. She was within a hair’s breadth of total surrender, and he was delighted with the knowledge. And why shouldn’t he be? His seduction record was about to go unbroken. Emily shuddered with shame. After all her mental warring on the subject. After telling him outright that she didn’t intend to be another of his conquests. Here she was, in his arms, panting and whimpering with desire, on the way to his bed!

  More angry with herself than she’d ever been, she wriggled violently, shoving against his shoulders. “Let me down! I’ve learned my lesson!”

  It was no surprise that he didn’t drop her like a hot poker. She was still struggling in his arms when he asked, “What lesson?”

  “I’ll slap your face if you don’t drop me this instant!”

  “You don’t really want that.”

  His eyes were beguiling, full of such stirring beauty a less determined woman would have melted with need. Knowing she was teetering on the brink of disaster, she swung out rashly, hitting his cheek with all the anger and frustration inside her. She glared at him, her hand throbbing, daring him wordlessly not to do as she’d demanded.

  He blinked, startled that she’d actually slapped him. His lips twisted cynically. “Apparently you meant that.”

  He lowered her to her feet but didn’t step away, leaving her to flounder on passion-weakened limbs.

  Coming up a
gainst a wall, she leaned into it, glowering at him. She was all set to unleash her rage, but halted just as her lips parted, captured by his arresting presence. Even now, after she’d promised herself to despise him, now, when he was obviously angry, charisma radiated from him, intimidating and paralyzing her.

  Thank heaven he didn’t come near, or her wits would have flown away like so many frightened fireflies and she would have run into his arms. “What lesson?” he repeated darkly.

  She willed her pulse to slow, though his scent clung to her as surely as his shirt did, and her lips throbbed with the heat of his kisses. Her world reeled, and to sustain herself she willed her eyes shut to block out the stimulating vision of him. “I—I’ve learned that making love with someone who doesn’t care about you makes you feel hollow, empty,” she cried. “I don’t want to feel that way.”

  After an eternity of uneasy silence, she couldn’t help but look at him, once again thrown off-center by his virile good looks. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hooded and impenetrable. Forcing herself to speak, she admonished him, “I believe you feel empty all the time—except maybe when you’re working on your cabin.”

  For an instant he looked as though he’d been slapped again, but quickly his teeth flashed in a twisted grin. “What do I owe you for that psychoanalysis?”

  Her heart shuddered to a stop, and she couldn’t keep a mewling sound of defeat from escaping her throat. Shattered, she spun away and ran, unwilling to have him witness her desolate tears.

  The next time she saw him was in the morning. He was standing near the patio, beside a garden area filled with gardenia bushes heavy with fragrant flowers. Another photo shoot was about to begin, and a bevy of leggy models were gathered around him, all plainly enamored, all practically naked. Emily pressed forward across the lawn, forcing her gaze not to veer from the helicopter that awaited her, ready to transport her and Meg to Miami for their return flight home.