Dylan's lips curved into one of those sexy, crooked smiles. "When you put it that way, it does sound like a bad move."
"Um-hum. Besides, Central Park West isn't really my thing. This place is. It's ideal."
A satisfied nod. "Yeah, I think it suits you. Classy, impressive in an understated way, and naturally beautiful— no enhancements required."
"Thank you." This time her thanks were genuine, although she was somewhat surprised by the compliment. This was more like the Dylan she'd had dinner with last night—charming, putting her at ease. It was a far cry from the mercurial guy she'd crossed paths with today.
The one-eighty was baffling. His moods today had ranged from harsh when they'd left Carson at lunchtime, to distant when they'd converged in ICU late in the day, to crisply businesslike when they'd met with Stan. So why now was he being so warm and accommodating, even flattering? On top of that, she sensed different undercurrents than before—ones that rattled her, where the others hadn't.
She had a pretty good idea why. What she didn't know was where those undercurrents were leading.
Damn, it would be so much easier if she could read this man's mind.
"So it's a go?" he asked.
Sabrina blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The apartment?" he reminded her. "Is it the one you want to live in?"
"Oh. Yes. Consider it signed, sealed, and delivered."
"Almost. We've still got to move you in. I was just waiting for your nod of approval before I contacted the Plaza Athenée, and arranged to have your things packed up and sent over. I'll make that call now. It'll be taken care of within the hour. You can sleep here tonight." He whipped out his cell phone.
"Wait a minute." Sabrina reacted on gut instinct, feeling more than a twinge of irritation. She wasn't used to having her life controlled. And she didn't plan on becoming used to it, either. "I'll take care of the arrangements. I'll settle my account in person, when I meet my mother for dinner. I'll also pack my own things."
Dylan's gaze was steady, although one brow rose— whether in annoyance or amusement, Sabrina wasn't sure. "Whatever you say."
Tension crackled in the air and, abruptly, Sabrina reached the end of her rope. This whatever-it-was had gone on long enough.
Abandoning diplomacy, she folded her arms across her breasts and stared Dylan down. "Look, I'm too tired to play games. Don't try the take-charge approach to show me who's boss. It's not necessary, and it won't work. I don't intimidate easily. Further, if you've got something on your mind where I'm concerned, just spit it out. If it's resentment, I understand. Three days ago I didn't even know Carson Brooks, except as a name in Business Week. You've been an integral part of his life for almost twenty years. My coming on as president of Ruisseau must really piss you off."
This time Dylan reacted, anger flashing in his eyes as he went from lounging in the doorway to jerking upright, his posture rigid. "Is that what you think? That I'm threatened by your place in the company, or in Carson's life for that matter? Quite the opposite, Sabrina. I see how much Carson's investing in you—and I don't mean financially or even professionally. I've spent the past few days praying I could convince you to get tissue-typed, praying you'd be a donor match, praying that, if you were, you wouldn't balk and decide not to go through with the kidney transplant. Now I've got to pray that you won't desert Carson on another level. That you won't decide Ruisseau's not for you, or cave under pressure from your family, or just not give enough of a damn, and go back to head up CCTL full time. That's what's on my mind where you're concerned."
Sabrina blinked at the fervor in Dylan's voice. His sincerity wasn't even a question. That he doubted hers— well, wasn't that natural? Given how reluctant she'd been to accompany him to New York, how reserved she'd been about making commitments, how ambivalent she'd been about accepting everything Carson offered—could she blame Dylan? He didn't know her, not really. He had no idea how seriously she took those commitments she did make. And Carson was his family—his only family. He wanted to protect him, and he felt helpless to do that under the circumstances. Wouldn't she feel the same way if the tables were turned?
"I'm sorry," she heard herself say. Raking a weary hand through her hair, she walked over to the bedroom doorway, facing Dylan head-on. "I've been so caught up in my own emotional meltdown, I became insensitive to yours. I'll try to make up for that now by being as honest as I can. Yes, I'm in shock. My life's been turned upside down. Yes, I'm worried about the fallout where my family's concerned. And, yes, I'm committed to the continued success of CCTL. That having been said, I won't change my mind. Not about anything. If I'm the best kidney match, I'm going through with that surgery. If I can do the job the way Carson wants it done, I'm stepping up to the plate as president of Ruisseau. And, most of all, I'm getting to know my father. He wants that. And so do I. Does that put your mind at ease?"
A muscle worked in Dylan's jaw. "Very much so. Thanks." He took a step closer, until she could smell the musky scent of his cologne—some Ruisseau brand, no doubt, one that suited Dylan perfectly—mixed with the lingering scent of his soap. "Oh, and for the record," he added, tipping up her chin so their gazes locked. "I wasn't pulling a power trip when I said I'd take care of the hotel. I was trying to take something off your plate. It's getting pretty crowded these days."
"You're right. It is." Sabrina was having trouble breathing. She and Dylan were standing entirely too close, and the mood between them was far too intense. She was stunned by how off-balance it made her feel.
Or maybe not so stunned. There was something about Dylan Newport she found incredibly exciting—a hard-edged sexiness she'd never been attracted to before, but now was. Between that, and the fact that he was so damned challenging, so mentally stimulating... okay, so the moment of truth had arrived. Time to put a name to those undercurrents. And time to put some serious distance between her and Dylan if she wanted to consider her options before she acted on them.
Averting her gaze, Sabrina took a step backward, then made a move to go around Dylan and leave the intimacy of the bedroom ASAP. "I was relieved to see that Carson was stronger this evening," she declared, her voice bright as she strove to make casual conversation. "He was so wiped out this afternoon that I—"
Dylan's arm snaked out, caught her around the waist, and brought her up against him. "You asked what was on my mind where you're concerned," he said huskily. "There's one thing I didn't mention. This."
There was no time to react, no time to protest—not that Sabrina wanted to. Dylan's mouth took hers in a kiss so consuming she felt it down to the tips of her toes. Like everything else about him, Dylan's kiss was hot and proficient, his lips slanting over hers, moving with hungry precision as he deepened the caress. His tongue plunged inside, rubbing against hers with a sensual thoroughness that awakened every nerve ending in her body.
Sabrina heard herself moan, responding to him on sheer instinct. One minute she was standing there, drowning in sensation, and the next minute she was kissing him back, her motions just as fervent as his, her fingers clutching the lapels of his suit jacket, gripping tightly and holding on for dear life.
The wildness between them swelled, exploded, and Dylan lifted her up and into him, swerving around and pinning her to the wall with his body. Through the confines of their clothes, his erection pulsed against her, made her insides clench in response.
"So good," he muttered, cupping her breast. "So damned good." His thumb found her nipple, rubbing back and forth until it hardened and throbbed through the sheer material of her silk blouse and bra. "God, this is an even bigger mistake than I thought." He kissed her again, his mouth eating at hers as his fingers began unbuttoning her blouse.
Somewhere in the insanity of the next few moments, Sabrina pulled her mouth away long enough to drag air into her lungs. "Dylan..." she managed, feeling the air against her skin. Her blouse was open. She wanted it to be open.
What in God's name was happening?
"What?" he ask
ed thickly, his breath hot against her mouth.
"We can't...."
"I know." His lips shifted to her neck, her throat, tasting her skin as they burned a path down to her collarbone, then back up to her mouth. "I know—but I don't care." He was kissing her again, one hand tangling in her hair, the other tugging her blouse out of her slacks, pushing the sides apart to give him access to her skin. His fingers shook as they found the front clasp of her bra, working to release it so he could touch her.
He was backing her toward the bed when she jerked her mouth away. "We have to stop."
"Do we?" He paused, raising his head as her legs came up against the mattress.
"Yes. We do." Her palms flattened against his chest, creating a barrier that was as much for her as it was for him. "I'm supposed to meet my mother at nine. It's probably close to that now."
Dylan swallowed, hard. His breath was coming fast, and his eyes burned with tiny flames that made Sabrina's whole body run hot and cold. "Is that the only reason we're stopping—your dinner appointment?"
She stared at him, too torn to think clearly, much less to answer. "I don't know. Is it?"
A muscle worked furiously in his jaw, and he said nothing for a long moment. Then, he released her, turned away. "Shit," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "I knew this would happen if I touched you. But I couldn't keep my hands off you. That's not about to change. So what the hell do I do?"
Sabrina had sunk down on the edge of the bed, her entire body trembling. She was hardly the one to ask advice on this subject. She'd never experienced such blind passion in her entire life. She was reeling from it. And she had no clue how to go from here.
She busied herself by rebuttoning her blouse.
"Sabrina."
She raised her head, met Dylan's gaze.
"You're Carson's daughter. Things are already way too complicated. If we get involved..."
"I know," she said quietly.
"Yeah, well, I'm glad you do." He rubbed the back of his neck, and Sabrina could see that he, too, was reeling from what had just happened—or almost happened. "I need a drink," he said flatly. "Do you want one? Or would you prefer to wait and have one with your mother?"
"In this case? Both." She gave him a shaky smile. "I'll need one later. And I sure as hell need one now."
Dylan glanced at his watch. "It's eight forty-five."
She nodded. He was letting her know that she had just enough time to get herself together and get over to the hotel. Whether or not she decided to ignore that and share a drink with him, was her call.
She reached for the telephone on the night table. Lifting the receiver, she punched in her mother's cell phone number.
"Hello?" Gloria's voice sounded preoccupied. "Mother? Are you all right?"
"Yes, dear, I'm fine. I'm just in the middle of a meeting."
Sabrina's brows drew together. Had her mother run into a client? "With whom?"
"I had time to kill before you got here. So I set up an appointment."
"Oh." Sabrina felt a wave of relief. "In that case, would you mind if we pushed dinner back a half hour or so? I'm running late."
A slight hesitation. "Not at all. Finish up what you're doing. If I'm through first, I'll get us a table."
"Perfect. Thanks. I'll see you in a little while." Sabrina hung up, then inhaled sharply. Okay, good. She'd bought herself some time.
"Merlot, right?" Dylan was still standing there, watching her.
She nodded. "I'd better fortify myself, and fast." She stood, glancing down at her disheveled state. "I'd also better make myself look presentable. I'll use the adjoining bathroom over there, and meet you downstairs." A rueful look. "The living room is safer ground than the bedroom. Under the circumstances, I think it's better if we have our wine there."
"You're right about that." Dylan looked grim. "Then again, I'm not sure any ground is going to be safe. Not as long as we're together in the same room."
When Sabrina came downstairs five minutes later, Dylan was standing at the living room bar, polishing off a glass of merlot. He glanced up when she walked in, gesturing at the other filled goblet on the counter before reaching for the bottle and refilling his own. "There you go"
"Thanks," Sabrina said. She picked up her glass, frowning as she saw how unsteady her fingers still were. Her hand was trembling enough to make the merlot swish around a bit, and she tried to remedy that—and to calm her nerves—by taking a good hard swallow.
Dylan wasn't even pretending. He downed his second glass of wine as if it were water, then turned toward her, still looking as grim as he had upstairs. Not just grim, but upset and worried, maybe even guilty.
Those were the last things Sabrina wanted.
"We're going to have to deal with this—and soon," he informed her. "Although I have no idea how. But tonight's not the night to get into it. You've still got another chapter of family drama to get through, and a pile of paperwork to read before you go to sleep. Not only that, but tomorrow you're starting an enormous new project—and a whole lot more, as we both know. So let's shelve this for a day or two."
Sabrina inclined her head, studying him intently. "I agree. But in the meantime, I want to clear up a few things, just so we're on the same page. I'm fine. Really fine. I realize that last night I told you I had limited experience with men. So my guess is you're afraid I'll read too much into things, or that I'm fragile and I'll fall apart. I won't and I'm not. So stop looking so freaked out."
Dylan shot her a look, then refilled his glass yet again. "I'm glad to hear you're fine. I'm not."
"Why?" she asked, her lips twitching a bit. "Are you inexperienced, too?"
"Very funny." Dylan took a gulp of merlot. "The problem is, I'm too damned experienced. I grew up on the streets. That means discovering sex when the only part of you that understands it is the part of you that's having it. It means getting what you want, when you want, and as often as you want; knowing just where to go to make that happen."
"Sounds great," Sabrina noted, swirling the wine around in her goblet. "You're lucky you didn't end up with a disease."
"You're right. I am. Then again, I wasn't stupid. Or careless. Not after the way I was conceived. I used condoms. No exceptions. That was one of my three cardinal rules."
"What were the other two?"
"Number two was no virgins."
"Really?" Sabrina's brows rose, and her voice dripped with sarcasm. "How gallant of you."
"Not so gallant. I didn't want the responsibility, or the hassle. Too much potential baggage. Not my thing."
"I see. And rule number three?"
"No emotional attachments. I needed to know I was always in control. Caring strips you of that control." Dylan finished his third glass of merlot, stared into the empty goblet. "Funny thing about cardinal rules. They die hard. Even when you get older and more mature, even when you've left behind the reckless kid you once were, those cardinal rules go with you. They become part of the person you grow into."
"Well, thanks for the lesson. It was fascinating." Sabrina set down her glass. "Now, I'd better be getting over to the hotel. Keep the limo. I'll catch a cab."
"I don't need it. My apartment's three blocks away. I'll walk."
"Stagger, you mean," Sabrina amended pointedly.
"You just guzzled three glasses of wine."
"I've got a high tolerance. I'm not drunk, at least not nearly as drunk as I need to be. So, the limo's yours."
A shrug. "Suit yourself." She headed for the stairs.
"Sabrina—wait."
The imperative tone of his voice stopped her in her tracks, and she turned slowly to face him.
"I lost control a few minutes ago," he stated flatly. "I wanted you so much I was blind with it, oblivious to everything except getting you in that bed. I would have chucked aside all the rules. I would have blocked out all the complications. I would have done anything to get inside you. That's never happened to me before. Not in thirty-five years. It
blows my mind that it could happen in an instant, with a woman who's so off-limits, it's not even funny—a woman I met two days ago under the worst possible circumstances. It blows my mind more that I can't wait for it to happen again—and it will, unless you've got a hell of a lot more willpower than I do. So, like I said, I'm glad you 're fine. But I'm not."
Sabrina wished Dylan's words didn't make her feel so damned good. But they did. She knew the wine had loosened his tongue. But she also knew the explanation was genuine. The fact that he was not only as caught up in the chemistry between them as she was, but as startled by its intensity—and as unable to ignore or erase it—made the turmoil she was experiencing a whole lot more bearable.
"Aren't you going to say something?" Dylan demanded.
"Something honest, you mean?" She gave him a half-smile. "Fair enough. Here goes. Maybe I'm not that fine. I'm not sure what I am. I haven't had a coherent thought in the past half hour. When I do, I'm sure I'll be as freaked out as you are by what all this means, the complications it's going to create or worsen. But right now, all I can manage is to walk out of here, get into that limo, and try to behave like a normal, rational human being—one who didn't just lose all sense of reason and act so out of character it's incomprehensible. I've got to put what just happened between us away while I deal with my mother and then educate myself about Ruisseau."
Her smile faded, and she gave voice to a truth she knew Dylan would understand—one that was rooted in a sentiment the two of them shared. "Tomorrow morning when I walk into that office, I've got to come off like gangbusters. Nothing less. Carson's counting on me. And I refuse to disappoint him."
"You won't. If I'm sure of anything, it's that." Dylan's half-laugh was filled with irony rather than humor. "Bizarre, isn't it? I'd never have believed I'd say that, much less feel confident that it's true. But after watching you when you're with him, seeing the way you two connect, and then listening to what you told me tonight..." Pausing, Dylan cleared his throat, then finished his thought with simple, fervent directness. "I said you were lucky to have Carson as a father. I'm beginning to think he's equally lucky to have you as a daughter."
Kane, Andrea Page 18
