by Alison Kent
She smiled at his observation. “I suppose I am. I have a hard time walking out of any bookstore—but this one especially—without buying one book at least. Buying two or three makes me so much happier.”
He moved his hands from his pockets and crossed them over his chest, his shoulder still propped against the shelf. “And four or five?”
“Absolutely ecstatic.”
She laughed and ran a hand along the colorful spines on the closest shelf, feeling as giddy as a schoolgirl bewitched by an adolescent crush. “My budget, on the other hand, complains mightily. As do the shelves built into the wall beside my fireplace. They’ve taken to groaning every time I walk in the door with another green-and-cream bag.”
“You’ll have to start shopping with one of those reusable canvas things.” Aiden took a step into the aisle, coming closer and heightening her anticipation. “Lull them into a false sense of security, then spring the surprise.”
She adored him. Absolutely adored him for playing along. How many men had she known who would’ve done the same—and looked so damn good while doing so?
He still wore jeans and his plain black boots, but tonight his shirt was a simple blue oxford. He looked more urban cowboy than horse rancher. Like one more corporate type dressed down for the weekend.
She wished that’s all that he was.
Wished that he lived in an uptown high-rise, worked in a converted warehouse like so many young entrepreneurs. That he partied in downtown’s jazz and Latin clubs and knew nothing about horses but what he learned every February during the city’s wildly popular livestock show and rodeo.
But he wasn’t. He was who he was. She needed to get over her fantasies and decide how she wanted to deal with that reality. Though, she mused, seeing his naked backside exposed between a pair of leather chaps was one cowboy fantasy she might want to hold on to.
“Hmm. A canvas tote might work. Except those tote bags tend to be rather bottomless, and that defeats the entire purpose. No,” she said, refusing to indulge her book-buying addiction, as well as all unproductive trains of thought. “Discipline is the name of the game.” She held up two fingers. “Two books. No more.”
“You want help picking out titles?” he asked, having moved fully into the aisle, where he now stood so close that she caught the scent of clean, fresh air on his clothes.
She pulled in the deepest breath she could manage and cast him a sideways glance. “This is the romance section.”
He shrugged, his lips twisting to stave off a grin. “I think I can handle it.”
“Well. I’m not sure I know what to say. But—” she pulled a new Barbara Delinsky paperback from the shelf “—if you’re game to delve into the secrets that make women tick, let’s see what we’ve got here.”
She handed him the book. He glanced at the back cover copy, taking his time absorbing the words. The interval gave her a chance to study him more closely, to notice again how thick were the lashes fringing his eyes, which were that blue of big sky country.
What would it be like to look into those eyes when waking every morning? Or when dozing off by candlelight late into the night? To run her fingers through his hair, so thick and so beautifully layered in a sharp GQ cut? To feel those lips open beneath hers as they kissed?
She gripped her paper cup until foam bubbled through the hole in the lid, when what she needed to get a grip on were the runaway hormones making a mess of all her good intentions to enjoy this time in his company and do nothing more daring than pick out a good book.
Finally, he said, “Hmm. Maple syrup and the redemptive power of love. Sounds…sweet.”
“Give me that.” She grabbed the book and used it to smack him on the arm. Silly man. “It is sweet. And it’s touching.”
She thought of how many romances she’d read and how much more than entertainment they’d offered. “That’s the reason I love sharing these books with a lot of the girls I counsel. They don’t see much sweetness in their lives and don’t always make the best relationship choices because their experience is too limited.”
He hovered at her back while she flipped through the book’s pages. “I never would’ve thought about applying popular fiction to psychology.”
“You’d be surprised how many authors really get it right, at least as far as relationships go.” Renata was surprised herself—that she hadn’t melted from the heat coiling down her spine. She wanted more than anything to back up into his body.
He moved to stand in front of her, leaned back on the divider between two sections of shelf. “I’d be more surprised if it was only your students who enjoyed reading love stories. It would make a lot of sense for you to share what worked for you.”
“Professionally?”
“That. And personally.”
She shrugged because his comment was taking their conversation where she didn’t want to go. Where she couldn’t go and still keep this a nice friendly coffee date. “What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart. Not to mention a sucker for happy endings.”
And that wouldn’t happen between the two of them, no matter how exciting the idea of exploring that very possibility was. Not when he lived where he did, she lived where she did, and she’d seen the toll taken on her own family with her parents’ constant travel. She started to return the book to the shelf, thinking that if he planned to help her pick titles, she might do better in the horror section, after all.
Scaring herself back into a state of common sense certainly couldn’t hurt.
But since he’d opened the door, and she was having such a hard time convincing herself to close it, she invited him into her life.
“And, yes,” she continued, tucking the book into the crook of her arm instead and walking down the row, scanning titles as she went, picking out an older Deborah Smith. “I think there’s a lot to be said for hopes and dreams.”
Aiden, obviously, was not needing the distance she suddenly found herself wanting because he followed her. Oh, but she was confused. Wanting him. Wanting to walk away. Knowing the latter was what she had to do, no matter how warm he felt there as he moved to her side, how comfortable she felt in his shadow.
“What are yours?” he asked.
“Hopes and dreams? Oh, the same as those of most women.” She blithely tossed off the comment, trying to find the balance she’d lost the minute she’d turned around to see him standing behind her. “Spa vacations, cucumber facials, an unending supply of calorie-free chocolate. Oh, and did I mention the Starbucks?”
She stopped browsing because Aiden had moved to block her forward motion and stood head and shoulders above her. She was caught between the choice to look up at him or to back across the aisle and away.
Choosing to stand her ground, she lifted her gaze and looked into his eyes, unbelievably stirred by his harshly striking beauty, by the expression he wore that was so very hard to define or to turn away from.
And so she didn’t turn. She stood there and took it all in. The tenderness and the heat. The desire that was barely banked. The fire of a wild mustang restrained by his Thoroughbred breeding.
“What about you?” she asked, when he made no move to back off or to come closer. When he remained still, as if caught between a push and a pull that even he couldn’t define. When he didn’t say a word in response, and only watched her as she continued to watch him.
It was at that moment that she realized she’d bitten off a big chunk of trouble by agreeing to see him tonight after this afternoon’s encounter. Because when he finally responded, he did so not with words but by raising his hand and tucking an unruly lock of hair behind her ear.
He lingered there, his touch tender, his intent innocent. Or so she wanted desperately to believe. Yet innocence had never before come with such a burst of raw emotion. Emotion threatening to undo all her good intentions to stay sober, when the look in his eyes was so intoxicating.
For this one moment in her life, unlike any other ever before, she wished she was not the nurturing
sort. She longed to reach out and take him into her body rather than into her heart, and he’d done nothing but tame her flyaway hair.
“Dreams I have would be more about gentling horses,” he said, stroking fingers through the thick chestnut waves of her shoulder-length strands. “Getting them to trust me, to know me. My touch and my scent. The sound of my voice. To equate all of that with their needs being met.”
Renata had no idea how to respond. What was she supposed to say when he held her spellbound? She clutched both books and her latte to her breast. “What happens when you’re not there any longer? When they’re sold to a new owner? Sure, the words and the commands might be the same—” she turned her head until her cheek barely brushed the inside of his wrist “—but it won’t be your voice they hear when they prick up their ears. Or your scent they catch when they lift their noses to search the air.”
“No,” Aiden said, moving into her personal space so that he touched her hands where she held tight to the books and the stiff paper cup. His fingers slid from her ear to thread into the full mane of her hair. “But they’ll be more prepared to have their needs met by someone who shares my philosophy.”
“And if they wind up with someone who doesn’t?” she asked, thinking that if she didn’t make her way toward the checkout now it might be years before she did.
“I suppose it could happen.” He gave a small shrug, as if the possibility that he’d make such a mistake didn’t truly exist. “But I screen my buyers carefully to lessen the chance that it will.”
“Then I guess your horses are lucky to have you for as long as they can.”
“I suppose, though I doubt they derive half the amount of pleasure I get from simply taking care of them.”
Renata laughed, though the sound had nothing to do with amusement and everything to do with fear. “Oh, I have a feeling the pleasure is mutual.”
Aiden lowered his head. His mouth stopped mere inches from hers as he said, “I’d like to think so.”
And then he kissed her. Right there in the middle of Barnes & Noble, in the center of the romance novel aisle, Aiden Zuniga kissed Renata Faulkner, and she thought she was going to die.
It was the most tender, sweetest kiss she’d ever shared. His lips played lightly over hers, slanting perfectly so that when she parted hers she tasted the tip of his tongue. She felt the urge to press against him, shoulders to knees, breast to belly, but didn’t want to spoil the moment’s magic.
Not when she couldn’t remember having ever felt anything like this kiss. She would’ve remembered something so sublime if she’d known it before, if she’d ever experienced anything so exquisite. Her lips tingled and she shivered from the sudden rush of sensation.
And then he was gone, lifting his head and taking away the taste of fresh air, the scent of freedom, the feel of strength restrained and boundaries respected. She followed him upward until she realized she’d raised up on her toes. Then she lowered her heels to the ground.
“Well,” she began, on the one hand embarrassed, on the other hand not. “I’m not sure I know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” Aiden took both books from her hands, gestured for her to continue browsing. “All you have to do is shop.”
“Shop?” After that kiss, he wanted her to shop?
He nodded. “Unless you’ve settled on these two books.”
“I’m fine with those,” she replied, because she couldn’t imagine browsing further with his body behind her and his taste on her lips. “Did you want to get coffee?”
He shook his head. “What time does this place close?”
She frowned. “Eleven, I think.”
He glanced at his watch, then took hold of her elbow and guided her to an open area, where he pulled two plush armchairs into a private corner.
When he gestured, Renata sat, tucking her legs beneath her long skirt and leaning toward him. And when he smiled, she felt her heart burst.
“We have three hours. I want to know everything about you by the time we leave.” Legs stretched out, he laced his fingers together and propped them on his belly, so flat behind his silver belt buckle.
“I’m twenty-seven years old. That would mean cramming nine years into each hour.” She set her books on the table between them, cradled her coffee cup in her hands. “That won’t give me time to hear anything about you.”
“You can bend Chloe’s ear for whatever you want to know. And when I’m back in town next weekend, I’ll straighten out all the lies she tells you about me.” He pressed his lips together, then smacked them once. “But I could use a sip of your coffee first, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” she said, offering him the cup, tickled that her taste had lingered on his mouth.
Aiden pushed forward in his seat and leaned toward her, taking her coffee and setting it on the table next to her books. Bracing both hands on the arms of her chair, he bent to kiss her again. Pulse fluttering, she looked up and watched his mouth descend.
But this time her hands were free and she couldn’t keep herself from placing her palms on his chest. His heart thudded there where she touched him, and then all she knew was his mouth. This time he wasn’t the least bit gentle or restrained, but was hungry and wanting her to know it.
He devoured her lips, slanting his hard enough over hers that she felt the abrasion of his late-evening beard. She flexed her fingers into the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer still. And then she slipped her tongue under his and followed it into his mouth.
He groaned and ground harder, kissing her as if she offered him sustenance. His chest beneath her palms was firm and solid, and she wished they were anywhere but here so she could feel his skin sliding against her own.
Another groan and he pulled away, staring down at her as his breathing settled, as the fire in his eyes abated. She returned her hands to her lap, bunching them into the fabric of her skirt and waiting for the roar in her ears to subside.
Except it didn’t. Because it wasn’t in her ears. It was applause from the small audience who’d witnessed the show. Heat flushed her face as she stared into Aiden’s. But he only sat back in his chair, cocked one ankle over the opposite knee and grinned like a cat with a mouthful of canary.
Finally, Renata gave a small nodding bow to their spectators, who were drifting away. And then she returned her attention to Aiden. “Are you sure you don’t want a cup of your own? A full shot of caffeine might keep you awake.”
“I’d love it. But I’ll wait.”
“For?” she asked, knowing they weren’t talking about coffee now any more than they’d been talking about horses earlier, and loving every minute of the conversation, anyway.
“For the right time.”
“And when will that be?”
“When a sip is no longer enough.” He laced his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Now. Years one through nine. Tell me everything.”
8
MONDAY MORNING FOUND Melanie back in her office at her desk and unable to walk any better than the day before. She couldn’t imagine how much trouble swimming would’ve been on Saturday if she’d ever made it into the pool.
But she hadn’t even made it into her suit. She’d only made it out of one leg of her shorts and panties and onto Jacob’s lap. At least that’s as far as she’d managed to strip there in Chloe and Eric’s second floor bedroom.
Later, in her own bedroom, she’d let Jacob strip her down to her skin, but only after she’d undressed him first. Except none of the bedroom action had happened until after the pole dance incident and the dinner out at the restaurant.
She didn’t remember having ever screwed away an entire Saturday, from midafternoon to midnight.
Stopping for dinner that evening hadn’t been a date as much as a matter of survival. She’d been starving. If she’d simply ordered in Chinese or whipped up something in the kitchen, she doubted she would’ve ever gotten Jacob back into his clothes. Or wanted to get back into hers.
The man had absolutely no self-consciousness about parading around in the nude. As much as she enjoyed the show, co-ed naked cooking offered as many drawbacks as advantages. The idea of burned body parts had been unappealing enough to force her to dress and encourage him to follow suit.
And the breather had done them both good. They’d actually talked, even though most of what they’d talked about was the sex. It was almost as if that was all they had in common, though she knew they had to have more.
Besides, listening to Jacob’s explanation about finding her sexy had made her feel marginally better. Or would have, if not for the confusion that followed.
She prided herself on remaining calm, competent and professional in every situation. That’s who she was, and that’s the Melanie she wanted men to like and admire.
The fact that apparently Jacob was more attracted to an aberration than to her true personality…well, it just plain sucked. Especially since her bedroom behavior had only solidified his first impression.
What would he do when he learned his fantasy stripper was all smoke, shadows and mirrors?
Run like hell, of course. They all did, eventually.
Relaxing her grip on the last unbroken pencil in her office, Melanie shook off the disturbing thought of Jacob and, as distasteful as work seemed today—and as angry as that distaste made her—glanced at the open page of the gift catalog she’d abandoned last week.
She had managed to include six more items in her list of possibilities, but doubted she’d end up adding a single one to her product line once she went back through and classified them by price and fun factor.
The fact that she had no head for business today wasn’t increasing her chance of success. Or doing much to boost her confidence that she’d be able to carry on an affair with Jacob and remain productive at work.
And wasn’t that the whole reason she’d known better than to get involved? What in the world had she been thinking, agreeing to his indecent proposal?
