At least it isn’t gray.
She pulled her suitcase into the cedar-lined walk-in. She’d better hang her clothes up. The way Sam had jammed things into her bags, she’d have to iron everything twice.
The passionate man who’d demanded she come home with him so he could make sure she’d be safe did not fit with this monochromatic apartment. How had he ended up here?
Sam could be called a lot of things, but never boring. Never colorless. Sam was full of life, bursting with energy, and whether he thought so or not, his emotions were easily read in the depths of his eyes.
She’d been right when she’d figured he spent most of his time at the office. He couldn’t spend much time here and leave so little imprint of his dynamic personality. But what about all those mini red pillows?
The quick look she’d taken of the entertainment center housed in the living room’s wall-size bookshelves assured her he had every toy a big boy could want: stereo, DVD player, supersize flat-screen TV, and a few more she couldn’t even name. All of the highest quality, state of the art if brands were indicative. There was a built-in panel on the end table at the far end of the couch that looked like it controlled everything—like maybe he could launch the next space shuttle from here. This, at least, was a reflection of the man, the best and most of everything. That fit. But the pillows? There had to be a story.
Having hung up the hangables, she carried her lingerie to the dresser. She was tempted to toss the vibrant silks across the bed just for color accent. In the stark white bathroom, her toiletries added a bit of interest, but overall the lack of color was somehow surprising. She washed her face, brushed her unruly mop, and managed to secure it with a clip on top of her head. She still wore the long green stretch-velvet dress, and she considered changing, but it was soft and she was tired, so she left it, kicking her heels off instead.
She went back down the hall toward the living area. When she passed Sam’s bedroom door, her fingers fairly itched to reach out and open it. Gray or beige? Or red? How well did the decorator know Sam, anyway? Had she been one of those vacuous blondes stalking him at the ball? She resisted the urge to peek and continued down the hallway.
Sam’s living room was bigger than her whole apartment. The room had one full wall and a quarter of another in glass. The plush ash-colored carpet flowed to the glass as though it were a continuation of the shrouded night sky. Two enormous charcoal tweed couches anchored the room and took the hard edge off the smoked-glass coffee and end tables. The only piece that looked like it didn’t fit was the credenza where Sam had placed his keys in a small silver tray that sat on one corner. It was an old heavy oak piece with animal figures carved into it. She could make out a bear, a deer, a mountain lion, and it might be a beaver gnawing on a tree in the forest covering the sides and doors of the huge chest. It didn’t fit the tone of the rest of the furnishings, but it really fit Sam more than anything else in the whole room. Interesting.
She finished her trek across the living room and found the kitchen. She could have navigated by the smell of brewing coffee. Sam liked his coffee strong, no frills.
The white kitchen pocket door slid back partially, allowing a view of the kitchen beyond. The countertops and appliances in the blindingly white kitchen were glossy black. The floor’s black and white mini tiles formed a herringbone pattern. Very chic, but it made her dizzy if she stared at it too long. Where were those little red pillows when you needed one?
Sam stood at the gleaming black marble counter that wrapped around three kitchen walls.
“You’re just in time. Coffee’s ready,” he said. He removed the Krups carafe from the machine and poured the steamy liquid into two big black mugs. He’d taken off his tux jacket and rolled his white shirtsleeves to midforearm. Bebe watched the muscles flex when he poured and set the pot back on the coffeemaker. Strong arms. Strong hands.
When he reached for a mug and lifted it in her direction, she’d almost forgotten what they were doing there. She’d been staring at Sam like an idiot. She caught herself doing that a lot.
“Bebe?”
“What? Oh, yes thanks. Coffee. Wonderful.”
“Let’s go sit in the living room.” Sam picked up his own mug, nodding in that direction. “I like to enjoy the view when I’m here, which is seldom. I hardly feel like I live here at all, actually. I bought the stereo and TV systems, but everything else is pretty much the way the place was when I moved in.”
“They left their pillows? The little red ones?”
“Glenna brought those. She insisted I needed accents.”
“I would have thought she’d bring lime green.”
“Never. She knows I hate that color.”
“Of course she does.”
Sam led the way back to the couch, sat down in the middle, and motioned for her to join him. “You have to sit here to get the full panoramic effect,” he said, patting the cushion beside him. “I’ve researched this thoroughly. Sit right here.”
Bebe sat, perched on the edge of the cushion like a convict ready to make a run for it. Looking completely content now, Sam set his cup down on the smoked-glass coffee table, leaned back, and spread his arms out along the back of the couch as though waiting for the curtain to rise and the show to begin.
Bebe stared out the window, sipping her coffee, wondering how in the world she’d come to be sitting in the penthouse apartment of the most eligible bachelor in San Francisco—and about all the other women who’d probably sat in this same spot before her.
Certainly, hers had been the most unusual method of getting here. How many of those statuesque blondes had had to get mugged by stalkers to rate a night in Sam’s suite? She should get extra points for originality.
Sam smoothed his big hand up her back and came to rest at the nape of her neck. “What’s going on in there?” He massaged the tightness with his fingers. His voice resonated across her senses. Her eyes closed; her head lolled from side to side, enjoying the strength and the heat radiating from his touch. She felt her coffee mug being lifted away, then he began a rhythmic rubbing of her shoulders. It felt so good. She would have slid off the couch in a heap if Sam hadn’t pulled her back against his chest. He worked the tension out of her upper arms, right on down to her wrists. She couldn’t have moved if the fire alarms had gone off and the sprinkler system had drowned them. She was putty in his wonderfully strong hands—and that thought jolted her to attention.
“Relax,” he said softly, in a voice octaves lower than moments ago. “There’s nothing else we can do tonight.” Sam eased her back against his side, wrapping his arm around her. “Trust me. We’ll find out who’s responsible for all the trouble you’ve had and put a stop to him. For now, let me do the worrying.” His hand cupped the side of her face, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Okay?”
She gave up the struggle. “Okay.” When he said he’d take care of things, she believed him. What more could she ask, when she was wrapped in Sam’s arms, and the sun threatened the moon through the fog’s whispery threads.
It would do for now.
…
Sam knew when her breathing changed, slowed. She relaxed, softened against his side. And he wondered how she could sleep with his heart pounding in her ear.
He brushed his hand over her riotous curls and smiled when they popped back again. Like his sleeping pixie, they refused to be restrained. How could he convince her to let him handle this situation? To stand back and let his crew find the bastard doing the hacking? He believed the attempted burglary had been committed by the same man or someone he’d hired.
They knew he hadn’t found the recipe book.
She’d trusted him to lock it in his home office safe.
He had the book and he had the pixie and he knew how to take care of his own.
Chapter Sixteen
Sam woke to the sound of raindrops spattering against glass. Water sheeting the floor to ceiling windows glistened like licorice, making the night black in place of the neve
r-ending gray fog. Bebe slept soundly in his arms. Like an abandoned angel, she snuggled against him for warmth and safety in a world drowning in chaos.
Her shoulder was wedged between his arm and chest, her head tucked under his chin, and one small fist clutched the front of his shirt as though making sure he didn’t disappear while she rested. There wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening.
The scent of her, the feel of her, the way she fit him, all those things drugged his senses. She aroused him to the point of pain, and yet she had him off-balance and confused.
There were times when he knew she wanted to pull him closer, and then, the minute she realized it, she’d start pushing him away all over again.
Dear God, it was frustrating.
But maybe, now that circumstances forced her to spend time with him, they could get past whatever reservations she had about their relationship.
Funny how that word no longer sent chills of dread up his spine. How he could have even considered any other woman made him doubt his sanity.
He tightened his hold around her. He’d considered moving her to the guest room after she’d fallen into a rag-doll unconsciousness, but the feel of her in his arms was too damned good to give up so he’d stayed put. She might wonder how she’d ended up wrapped around him lengthwise on the couch, but if he feigned innocence, she might not ask. The fact that he’d picked her up, rearranged their positions without waking her, and held her through half the night ought to go a long way toward reassuring her.
Perhaps if she knew she could trust him on a physical level, she’d be more willing to move on to an emotional relationship. He didn’t like being held at a distance.
Hell and damnation. He was beginning to sound like Glenna after one of her self-help seminars.
All he knew for sure was that he wanted, needed, and damn well intended to have Bebe in his life in a permanent—legally binding, raising-babies, growing-old-together—kind of relationship. Whatever it took to convince her she wanted the same thing…he’d do it.
The fist on his shirt flexed; small fingers began circular movements on his chest. The leg she’d slid up over his thigh while she slept eased down ever so slowly.
Her movements, as she floated toward waking, stirred his entire body to an urgent readiness that he suppressed. Lusting over a sleeping damsel in distress had to be against the Prince Charming code, but it was damn difficult. A guy had to keep the end goal in mind. Permanent possession as opposed to a roll on his couch.
When she tilted her face up to look him in the eyes, his blood pounded in his veins despite his best intentions.
“Hi, princess.” His voice sounded bottom-of-a-binge rough. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” came out a whisper. Her small smile was wary. Her gaze slid down their entwined bodies, but she made no comment on their intimate position, and then she looked around the room. Was she considering the best escape route?
“Did you sleep well?” Could he ask a dumber question?
“Like the dead.”
“I checked for a pulse periodically. You were never in any danger.”
“I know.”
She studied his face with such intensity, he was tempted to ask her what she was thinking, but he hesitated when his remark seemed to take the wariness out of her eyes, and her smile, when she spoke, had regained its warmth. He decided to leave well enough alone. At least she wasn’t leaping out of his arms; she seemed content to let him hold her.
And then her gaze came to rest on his mouth.
His temperature felt like it shot up ten degrees.
Her mouth opened ever so slightly, and the tip of her tongue moistened the inner edge of her lower lip.
His whole body groaned in anguish. Then she smiled at the growl he hadn’t realized he’d made out loud.
He had to taste her.
When he put his mouth on hers, her lips were soft and her mouth opened in anticipation of their kiss.
It was sexy as hell.
He delved for that soft pink tongue that had teased him. The wet silkiness, tongues tip to tip, seduced him. He withdrew to rim his tongue around her lips, lightly brushing until he managed some control.
Ahhh, she tasted so sweet.
Her tongue followed his, drawing him back inside. Her lips sucked him softly, and he heard a low groan emanate all the way from his toes. The smooth palm of her hand stroked along his jaw, and the touch of her fingers on his cheek sent a shiver down his spine. Still their mouths mated, coaxing greater intimacy.
She strained against him, her body stretching upward. Her breasts cushioned his ribs, and he couldn’t resist his need to touch her. He wondered how he’d waited so long. He was on fire with the need to touch her everywhere, all over, inside and out—he gasped for a breath.
“Angel—Bebe—” He looked into amber eyes drugged with the passion they shared. He knew there was nothing one-sided about what was happening, but he needed to hear her say it. “Tell me this is what you want. Tell me before—”
She put a silencing finger to his mouth. “This is what I want. I want you.”
Sam could barely take his next breath. She felt incredible under his hands, through the velvety fabric of the dress she wore, slim but not fragile. He slid his hand down her thigh and then down her perfectly shaped calf. Up under the dress’s hem he eased his touch to legs in sheer silk stockings.
Exquisite…but he needed to feel her flesh under his hand. Her bare-naked skin, all over.
Bare. Naked.
Both of them.
On the couch. In the living room.
Works for me…but not for Bebe. Not the first time.
Sam dragged air into his lungs in hopes of clearing his passion-soaked brain. He realized he had a death grip on Bebe’s delicate fine-boned ankle. She needed a gentleman’s touch, not the caveman about to be unleashed.
He needed control. He took another breath. Soothed the flesh he hoped he hadn’t bruised.
“Is something wrong?” she asked in a whisper, her hand stroking his chest. Her lips pressed moist kisses under his jaw.
“No, sweetheart. I want this to be good for you.” He levered away so he could see her face. Her kiss-plumped lips only drove him to kiss her again. Oh God, she responded like no other woman he’d ever known. Like she had a fever just for him.
But was he going too fast? Pushing too hard? Only one way to find out…
“Come with me,” he said, easing up until he was sitting with Bebe lying across his lap. “Before we spend the rest of the night on this couch, let’s move to my bed.”
He thought he caught a glimpse of the wary pixie flash through her eyes and knew he’d lost the element of spontaneity, but his whole future could rest on what happened now. He wouldn’t risk blowing it.
“I have a very big bed—and I’ve imagined having you in it since the moment we met.”
Bebe smiled, the wariness now replaced by a woman’s confidence when she knows she’s truly desired.
“How big a bed?”
The relief flooding through him startled a laugh out of him. He squeezed her for the sheer joy she gave him.
“Come on, I’ll show you.” He slipped his arms around her, preparing to stand, then thought better of it. “I’d carry you, but if you’d rather walk, that’ll work for me, too.”
Surprise lit her expression. Then she seemed to consider her position in his embrace, looking down at his arms wrapped around her waist and under her knees. She glanced up through lowered lashes, like a budding coquette. Her hands slid up his chest, around his neck, resting at his nape. “I seem to have lost my shoes.” She wiggled her stocking-clad toes. “Maybe you’d better carry me. I wouldn’t want to get a run.”
“No, we wouldn’t want that,” he said with a chuckle, rising from the couch with Bebe in his arms. He stood still for a moment, letting her absorb the sensation of being held aloft. “Okay?”
He brushed his lips against hers. Her immediate response drove him to deep
en the kiss, until thrusting tongues nearly sent him to his knees. My God, could he even make it to the bedroom before he took her? He wrested his mouth away from hers and grabbed a breath. “Oh, baby. Unless you want to carry me down this hall, we’d better—”
“Walk faster.”
“Good idea.”
Sam gave the bedroom door a shove with his foot, and it swung wide. He crossed the carpet to stand next to the bed. With the very last shred of his self-control he let Bebe’s legs slide down across his body to touch the floor; his other arm, wrapped securely around her back, held her close. He stared down at her, awed by the desire he saw in her eyes.
He couldn’t believe how much he really needed to hear her say she wanted him. Him, and no one else, ever.
The definite outline of aroused nipples proved her body wanted him. He raised a hand to smooth a fingertip over the velvet-covered berry. Bebe seemed to hold her breath, but a shudder coursed through her, and then he watched her eyelids flutter closed.
As his palms cupped her small, rounded breasts, both her hands came to rest on his forearms. Circling his thumbs across the pointed tips caused her grip to tighten, and she inhaled sharply.
“Ahhh, sweetheart, you feel so good.” He eased his hands down her ribs to her narrow waist. She felt delicious under the velvet, but her bare skin would feel infinitely better. “Let me get you out of this dress.”
Without a word, she raised her arms slowly straight up over her head. When he made no move, she twisted in his grasp until her back faced him. No zipper.
“Hmmm, we should probably get to the bottom of this problem,” he said, running his hands over the gentle flare of her hips, down firm thighs, and then bending to caress shapely calves until he reached the dress hem resting right above silk-covered heels. He slipped his hands under the velvet and began the delectable journey back. The dress bunched and draped over his arms as he eased his way slowly back up her slim legs. When he saw the lace-edged tops of her thigh-high stockings, he dropped to his knees. “Oh, baby…” he whispered, staring at the black lace that ended midthigh below her bare bottom.
Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Page 14
