Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Her question was met with a shrewd, inquisitive stare. “Was that Mack Buchanan?”

  She filled her mouth with chocolate, using the time to regain her calm. “Yes. Couldn’t you tell?” That was sarcastic. Unnecessary.

  “I thought you had nothing to say to him.”

  “Well, apparently he’s got something to say to me.”

  “You know Kyle wouldn’t—”

  She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. This wasn’t the time or place for a showdown, but her mother was asking for it. “For fuck’s sake, Mom. Leave Kyle out of it. Don’t ever mention him again. Got it?”

  The sight of her mother straightening in sheer fright was almost comical. She swept a frantic look around the restaurant, no doubt looking for Lydia, before turning back to stare wide-eyed at her daughter with an expression Gemma had never seen on her mother’s face before. The woman was gobsmacked.

  “You—you swore!” she finally sputtered, accusingly.

  Gemma let out a wild, hysterical laugh. Every head in the restaurant turned in their direction. “I wish you could see the look on your face, Mom. My God, my career is in ruins, I’ve been accused of a $50 million fraud, the investigator has used me for fun, and all you’re worried about is my bad language and the well-being of my ex-fiancé. Don’t you think that’s funny? I do.”

  Her mother flicked an embarrassed glance around the room before turning back to Gemma. “No ... I—”

  “Have you ever thought about what might happen to me? I could go to prison. What would Lydia say then?” Gemma snapped, sobering up fast at the realization that it really could happen.

  Her mother turned as white as the tablecloth. Gemma had never realized until now that Lydia’s name was a weapon.

  “That’s ridiculous. They wouldn’t do that.”

  It took all her strength not to laugh again. If she did, she’d completely lose it. “Yes, Mother. They would.”

  “I can’t believe it. If only your father were here.”

  Gemma shoved her phone in her purse and got to her feet, suddenly tired. “Look, I have to go. I’ll call you.”

  She was three steps from the table when she heard the plaintive voice behind her.

  “I’m going to book another cruise, so you needn’t worry about me.”

  Gemma kept walking, resisting the urge to suggest she take Lydia for company.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He lived in a loft.

  Gemma slowly turned, taking in her surroundings. Astonishing. Not so much the place, but that he’d brought her here. To his inner sanctum. At least, that’s what it felt like.

  For such a large space, it had surprisingly comfortable, almost cheery warmth with its polished wood floors and brightly patterned oriental rugs. That was also surprising. The place was beautiful. And obviously expensive. At one end, the kitchen gleamed in stainless steel and granite, while at the other, an enormous bed was neatly made up and topped with a colorful mohair throw. Somehow she couldn’t quite imagine him coming home to this place after a day’s work. But when she thought about it, she couldn’t imagine him coming home—period. He just existed. Like in a dream.

  He cleared his throat.

  She spun toward the sound. She’d been so focused on her surroundings she’d almost forgotten he was standing in silence, waiting for her to complete her assessment of his home. If this was his home. There was no way to tell. He’d barely said two words during the drive across town, other than to remind her to buckle up.

  Actually, she shouldn’t be here. Not when Kyle had warned her not to talk to McCallister’s staff, the police, the media, and—most of all—that Buchanan Bastard. Gemma had been happy to lie low. Besides, she’d already decided, even accepted, that Mack was out of her life and she was out of his. But the promise of answers to her questions was reason enough to ignore Kyle’s instructions, surely?

  “How long have you lived here?” she asked, taking another, slow, awed 360° turn to study the place yet again. There was very little in the way of furniture—just two luxurious black leather sofas set opposite a smoky-glass coffee table, a gorgeous oak dining set with six chairs, a sideboard, and a bookcase crammed with books. Nothing on the walls for decoration, but the simplicity and sparseness somehow worked to create a sense of tranquility. Knowing more about him only added another layer to the mystery of who he was.

  “A while.”

  Evasive, but she couldn’t complain. It was miracle enough that he’d brought her here.

  “It’s beautiful. This is your apartment, isn’t it?”

  “Did you think I lived with a pool table and a beer fridge?” he answered quietly.

  That was tactless on her part. “Oh no, it’s just that ... it’s just not what I expected.

  He sat down and waved a hand toward the sofa opposite. “Please sit down.”

  His cool tone came as a blunt reminder exactly what he thought of her.

  So what? she told herself firmly as she sat down on the soft leather. Protesting her innocence would be a waste of time anyway. Besides, she was here for information. Nothing else.

  Gemma arranged her blue floral skirt over her knees and clasped her hands in her lap, aware that he was looking at her legs. Unwanted warmth radiated along her skin. He could arouse her with just a look. It didn’t seem fair for a man to have such power.

  “Why did you bring me here?” she snapped in irritation, now wondering what had possessed her to agree to come here. Just a few minutes in and he already had her at a disadvantage.

  “You wanted to know about me. It’s time for total honesty.” His eyes glinted. “Don’t you think?”

  That jab was hard to miss. To hell with him.

  “Why are you involved in the investigation?”

  “I was asked.”

  “Inspector Hutchinson?”

  “Maybe.” He leaned back, and her eyes automatically coasted the length of him. She looked up, hoping he hadn’t noticed her staring. Of course he had. That knowing look said it all.

  “At the station, why did you want to see me?”

  “Simple,” she said, drawing a deep breath to put her back on track. “To find out how you could spend the night,” her voice quavered at the memory, “knowing what was going to happen.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You’re a fucking liar,” she spat out, then blinked in shock at her crudeness. His eyes blazed in anger, and Gemma tensed. She knew what he was capable of. He could suddenly throw her over his shoulder, carry her out of his apartment, and dump her in the elevator. Just because he hadn’t carried out his threat that day at McCallister’s didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it now.

  “That’s the third time you’ve called me a liar. A bit rich coming from you, princess.”

  He began to rise. Gemma braced herself but kept going, forcing herself to say the words. “You don’t care who you hurt. This is all just a game to you, isn’t it?”

  His eyes narrowed as he sat back down, shading the hazel depths. “Game?” he echoed, as if her question had given him food for thought. He leaned back and crossed his arms, drawing her attention to the thick biceps straining the short sleeves of his black T-shirt. Those arms had secured her so many times. Held her close ...

  “Okay, tell me three things that you wish were true about yourself. Two truths, one lie.”

  What? Screw him.

  “I’m not here to play your stupid game.”

  Now the hazel depths mocked her. “I guess the truth is too difficult for you?”

  And screw his sarcasm.

  “Okay, if we have to go through this silly charade, then I ... ” She paused, debating whether to stay or leave. If she stayed, things would only get worse. But if she went, she would leave empty-handed.

  She made herself more comfortable on the plush leather while she thought. “I wish I were five ten. I wish I were an artist. I wish I had a tattoo. Will that do?”

  “You never wanted to be an artist.”

/>   “Oh ... Oh, yes that’s right,” she stammered, surprised at how easily he’d picked the lie. “I’ve always wanted to study great works rather than paint.”

  Heavens, why had she said that? He didn’t need to know her wants. She tried to think of something equally devious to ask him.

  “Tell me three humiliating moments in your life,” she said. This should be good.

  He answered without hesitation. “Falling over on stage at a school play. Getting caught having sex on a flight to Cleveland. Puking in the church at my kid brother’s wedding.”

  Easy.

  “You didn’t throw up at your brother’s wedding. What’s his name?”

  “I did, and his name is Tom. But I never did join the Mile High Club.”

  She snorted. “I find that hard to believe.” It wouldn’t be from lack of offers, she thought with a stab of irrational jealousy. How silly to resent every woman who had known the pleasure of him. She shouldn’t care, so why on earth did she? “Besides, you like taking risks, don’t you?” she added huffily.

  “That depends.” He tapped his fingers on his chin while he studied her, making her look away in embarrassment. He’d read her.

  “Three regrets, Doctor.”

  Oh, she had enough of those swirling around in her past and present, but she wasn’t about to give him more ammunition. She chewed at a corner of her mouth while she sifted through all the things she’d wished she hadn’t done or said, searching for something safe.

  “That I didn’t go to Europe after graduation. Not having the courage to ask Manny Stevens out when I was sixteen. Giving up piano lessons.”

  His response came in a flash. “Manny Stevens.”

  Heck, he was good.

  “True. Manny was a total jerk.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at that, making her heart lurch at the memory of his teasing when he—

  “Tell me your regrets,” she asked on a rush, pushing the hot memory aside.

  “Not being a firefighter. Not staying in touch with childhood friends. Not working so hard.”

  All lies.

  “I thought we were going to be honest?”

  His expression flickered acknowledgement. “Not supporting Tom more when we were growing up. Not ... ”

  “Not what?” she pressed when he hesitated.

  “Not being there when my father died.”

  “Oh,” she whispered, surprised at his candor. “And the third?”

  “How did you get Sorensen to do the forgery?”

  The question came with such directness it took her a moment to answer. “I ... I didn’t.”

  Eyes as cold as a winter frost caught hers. Held her fast. “He’s the best, apparently. You must have promised him millions. ”

  This was dangerous territory. She needed to leave. But how to make an exit without it looking like he’d got the better of her?

  “We all know there are forgers out there. Once they’re caught, their names become common knowledge.” Oh, to hell with explanations. She sprang to her feet. “I have to—”

  “Sit down, Gemma.”

  She sat down, irritated by the way her body warmed under the order. “I’ve told you again and again, I don’t know any forger!”

  “Off the record, tell me the truth.”

  How could anyone convince the inconvincible?

  “I am telling you the truth!” she insisted anyway. “I don’t know him. I’ve never met him. Why can’t you believe that?”

  His eyes drilled hers. “Everything you say stays between us.”

  “This is ridiculous!” She leapt up and walked across to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the outer walls of the loft. Resting her forehead against the glass, she stared at the traffic below and the pedestrians clustered at intersections, waiting to cross. To her left, Central Park lay in the distance—a welcoming oasis of green. Oh, to be Tinkerbelle and fly to that haven right now.

  He was beside her. For a big man, he could move so quietly.

  “In his confession, Sorensen said you met him in Venice at your hotel.”

  “That’s not true. I—” Gemma stopped. Actually, there had been someone. An American in the hotel bar. He’d started a conversation with her and Kyle. But he’d only talked about his holiday in Venice. In fact, he hadn’t shown any interest in either of them, let alone ask questions about art or where she worked. She couldn’t even remember if he’d introduced himself, but he definitely hadn’t asked for their names. But there couldn’t be any connection, and mentioning some unknown tourist would be tantamount to a confession in Mack’s mind. He’d assume there was more to tell.

  “Go on?” he urged, leaning close enough for her to be aware of every inch of him. Gemma pushed her cheek to the cool glass. This was so crazy. He was her enemy.

  “There was no one,” she whispered, closing her eyes as if the futile action could spirit her away from her nemesis.

  “I see.”

  His disbelieving tone said it all: He would never believe her. Gemma braced herself for the next, inevitable question.

  She felt his breath skimming her hair when it came. “Whose idea was it to forge the Bonvalet?”

  Damn him. Spinning round, she almost fell forward against him. Straightening, she looked up to match his icy gaze. “No one! Tell me your last regret.” Not that she wanted to know any more. She just felt slightly sick and needed to go home.

  “I think you know.”

  Resentment simmered and exploded. “Yes, I know. You regret me. Well, I regret you,” she shouted, wanting to push him away from her, but uncertain what he might do. “You ... you bastard!”

  His mouth compressed to a hard line, and Gemma knew she’d gone too far. She shrank back, expecting the worst.

  Angry eyes glittered and locked on hers.

  “I regret that I believed you, Gemma. All those goddamned lies. Why couldn’t you have trusted me? It didn’t need to play out this way.”

  What a joke. “Is that another trick to get me to confess?” she jeered, no longer caring what he did. Edging away from him, her back hit the glass. “Well, I have another regret, Mack Buchanan.” Tears welled but she gulped them down. She was going to say this. “More than anything in my whole life, I regret that you ever touched me.”

  It wasn’t true. She might regret her foolishness, but Mack hadn’t done anything she hadn’t wanted. Yes, he’d pushed all her buttons like no other man, but he was good at that. At sex. So really, there was no reason to beat herself up about wanting him. It wasn’t as if she actually cared for him or anything.

  His eyes burned with anger. Gemma slid sideways along the glass, suddenly desperate to escape the source of her misery, but he set his palms flat against the pane, blocking her in. Telltale heat flooded her face at the closeness. He’d know. He always did.

  “Let me go, Perses. Haven’t you caused enough destruction?”

  She felt her chin fastened in his big hand, lifted up. Bending low, he kissed her hard until she moaned with need. Oh God, she wanted him.

  As if hearing her plea, Perses lifted her skirt with one hand and used the other to ease her legs apart. She felt him work the crotch of her panties aside, his fingers seeking her opening. She shuddered as two fingers sank deep into her body. There would be no teasing this time. No drawing out the pleasure.

  He dropped to his knees, and right there, with her backed up against the glass, he shoved her skirt up into her hands, tore apart the crotch of her panties, and, using his thumbs to open her, licked her.

  She stood there trembling and clutching at her skirt, spellbound by the sight of his dark head between her legs. She felt his tongue circle her clit and couldn’t stop herself from spreading her legs wider, whimpering like a puppy as he blew warm air on her before sinking into her again.

  When his tongue thrust into her core, she cried out at the wild, unrestrained invasion. Oh God, it felt incredible. She was fixed to his mouth. She couldn’t move. Anyone in the high-rise building be
hind them could be watching. The thought made it surreal. Dangerous. Hot.

  “Oh God,” she gasped as his tongue grazed along her sex before dipping into her body again. Gemma was now so dizzy with the intimate sensation her legs couldn’t support her. “I can’t ... ”

  With barely a pause, he lifted one leg over his shoulder, then the other. With her back hard to the glass, she was perched on his broad shoulders, her sex spread wide for his mouth. He gripped her butt and reclaimed her, sliding his tongue deep.

  She was powerless. Completely open to him and at his mercy. The knowledge heightened the sensation. She squirmed, and he gripped her harder to keep her still. His mouth worked every part of her sex, every lave of his tongue radiating ripples of pleasure along her skin.

  Her body coiled. Tightened. Oh God, she was going to come, right here for the whole world to see. Gemma tried to hold back, suddenly embarrassed at the thought of a hundred eyes watching them, but he’d zeroed on her clit again, now relentlessly steering her over the precipice.

  She screamed as her orgasm slammed her. Her head fell back against the glass with a loud thump. He paused to look up at her, then, apparently satisfied that she hadn’t knocked herself out, bent to her again, finishing her off with slow, languorous strokes that left her quivering.

  “I want you inside me,” she whispered down to him.

  Quietly, without fuss or words, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the biggest bed she’d ever been on in her life. Snuggled back into the mohair throw, she watched him undress, her eyes automatically finding the raw scar on his side.

  “Mack,” she murmured, as he lay down beside her. “Please tell me who you are, really?”

  But her question was lost in his kiss.

  • • •

  Mack thrust himself into her again and again. He worried he was hurting her with his deep strokes, but every time he eased off, she dug her fingernails into his back and pumped her hips in frustration.

  He slipped his hand under her butt, lifting her hips to him, groaning with lust when she writhed into his hand. Sex had been the last thing on his mind when he’d brought her here. All he wanted was to know why she’d done it. For his own satisfaction, he needed the answer to “why.” Was it the money? The danger? The thrill of knowing she could play a joke on the art world and get away with it?