"Is there a problem?" her father asked.
A problem? she thought. Yes, but nothing he would care to hear about. She could just imagine her father's reaction to the knowledge that she had actually gone to O'Doul's—with a biker, no less.
Visions of Mike Ryan leapt to mind as they had all last night. She had tossed and turned restlessly, her body still humming with the sexual fire he had stoked and then abandoned. And while her body burned, her mind had raged at her. How could she have let herself be swept away by something as unpredictable as hormones?
She looked at her father and not for the first time, wished that she could talk to him. Really talk to him.
"Well?" Richard prompted. "Something here at work? Something I should know about?" She didn't answer right away, so he went on. "Did you finish the Smithson file? He'll be here at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning."
She wasn't even surprised that her father assumed whatever was bothering her concerned work. To Richard Torrance, his accounting firm was the most important thing in the world. In dedicating himself to its success, he had neglected his wife and overlooked his daughter—until that daughter was of an age to take her rightful place in the firm.
"Denise?" he repeated. "The Smithson file?"
"It's finished."
He gave her one of his rare smiles. "If your work is up to date, what could be the problem?"
What indeed? She couldn't tell him the truth. He would never understand her fascination with Mike. Even she didn't understand it.
As she mentally groped for something to say, the telephone on his desk rang and saved her.
Her father lifted the receiver. "Hello? Hello, Thomas," he said, dismissing Denise with an absent nod. He swiveled his chair around so that he could stare out the window behind his desk at the ocean beyond while he talked.
Denise waited another moment or two before quietly slipping out. She wasn't sure if she should be relieved or hurt that he had already forgotten about her.
Mike felt it again. The sense that worried eyes were watching him as he steered the motorcycle up to Denise's condo. Nudging the kickstand into place, he stood up, swung his leg over the bike and pulled off his helmet.
Glancing around the quiet, moneyed street, he noted the immaculate lawns, the well-cared-for homes and shuddered in response. What the hell was he doing in a tidy, self-satisfied neighborhood like this? He had spent most of his life avoiding little splotches of domesticity and yet here he was, riding up to a neat little condo to talk to a woman who could mean nothing but trouble for him.
The woman who had, with one kiss, made him forget everything but her. All of his rules, all of his plans had come to nothing once he had tasted Denise Torrance's mouth.
Which brought him to why he was back, now.
He had to face her. Tell her in no uncertain terms that it would be best if they just stayed away from each other. He had thought it all out. There was no other answer. Denise was the house-in-the-suburbs kind of woman—and Mike got cold chills just thinking about settling down.
Great chemistry or not—this was going nowhere.
Leaving his bike parked on the street, he carried his helmet with him as he marched up the front walk.
Denise watched him approach the house and every nerve in her body went on red alert. Why had he come back? Why hadn't he just stayed away?
She glanced down at herself and groaned. Faded, baggy gym shorts and an old, oversize T-shirt with a picture of Tweety Bird on it did not make for an impressive outfit.
The doorbell rang and her stomach pitched.
She took a moment to collect herself, then turned the knob and opened the door.
Her gaze locked with his. All day she had been telling herself that whatever she had felt for him had been a momentary aberration. A lightninglike flash of desire caused by the excitement of the moment.
Lies. All lies.
Instantly the same, illogical, overpowering stirrings of desire rose inside her again. Her gaze slipped over him quickly, thoroughly. The tight black T-shirt, straining over his muscular shoulders and chest. The worn Levi's that hugged his long legs in a soft, faded grip.
"We have to talk," he said, his voice rough.
Talk. Denise drew in a long, shaky breath and told herself to get a grip. There was nothing sexual about talking. Besides, she was twenty-nine years old. Too darned old to let her hormones be her guide. She could do this. She was an accountant for Pete's sake. Accountants were not the stuff of wild, sexy fantasies starring muscular, dangerous-looking bikers.
To prove to herself that there was nothing to be worried about, she pulled the door wider and said, "Come in."
He stepped past her in the narrow entry way and a whiff of Old Spice staggered her. Frantically, she started to mentally recite the multiplication tables. Starting at the two's. Numbers. Numbers she was comfortable with. Numbers she understood. Numbers were her only hope.
Closing the front door, Denise moved around him in as wide a circle as she could manage and led the way into the living room. Her gaze moved quickly over the familiar, spartan room. White walls, blue carpet. A sofa and two wing chairs upholstered in a dark blue fabric with bright red-and-yellow throw pillows for splashes of color.
On the low coffee table were a stack of files from the office and a rapidly cooling cup of herbal tea. The TV was on, turned to the news, but the sound was so low as to be only a small hum of voices in the background.
Curling her toes into the thick carpet, she turned to face him. Mentally, she was up to the five's. He looked out of place. Uncomfortable.
"Denise," he began, "what happened last night…"
Multiplication abandoned, she broke in hurriedly.
"Can't happen again. For heaven's sake, Mike. We have nothing in common."
"Agreed," he said, exhaling on a rush of relieved breath. Half smiling, he added, "You're not exactly my type."
"And you're not the kind of man I would feel comfortable taking to a company dinner."
He shuddered at the thought.
Good, she told herself. They were making progress now. Obviously, he had been doing a lot of thinking about this, too. And apparently, he had reached the very same conclusions. No matter how exciting…how tempting a relationship with him might be, it simply couldn't happen.
There was no future in it and she refused to set herself up for a broken heart.
"So we understand each other?" Mike said and took a step closer.
"Of course," her mouth went dry as she moved toward him. Her heart pounded against her rib cage and her blood thundered in her ears.
"You and I have no business even thinking about being together."
"Absolutely not." The whole idea was ridiculous.
"I'm not interested in love or anything else that comes tied up in a neat little package," Mike grumbled. His gaze moved over her hotly and she shivered in response.
"I don't believe in quick little affairs." She wanted what she had always wanted. Someone to love. Someone to love her.
"Exactly," he muttered thickly and reached out to smooth her hair back from her face. "It doesn't matter a damn what you do to me."
"Or what you do to me." She inhaled sharply as his fingertips brushed across her cheek. Jagged streaks of heat shot through her body. "Hormones," she whispered.
"Lust," he said softly, urgently.
"Pure and simple. That's all it could be." She tilted her head back to keep her gaze locked with his. "Right?"
"Right. Good, old-fashioned lust."
She took a deep, unsteady breath and dragged the scent of Old Spice deep into her lungs.
"Oh," she said on a sigh, "we're in trouble, aren't we?"
"Damn straight," he said and brought his mouth down on hers.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Her lips parted for him and her tongue met his stroke for stroke. In a wild, desperate joining, their mouths mated, breath mingling, tongues exploring, caressing.
Denise arched into him, brushing her rigid nipples across his broad chest. She sucked in a gasp of air that shot from her lungs as one of Mike's hands slipped beneath the waistband of her shorts. His fingertips lifted the band of her bikini panties and his hand dipped lower, to caress her bare behind. She moved into him and felt his body, already hard and eager. Desperately, hungrily, his tongue moved in and out of her mouth, touching, tasting. This was no tender, romantic coupling. This was need. A deep, instinctive need that demanded completion. He held her mouth with his as if trying to claim her breath for his own. She met his urgency with a wild, overwhelming passion that threatened to leave her puddled on the floor. When he finally tore his mouth from hers, Denise almost moaned at the loss.
But a moment later, he was tugging her T-shirt up and over her head and she was helping him. His palms cupped her breasts and his thumbs gently stroked the hard, sensitive tips of her nipples. She groaned in the back of her throat and began tearing at his shirt, pulling it free of his jeans.
In as frantic a state as she was, Mike released her long enough to yank the shirt off and throw it to the floor. Then he grabbed her again and pulled her tight against him. Flesh to flesh, heat to heat, the fire already raging between them burst into an inferno of passion.
With his knee, Mike shoved the coffee table out of the way. Absently, Denise heard the crash as the table tilted and fell on its side. Her teacup clattered quietly but she didn't care. He sank to the rug, dragging her with him, all the while touching and teasing every inch of her body.
She reached for him and held on to his shoulders, reveling in the feel of his muscled flesh beneath her hands. Warm, strong, his tanned chest lightly sprinkled with dark, curly hair, he looked wonderful.
"Denise," he whispered before bending his head to take one of her nipples into his mouth. His lips and teeth worked the tender flesh until she was writhing beneath him, helplessly caught in the net of desire they had blindly stumbled into.
Denise pulled the rubber band from his ponytail and tangled her fingers in this thick, black hair. She felt his right hand sweep down her body to drag her shorts and panties off and she lifted her hips to assist him.
"Now, Mike," she pleaded in an agonized whisper. "Hurry. I have to feel you inside me, Mike. I need…" Her voice faded into silence. How could she possibly explain what she needed when she hardly understood it herself? This was more than desire. More than lust. Something within her was clamoring to be a part of him. To feel him slide his body into hers. She had never known such hunger, such mindless need before.
It both excited and terrified her.
"Soon, honey," he promised and moved away from her, despite the groan erupting from her chest. In seconds he had disposed of not only her clothes, but his. Then he was back, kneeling between her thighs, kneading the flesh of her behind with his strong hands. She twisted in his grip, reaching for him.
"Mike," she whispered. "Please Mike, now."
"Now," he promised in a hushed voice and lifted her hips for his entry.
Mike looked down at her as he pushed himself deeply inside her tight, hot body. She arched into him and a broken cry tore from her throat as he filled her. He clenched his teeth tight to bite back a groan of satisfaction building in his own chest. He held perfectly still, buried inside her, fighting for control. An explosive climax was only a breath away and he would be damned if he would give in to the pleasure before she was ready to take that leap with him.
In the space of a few heartbeats, he was able to move within her again. And then there was nothing but the overpowering, driving urge to brand her as his. To fill her so deeply, so completely, that even when they weren't together, he would still be a part of her.
She lifted her legs and locked them around his hips, drawing him tighter, closer.
Mike looked down into her blue eyes and saw the stunned wonder he knew was written on his own features. He pressed his mouth to hers and their bodies raced toward completion. He swallowed her cries when they were at last swept over the edge of passion and fell tumbling into peace.
When it was over, they lay locked together, neither of them willing—or able—to move, to separate. Heart pounding, Mike rolled over onto his back, keeping her with him, cradling her close. Her head on his chest, he felt her breath brush across his skin and tried to get feeling back into his limbs.
Now that his body had found rest though, his mind finally kicked into gear. As one, undeniable fact presented itself, he had to bite back a groan of disgust. He had acted like some dumb teenager. For the first time in years, he had acted without thinking. As a result, the two of them might now be in deeper trouble than either of them had thought.
She lifted her head and looked down at him. Giving him a rueful smile, Denise said, "Well, so much for talking."
Reluctantly, he smiled back at her. Damn. Now what? Obviously, the realization that had occurred to him hadn't popped into her mind yet.
"Denise," he said, then paused, hoping for inspiration.
"I know," she mumbled.
"What the hell happened?" Stupid question, he told himself.
He knew damn well what had happened. For the first time in years, he had allowed his body to make his decisions for him.
"That I don't know," she said, snuggling against him.
He ran the flat of his hand down her spine, wondering just how he should say what he had to say.
Across the room from them, the telephone rang. Neither of them glanced at it. On the second ring, the answering machine picked up. Seconds later, Denise heard her father's commanding voice. "Denise? Apparently, you're not at home."
She lifted her head and shot a covert, almost guilty look at the phone.
Mike watched her expression shift and change as she quickly scooted off and away from him. He frowned thoughtfully as the voice on the machine continued.
"I hope that means you're thoroughly prepared for the Smithson meeting tomorrow. And don't forget you're having lunch with Pete Donahue from Donahue's Delights. My secretary's made an appointment for you at the Tidewater for twelve o'clock. Since he's a new client, I'll expect you to impress on him just what Torrance Accounting can do for his business."
Denise groped around on the floor for her shirt and shorts. Still keeping one eye on her, Mike snatched up his own clothes and got dressed. Amazing, he thought as he looked at her. A moment ago, she had been cuddled naked against him and now she was acting as though nothing had happened.
"So," her father continued, apparently unconcerned about the machine cutting him off. "What was this problem, you said you had?"
She shot a surprised look at the machine.
Mike's eyebrows lifted. Problem?
"Well," Richard said and sighed heavily. "No point in asking this infernal machine what's going on. You can tell me tomorrow…I'll pencil you in for 3:10 in the afternoon. Goodbye."
Real friendly guy, he thought. The man talked to his own daughter as if she were a client.
"You need an appointment to talk to your father?" Mike asked.
"He's a busy man." She stood up and bent to right the table. Mike helped her, then gathered the fallen file papers while she picked up the broken teacup.
Her features were tight. There was no sign of the wild, passionate woman of a few moments before. Odd, how just the sound of her father's voice could do that to her.
Odder still, that it mattered to him.
"Lunch with Donahue's Delights, huh?" He tried a smile on her, but there was no reaction. "They make great frozen burritos."
She nodded and folded her arms across her chest in an unconscious symbol of self-defense. What the hell was going on here? And why had she just clammed up on him when a while ago she had nearly burned his skin off?
But maybe it was better this way. Once he said what he had to say, the atmosphere in the room was certain to get a little chilly, anyway.
"Denise, about what just happened…"
"Let's not talk again, okay?"
"
Dammit, we have to talk." Now was not the time to shut herself off from him. Fifteen minutes ago, maybe. But not now.
"It was stupid. What else is there to say?"
"Plenty." He reached up and pushed his hair back from his face with both hands. "It wasn't just stupid. It was irresponsible. We didn't use any protection, Denise."
Chapter 6
Was the world spinning? Or was it just this one room?
Suddenly sick to her stomach, Denise blinked furiously, trying to get her vision to clear. It wasn't working.
She clapped one hand to her mouth and looked at him through wide eyes. Protection. Birth control. Good heavens. This kind of thing only happened in bad movies. How could they have forgotten something so basic? Because, she admitted silently, they had been too busy dealing with something far more basic.
"Oh, Lord."
Plopping down onto the couch, she propped her elbows on her knees and cupped her face in her hands.
He paced back and forth in front of the couch in long, hurried strides. "As far as one worry goes," he said in a self-disgusted tone, "I can tell you that I'm healthy."
She was even more stupid than she had at first thought.
She hadn't even considered that particular aspect of life in modern times.
"Me, too," she said when she noticed that he had stopped pacing to look at her questioningly. Why wouldn't she be? At twenty-nine, she had had exactly two lovers. Including Mike. No wonder she had messed things up so badly. She didn't have nearly enough experience to be able to deal with a man like Mike Ryan.
She swallowed a groan and tried to quiet her mind so she could hear him.
"As far as a pregnancy goes, though…" He stopped pacing again suddenly and she felt him looking at her. Slowly, she lifted her head to meet his gaze. "Please tell me you're on the Pill," Mike said grimly.
"All right," Denise obliged him wearily. "I'm on the Pill."
"No, you're not."
"No," she said, and this time her groan wouldn't be silenced. "I'm not."
"Perfect."
She glared at him. Was he trying to lay the blame for this…incident entirely at her feet? Well, he could forget that idea right now. It took two people to do what they had just done.
Maternity Bride Page 5
