“You would have to bring that up.”
“You’re pretty as hell when you blush. Now, what’s your condition?”
The words hovered on her tongue. She felt more like a schoolgirl than a businesswoman. “I want an autograph.”
“An autograph?”
“Rob Mancuso’s autograph. My brother’s a huge fan.”
He offered a politician’s nod. “Your brother. Of course.”
“He’s in college in Charlottesville. Rob Mancuso’s an alum.”
“I’m sure an autograph can be arranged. To be honest, I’m relieved. I thought you wanted me to introduce you to Mario. I don’t need the competition.” Humor lit his eyes. “Next to him, I’m Quasimodo.”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s something to be said for hunchbacked bell-ringers.”
“So I still have a chance?” Why did that crooked smile have the power to batter her defenses?
Offering her best imitation of a casual response, she gave a little shrug. “There’s always a chance, Mr. Wilder. But believe me, I can withstand a blitz.”
* * * * *
Resting a possessive hand on the small of Chelsea’s back, Jake led her through the packed restaurant. He didn’t have to look hard to spot Mario. At six feet five inches, his partner towered over the crowd. Working his way through the regulars with a car salesman’s flair for flattery and bullshit, Mario stopped dead in his tracks as his gaze fell on Jake and the brunette at his side. He left a fawning blonde to her mojito and closed the distance with a few long strides. Slicking back his dark hair with his hand, he made a show of eyeing Chelsea head to toe. Christ, the man did everything but lick his chops. Jake made a mental note to deck his friend at a more appropriate time. Women didn’t usually appreciate blood splatter on their clothes, even if that splatter was generated in the name of chivalry.
“So, this is the girl you were telling me about.” Mario leaned back on his heels and helped himself to another look. His gaze roamed Chelsea’s curves. Damn, did the man have to be so obvious about it? At this rate, that more appropriate time might be sooner rather than later. “She sure doesn’t look like she spends her time with her nose in a book.”
“Mario Mancuso, this is Chelsea York.” Jake tried his damnedest to keep a civil tone. “Chelsea, my business partner, Mario.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Chelsea’s tone was as cool as the Chesapeake Bay in January.
Mario nudged him with an elbow. “If this is what being a do-gooder gets you, I’m in.” Leaning closer to Chelsea, he unleashed his toothpaste-commercial smile. “I’m available any weekend you want.”
Her lips settled into a pitiful imitation of a smile that looked more like she was grimacing her way through a tetanus shot. “Thank you for the offer. I’ll make a note of that, Mr. Mancuso.”
“Mario.” Again, that goddamn smile. Jake pictured Mario minus a couple teeth. Yeah, that would put a dent in his endorsements.
“I’ll check my calendar and get back with you, Mr. Mancuso.”
“Where’s your brother?” Jake changed the subject.
Mario shrugged. “He’s taking a break.”
“You need to get him to sign a picture. For Chelsea.”
“Anything for the lady.” He sounded like some old-time Vegas lounge singer who’d had one cocktail too many.
“Thank you.” Her tone was polite, all business.
“Let me get you a drink,” Jake offered.
“Thank you, but I’m not in the mood.”
Dammit. This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. The least he could do was show Chelsea a good time, but all he’d managed to accomplish was to expose her to Mario’s dubious charm and make an ass of himself. I want you in my bed. What the hell was he thinking? He’d sounded like a caveman ready to club her and drag her off by that luscious dark mane. What had come over him? He usually prided himself on some degree of sophistication, some style in winning a woman over. That pride had been kicked to the dirt and dug into the ground as if beneath a linebacker’s cleats.
It had been a while since he’d been with a woman, but still, his behavior was goddamn ridiculous. He hadn’t acted so desperate since he’d been fresh out of high school.
So much for his determination to take a break from women for a while. Ever since that Southern belle turned a few dates into an ugly would-be scandal, he’d had enough. Good thing the pageant-perfect debutante couldn’t hold her chocolate martinis. She’d let her intention to trap herself a rich husband slip between her liquor-loosened lips during a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner. He’d been wary as a fox in a kennel ever since.
He’d intended to teach Chelsea York that when you played with fire, you got burned. Instead, he was the one being scorched. He wanted her here with him, at his side in the place that was his greatest accomplishment since he left the game. He wanted to see her smile, and he wanted to show her a side of himself few people knew. Instead, he’d pounced on her. Hell, he’d damn near devoured her.
And she’d turned him away. Gently. More gently than he deserved.
“Why don’t you introduce her to Rob?” Mario’s voice barreled through his thoughts. “Last time I saw him, he was whining about a headache. He’s probably hiding out in your office.”
Jake turned to Chelsea. Was that a flicker of interest in her eyes, or was she simply happy at the prospect of getting away from Mario? Somehow, the latter possibility pleased Jake beyond all reason. “You want to meet Rob Mancuso?”
She flicked her gaze to Mario. “Is he anything like you?”
“Not at all. Rob’s the artistic type. He couldn’t bench press anything heavier than his guitar. Most people have a hard time believing we’re brothers.”
“In that case, I’d love to.” Chelsea draped a hand over Jake’s forearm. Her impish gaze mixed equal parts pixie and seductress. “I trust you’ll lead the way.”
Chelsea swallowed hard against the heat radiating from Jake’s skin through her fingertips. Such a simple touch shouldn’t stir her pulse. But it did. What would his body heat feel like against her bare skin, his strong hands skimming over her flesh in carnal possession?
The creak of a door jolted her back to reality. Jake led her into his office. She blinked. Twice. She’d imagined Jake Wilder’s private space would constitute a shrine to his decade as a star quarterback. This room was nothing of the sort. Pleasant surprise settled in as she surveyed the tasteful, masculine furnishings. A large, tufted leather couch, a pair of equally inviting leather wing chairs and a polished oak desk filled the room. She noticed only one relic of his playing days, a framed pair of tickets to the Super Bowl in which he’d led his team to victory.
“Those were my parents’ tickets,” he explained. “They actually took the trouble to have them framed.”
Of course. She’d expected to see pictures of Jake posing with beautiful celebrities. Instead, he’d displayed a symbol of one of his greatest achievements and his mother’s and father’s pride. At this rate, the ice in her heart would be little more than a puddle by midnight.
“How many parents get to see their son win the biggest game in football? I’m sure it meant a lot to them.”
Jake lifted his shoulders in a world-weary shrug. “That would be an understatement. Nothing I could ever do would equal that game in their eyes. In any case, Rob’s not up here. Looks like those tickets are the highlight of this tour.” He turned to a small refrigerator nestled in a corner. “Let me at least get you a drink.”
“That’s not necessary.” The last thing she needed was to face the challenge of Jake’s persuasion in an alcohol-fueled haze.
“I insist.” He filled two rocks glasses with ice, removed a soft drink bottle from the mini-fridge, and added its content to the glasses. Extending one glass in his hand, he smiled. “How’s that for sophistication?” He waited for Chelsea to take the offering, downed a hearty swig from his glass, and leaned against the desk. “Sorry about Mario. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”
>
She stared down into the drink. Why did he have to look at her that way? That oh-so-sincere, if-anybody’s-gonna-rip-your-clothes-off-it’s-gonna-be-me expression in his dark eyes fired another salvo at the flimsy shield she’d struggled to put in place. Her mouth went dry. It was all she could do to resist downing the soda in one gulp just to take her mind off the thirst for something much more carnal. The lecherous wolf was easy to resist. But this…this was nice-guy decency and bad-boy temptation rolled into one delectable, broad-shouldered, taut-muscled male.
His hand went to his collar. Jake made no move to remove his tie, but tugged at the knot to loosen it, baring a small vee of crisp, dark hair and tanned skin. Her fingers clenched as her greedy gaze drank him in. What would it be like to strip the tie from his throat and peel the shirt from his powerful torso? Would the texture and taste and smell of him sweep her away?
Forcing her attention back to her half-filled glass, she swirled the ice in a clumsy circle. Perhaps she should have downed some alcohol after all, if only to dull her senses.
“That’s okay,” she managed. “Is Mario always like that?”
“Only with beautiful ladies. After all these years, I think he actually believes women go for it.”
“He doesn’t seem deprived of female attention. I noticed a couple of women giving me the evil eye when he was talking to me.”
Jake shrugged. “They’re not going for him. They’re going for the championship ring on his finger and what it represents…the money, the fame.”
“Couldn’t you say the same of yourself?”
“Yeah.” His mouth set in a grim line. “I sure as hell could.”
“Isn’t that what you want? You’ve had more women in your life than a sultan in his harem.”
“You actually think I’ve had all those women you’ve seen in the papers?”
“It does seem a reasonable conclusion. You said it yourself. Beauty queens. Starlets. Gorgeous models. They’ve been on your arm.” She swallowed, the words seeming to stick in her throat. “And in your bed.”
His eyes darkened to the color of midnight. “You believe I slept with all those women?”
“Not all of them.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I’m sure there must have been one or two who didn’t make the cut.”
He rubbed his jaw as if it ached. “You think every girl I’ve ever gone out with presented herself to me on a silver platter.” He yanked on the tie, dragging the knot lower. “Most of ’em didn’t give a damn about me. Models. Actresses. Women who wanted to be seen on the arm of a jock when they showed up at some awards ceremony. There were a couple along the way I actually cared about, but in the long run, for them, it was all about the money.”
“You dated an heiress,” she pointed out, more to remind herself than him.
“You mean the one with the reality show? Her ratings soared after she was seen with me. We went out three times. Three goddamn times. I never even slept with her. I couldn’t get past all that makeup plastered all over her face. It looked like caulk. She didn’t even blink when I told her I wouldn’t be calling again. But when the camera rolled, she cried and carried on like I’d dumped her after a decade of marriage and six kids. I got hate mail, for Christ’s sake.”
Chelsea downed another gulp of soda, regretting the lack of liquor more by the minute. “That must have been traumatic for you.”
“It was a pain in the ass. But I didn’t give her a second’s thought when she was out of my sight.” He slugged down his own drink. “I sure as hell can’t say that about you.”
The words might have been a referee’s whistle screeching in her head. Her thoughts skidded to a halt. “What makes you think that line’s going to work on me?”
“I don’t.” His hands, big and warm and sturdy, settled at her waist. “Somehow, I don’t think any line would make a difference with you. I like that. You’re smart and you’re funny and you’re sexy as hell. I don’t want you to be like the rest.” She thought he’d drag her closer, but he didn’t. One hand moved from her waist to cup her cheek. “I just want you to be you.”
The simple declaration seemed a masterful incantation. He met her gaze. And then his head dipped and his mouth slanted over hers.
Gently. So very gently. Almost, but not quite chaste. His palms slid over her hips, cupping her bottom, holding her close. The heat of his fully clothed body rippled through her. His heart pounded a steady beat against her breasts. Her tingling nipples strained against her bra. Could he feel her response, so intense, so immediate? The yearning deep inside grew with each moment of tender contact. Heat flooded her womb, the need for his touch spreading like a single flame exploding into a wildfire.
Her arms circled his broad back, the hunger to possess as powerful as the need to be possessed. Muscles flexed beneath her touch, molten steel against her fingertips. Drinking in the anticipation of pleasure, she canted her hips to cradle his fully aroused shaft.
The pressure of his mouth intensified against hers. Seeking. Claiming. Holding nothing back. His tongue slid between her lips, opening her to him, teasing a response with every thrust and parry. Her knees went to jelly, but he held her tight, a husky groan escaping his throat as she leaned into him.
And then he was guiding her back. His hands skimmed higher, catching her wrists, tugging them over her head, imprisoning her between the heat of his body and the wall. A rake’s smile curved his mouth as one large hand formed a manacle over her wrists as effective as forged iron. Not that she wanted to escape. Not when his other hand pillaged her body with such delectable promise. His thumb stroked tiny, maddening circles over her breast, coaxing one to bud beneath his touch before moving on to the other exquisitely sensitive nub. She bit down on her lip, but a small, greedy moan escaped her.
“Ah, you like that,” he murmured against her ear, his breath warm against her throat. “Let’s see what else you like.”
He worked the buttons on her blouse, parting the fabric, baring her skin. His eyes darkened. His mouth curved in masculine appreciation as he drank in the swell of her breasts over her lacy black bra.
He dipped his head, anointing her with his kiss, as if she were something rare and precious. With slow, languid movements, his tongue inflamed her, stoking the embers of need to a blaze, even as his hand slid lower to steal under her hem. Liquid heat trailed along her inner thigh.
And still, he held her captive, a willing prisoner to his sensual exploration. Sweeping his lips along the column of her throat, he claimed her mouth. Not a kiss. A possession, ragged and heated and desperate. Exploring, tasting, savoring her warmth. Coaxing her response with every sweet thrust, every teasing parry. Stirring her hunger to a heavy, ravenous need.
The ridge of his erection pressed to her belly. A primal longing deep within urged her to lift her skirt and fill herself with his heat.
This is madness.
Wanton, decadent, exquisite madness. But madness nonetheless.
“Someone might catch us,” she breathed against his hair.
“They won’t.” He bit the words between his teeth, a cross between a moan and a growl.
“But how would this—”
“Relax, baby. If you want me to stop, I’ll stop. But I’m not worrying about the goddamn door.”
“I don’t want you to stop.” Did those words actually come from her mouth?
“Good.” She heard the smile of satisfaction in his voice. “God, you taste so damn good.”
His hand trailed higher, the texture of his fingers stirring her sensitive flesh to full awareness. “You’re wearing pretty little bikinis, aren’t you?” His rough murmur against her throat rippled delicious chills along her spine. “Damn shame they’re in my way.”
The rip of fabric…of lace…reverberated through Chelsea’s brain. Oh my, he’d really gone and done it. He’d ripped her panties clean off her body. The same rush of anticipation that filled her at the top of a roller coaster coursed through her body. Was she ready for th
e plunge that would follow? Could she surrender to his hunger? Surrender to him?
“I just can’t get enough of you.”
“Jake—” His name seemed a plea. “This is—”
“I’ll stop anytime you want me to.” His voice was hot and husky and so damn seductive, she couldn’t remember what she’d intended to say. “Just tell me.”
His hand cupped her sex, stroking with maddening tenderness. “Just tell me what you want.” His fingertips whispered over her flesh, kindling the fire, seeking and finding her passage. Leaning into her, he embedded one long finger, his touch promising pleasures to come. Another digit stretched her tight inner muscles, filling her, each slow, deliberate touch driving her closer to begging him to strip her bare and drive his cock deep within her heat.
She bucked against him, shameless in her need, each tilt of her hips a silent entreaty. The room faded away. Her fears. Her doubts. Nothing else mattered. Only the man who held her in his thrall and the searing ecstasy of his touch.
“My beautiful, beautiful Chelsea,” he breathed against her throat. “The things you do to me.”
He shifted his hand. The subtle motion unleashed a current of desire that might have brought her to her knees had he not supported her against his length. His warm breath tickled her ear. “That’s right, baby. Let me know how good it feels.”
Tiny circles engulfed her clit in pleasure, each easy, deliberate stroke mastering her, edging her to the summit of a cliff. She dragged in a breath, then another. So enchanting, this hunger he’d unleashed. She closed her eyes, seeing the peak of the ragged precipice so clearly, she might have reached out and touched it. Beneath her, stormy seas raged, beautiful and untamed. If she lost her footing, if she tumbled from her perch, would she crash onto the rocks below, or would she float on the white-capped currents?
“Come for me, darlin’.” His low murmur seemed an incantation. “Relax, baby. Come for me.”
Breath hovered in her throat, in her lungs. Suspended over the rocky depths, she held back, fighting for purchase.
And then, she tumbled over.
Love Potion #7 Page 6
