Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  She’d had her fun; now it was time to end it.

  Before it was really too late.

  “You’re a million miles away, Mel Gibson.”

  She blinked at the sound of his voice and realized they were parked in front of her house. The porch lamps blazed cheerfully and the kitchen light glowed, announcing Nana’s presence.

  Melanie stared at him, unable to look away. She wanted to say something, anything, but she couldn’t force any sound past the lump lodged in her throat. God help her, she didn’t want to go inside and leave him. But she needed to end this before he did and left her in tatters.

  He touched her cheek with a single, gentle finger. “I’m sort of at a loss for words.”

  Melanie swallowed. “Yeah. Me, too.” Say goodbye. Say have a nice life. Get out of the car. Her mouth and feet refused to cooperate with her brain. She remained silent and motionless.

  Taking her hands, he entwined their fingers. “This was the most incredible weekend of my life,” he said in a soft, husky voice.

  Not trusting her voice, she simply nodded. Tears were on their way, and it took all her concentration to hold them at bay.

  “I’m leaving on a business trip tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “and unfortunately I won’t get back until late Friday night. How about I pick you up Saturday morning and take you out for breakfast?”

  “Chris, I— “

  “I want you to spend the night again. The whole weekend.” A sexy half grin touched his lips. “We still have some skinny-dipping to do.”

  ‘I can’t.” There. She’d said it. Whew!

  “Why not?”

  Good question. “I, ah, can’t sleep over.”

  “Sleeping wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  The tears hovering close to the surface threatened to spill over. Sure, that was fine. He had nothing to lose. A few weeks of sexual fun and games, then he’d move on to the next woman.

  And that was the way it was supposed to be for her, but her heart was involved, damn it. Even though she’d firmly ordered it not to, her stupid heart had jumped into love faster than ice melted in July.

  “Listen,” she said, “last night was fun, but— “

  “No buts. As I recall, you owe me a cooking lesson. You’re not trying to welsh on your promise, are you?”

  “I never promised— “

  “Because I deal with promise-welshers very harshly.” His tongue traced a warm path up her palm, and a legion of pleasurable tingles skittered up her arm. “You’d find yourself on the receiving end of a severe tongue-lashing.”

  Oh, my. Clearly his definition of a tongue-lashing was not the one that appeared in Webster’s Dictionary. The mere thought evaporated her concentration like a puddle in the Sahara.

  “And then there’s the matter of the tennis match you want to play,” he murmured against her palm. “How’s your game?”

  “Ah, pretty good. Why?”

  “There’s a guy at work I wouldn’t mind trouncing on the court. You up for the challenge?”

  She looked into his beautiful dark blue eyes and knew she couldn’t refuse. Not when her hormones and every bone in her traitorous body had joined forces and ganged up on her. She didn’t stand a chance. So she’d spend one more weekend with him. And guard her heart the entire time. And then end it.

  “Okay, you’ve got yourself a tennis match. And since I’d never let it be said that I’m a promise-welsher, I’ll teach you how to cook something. Any requests?”

  A half smile curved his lips. “Lots of them.”

  “I meant for our cooking lesson.”

  “Oh. Anything, as long as it’s not complicated. You have a very bad effect on my ability to concentrate.” Cupping her face between his palms, he kissed her long and deep, until she could barely recall what planet she lived on. “See what I mean?” he whispered against her lips. “I can’t remember what we were just talking about”

  “Tennis lesson. Cooking match,” she whispered back. Whew. What a relief. He didn’t affect her concentration at all.

  Not one little bit.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  *

  ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, Chris sat on a Chicago-bound jet and tried to focus on the spreadsheet illuminated on his laptop screen. But his mind refused to cooperate.

  All he could think about was his early morning conversation with Glenn Waxman about the vacant store across from Pampered Palate, and how that conversation would ultimately affect Melanie’s loan.

  Glenn hadn’t known about the proposed restaurant. Chris squeezed his eyes shut and stifled a groan. Well, he knows now, thanks to me. In fact, Glenn had been very grateful for the information, explaining that if the review had gone to the bank missing such a pertinent fact, the firm would have looked extremely foolish.

  Chris had pointed out that since he’d merely overheard the conversation, there was always the chance the info was incorrect. Glenn had promised to verify the fact before adding it to the review.

  It won’t matter, he told himself for what had to be the hundredth time. She’ll still get the loan.

  Yet no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, a sick ball of dread cramped his stomach and refused to budge. Glenn had said the review should be finished by the end of the week, which meant Melanie would hear from the bank by the middle of next week.

  Since she’d only worry, he’d decided there was no point in telling her what he’d done until Glenn had verified the information and she knew the bank’s decision. It was only a matter of a few days, and he reasoned that by remaining quiet he’d save her from getting an ulcer. After she heard from the bank, he’d tell her. If the loan was approved, he had nothing to worry to about.

  If it wasn’t, he’d simply explain why he’d done what he had.

  And pray he didn’t lose her in the process.

  *

  WHEN THE DOORBEL l rang at nine A.M. Saturday morning, Melanie inhaled a calming breath and forced herself to walk slowly down the stairs. She knew Chris stood on the other side of the door, and she didn’t want to appear overly anxious.

  Not that she was overly anxious to see him. Not a bit. After all, she’d just seen him five days ago. She huffed out a breath. Had it only been five days? It had felt like five years. Five long, dreary years in solitary confinement.

  Get a grip, Melanie. He’d called and texted while he was away, but every communication had only left her aching for him. For his touch, his arms around her, his kiss—

  Tossing in the towel, she ran down the last few steps and threw open the door.

  Before she could so much as say hello, he’d snatched her against him, and covered her mouth with his in a deep, tongue mating kiss. Every cell in her body melted and sighed, welcome home.

  Nipping tiny kisses along her jaw, he said, “Boy, I’m sure glad it wasn’t Nana who opened the door.”

  A breathless laugh escaped Melanie. “A kiss like that and poor Nana would pass out. I’m feeling a bit faint myself.”

  The sexy half grin she loved eased over his face. “As promising as that sounds, it’ll have to keep. We’re due on the tennis court in forty-five minutes.”

  “Forty-five minutes! I thought we had a breakfast date. I’m starving.” I want to stay here and kiss you. All day.

  “Change of plans. We can grab a bagel and coffee on the way to the courts.” His gaze roamed over her cherry red sundress and wedge sandals. “You look great, but you should change into your tennis gear.” He glanced at his watch. “Not to rush you, but you have about three minutes. We’re playing that guy at my firm I mentioned I’d like to beat— Dave Webber— and his girlfriend-of-the-moment, whose name escapes me. Dave’s bested me the last three times we’ve played and he’s pretty insufferable about it. I really want to wump him today.”

  “Three minutes? Are you serious?”

  “Yup.” He grinned and gently tugged one on her curls. “And you’re down to two minutes and fifty seconds.”

  Muttering unde
r her breath about aggravating men, she walked— okay, more like stomped— up the stairs. Darn man. Who did he think he was, kissing her like that then calmly announcing tennis plans as if he hadn’t just rocked her world and gotten her all hot and bothered? And how the heck was she supposed to “wump” anybody at tennis if she didn’t eat breakfast first? And three minutes to change her clothes? Who could change clothes that fast? She had half a mind to tell him to get lost and—

  “Melanie?”

  She turned and gazed down at him, standing at the bottom of the stairs, his expression serious, looking more beautiful than any man had a right to, which only served to aggravate her more. “Yes?”

  “I missed you.”

  And just like that her annoyance evaporated— which probably should have annoyed her, but didn’t. He’d missed her. Well, good. Because she’d missed him, too. Constantly. Of course, it wasn’t necessary that he know that. Mimicking his earlier words, she said, “That sounds promising, but I need to buck up. There’s a tennis match to play, you know.”

  *

  IT TOOK MELANIE all of two minutes to agree with Chris that Dave Webber was indeed insufferable about his previous victories on the tennis court. Dave’s girlfriend, Jenni, sported an innocent smile and a killer forehand. Not good indications for a wumping.

  The match began with Chris serving first. His first serve landed in the net, as did his second one, resulting in a double fault. He switched court sides, and promptly double faulted away another point

  Melanie switched courts again and looked back at him from her position near the net. “You okay?”

  He frowned and nodded. And promptly double faulted again.

  Melanie walked back to the baseline. “What’s wrong?” she asked in an undertone. “Are you nervous? You served beautifully in the warm-up.”

  “I’m not nervous,” he said in a distinctly annoyed voice.

  She raised her brows at his tone. “Then what’s with you? You said you wanted to beat this guy, and I don’t blame you. He’s totally obnoxious. May I remind you that the idea is to hit the ball over the net? That expression ‘nothing but net’ is for basketball, not tennis.”

  “I know that.”

  “Could have fooled me. If you’re not nervous, then what’s wrong?”

  “Your ass.”

  She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Your ass. That damn short tennis skirt. Those long legs staring me right in the face. You look incredible. I can’t concentrate. Every time I try to serve, I see you up at the net, half bent over, and I lose it.”

  “As much as I appreciate the compliment about my, er, ass, we have a whole match to play here. If you can pull yourself together, we can hand this guy the thrashing he deserves.”

  “Okay.” He eyed her legs. “Would you consider slipping on a pair of sweatpants?”

  “Have you lost your mind? It’s ninety-five degrees out here!”

  “Are we playing tennis or chatting?” Dave called from the other side of the net.

  “We’re strategizing,” Chris called back. “Give us a minute.” He turned back to Melanie. “All right. No sweatpants. But I need some kind of incentive.”

  Melanie narrowed her eyes. “Like what?”

  A wolfish grin curved his lips. “What do I get if I win?”

  “What do you want?”

  He leaned forward and whispered one word in her ear. “You.”

  Her nipples tightened and a blush scorched her skin. She tightened her grip on her tennis racket to keep it from slipping from her boneless fingers. “You know, talking about that isn’t going to help my tennis game any,” she whispered back.

  His gaze flicked to her nipples. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Based on your game so far, wild monkey sex isn’t in your immediate future, so if that’s the incentive you need, fine.” Yeah— she’d somehow muster up the courage to get naked with him. “You’re on.”

  Walking back to her position at the net, Melanie prepared for Chris’s next serve. Seconds later the ball zoomed by her ear with gale-force strength for an ace. He went on to serve another ace, then another, and then one more to even the score at deuce. She and Chris won the next two points to take the game.

  Tossing her a wink, he said, “See? I just needed a little incentive.”

  They battled it out for another two hours, but finally Melanie and Chris won in three close sets. The instant after everyone shook hands, Chris scooped up the tennis gear, grabbed Melanie’s hand, shouted goodbye, and strode off the courts.

  “Whoa!” Melanie said, breaking into a jog to keep up with him. “Where’s the fire?”

  He stopped abruptly and kissed her with an intensity that blew the bottoms off her Nikes.“Feel the fire?”

  Oh, yeah. She felt it, all right. All the way down to her smoldering toes. Mutely, she nodded.

  “Then let’s go. ‘Cause as much as I love you in that skimpy skirt, I can’t wait to get you out of it.”

  Again Melanie simply nodded. Who the heck was she to argue with logic like that?

  *

  THE FIFTEEN-MINUTE RIDE to his condo was an exercise in agony for Chris. God, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. Touch her soft skin, feel her pressed against him. He’d missed her so damn much, he’d wanted to fall on her the moment he’d seen her, but he knew he couldn’t or they’d never make it to the tennis courts. Now the match was over, and she was all his. Thank God.

  But for how long?

  Glenn had told him that his inquiries revealed that an eatery called Spaghetti Loco was indeed scheduled to open across the street from the Pampered Palate— information that had been included in the review and that Chris suspected would sway the bank’s decision concerning Melanie’s loan. Would she blame him if the bank turned her down? And if she did, would he lose her?

  No. Damn it, he wouldn’t allow that to happen.

  Needing to touch her, he held her hand the entire way home, and the instant the condo door closed behind them, he pulled her to him, kissing her with a heated desperation unlike anything he’d ever felt before. His hungry lips trailed a hot path down her neck while his restless hands slid up her thighs, under her skirt

  “I don’t think we’re going to make it to the bedroom,” he whispered against her mouth. He slipped his fingers into the waistband of her tennis panties and tugged them down over her hips.

  “I don’t think we’re going to make it out of the foyer,” Melanie agreed in a breathless voice, her fingers busily working on his shorts.

  “How do you feel about the floor?” he asked, jerking her top from her skirt.

  “Works for me.”

  *

  “THIS FLOOR IS damn hard,” Melanie moaned fifteen minutes later. “I feel a killer cramp coming on.”

  Chris, lying flat on his back next to her on the hardwood, grimaced in clear agreement. “Next time let’s at least try and make it to the sofa, okay?”

  “Agreed. At the very least you need a rug in here. I just want to know which one of us is going to get up and call the paramedics for the other one.”

  He chuckled. “Hey, we kicked some serious butt on the tennis court. Thanks for helping me put Dave in his place. I’m going to rename you Maria Sharapova.”

  “Thank you, Roger Federer.” Melanie raised herself on one elbow and gazed down at him. He looked happy and tired, but unless she was mistaken, and it appeared obvious she wasn’t, he was on his way toward full-blown arousal again. A half-laugh, half-groan escaped her. Looking pointedly at his groin, she asked, “Good grief, is that what I think it is?”

  Lifting his head off the floor, he looked down at himself. “I’m afraid so.” Moaning, he rolled to his feet then helped her up. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, he said, “C’mon, Ms. Tennis Ace. Let’s wander into the bedroom and you can finish paying off your debt of honor. Then, in keeping with our getting-wet-on-every-date tradition, we’ll take a shower. After that you can teach me how to cook. How does that s
ound?”

  How did that sound? “It sounds like heaven.”

  *

  THEY DIDN’T GET around to their cooking lesson until late Sunday afternoon.

  Dressed in shorts and her favorite T-shirt with Kiss the Cook emblazoned across the chest, Melanie forced herself to concentrate on the lesson, but it was darn hard to do when her pupil kept nuzzling her neck.

  “Behave yourself,” she scolded in her best schoolmarm voice. “What kind of student are you?”

  “I’m just following directions,” Chris said. He brushed his fingertips over her breasts. “It clearly says right here to kiss the cook.”

  “If you don’t knock it off, I’ll have to take this shirt off.”

  “Great! Boy, this cooking sure is fun!”

  Melanie grabbed a wooden spoon and brandished it like a sword. “Don’t make me get rough with you.”

  He grinned. “This gets better and better.”

  Planting her hands on her hips, she said, “Back off. Cooking is serious business. No fooling around until we’re done.”

  “Then let’s hurry up and get done ‘cause fooling around sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than cooking. Carry on, fearless chef. What are we making?”

  “I call it ‘The Only Sauce You’ll Ever Need.’ You can use it for dozens of things, it’s very simple to prepare, and you don’t have to use exact amounts of any of the ingredients.”

  “Sounds good to me. As you know, the only things I know how to make are steak, potatoes, and martinis.”

  “Not anymore. The first thing you do is coarsely chop about a dozen plum tomatoes.” She demonstrated, using deft strokes of a sharp knife.

  “That looks easy.”

  “Then we’re in good shape because that’s the hardest part.” She continued her lesson, adding chopped onions, minced garlic, olive oil, chopped fresh basil, and salt and pepper to the bowl of tomatoes. “That’s it,” she said, stirring the ingredients with a wooden spoon.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. It’s so easy, it’s almost laughable.”

  Chris peered into the bowl. “What do you do with it?”