Cross My Heart: A Contemporary Romance Novel

by Abigail Strom

  She hung the camisole top back in her closet and grabbed a plain blue tee shirt out of her drawer.

  A little while later she answered her door to find Michael standing there in jeans and a tee shirt of his own.

  He grinned at her. “I see I dressed appropriately for the occasion. Of course Claire insisted on picking out my clothes, so I guess I have her to thank.”

  “You look great,” she said, hoping he didn’t realize just how much she meant those innocuous words. When a man had shoulders like that, he should always wear tee shirts—or no shirt at all.

  Her mind was on his upper body and not where they were going, and they’d crossed the lawn to Michael’s driveway before she realized it. Now Michael was holding open the passenger door of his BMW.

  Jenna hesitated. She’d been thinking they could take her car, since this event had been her and Claire’s idea—and because it seemed less date-like that way.

  “Is it okay if I drive?” Michael asked after a moment passed.

  “Of course it is,” she said quickly, sliding into the seat. The mere fact that the man was driving didn’t automatically make it a date.

  Nor did the fact that he opened the club door for her, or asked her what she wanted to drink, and then went to the bar to order and pay for it. Michael was just old-school that way, like he was about walking her home.

  They took a table near the stage, on the edge of the open space where people would stand throughout the show for an opportunity to be near the legendary Albert Cray, and dance if there was enough room.

  But the show wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes, which meant she had plenty of time to notice how much like a date this felt.

  It was the way her body reacted when she was with him. The way her gaze lingered on him in spite of herself, as he leaned over to slide a cardboard coaster under one of the table legs so it wouldn’t wobble, and then rested his strong forearms on the scarred wooden surface as the waitress set their drinks down.

  Actually, she thought as she met his eyes, this was nothing like a date. Not like the dates she usually went on, anyway. Michael was thoughtful and attentive, and there was a quiet competence about him that made her feel relaxed even as his nearness raised her heart rate.

  She’d asked for a tequila sunrise, and now she noticed that he’d ordered one, too.

  “You don’t seem like the tequila type,” she said.

  “I’m not. This is my first.”

  “You can’t be serious. You’ve never tasted tequila before tonight?”

  “Nope.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Tequila’s not an ordinary drink, my friend. Your first time is a big deal.”

  He grinned at her. “It is, huh? What’s so special about it?”

  She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Different drinks go with different experiences. Wine is for mellow conversation with your friends, or when you’re at a nice restaurant for dinner. Beer is for parties and barbecues and baseball games. Tequila, on the other hand, goes perfectly with the blues. It’s earthy and sensual and just a little bit evil.”

  It’s not a date, he reminded himself. But listening to Jenna talk about tequila made him wish like hell it was.

  Not to mention the fact that driving her in his car for the first time had made him feel like a teenager going to the prom.

  “Here’s to new experiences,” he said, and took a sip.

  He set his glass down and met Jenna’s blue eyes again.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I tasted orange juice and grenadine and alcohol, but I’m not sure I got the unique tequila flavor.”

  “For that you should do a shot.”

  He was tempted. “I’m driving, but if we have a few hours—”

  “At least two.”

  Since this was the only Jenna-related temptation he could safely give into, he gave into it. “You’ve convinced me.”

  He ordered a shot for each of them, while Jenna explained the procedure—salt on the tongue, toss down the tequila, then suck on the lime wedge.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “All right, then. One, two, three.”

  The sharp taste of salt, the oily bitterness of tequila, and then the tart zing of citrus on his tongue. A shudder went through him as he set the lime wedge down in his empty shot glass.

  Jenna set her glass down beside his and grinned up at him, propping her chin on her hands.

  The fiery combination of flavors was too much like her for comfort. “A unique experience,” he said.

  “One you think you’ll repeat some day?”

  “That’s hard to say. My lifestyle doesn’t exactly lend itself to tequila shots. But if I ever do repeat the experience, I’ll think of you.”

  “Hmm. I wonder if that’s good or bad?”

  Physiologically speaking, he knew the sensation he was feeling right now wasn’t caused by the alcohol. There hadn’t been enough time for that.

  Which meant it was all Jenna.

  “Good,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  It’s not a date, he told himself as he got lost in the sapphire depths. It’s not a date, he told himself again as his gaze went to her mouth, her lips soft and full and slightly parted. Then his gaze drifted lower still, to the perfect curve of her breasts rising and falling under her tee shirt. The regular movement stilled, and he looked up to meet her eyes again.

  Damn, he thought belatedly, trying to think of something to say.

  “Did your band ever play here?” he asked quickly.

  She took a quick breath. “Years ago, when the Mollies were just starting out. We played here a few times.”

  Her eyes looked a little wistful, which made him curious. “How long has it been since you performed?”

  She thought about it. “More than two years,” she said after a moment. “Wow, I can’t believe it’s been that long. After the Mollies broke up I played solo once in a while, or did guest gigs for other bands, but then I got busy with school and studio musician work.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I haven’t been on a stage in two years.”

  “You miss it, don’t you?” he asked, signaling the waitress for another shot.

  “Yes. I used to live for the rush—the lights, the music, the connection with the audience. There’s nothing like it.” She hesitated. “Would you like to come see us? The Mollies, I mean. When we perform at the Odeon.”

  “I’d love to.”

  She looked pleased. “Great. I know you’re not a big music fan, but I’d love for you to be there.”

  He was surprised at how happy that made him. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said as the waitress set a shot down on their table.

  “You’re having another one?”

  He shook his head. “This is for you.”

  She grinned at him. “I hope you’re not trying to get me drunk, Dr. Stone. For one thing, that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of you. For another, I can hold my liquor really, really well. It would take at least five more of those before I do anything untoward.”

  He tried not to think about untoward things.

  “Just one more,” he said. “We did those other shots at the same time, and I didn’t get a chance to see you drink it. This is to further my tequila education—which, according to you, goes hand in hand with my blues education.”

  “When you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

  She licked the inside of her wrist, her tongue as delicate as a cat’s. Then she sprinkled salt on her skin, licked it off, and tossed down the shot in one swift motion. He caught a glimpse of her slender throat, and the movement of her muscles as she swallowed. Then she slammed the shot glass down and bit into the lime slice she had ready.

  “Brrr,” she said with a quick shudder, setting the lime wedge down carefully in her empty glass. “So what did you think?” she asked him, resting her chin in her hand as she looked up at him. “Did it meet your expec
tations?”

  He stared at her. “I’m speechless,” he said after a moment. “I’m going to have to ask you not to do that again, because it might give me a heart attack.”

  She laughed, and at that moment Albert Cray came out onto the stage and sat down on the stool that had been placed there, tuning his guitar and checking his microphone. As Michael looked toward the stage he saw that the floor in front of it had filled up in the last several minutes, and the people standing there had already started to clap and cheer.

  He looked back at Jenna and saw that she, too, was cheering, her eyes on the old man bent over a beat up guitar, tuning it as if he had all the time in the world. Every minute or so he’d glance up and flash a grin at the crowd as the shouts and applause grew louder.

  As Michael settled back in his chair, a feeling of well-being stole over him. It was a beautiful summer night and he was out with a beautiful woman, and the tequila he’d drunk was buzzing through his veins.

  Then Albert Cray straightened up, set his hands to his guitar, and began to play.

  From the very first note, Michael was caught. He found himself leaning forward, watching those old hands moving over the guitar strings, coaxing emotion from the wood with effortless mastery. He sang about love and loss and pain and joy, the urge to ramble and the longing to go home again, and the words echoed with the humor and wisdom of eighty years of life.

  He looked at Jenna, and saw she was leaning forward like he was, her expression rapt. He looked at the crowd of people in front of the stage, some of them dancing, some simply watching and listening.

  He was used to feeling a little separate from other people, a little apart, but he felt unexpectedly connected to everyone in the room right now, to all these strangers gathered together to hear this music.

  People continued to crowd the floor, and after a few minutes their view of the stage was blocked. He rose to his feet and held out a hand to Jenna. Their table was near the stage and it wasn’t hard to edge their way up front. It was crowded, and even though the people all seemed friendly there was some jostling, and it seemed natural to put Jenna in front of him, nearest the stage, and to lay a protective hand on her shoulder.

  The next song was a slow one, the words low and sexy, the rhythm hypnotic. Michael could feel the slight sway of Jenna’s body under his hand. Without thinking he slid his other arm around her waist and pulled her back against him, and he felt her stiffen in surprise for just a moment before she relaxed.

  He held her lightly, but they fit perfectly together. He closed his eyes and breathed in her fragrance, wishing he could bury his face in her hair.

  The music seemed to flow through both of their bodies.

  Jenna had never been so aware of another human being. When Michael’s arm slid around her waist she wanted to turn around and kiss him more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

  But even though he was a different person, he represented the same kind of danger to her that Derek once had. He could pull her off track, make her change course. And she’d promised herself after Derek that she would never make a major decision because of a man.

  She had plans for her life that didn’t include falling for a handsome doctor who lived in the town where she’d grown up. A doctor with a fourteen year old daughter who wanted nothing more than to play matchmaker for them.

  So Jenna didn’t turn around. She stayed where she was, letting Albert Cray’s ageless voice roll over her like water—like the waves of desire that made her very, very glad that Michael couldn’t see her flushed face or hear the pounding of her heart.

  And because she knew there’d be no reason for the two of them to be this close again, she let herself revel in the contact, in Michael’s strong arm around her, his hard chest behind her. She let herself revel in the sensation of being protected, even cherished.

  And desired.

  He was careful to avoid contact below the belt, but not careful enough. A few times she felt the brush of his arousal against her, and the sensation made her legs tremble and her stomach clench.

  They stayed like that for the rest of the show. The crowd called Albert Cray back for two encores before he took his final bow, and only then did Michael take a step away from her. As the two of them stood side by side, cheering, she ached to feel his touch again.

  Eventually the crowd quieted, settling into bar stools and drinks and conversation. Jenna looked up at Michael, meeting his eyes for the first time since the show started. His expression was neutral, but the tension in his jaw told her his feelings, whatever they were, were under rigid control.

  “Would you like another drink?” he asked after a moment.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you want to head out?”

  She nodded.

  A moment later they left the club and stepped out into the soft summer night, walking in silence to the lot where he’d parked. The moon, bright and full, outshone the street lights. In a few minutes they were on the road, heading out of the city.

  Jenna stole a glance at Michael as they drove. The silence between them felt electric—and painfully awkward. The longer it went on the more awkward it felt.

  Tension thrummed along every nerve ending in her body.

  He pulled up in his driveway, and she hopped out of the car before he’d even turned off the ignition. She forced herself to wait for him after that, knowing he wouldn’t let her walk home alone. And, anyway, she wasn’t such a coward that she’d run away without saying good night.

  When they reached her back door, she forced herself to speak.

  “Michael, I had a wonderful time tonight,” she said, fishing her key out of her pocket. “I, um, hope you did, too.”

  She paused, looking at his chest rather than his face, but Michael didn’t say anything. She glanced up then, and his expression made her breath catch. His jaw was tight and his eyes were dark, and he looked like something inside him was barely contained. She backed up a step and bumped into the door.

  “Well...good night,” she said quickly, turning away and fumbling with the key. Her hands were trembling and she couldn’t seem to find the lock.

  “Jenna.” It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d left the club. “You need to get inside.”

  His voice was urgent, which only made her trembling worse.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Jenna, you need to get away from me. Now.”

  She felt him take a step closer, and she knew he was only inches away. The hairs rose on the back of her neck.

  Her hand shook again, and the key fell with a metallic ping.

  “Damn,” she whispered. She leaned her forehead against the door and closed her eyes.

  “Jenna,” he said once more, his voice almost hopeless.

  A second later his hands were on her shoulders.

  He stroked down her arms, and goose bumps swept across her skin. Then he gripped her hips and pulled her against him, into the hard ridge of his arousal, and a rush of desire made her gasp.

  One of his hands slid into her hair, brushing it away from her neck, and she felt his mouth on the bare skin of her nape as his other hand moved up her body to cover her breast.

  She moaned and arched into him before she could stop herself. His hand tightened almost painfully on her breast as he thrust hard against her, and she moaned again. Then she heard his voice.

  “One night.”

  Her heart was hammering, and it took her a minute to process what he’d said. “We can’t.”

  He turned her to face him, pressing her back against the door. She’d never been so aware of a man’s physical strength, never felt so feminine in comparison.

  The look in his eyes made her shiver. “I know you’re leaving. I know you don’t want a relationship. But we can have one night.”

  He moved closer, until she could feel the heat coming off his body. He slid a hand down between them, and before she knew what he was doing he’d undone the button of her jeans. Then he
tugged down her zipper.

  He leaned down close to her ear. “I know you want this as much as I do.”

  He pressed his palm against her stomach, and every muscle there tightened. When his hand dipped lower, stroking over the satin of her panties, her head fell forward onto his shoulder.

  “Michael,” she said helplessly, but whether she wanted him to stop or keep going she wasn’t sure.

  Then his hand moved again, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties to touch her bare skin, and she felt her whole body flush when he found out exactly how much she wanted him.

  He sucked in a ragged breath. “Be with me tonight.”

  “Michael,” she said again, moving in spite of herself, her body twisting against those searching, insistent fingers as they stroked over her most sensitive skin. Her heart was beating frantically in her chest, her breath coming in short gasps.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she heard herself say, overwhelmed by confusion and longing and an ache that filled her heart as much as her body. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Be with me,” he said again, his thumb settling over her throbbing center as he slid two fingers inside her.

  She cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. His thumb was moving now in quick tight circles and the rising torrent seemed to lift her off her feet. She locked her arms around his neck as she raised her head, her body arching and twisting against his hand, and when she cried out again the sound was swallowed up as he kissed her, hard and fierce and sure, as her body spiraled tighter and tighter and higher and higher.

  He tore his mouth from hers. “You’re mine tonight. Say it.”

  “Yes,” she gasped, and then her head fell forward as her climax hit her, and she bit down on Michael’s shoulder to keep from screaming as the explosion shattered her into a thousand pieces.

  From far, far away she heard Michael murmuring her name. His lips were in her hair and his arms were tight around her as she came slowly back to earth.

  He was breathing hard, like he’d been running. “Inside,” he said, bending down to grab the key she’d dropped.

  He fitted it into the lock and pushed open the door, pulling her with him over the threshold. He was shaking, and something about that undid her. She tugged at him and he turned to her, and she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. He groaned against her mouth as he pulled her close.