She took the glass from him and had a sip, tried to concentrate on the tickle of bubbles down her throat rather than the tickle of butterflies stretching their wings in her stomach just from being next to him.
This was ridiculous. He was a client. She’d dealt with lots of clients before and none had made her tickly inside. ‘I don’t want to share secrets with you, Jack Brennan.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ The intense stare was mocking and teasing. Serious—yet there was a glimmer of amusement. Once again she got the feeling he was holding back every ounce of emotion, be it humour, anger or desire. The man was the very essence of self-control.
And she was torn between shaking him and kissing him again. Just for a reaction. Something unprepared, spontaneous. Just to see those gilded sparks in his eyes again. The ones he’d had trouble hiding last week. Would the real Jack Brennan please stand up? ‘Yes. Absolutely. No secret-sharing.’
‘Because if you’re talking about the other night…?’
She held up a finger. ‘No. Don’t talk about it. Pretend it never happened.’
‘What never happened?’ He was closer now, his musky male scent joining in the teasing, adding yet another thing she had to try to ignore.
‘The kiss.’ Even as she said it her eyes drifted to that sensual mouth, her body burning with a need for more. But she dampened it down. She would not kiss him again.
His stare deepened, glittering. Gotcha. ‘What kiss?’
‘Atta boy. You really aren’t just a pretty face.’
‘Apparently not.’ He clinked his glass against hers and took another drink. ‘But, just for the record, you do taste good.’
Whoa. When he allowed himself to let go a little he certainly left an impression; this time it was heat seeping across her abdomen. ‘Okaaaay. What did we have for dinner? In case she asks.’
‘It was chicken stuffed with cheese. Some potato and cream thing and boiled vegetables. Nice.’
She laughed. ‘Have you ever thought of becoming a food critic? Or making some kind of reality food programme?’
‘No?’
‘Good. Don’t. The way you describe any kind of edible dish is an insult.’
‘Food is food, however you dress it up.’ His voice whispered over her neck like a soft summer breeze, sending ripples of desire skittering through her.
‘Don’t tell the Michelin chefs that or you’ll be banned for life.’
‘With their reduction of jus of lamb’s lettuce on a deconstructed vol-au-vent? That kind of talk is just food porn.’
‘No.’ But with that voice saying those words it was a close run thing—making the food sound impossibly sexy. She imagined him feeding it to her with his fingers.
She really was losing her mind.
A hush rippled through the room, a clinking of knives against glassware as the MC entered the stage. His words of praise for her sister’s charity work brought a tear to Cassie’s eye. Sasha had fought hard to find her happy ending—and had made a lot of other people happy along the way—even if her Mr Right hadn’t turned out to be the kind of guy she’d planned for. But then Sasha had always believed the right guy would be out there somewhere. Unfortunately, Cassie didn’t share her sister’s optimism.
After the award-giving and speeches a waiter arrived and served them with chocolate mousse. Cassie blew the errant curl of hair from in front of her eyes again and was just about to dig in to the dessert when Jack’s hand was on her wrist.
‘Your hair. Wait.’ Reaching up, he softly took the curl, twirled it a couple of times through his fingers then clipped it into place on the side of her head. ‘There you go. Shouldn’t get in the way now.’
A shiver of goose bumps ran the length of her body. ‘Thanks. You seem pretty adept at doing that.’
‘I used to do my sister’s hair when she was little.’
‘Oh. That’s…’ Cassie’s chest tightened. It had been such a tender and innocent gesture and an even more honest and sweet admission that she could feel her defences stripping away. And even though she knew it would be stupid to find out anything more personal about him, she couldn’t help asking, ‘That’s an odd thing for a brother to do. Why you? Why did you do it?’
He looked away, as if deciding what to say. When he turned back to her, his face was serious. And she recognised the one thing she knew about Jack Brennan by now—he was hiding something. Something that hurt deeply. ‘Shh. I think someone’s about to say something on stage.’
Another tinkle of knives on glasses and more awards were announced. For a few moments she couldn’t help but watch him out of the corner of her eye. The proud, successful media man with a string of his own awards. Who had tidied his sister’s hair. Who was hell-bent on organsing her wedding yet woefully reluctant to share anything deeper than a paper cut. Every time she thought she was digging deeper he slammed a wall up.
And he was the wiser one here. Because she didn’t need to know more, didn’t need to know a great deal about him past his choice of lemon or hazelnut chocolate torte.
She’d make a point to ask him whether he’d spoken to Lizzie about the wedding just as soon as it was appropriate, to make an appointment to see her and get this wedding over with. That was, after all, the only thing she should be interested in.
*
Jack was hanging on with white knuckles. Four days in the freezing Arctic Circle had had absolutely no effect. He was still hot as hell for Cassie. He managed to keep his libido almost in check until the awards ceremony ended and the dance music began. Within seconds, Nate and Sasha had appeared on the dance floor and he watched Cassie watching them.
If he’d thought rationally he’d have known she’d be here tonight. But rationality had fled somewhere around the moment he’d taken those steps towards her outside her apartment, and had been strangely elusive ever since.
And if he’d thought she couldn’t be any more attractive than wearing a flimsy gypsy get-up he’d been woefully wrong on that account too. Because here she stood out as the most beautiful woman in the room. Apart from that cute strand that kept bobbing around her cheek, her hair was swept up in a neat sophisticated style, showing off her delicate cheekbones and long graceful neck. But the dress. Man. Barely-there soft black fabric that hugged her curves, falling to layers and layers of skirt. He ached to run his hand around that nipped-in waist.
And the back. Whoa. He swallowed. Hard. His fingers itched to untie the tiny ribbons that criss-crossed her smooth straight back and let that delicate fabric fall to the floor.
Even though his wayward hormones had reached fever-pitch he was sitting here almost bleating on about a past he’d buried. Something he never did. Because he’d spent many, many years avoiding any kind of emotional connection—and there was something about Cassie that seemed to be hammering on that barricade just a little too loudly.
Beautiful, yes. Sensual, yes. But wild and unleashed, untamed. There was too much risk with this woman. She knocked him off his guard, made him say things that should never be said; either flirty and funny—which he just wasn’t used to doing. Or deep and meaningful, which was worse. She had too much of an effect on him. Too much.
He needed to leave. On his own. To pass Cassie’s details over to his sister and have nothing more to do with her. But there was Nate, nodding and gesturing for them to go join them on the dance floor. He was here by Nate’s invitation—it would be rude to not take an interest in his family. Even though dancing and he were very rare bedfellows. Watching, yes. Moving, no.
He caught her attention. ‘That dress was made for dancing.’
She shook her head and ignored his outstretched hand. ‘Yes, but unfortunately this body isn’t, plus I need to go home. Now.’
That body was made for kissing. For his hands. For his bed. For someone who wasn’t so damned buttoned up. For someone, not him, who was willing to take a risk. Could he? The notion flitted through his head. ‘You don’t dance? Every woman likes to dance, surely?’
He imagined her in full good-time throttle and the thought of her bright light partying hard almost blinded him. Offering his hand again, he nodded to it. ‘Come on then, just one dance—help me out here. Nate and Sasha are waving us over. Don’t leave me standing here like a lemon.’
‘No. I really do have to go. I’ve got to prep for tomorrow.’ She stifled a yawn and for the first time he noticed dark circles under her eyes. Fatigue laced her voice and he felt a pang of guilt that he’d berated her for being late. It wasn’t as if she was putting her work second to a hedonistic lifestyle. ‘It’s a corporate buffet lunch. I should have done it earlier, but there was the tax thing and then I needed to come here so I have a lot to do when I get home.’ She waved at Sasha and stood, picking up a jewelled clutch bag and shoving it purposefully under her arm. ‘This party is well and truly over for me. Enjoy the rest of the night. Ciao.’
And with that she turned her back. Giving him the glorious view of a sharp, elegant backbone, of ribbons that begged to be undone and a distinctly disturbing feeling that things were far from over.
FIVE
An hour later, with fifty bread tartlet shells cooling on a rack, lamb meatballs rolled and resting and hummus whizzed to within an inch of its life, Cassie leaned against her kitchen bench and took a long, slow breath. Damn the man. Even heavy-duty cooking hadn’t been able to save her from her thoughts. It would have been very easy to slip into those arms, to feel the strength emanating from him. To rest her head against that crisp shirt. To breathe in that male smell. Too easy.
But she’d scraped together every scrap of self-control and left.
Yay, me.
Jeez, self-control was a real doozie. She still wanted his hands on her. To taste him again. But wanting and having weren’t part of her plan. Her business was. Strictly business. And, by the look of her to-do list, the business would be keeping her up into the small hours tonight.
She hauled a large bag of kiwi fruit from her pantry cupboard and began to peel, jumping when her front door buzzer blared through her daydreams.
She pressed on the intercom button. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Cassie.’ The voice was unmistakable. Her heart skittered and jumped, despite the knowledge that having him distract her again would probably mean working through the night. All she needed was dreamboat man in her house and her self-control would spoil like over-microwaved chocolate. A sticky, unusable mess.
‘Jack? What do you want? It’s late. I’m busy.’ Her own voice was thready and high, yet hoarse. She leaned her head against the wall. Lead me not into temptation.
‘You forgot something.’
‘Oh? Okay, thanks. I’ll come down.’ When she opened the door he was standing half sheltered by her first-floor balcony, rain falling in thick sheets onto the rest of him. His penguin suit thoroughly and totally soaked, no tie, his open-necked shirt sticking to him, hair slicked across his forehead. But his eyes were lit with a bright heat.
His expression was dark and intense. ‘You got changed. Pity.’
Whoa. That was unexpected. The man was usually so uptight. Now he was here, saying things that made her hot and jittery.
‘Cooking’s hard in a cocktail dress. Those domestic goddess types don’t really exist, you know. Don’t believe everything you see on the television. You, of all people, should know that.’ Although she wished she hadn’t chosen her slouchy yoga pants and a washed-out singlet topped off nicely with a sexy devil apron. She watched his gaze travel down her front to the slogan: Too Hot to Handle, the cartoon picture of a semi-naked hot body clad in tight red bikini, large comedy boobs and forked tail. And winced. Always the dream was better than reality, in so many ways. ‘It was a gift.’
‘Very thoughtful. Very interesting. And are you? Too hot?’
Looking at him? She couldn’t be any hotter. ‘Just fine, thanks.’ Confused, she noted his empty hands. She had her bag and her shoes—that was everything she’d taken out with her for the evening. Through that strange hoarse voice that was thick with want she spluttered, ‘So, what did I forget?’
‘This.’ Without any hesitation, he stepped into the hallway, hands circling her waist as he crushed his mouth onto hers, filling her with his taste. There was no time to resist—not that she could have if she’d wanted to. This time he branded her with his mouth-scorching kisses across her lips, her neck. There was nothing tender or gentle. His face was intense, shadowed, his smell of elemental man and heat firing all her senses.
Breath stalled in her chest. He was here. For her. Taking what she’d tried so hard not to give. But how could she resist this? Him? She’d pushed him away earlier; she sure as hell didn’t possess enough restraint to do it a second time. Snaking her hands around his neck, she pulled him closer.
‘God, Cassie.’ His mouth was close to her ear, his voice a wicked whisper that somehow hit every hot spot between her head and her toes. ‘Still no bra?’
‘You noticed?’
‘You’re joking? Every guy in the room noticed. Every guy watched you. Every guy wanted you.’ For a man usually so controlled there was nothing in his demeanour that showed turning up wet and uninvited was stepping out of his comfort zone. That saying words that made her belly fizz was in any way unusual. Every step was measured, intent. And hot. So hot. Was this a glimpse of the real Jack? If so, he was mind-blowingly sexy.
When his hand reached under her top and his palm closed over her breast, a moan escaped her lips—an automatic instinctive reaction that she couldn’t control. Her thoughts became wisps of nothing against the sexual need that swelled within her. Her body overrode any rational notion. She pressed against him, closing off any space between them, greedy for more of his touch, her hands flat against a body that she was sure would look a heap better without those wet clothes slicking to it.
His hands trailed from her breasts, leaving them aching for more of his touch, to her bottom, and he lifted her from the floor. ‘Cassie, no underwear at all? Really?’
‘Really. It’s a comfort thing.’
‘It’s a turn-on thing,’ he growled as he pressed even closer, hands closing over her bottom, edging closer and closer to the inside of her thigh.
Thanking the god of body control knickers that she’d had the foresight to take them off—rather, squeeze them off before they severed her circulation—she curled her legs round his waist, felt the hardness of his erection tease her sweet spot. Pinning her against the wall, he deepened the kiss. Her hands shook as she gripped his shoulders then explored the taut outline of his back, his throat, his hair. She eyed the stairwell and wondered briefly whether her neighbours might appear at any moment. But she almost didn’t care. She gave in, instead, to the pleasure of his tongue on her skin.
How long he kissed her she didn’t know but when he finally pulled away she felt bereft. Lost. Desperate for more.
Her mouth tingled with the pressure from his. The mouth she wanted to feel in other places too. She thought he was going to do more. To offer her more. She wanted more. ‘Well, wow. That was…something else.’
Resting his forehead against hers, he bridled his rapid breathing. ‘What was?’
‘That kiss.’
‘What kiss?’ He gave her a reluctant smile, playing her as she’d played him earlier. Ha, as if she could pretend that kiss had never happened. Twice. Instead of giving her more, he shrugged and lowered her to the floor. The places his hands had been literally begged to be touched and stroked again. But he was clearly reining in his desire. ‘So how’s the prepping going?’
He wanted to talk about work?
After that? Work could go to hell. She wanted to lock lips with him again and again until she’d had enough. Would that ever happen? He stood straight and brushed her hair from her face, his eyes serious and…concerned? Which was a little freaky because she’d have bet anything that concern was not what he wanted to convey.
‘The corporate lunch?’ Yes, he wanted to talk about her work.
And, really, work couldn’t go to hell. ‘I’m getting there. A couple more hours and I’ll be done.’
If she wasn’t mistaken, he was working through something in his head. He looked conflicted and immediately regretful of the kiss, but he gestured upstairs. ‘Then what are we waiting for? I’m here to help.’
Oh, she had a list of things he could help her with and none of them involved food. Actually, visions of the man butt-naked apart from a few strategically placed strawberries and an indecent amount of whipped cream tripped through her brain. That could be fun.
No.
She took a long look at him, wondering if he was the kind of man who would let loose in the bedroom. Hell, he’d surprised her by just turning up uninvited. And she really knew she should just make him go and let her get on with her work—if not for the list of reasons that had earlier been playing round and round her head like catchy tasteless elevator music. Numero uno being the fact that the last time she’d let a man into her home he’d disappeared with the contents of her bank account.
But, truth be told, she had an unfathomable amount of chopping to do. If she made sure she was in charge and didn’t let herself get carried away by looking at him, things would be okay. Just once. ‘Well, okay, but don’t touch anything unless I tell you. And be careful with the knives; they’re sharp.’
‘Not a patch on your smart tongue, I’m sure. And thanks always goes down well.’
Her Client from Hell Page 6
