He stopped halfway between the main building and his Jaguar. "Don't worry about my appointment. It's only my accountant. Believe me, he'll wait."
She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him toward his car. "Goodbye, John. I'll see you tonight."
"I want to see what renovations you're doing." His eyes twinkled in the sunlight. "Any heart-shaped bathtubs?"
"Forget it. You're not going to see anything." If he got one glimpse of the sophisticated computer equipment being installed on the first floor, it would be all over. "I'll meet you at seven for dinner."
"I'll pick you up."
"No, you won't. From now on, The White Elephant is off-limits."
"Even if I promise not to steal your ideas?"
She had to laugh at the studiedly innocent expression on his face. "Even if you sign it in blood. This is business, Tyler."
"When do I get to see the finished product?"
She nudged him into his car. "In a few weeks."
On the front page of every major newspaper in the world.
She stood in the driveway, and it wasn't until the Jag disappeared around the bend that her hands began to shake.
PAX knew how to play rough, and when it came time to secure the grounds for a Summit Meeting, she didn't dare think about what would happen to an intruder.
John couldn't get that close again.
She would have to make certain of that.
#
Why had he done it?
John stared at the disaster that used to be Hideaway Haven's legendary nightclub. Empty bottles of Bud Lite glittered in the spotlight. Half-eaten pastrami sandwiches vied for table space with hunks of prime rib worthy of Henry VIII. Slices of pickles and jars of mustard sat forgotten on the steps next to the three exhausted musicians who just happened to be his old friends.
"I must be nuts," he said, picking his way over the wires covering the path to the stage. "I could've said no." He pushed aside a faded dill pickle and sat down on the top step, stage right. "Is it too late to back out?"
Terry, who was sprawled on the floor near the drums, lifted his head. "Try it and you're dead, Animal. Five days and counting."
John still wasn't used to hearing his old nickname again, even though for the past ten days it seemed he'd heard little else. Juggling corporate duties with rock 'n' roll had him feeling slight schizophrenic.
"How the hell did I get that name anyway? He asked, eyeing a pickle spear with suspicion.
"Don't look at me," Dave said. "Before my time."
"You've got ten years on all of us. Nothing's before your time," Terry shot back and the new guy shrugged and withdrew.
Frankie laughed from his perch under a speaker. "The way I remember it, it was that time you . . . " He recounted an incident in San Diego that made John blanch.
"Yeah, I think I remember now."
Sometimes it amazed him that he'd made it to thirty-five with all of his body parts intact. "I'm not rehearsing again tonight, guys."
"So what else is new?" Terry stifled a yawn. "You been skipping out on us every night since we got here."
John listed a fraction of his corporate holdings. "These things take time."
"Yeah, and so do beautiful women."
"Can't argue with that," said John, thinking of Maggie and the last nine evenings he'd spent with her. They'd dined at every great restaurant between there and Delaware, including Le Bec Fin and were sated on great wine and greater food, soft candlelight and sweet music.
All the elements for a great romance were there for the asking.
Except one.
For two adults who between them owned three hundred and seventeen bedrooms, they were incredibly reluctant to do their romancing anywhere but the front seat of his car.
But there was no way around it.
With his three pals staying in the main house and the No Vacancy sign posted, there was no way John could invite Maggie in.
You didn't bed your future wife with your middle-aged high school buddies snickering down on the ground floor.
And Maggie had told him in no uncertain terms that The White Elephant was off-limits at the moment. Every time he so much as suggested picking her up at the Inn, she reminded him that he was her competition and she wasn't about to let him in on any of her secrets.
The morning he'd dropped in on her unexpectedly she'd seemed nervous and uncomfortable, more so than the situation had warranted.
But, then, his vantage point was vastly different than hers. Hideaway Haven was just part of his empire. In a year or two business would be stabilized, and he would move on to another challenge.
The White Elephant was everything to Maggie.
She'd made it clear the inn was out of bounds until the renovations were completed, and for now he would respect her wishes.
Unfortunately so were every other hotel, motel and inn in the area. The last thing either one of them needed was another front page picture in the Pocono Bugle and a cute story about "love in the air."
So for nine nights he'd tortured himself with wild bouts of necking in his Jaguar that left him wired and ready to snap.
Something had to give, and soon, or he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.
"Is there something wrong with your hearing, Animal?"
John started, knocking a pickle spear down onto the red plush carpeting that outlined the dance floor. "Did I miss something?"
Terry shook his head, amused. "You're really out of it, guy. Better get some sleep tonight."
John waited for the bawdy remark. "I'm disappointed," he said after a moment. "I figured there was a punch line to that statement."
Terry laughed and cadged a cigarette from Frankie. "No punch line. We just decided to check out some of the local establishments before the wives show up tomorrow. Maybe sit in with a couple of bands.
"Great idea," said John, imagining how the Pennsy Polka Princes would feel about jamming with some leather-jacketed types from Brooklyn. "Knock yourselves out."
Terry lowered his voice. "We'll be out most of the night."
He scratched his head in amazement. "I'm slipping, aren't I?"
"Damned straight. I thought you exec types jumped to the bottom line right off the bat."
"Getting old," he said as he thought of Maggie. "How late did you say you'd be out?"
Terry shrugged. "Until one, maybe two."
John grinned. "Enjoy yourself."
"You, too." To his complete amazement, Terry managed to keep a straight face.
The fire had already been lit.
Tonight it was time to fan the flames.
#
Nine evenings of breathless, glorious kissing -- and little else -- were making a wreck out of Maggie.
Where was the intrepid spirit of the hopeless romantic?
There was no reason on earth Maggie could determine that explained John's not asking her in for coffee. Or drinks. Or a grand tour of that unique room on the third floor.
Maybe he had her pegged as a cautious, careful woman, the kind of woman who needed a slow and thorough wooing.
Well, that slow and thorough wooing was doing her in.
Those lingering kisses on the dance floor of Andre's, the banquette of Le Petit and the front seat of his Jaguar were making her crazy.
So was the feel of his fingers against the small of her back. And the way his muscles rippled beneath his dress shirt as she ran her palms across his massive shoulders.
Nine evenings of driving home in a sensual fog more powerful than anything champagne could induce.
Nine evenings of lying awake, looking at her freshly painted ceiling, wondering when on earth he was going to make his move.
Finally on the tenth night, when the windows on the Jag fogged after their first kiss, he invited her inside.
They strolled casually into the sun room, each trying to pretend that there was nothing out of the ordinary about it.
He poured them each a snifter of brandy.
<
br /> They picked up where they'd left off in the car, necking and talking in the way that was becoming as familiar to Maggie as the sound of her own breathing.
"So, what next? You graduated Antioch and --"
Maggie tilted her head slightly left as John nibbled along the side of her neck. "I traveled. I worked. I got married." She slipped her hands inside the open neck of his shirt, hoping to throw a distraction in his path. "Nothing too exciting."
"Where'd do you -- Tahiti? The Marquesas?"
She shivered with pleasure as he gently tugged her earlobe. "The usual itinerary: bummed my way around Europe." With a Rolls-Royce and expense account and access to the same information as the president and the premier.
He stretched full-length on the sofa and drew Maggie down on top of him. "I find it hard to believe you've ever done anything ordinary, Maggie. It just doesn't fit the image."
"Image?" She laughed against his shoulder. "I didn't know I had one."
"You've got one, all right." His fingers massaged the base of her spine, and she felt as hedonistic as a kitten stretching in a pool of sunshine. "The mystery woman."
The muscles in her shoulders stiffened, and she hoped he wouldn't notice. "Should I call my lawyers?" she asked lightly.
"Depends on how you feel about being mysterious. It seems you've kept a pretty low profile around here the last few years."
"That shouldn't be so hard to understand. I did lose my husband, John."
He massaged his way up to her shoulders, obviously aware of the tension gathering there. "Rumor has it you've struck out more men than the entire Yankees bullpen."
For a moment there she'd been afraid her PAX connections might be coming back to haunt her, but she should have known better. The organization had covered her tracks so smoothly that not even Rick had ever known about his wife the spy.
"I have high standards," she said, kissing his delectable lower lip. "Few men can live up to them."
"Is that a challenge?" He turned on his side, wedging her between his hard body and the soft couch.
"Think you're up to one?" It was a dangerous question, but then it had been a long time since she'd found danger so irresistible.
"Try me, Maggie."
His right leg gently imprisoned her as he pressed her deeper into the cushions. She felt as if she were floating somewhere above the clouds with John's strong, demanding body her only anchor to the earth below.
His right hand rested against the base of her throat, then inch by agonizing inch, he brought his fingers down until her breast filled his hand. She might as well have been naked against him because the thin silk shirt she wore was little protection against the fire of his touch.
How could she have lived so long without understanding something so basic?
Something so wonderful and magical and all-encompassing that she had drifted back to The White Elephant each night, painfully, gloriously alive in every pore, every cell, every fiber of her body.
He broke the kiss abruptly and, with his eyes meeting hers, swiftly unbuttoned her blouse. The cool breeze on her heated skin made her gasp.
"Take my shirt off," he ordered.
Her fingers trembled at the buttons, then slid the soft cotton over his shoulders and down his arms until his chest was bare.
She'd noticed the tan and the muscles that first afternoon at the Bronze Penguin, so the fact that he was beautifully made should have come as no surprise.
Yet how different it all was here in this quiet room with no one to see them.
He'd been defenseless at the Bronze Penguin.
He was anything but defenseless tonight.
She pressed her cheek against him as she had the first time, listened to the acceleration of his heart and gloried that she was the reason for it.
Had this marvelous power always been hers?
She brushed feathery kisses over the curling hair of his chest, then circled the tip of her tongue around his flat, dark nipple. His hand rested atop her head, caressing her scalp, and she took his nipple into her mouth, delighting in the texture and taste of his skin.
He said something quietly, matter-of-factly. Something that needed to be said in dangerous times.
She laughed softly, immensely pleased. "That's the most romantic thing anyone ever said to me, John."
"Give me your hand, Maggie."
She looked up at him, letting her hair trail across his bare chest, and did as he asked.
He covered her hand with his and, as her heart beat fiercely against her ribs, guided her until her hand rested against the hardness straining for release.
Her fingers curved to hold him. The heat from his body burned through the layers of fabric separating them.
"I wanted you to know." His voice was low, demanding.
Her eyes fluttered shut against the images, erotic and wonderful, rising before her. "It's the same for me."
The sexually-charged sizzle in the room grew stronger, more compelling. It was going to happen.
It had to happen.
It was impossible to have so much emotion flooding your body and not express it the way it should be expressed.
"John . . . " His name was almost a moan. "I --"
He stopped kissing the curve of her breast and raised his head. "Did you hear something?"
Maggie was beyond hearing anything but the sound of their hearts pounding.
"Damn it!" He raised himself to a sitting position. "I told security the house would be empty."
He rebuttoned her blouse and slipped his shirt back on.
She caught herself wondering how many times in her life she would see him perform that same ritual and realized she had spiraled headfirst into a crazy kind of courtship that was progressing faster than the speed of light.
"I'll be back." He stood and tucked his shirttail into his pants. "Then we should think about moving upstairs."
To the Garden of Eden on the third floor?
She didn't know if she was ready for that.
"Maybe we should save that room for some other night," she managed.
He grinned and kissed the top of her head while she lounged back against the sofa cushions. "I meant my apartment, Maggie. I'll be right back."
Shamelessly she ogled him as he walked out of the room, delighting in the juxtaposition of wide shoulders and lean hips, wondering how it would be when the time finally came.
"Wonderful," she said aloud, with a shrug. She knew darned well how it would be.
Everything about John was wonderful.
He was opinionated and bright and perceptive, and if she'd been asked to describe the perfect man all she'd need do was dig up a resume and an eight-by-ten glossy of John Adams Tyler.
He plied her with sinful dinners and sweet music. He tantalized her with brandy so full-bodied it was almost obscene.
He told her stories about his childhood in Brooklyn that made her wish she'd had a chance to play ball against a stoop or go to Tee's for a chocolate egg cream. He told her about the woman he'd loved years ago and how he'd let everything on earth get between them.
They talked about their childhoods -- uncomplicated -- their families -- normal -- and their goals -- happiness, followed by success.
He spread his life out before her, both the dark and the light, and she knew that the dossier she'd left unread couldn't begin to capture the man he really was.
Tonight she would have gone to bed with him. If he'd kissed her one more time she would have followed him up the stairs to that ridiculous water bed and given herself to him gladly.
But he wanted more.
He wanted a commitment she couldn't make.
At least, not yet.
For the next two weeks there were secrets she'd sworn to keep and promises she couldn't break.
It was bad enough she could never tell him about her past life with PAX. Explaining the hundreds of workers warming over The White Elephant at that very moment would be impossible.
How could he understan
d something she couldn't explain?
She rose from the couch and straightened the collar of her blouse. Her skirt had risen high above her knees, and she gave it a sharp tug to put it back in place. Many more nights feasting on chateaubriand and lobster and this skirt would be a thing of the past.
She strolled around the sun room, looking out at the moon, shimmering over the lake beyond the French doors, checking for maker's marks on the antique sideboard near the bar.
The clock on the mantel tolled the hour.
What on earth was he doing?
The kitchen was right down the hall. Checking on a noise shouldn't take that long.
She headed down the hallway. There was nothing like restrained sexuality to get your adrenaline pumping.
She swung open the door and stopped dead.
The disreputable quartet of motorcycle maniacs she'd seen that first night were seated at John's kitchen table about to dig into four pizzas and two six-packs.
The guy she'd knocked flat raised his hands in the air. "I'm unarmed," he said, only half-kidding. "
"Don't worry," she said quickly, her mind elsewhere. "I've taken a vow of pacifism."
There leaning against the refrigerator with his hands in his pockets was John.
"I've taken a vow of celibacy," he mumbled as she walked over to him.
"What are they doing here?"
"Beats hell out of me. They were supposed to be out painting the town."
"Small town," said the man with the curly red hair. "Only took one coat."
She thought about what had been going on, on that couch in the sun room. Her knees buckled, and she leaned against the fridge next to John. "That was a close call."
He made a sound that was a cross between laughter and disgust. "Tell me about it."
She rested her head against his shoulder and sighed. "What are we going to do?"
The red-haired man looked up at them and grinned. "Pizza, anyone?"
John murmured something under his breath about axe murders, and she laughed out loud.
"Speak for yourself, John," she said, taking a seat at the table. "I've always favored poison myself." She glanced at the name of the pizzeria on the box. "Alfonso's," she said with a nod. "He owed me a favor."
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