by Kat Cantrell
Who flinched just because a man’s hand had come toward her face?
Only the victim of previous abuse. And unless she wanted to start explaining that to him—which she’d rather not do—she had to pull it together. A woman who could handle a project the size of Flying Squirrel did not flinch. For any reason.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated a little more strongly. “It’s a difficult transition from employee to wife.”
His expression softened. “I’m not making it any easier, either.”
“You absolutely are.” Oh, God, now he thought that he was the problem. None of this was his fault. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me. Extremely patient.”
“Really?” he asked with a wry quirk of his lips. “Because from my side of the table, it seemed like I was rushing you.”
This was a disaster. She’d thoroughly enjoyed the idea of Warren showing her his garden. It was sweet. Low-key. Exactly the kind of thing she’d have loved if it had been the tail end of a real date. For a moment, she’d let herself pretend that was what was happening. That he’d closed the distance between them because he’d correctly perceived that she needed to practice touching. There wasn’t anything threatening about it, yet her instincts had triggered automatically.
That was not who she wanted to be. Not around Warren. Rationally, she knew she could trust him. They’d been acquainted for two months. He’d been more than fair in their agreement. What more incentive did she need to use this opportunity to get over her fear?
“You’re not rushing me,” she said. “This is important. We have to work together and we have to convince people that we’re married for reasons that have nothing to do with green cards. If anything, we’re taking it too slow.”
Surprise filtered through Warren’s expression. “Would you like another glass of wine, then?”
“Yes,” she told him decisively and held out her glass. “Let’s start over. Tell me a funny story from your childhood.”
That was the kind of thing that seemed like a good segue. Finally, she felt a little more in control and her lungs expanded as Warren filled her glass, then his, with the remainder of the wine. This, she could do. If she knew what to expect, could guide the conversation, then she’d be okay.
Warren obliged, recounting a time when his brother had let Warren cut his hair. By the time he got to the part where their mother had caught Warren with the shears and tufts of Thomas’s hair under his bed, her smile was genuine. He let one of his own bloom and it did funny things to her stomach. Or perhaps that was the wine.
“It sounds like you were a mischievous little boy,” she said.
“No,” he corrected with a laugh. “I was always in charge. If I wanted to do something, I did it. That’s how I ended up as the CEO. It was the only job I was interested in.”
“I didn’t think work talk was allowed,” she teased and bumped him with her elbow. See, she could initiate contact without freaking out.
“That’s not work talk. It’s personal. I like getting what I want.”
The way he was watching her lent an undertone to the statement that made her shiver. In a good way. It was a little decadent and a lot delicious. What would happen if she stopped being such a weirdo about her boundaries and let her professional veneer drop away? Warren wouldn’t fire her. He certainly wasn’t going to hurt her.
She was still in control. Which meant she got to guide where things went next.
“Curious,” she murmured. “What were you going to do with my hair?”
His gaze shifted to the strand that was still grazing her cheekbone. That errant lock had set them off on the wrong track earlier. Maybe now it could get them on an entirely different track. One that would get them over this hump that caused them to be so cautious with each other.
“Tuck it back,” he said simply. “I should have just mentioned it.”
The floodlights from the garden played over them as they stood at the railing. A few stars had started to twinkle in the sky but she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off his face. They were in the middle of a vibrant city, but here on this terrace, they were insulated from everything else—bad, good or otherwise—and it was easy to pretend they were the only two people in the world.
“You commented on that in the car. After the wedding. Is it bothering you?”
“Yes,” he admitted, surprising her. “You’re normally so perfectly put together. It’s like this little piece of you is begging to be free of the confines you’ve imposed. It’s extremely distracting.”
That was a fair assessment of her entire personality. Intrigued that he’d picked up on that, she decided to press it. “I thought you liked it. Remember? You told me not to fix it last time.”
“It’s distracting because it makes me wonder what you look like with your hair down,” he responded huskily.
Somehow, they’d drifted a little closer together. He’d picked up on the shifting vibe and had angled his body toward her. Not too close, because he wasn’t an idiot. Her minor freak-out earlier had cost them a degree of ease she wanted to recapture.
“Wearing my hair up is professional,” she informed him. “Since we’ve banned all work talk, maybe that should go, as well.”
Before she lost her nerve, she reached up and pulled the clip loose from the twist at the back of her head. As she tucked it in her pocket, her hair cascaded down her back, with a bit of volume for once because it had dried in the chignon.
Warren made a noise low in his chest and it sounded far hungrier than she would have supposed would be appropriate for a simple thing like taking down her hair. She shook it out, her scalp crying in relief. Releasing her hairstyle was one of the highlights of her day, usually, and doing it in front of Warren added a measure of intimacy that she hadn’t expected. It was like he was watching her undress at the end of the night, and a hum of expectation started up in her core.
It had been a very long time since a man had looked at her with an edge. The way Warren was looking at her now.
“As your boss, I must insist you continue to wear your hair up at the office.” With that odd pronouncement, he plucked her wineglass from her hand and set it, along with his own, on a table behind him then returned to her side. “As your husband, I hereby ban that twisted-up hairstyle from crossing the threshold.”
“What are you saying, that the moment I enter the house I should take my hair down?”
“Or I’ll do it for you.” The temperature of the sultry evening rose a few degrees as Warren’s gaze played over her face. “You should really never wear it up. But, selfishly, I want to keep this secret all to myself.”
The heat that prickled across her cheeks then should have spread clear down to her neck, but she’d been the one to introduce this new dynamic. Boldly. It was getting a far bigger response than she’d expected. Were they practicing for a green-card interview or was this something else?
More important, what did she want it to be?
“It’s not really a secret,” she said inanely.
The real secret was beneath her clothes and she couldn’t stop imagining what might happen if he’d made a random comment about how distracting her suit was. His expression might heat with something entirely different if she started shedding clothes. The scraps of lingerie left almost nothing of her body covered. And that’s why they were hidden.
She had very little practice at flirting and even less practice at taking control in intimate situations—or, at least, not successfully. Bryan had chipped away at her confidence every time he called her those horrible names whenever she was aggressive. Professionally, she knew her strengths, could easily pivot between situations with confidence. This was way out of her depth and she had to stay in control or panic would overwhelm her.
“Oh, yes, it’s a huge secret,” he countered, his voice low. “With your hair down, you transform from an attractive professional woman into a
complete temptress.”
That thrilled through her to the core, easily eclipsing the panic. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. “What could I tempt you into doing?”
“Anything.”
The moment stretched out to the point of snapping, but still he didn’t shift his gaze from her. Boldly, she stared back, hardly recognizing herself in this scenario. A man had invited her to his private terrace and plied her with wine, setting the scene for a seduction that she was actively participating in.
And yet, he was holding back. She could feel it. He didn’t want to step over her boundaries, a detail she appreciated far more than he could ever know. They’d mapped out an in-name-only marriage that had seemed simple on the surface. That was before she’d known all this heat would spring up between them. Before she’d known she’d want to see where things might lead.
This was her seduction to move forward. Warren wasn’t Bryan. Logically, she knew this was different. He’d flat out said she could do the tempting and he’d follow her into whatever she laid out. It was heady and powerful, and she couldn’t stop marveling at the amazing qualities of the man she’d married.
“Warren,” she murmured. “I mean this in all sincerity. You’re the most patient man I’ve ever met. Too patient. I feel a distinct need to have my hair tucked back.”
His expression slipped, falling into a category more easily defined as carnal. It was delicious as he slowly reached out to slide one hand through the loose strands at her nape, and then she had a whole different problem as his touch electrified her skin, zinging through her core with heat that weakened her knees.
He picked up on that, too, easing his other hand to her waist and pulling her into his body. It was slow and sensuous and exactly what she needed in order to acclimate before things ratcheted up a notch higher.
And that happened quickly. Before she realized it, his arm had stolen around her, engulfing her in an embrace that aligned their bodies. He was hard in all the right places and all those places were teasing hers, particularly the ones covered by shockingly small scraps of silk. The fabric toyed with her breasts in combination with the rub of his body and it was the most turned-on she’d been in a very long while.
Without taking his gaze off her face, he brushed her hair back behind her ear, his thumb lingering far longer than the simple act required. It turned into a caress and her breath caught as she read the intention in his eyes. He wanted to kiss her. But wouldn’t unless she gave him the all clear.
“Is this part of the green-card interview?” she asked breathlessly as her lungs caught up with the rest of her body, clueing in that something momentous was going on here.
“No. This is because your hair is driving me mad,” he murmured, shoving his hand deeper into the recesses of the mass, his touch sensitizing the back of her head beyond anything she’d ever imagined. “If you like, I can tell the immigration department that.”
“That’s okay. We’ll count it as part of the secret.”
And now she and Warren had secrets. That, more than anything, solidified them as a couple. The smile her comment put on his face rushed through her with heat, enlivening her blood.
“As secrets go, I like this one.”
“It’s pretty tame,” she countered with a small wrinkle of her nose. “Perhaps we should add a few more. Just to keep the authenticity factor.”
His brows lifted. “I can’t find anything wrong with that. Though now I’m insanely curious what might count as a non-tame secret in your world.”
“You should kiss me, then, and find out.”
To his credit, he didn’t blink, just leaned down and laid his lips on hers in a cautious kiss that had none of the heat she’d envisioned when she’d made such a bold statement. Her fault. He was still feeling her out, exhibiting incredible patience that nearly made her weep with gratitude. And that was the sole reason she could twist her fingers into the soft material of his T-shirt and yank.
Their bodies slammed together and, instantly, the kiss intensified. Warren groaned, his fingers nipping into her neck as he angled her head, his tongue sliding into her mouth. The first demanding lick of it between her lips electrified her and she opened automatically, drawing him in, welcoming his mastery over her man-starved senses. But she wasn’t capable of letting him have complete control and switched the angle herself, dragging him along as she deepened the contact, sliding her hands up his back to acquaint her fingertips with the spread of muscles.
That galvanized him, her enthusiasm seeming to act as permission for Warren to let go. He spun her, backing her against the railing and shoving a hard thigh between her legs to rub at the tight, sensitized spot that was already enflamed. Heat erupted in her core, shamelessly flinging her into a miasma of sensuality.
His hands roved up and down her body as he kissed her and the railing bit into her back. His erection, so prominently pressing against her pelvis, awoke something primal inside her and her back arched, raising her breasts higher against his torso. He took that as invitation, sliding a hand beneath her suit jacket and blouse to cup her bare waist.
The shock of his fingertips against her flesh tore something open inside, and all of the things she tried to keep under wraps spilled out. Desire, longing, carnal needs—they all welled up, drenching her with a flood of damp heat, engulfing her so fast that in that moment, if he’d stripped her, she would have demanded he take her right there on the terrace, hands gripping the railing as he drilled into her from behind.
That was enough to jolt her into pulling away. The kiss ended abruptly. Warren took one look at her face and stepped back, running a hand through his hair with something akin to confusion. Of course he didn’t know what to think—she’d been into it and then she wasn’t.
“Did I overstep?” he asked cautiously.
Her lips stung as she stared at him. How was she supposed to explain that she’d forgotten for a moment that she couldn’t do normal? She was wanton and shameless, and when she let a man find out how truly wicked she could be, he changed, morphing into something monstrous.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
And then she fled before he could ask any questions, or God forbid, kiss her again.
Five
Warren prowled around his bedroom until one in the morning, far longer than he should have before giving up the idea of sleep. Stalking to his study, he logged on to his PC and pretended he had the capacity to focus on Flying Squirrel, when in reality, every bit of his mind was on the woman he’d married.
She was, hands down, the hottest kisser he’d ever met.
Who could have seen that coming? Not him. And he’d imagined her in every dirty scenario his liberal imagination could spin up. But he’d never expected her to actually give his fantasies a run for their money.
Ms. Straitlaced Suits knew her way around some tongue action. It was killing him that he’d used that as an excuse to take it up about twelve notches, only to be shut down. And he couldn’t quite work out why. She’d been like molten lava in his hands and then poof. Turned into an ice cube instantly. It was almost fascinating how quickly she’d shut herself back behind her reserve, or it would have been if it had happened to someone else.
As it stood, he was the one it had happened to and he was not happy about it. Especially given that he’d seen genuine distress in the depths of her gaze when she backed away from him. There was something going on with her that he was just not getting, and she wasn’t planning to be forthcoming about it, either.
Clearly he was going to have to figure it out on his own.
Because he couldn’t help himself, he did a quick search on Tilda Barrett and found several mentions of her in relation to campaigns she’d done for her former employers, including the one she’d done for Kim Electronics. Huh. There she was, looking much the same in a staid suit, standing next to a man the picture identi
fied as Craig Von, the same ass who had screwed up Tilda’s visa.
Obviously she’d been wearing boring suits since puberty. In his head, she wore red dresses with plunging necklines. After kissing her on the terrace, he was of the opinion that the red dress fit her better. She didn’t seem to be of the same mind, nor did she give the impression she had any intention of showing off her hot kissing skills again—not with him, anyway.
His mood went from bad to worse when he couldn’t find anything online about Tilda that told him who she was. They’d had two stilted personal conversations and one wet dream of a kiss. And all that had done was whet his appetite to get under those suits and see what else Tilda was hiding.
The next morning, he didn’t see Tilda at all. As far as he knew, she’d never left her room. Avoiding him? That was crap. Except, he didn’t own her, and as long as she showed up for work on Monday, he had little call to barge into her room demanding to know what was so horrible about kissing him that she felt compelled to turn herself into a prisoner in his home.
Well, clearly the kissing part was the problem. Oops. Married a man I’m not attracted to and now we’re stuck together until I get my visa.
By midday, he’d started to grow concerned when she still hadn’t emerged. What, she wasn’t going to eat? He tracked down his housekeeper and learned that Tilda had asked to have meals delivered to her room. Mollified that she at least wasn’t going to starve herself on his account, he removed his presence from the house so she could have some peace.
The warehouse staff was not pleased to see him on a Sunday, and without the buffer of Thomas, they got the full brunt of Warren. Usually he visited the distribution center with the chief operating officer because, technically, this part of the business fell under Thomas’s umbrella. His brother genuinely liked the people who worked for him and he did a great job managing the daily ins and outs of the minutiae required to get pick-me-ups into the hands of customers. But Thomas reported to Warren, so the staff also technically reported to him. Much to their chagrin. And Thomas was on vacation.
