by Lavinia Kent
His taste still filled her mouth, the salt of his skin, the musk, the…She had to swallow. It would be easy to bend forward, to again place her lips against the hard curve of his shoulders, to nip and sample, to watch as those amazing blue eyes opened and turned to her, desiring her, wanting her.
She could have done nothing but stare into those eyes for days on end, letting the world and life slip by.
And then, perhaps disturbed by her lingering examination, he sighed in his sleep and rolled, his face turning toward her. He was young, perhaps even younger than she realized, although she knew that sometimes sleep had that effect on people, softening sharp planes. Her eyes roamed his face, examining it much closer than she had when he was staring back at her.
And she froze, her whole body turning to ice.
Her mind suddenly saw a far, far more youthful face.
A face from years ago.
She did know him. She knew him well. She knew far more than those amazing blue eyes.
Clay. Clay Windsor. Her stepdaughter Amelia’s long-ago boyfriend.
How had she not known him? Or had she? Had she simply refused to acknowledge who he was? Had he known? He’d called her by name. Mrs. Robinson. And then later, Jordan. Shit. She should have realized then who he was. She’d almost questioned him, asked if they’d met through the foundation, but…
Yes, but…
She’d never experienced anything like last night, like the chemistry that had flowed between them, that had pulled all true thought from her head.
She stared at him a moment longer, almost wishing those blue eyes would open, would look at her that way again.
No.
The last thing she needed was to wake him.
She forced herself from the bed, sliding each foot to the floor and slowly standing.
No, she didn’t want to wake him.
It was bad enough that it had happened.
It never should have happened.
God, they hadn’t even truly spoken. One look and she’d been lost…they’d been lost.
With great care she tiptoed across the room, ignoring the delicious aches that still filled her, grabbing her scattered clothing as she went. Only when she was alone in the bathroom did she pause, staring into the mirror at her swollen lips and shadowed eyes. She didn’t even look like someone she knew. The woman in the mirror had secrets, deep secrets, and Jordan had always considered herself the most straightforward of people.
Turning away from her reflection, she quickly pulled on panties and bra, pausing when she realized she only had one thigh-high stocking before hurriedly stuffing it into the trash and slipping bare feet into her low pumps. She shimmied into her dress, then finger-combed her hair and hurriedly twisted it into a knot. Thank God it was more than long enough and curly enough to stay wrapped by itself when she tucked the ends under.
And thank God even more that she’d packed the night before. All she had to do was grab her bag and she could be gone.
Walking as quietly as she could, doing her best to ignore the pull of the man in the bed, she exited the hotel room, glad for the plush carpet that muffled all sound of her step. The door clicked behind her and she froze, before hurrying down the hall toward the elevator, ready at any moment for that husky voice to call her back.
It never did.
* * *
—
“Mrs. Robinson, your car is here.”
Jordan lifted her head, afraid the events of the previous night were written across her face. Normally she loved the city, the sights, the sounds, the sheer life of the place. Although she’d never had a desire to live here, had done all she could to dissuade Mark whenever he’d brought up a possible move, preferring the quiet of their beachfront home.
Now, however, everything about the city seemed ominous, seemed to hint at what she’d done with Clay the night before, to hint at what she could only dream of doing again. From the moment she’d left the room, left the power of Clay’s presence, uncertainty had relentlessly set in.
Pulling in a deep breath, she stood and strode across the lobby to the exit, doing everything in her power to shut out the feeling of strong arms wrapped about her, offering a strength and safety that she had not known for years.
“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” a voice called after her.
She froze. Her heart raced.
Then she realized the tones were high and female. Yet her body remained tense and alert. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She needed time, time to understand what had happened and how it had happened, especially when never in her life had she even imagined such a thing, imagined such passion.
“I wanted to give you my personal thanks for all the help you’re providing, you and your foundation, Mrs. Robinson. You’ve been incredibly generous,” Mrs. Danvers said, hurrying up to Jordan, her round calves scurrying. “Do you have time for a quick coffee? I have a few more ideas I’d like your input on.”
And money to fund. But one never said that. One never ever, ever said that. “I’m in a bit of a hurry right now, Louise, but if you give me a call, I’m sure we can set something up. You know that I want to do all I can to help.” And that was true. Hell, if Louise told her the desired amount she’d probably just write the check now, if it would let her get away, allow her to stop smiling politely, let her—
“Maybe we can get together before the gala next week? You will be back for the gala, won’t you?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. Such a worthy cause. But now I really must run. My car is here, and if I don’t leave soon, the traffic will be awful.” She leaned forward to place the required air-kisses on each side of Louise’s face.
“I don’t understand why you insist on living on the island,” Louise persisted. “I get a couple of weekends in the summer, but—”
“Forgive me, but I really must go.” She turned away faster than was polite and made for the door, her heels clicking on the white marble. She wanted to be in Forbidden Cove year-round, and always had. Why could nobody ever understand that? The city was wonderful but nothing, and she meant nothing, compared to the small town of Forbidden Cove, to the familiarity of an open ocean beach on a cold fall day, when the water was gray and choppy and hardly anybody else was around.
A doorman swung the heavy door wide, and with a practiced, gracious smile, pulling her coat tight about her, she made for her car—and escape.
* * *
—
Clay stared out the high window as Jordan swung into the low car. She was gone. If it wasn’t for the lingering scent of vanilla and sex, he might have believed he’d imagined the entire episode. He’d certainly had enough fantasies about Jordan over the years to last a lifetime.
Clay sat up in the large bed, reaching across to stroke the indent on the opposite pillow.
It had really happened.
He’d had sex with Jordan Robinson—and it had been even better than his wildest dreams.
His cock swelled hard against his leg. It had been incredible.
Jordan.
Mrs. Robinson.
He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t planned it, but—God. He fell back on the pillows, his mind remembering it, remembering her. The feel of her. The warmth of her. Hot. Wet. Tight. Fuck. How could something that you’d dreamed about for years be even better than you expected?
Fuck. Fuck.
He wasn’t a man for swearing, even in his mind—but fuck.
He reached down and squeezed his cock, hard.
His eyes drifted closed. Passionate, wet kisses. Nibbling her neck. Those small cries. Pushing her into the room, onto the bed, her thighs rising about his hips. The look in her eyes. God, the look in her eyes. He’d always laughed at the thought of seeing into someone’s soul, but…fuck. He started to stroke himself harder, firmer, faster.
/> Those eyes. Those deep, dark, endless eyes gazing at his body with wonder and desire, gazing at him, seeing him as if she’d never seen him before. Hell, as if she’d never seen a man before. He’d never have believed she’d feel that way about him.
Faster, harder.
The feeling of her teeth on his neck, his shoulder, his chest.
Her greedy touch.
The taste of her breast in his mouth, hot, spicy. The scent of vanilla, the sweetness of cookies.
Breasts. Full, round, womanly. Inviting. The mark of his teeth upon her pale skin.
Fuck. Fuck. He was going to come, and he’d hardly started.
He squeezed, tried to slow himself, tried to hold back, but it was too much, even the barest thought of her was too much.
He spurted across the bedsheets just as he had as a boy of seventeen, horny and needy.
Jordan Robinson. Mrs. Robinson. Amelia’s stepmother and the sexiest woman he’d ever seen.
He knew why she’d left, why she’d fled like a thief, instead of lingering like a lover.
But now that he’d had that taste, known she was everything he’d ever imagined, everything that had been forbidden, but was no longer…now he was going to make her his—and not solely for one night.
Chapter 5
Why had she come? And why hadn’t she persuaded Veronica or somebody else to come with her? But Veronica was still away on business travel—and besides, she would’ve spent the entire party trying to find Jordan a man. Jordan stared around the gala and pondered. Despite her words to Louise Danvers a week ago, she would have been perfectly content to miss this event. Yes, even if it was for a great cause, her own charity, A Place for Family.
From the time of Mark’s death she’d done all she could to find ways to support families facing sickness and loss, but normally she was happy to read the proposals, solicit funds and sign the checks. The foundation she’d set up in Mark’s memory might even buy a table at galas and fundraisers, but that didn’t mean she had to go to them. More often, she arranged for others to fill the seats and they happily complied. Almost everyone enjoyed a free evening of champagne and dancing. She’d even gotten Amelia and her fiancée to go a few times—and if there was anybody who avoided black tie, it was Amelia. Her stepdaughter might live—and dress for—a corporate life now, but in many ways she was still the child who’d spent summers running up and down the beach, her hair and body caked with sand. She’d always hated fancy dress.
A sudden image of Amelia in a light blue gown danced before her, Amelia with a handsome young man in a tux standing beside her. Clay.
No. Jordan was not going to let him invade her thoughts. She was not going to think about him. It had happened. She’d come to peace with it. He wasn’t who she should have chosen, but she would not regret that night. It had been everything she needed. Now she never had to think about it again.
Only she was thinking about it, about him. For a week she’d been unable to stop. Even now her knees quivered with delight at the thought of the things they had done to each other.
“Jordan, don’t you look beautiful.”
She turned, startled, smoothing down the sleek, midnight-blue silk of her dress, trying to calm her suddenly heated body, letting her lips curve up in delight. “Charles, it’s so good to see you.” For once her smile was real. She’d always been fond of Charles Burke. He’d been one of her husband’s best friends and after Mark’s death one of the few to stay exactly the same as he’d been before. He hadn’t suddenly revealed that he’d always considered her a gold digger and an idiot or acted as if now that Mark was gone she must be desperate for a new man in her bed. She shuddered as some of those memories returned.
“It feels like it’s been years since I last saw you. You never seem to come to the city anymore”—he moved to stand beside her—“and even when I came out to the beach in August, you never seemed to be there. I thought I saw you at the Petersens’, but I couldn’t quite catch up with you.”
She smiled at him, admiring the distinguished gray of his hair, the smile lines about his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I did mean to stop and talk, but I ended up going home with a headache.”
“Oh, I hope you are better now.”
“Yes. And I have a confession to make.”
“Yes?”
“I often head to Florida for August. I didn’t this year, but I have the past couple of years.”
“To Florida?” His voice rang with quiet disbelief. “You go to Florida in August—on purpose?”
She laughed lightly, practiced, but still genuine. “You know I’ve never been fond of crowds, and with the ocean breezes, it’s quite pleasant. And to tell you an even deeper secret, I’ve always loved heat. I love to feel baked all the way through.”
Charles smiled at her, his eyes tender. “You always were an odd duck.”
Her heart squeezed tight. That had been Mark’s expression. He’d look at her, eyes glowing with love, and announce that she was an odd duck. It had always been the greatest compliment that he could have paid her. He understood her foibles and rather than look down on them he loved her all the more. “I think it’s why Mark married me.”
“And here I always believed it was for your double D’s.” The voice spoke in a hushed tone, but the words were still unmistakable.
Jordan turned, careful to betray no expression, no shock, no hurt. “I thought you said that he bought them for me, Bettina?” Polite smile. Polite smile.
Bettina pursed her lips, clearly not displeased to have been overheard. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear.”
Jordan forced her lips to remain uptilted. “It must be my mistake. I’m trying to think who else could have been so catty.” God, she’d always hated this game, despised trying to pretend that people who’d never said a single kind word to her were her friends. During her marriage, Mark had protected her, but since his death, the knives have been out. She didn’t even want to think about some of the comments she’d heard during the funeral, after it had been clear that most of Mark’s money was going to Amelia—not that she’d in any way been left wanting. It had been all she could do not to scream from the rooftops that she’d helped Mark with his will, that all was as she desired, a more than comfortable lifestyle and a controlling position on the foundation board. The last thing she’d ever desired was any responsibility for his companies.
“Why, Bettina, I do believe Mark fell in love with Jordan’s smile, as we all did. It’s rare to find one so genuine in this world we live in. He remarked on it many times to me. How wonderful it was to find someone who glowed with joy and spread it around like fairy dust.” Charles turned his gaze to Jordan, his eyes telling her exactly how true he found his words.
He clearly wasn’t talking about her present smile, however, which felt like it was superglued on her face. “Like fairy dust? Why do I have a hard time imagining those words on my husband’s lips? Or yours, for that matter?”
“It must be the surroundings that have made me fanciful,” Charles said, gesturing about the museum interior, which had indeed been decorated like a fairy castle, all tiny twinkling lights and drifting clouds of silk.
“Well, I can see that I’m interrupting a private conversation,” Bettina said, tilting her chin upward, even as her tone implied all sorts of illicit things. “I was coming to compliment you on how well the foundation is doing, such good work, but I can see you’re not interested in my opinion.” She turned and marched away, heels echoing on the marble floor.
“What was that about?” Jordan said, turning to fully face Charles. “I feel like I missed something in that exchange.”
He laughed uncomfortably. “I’m not quite sure, but then I’ve never understood that woman, and she always does seem to be about. I swear, some days I think she’s following me.”
Now, that might be
accurate. Bettina was probably looking for husband number four and Charles was certainly eligible. “It is a small world in the city. It’s a large part of why I stay on the island. It’s small but in a much different way. I still see the girls I went to high school with, but it’s…I don’t know, it’s just different.”
“I’d forgotten that you grew up there. Forbidden Cove, right? That’s where Mark met you.”
“I actually jump-started his battery.” She caught his look. “And you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Oh yes, I remember the story. He loved to talk about it, about the most beautiful mechanic he’d ever seen.”
“Hardly that. I happened to have jumper cables. I had to look in the owner’s manual to figure out how to use them.”
“That wasn’t how Mark told it. I’m sure that he said you could have taken the engine apart and put it back together blindfolded.”
That didn’t sound quite like Mark; he’d loved her, but had always been very aware of her limitations. “I was lucky if I could find the latch to open the hood.”
Charles chuckled, the sound full of warmth and remembrance. “I may remember that version, too.”
She was sure he did. The story had been told enough times, in enough different ways, but sometimes that was one of the better parts of life, sharing ever-changing stories when everybody already knew the punch line. Although, recently it had all seemed so bittersweet.
She was about to answer again, when the base of her neck began to prickle, strange shivers running down her exposed back. It was almost like a cold breeze over her bare skin, but only almost.
Still smiling at Charles, she turned her head and froze.
Clay.
What the hell was he doing here?
And the tingles had returned, running from her nose to her toes, but mostly stopping in between…
