Seduction on His Terms

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “It was done by someone famous back in the thirties, and my mother...”

  Against his will, his eyes shut. But that was a mistake because he could see his mother delicately arranged on the cushioned chair by the fireplace, a blanket tucked around her legs to help hold the ice packs in place. She’d gazed at the obnoxious wallpaper and frenetic drapes and the gold leaf and said, I love this room. The riot of colors...it’s wild but free. Then she’d smiled at him, her eyes unfocused from the pain or the meds or both, and had said, Silly, isn’t it?

  He wanted Cybil Wyatt to enjoy riotous colors and silliness and freedom. He had to get her away from Landon. The alternatives were unthinkable.

  He heard himself say, “My mother liked it.”

  “Ah,” Jeannie said, her tone softening with what he hoped was understanding and not pity. “So you keep it this way for her?”

  He nodded. Darna dusted this room—all the rooms done in this overblown style—twice a week. They were kept in a permanent state of readiness, just in case.

  But three years ago it hadn’t been enough to keep his mother here. He hadn’t been enough to keep her here.

  “Does she visit often?”

  Twice. His mother had been in his home exactly twice. The second time he’d had to carry her in because she couldn’t climb the steps. She’d stayed only long enough to be able to walk back down on her own power. Robert had stood in the window, watching her get into Landon’s black limousine.

  Cybil Wyatt hadn’t looked back.

  Robert had found himself at Trenton’s that night. “No,” he said shortly, remembering to answer the question.

  “I see.”

  He was afraid she did.

  Suddenly, her touch was gone and Robert stumbled forward, his eyes popping open to find Jeannie moving through the room, her happy yellow dress both clashing with the greens and reds and blues of the formal parlor and, somehow, blending in perfectly.

  “So if this is for your mom,” she said, running a hand over the hand-carved marble fireplace mantel, “where do you live?”

  This was a mistake. He didn’t bring people here for a good reason. He kept to himself because it was better that way—safer, easier. He preferred being alone.

  But Jeannie...

  He held out his hand to her and she didn’t even hesitate. Her fingers wrapped around his and, on impulse, he lifted her hand and let his lips trail over her knuckles. The contact pushed him that much closer to the edge.

  She inhaled sharply. Did she feel the same connection he did? Or was she just looking to get lucky?

  Did the answer even matter?

  It did. God help him, it did.

  “Come with me.”

  * * *

  Jeannie did the math as Robert led her up one garish flight of stairs—really, this wallpaper was something—to another.

  She’d spent about an hour with him five nights a week, approximately fifty-one weeks out of the year, for almost three years. That meant...uh...somewhere around eight thousand hours with this man.

  She’d never imagined him living like this. High-rent, yes. Opulent? Sure. But...

  It was like she’d entered Opposites Land, where up was down, quiet was loud and Robert was surrounded by hideous decorating. The man was so incredibly particular about everything—the precise formulation of his Manhattan, the cuffs on his sleeves, hell, even where his bartender was. How did he live here?

  Even accounting for the fact that his mother liked it...it just didn’t make sense. If she woke up to these walls and marble and what was probably real gold leaf, she’d have a headache every day of the week and two on Sunday. Jeannie had never pegged Robert for being a momma’s boy.

  Except he’d sounded so raw when he’d said his mother liked it. Like he had the first time he’d ever walked through Trenton’s doors.

  Was Mrs. Wyatt a good person or not? Jeannie had a feeling that, if she knew where the woman fell on the spectrum between Sainted Angel and Worst Mother in The World, she’d understand Robert’s choices better.

  But she also understood that he wasn’t going to tell her. In that eight thousand some-odd hours she’d spent with him, she’d barely heard mention of his parents until a few weeks ago. The man knew how to hold his cards close.

  When they reached the landing on the third floor, things changed. The landing opened up onto a short, wide hallway and at the end, she could see two French doors thrown open. On either side of that hallway was a door.

  That wasn’t what caught her attention. Instead of gaudy wallpaper, the walls changed to a soft peach color. She wouldn’t have chosen this color for Robert but at least it didn’t make her eyeballs bleed. Compared to the explosion of pattern downstairs, this was downright calming—and that was including the fact that Robert had art hung on these walls. It looked old and expensive.

  She tore her gaze away from the priceless paintings. Robert unlocked the door on the right side of the stairs and stood at the threshold. Jeannie studied the tension in his shoulders, the way he practically vibrated with nervous energy. She was just about to suggest they go straight to the terrace, where their meal had been set up, because it was clear that Robert wasn’t exactly jumping at the chance to show her around.

  But the moment she opened her mouth, he turned and held his hand out. She couldn’t pass up this opportunity to understand a little bit more about what made the man tick.

  Not to mention the way he’d kissed the back of her hand earlier.

  So she put her trust in him and let him lead her into a...

  “This is my study,” he said, softly shutting the door behind him.

  Jeannie gasped. Books. Shelves and shelves of books and not the kind that had been tastefully arranged to look good. Oh, no. These were paperbacks with broken spines that had been crammed into every square inch of available space—which went all the way up to ceilings that had to be at least twelve feet high. The walls were lined with shelves, and the long room appeared to run the entire width of the house. She turned to the closest one and saw at least twenty Tom Clancy books wedged together. The next shelf had John Grisham and after that, Janet Evanovich. And it just went on and on. Was that an entire bookcase of Nora Roberts?

  Thousands and thousands of books in this room. So many he even had one of those little ladders to get to the top shelves.

  The rest of the room had an almost cozy feel. Skylights kept the room bathed in a warm glow. The exterior wall housed a fireplace, which, unlike the one down in the formal room, looked like it had actually seen a fire in the past year. It was also only one of two places that didn’t have shelves. But even that mantel was crowded with books underneath what was probably another priceless work of art. Before that was a leather chair with matching footstool, next to a side table with a lamp and paper, pens—book clutter, basically—next to it. Behind that was a long desk, piled high with even more books and a computer holding on to a corner of the desk.

  She spun, breathing in the smell of paper and leather and trying to grasp the sheer number of books here. “You read,” was the brilliant observation she came up with.

  “Yes.” He sounded embarrassed by this admission. “I don’t watch much television.”

  “This is your room?”

  “My study, yes. Darna only comes in here once a quarter to dust.”

  In other words, this was his private sanctuary. And he’d invited Jeannie inside.

  Oh, Robert.

  Light streamed in from the French doors that led outside. Robert unlocked them and then wrapped his strong fingers around hers and led her outside to the terrace.

  Jeannie gasped, “Oh, my God.” She was sure the space itself was impressive. She was dimly aware of the sweet smell of flowers, of green and orange and space. A lot of space. But beyond that, she couldn’t have described the terrace at all.

  Becau
se somehow, despite the fact that they were three blocks away from the shore and surrounded by high-rise condos, she had an uninterrupted view of Lake Michigan. The afternoon sun glinted off the water, marking the only difference between the water and the sky. A breeze blew off the lake, bathing them in cool, fresh air.

  “You have a view of the lake.” She turned to him. “How do you have a view of the lake?”

  He wasn’t looking at the water. He was staring at her with the kind of intensity she should be used to. But that was in the dim interior of Trenton’s, with a bar between them. Here, under the bright sunlight, his gaze felt entirely different.

  Entirely possessive and demanding and maybe just a little bit needy.

  “I bought the buildings blocking my view and had them razed,” he said in the same way he might’ve said I got whole milk instead of skim. “They’re parks now. I had playground equipment installed. One has a community garden. The kids plant things, I’m told.”

  Jeannie’s mouth dropped open. “You did what?”

  He shrugged. “I wanted this house, but with a view.”

  Jeannie looked back out at the water. The buildings surrounding the view were four or five stories tall, prime Gold Coast real estate that had probably housed condos and apartments that sold for a few million dollars. Each.

  It made her nightly hundred-dollar tip look like a handful of pennies, didn’t it? She knew he was rich. Billionaire bachelor and all that crap. But...

  In this real estate market, Robert had single-handedly erased maybe a hundred million dollars of potential profits. So he could sit on his terrace and see the lake.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Really, why was she here? This man could have any woman he wanted. He could have a wife and mistresses and private jets and his own art museum and nannies and chefs and limos and...anything. He could have it all with just a snap of his fingers.

  She was just a bartender. Working-class at best, nowhere near owning her own place. She could never exist in his world. She shouldn’t have accepted his help, shouldn’t have come to lunch and most definitely shouldn’t have told this man she would like to have sex with him.

  But she had.

  She couldn’t have him. Not forever. But she could hold him for just a little bit and then let him go. It was definitely a mistake and just might break her heart, but it was better to have loved and lost...or something like that.

  He might just be the best mistake she was ever going to make.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, his voice deep and riveting. She felt it all the way down to her toes, that voice.

  She nodded. Out on the lake, a sailboat drifted by. It was so perfect it was almost unreal. Much like Robert.

  She asked, “Can you see the stars from here?” Because Chicago’s light pollution blotted out everything for her. But for him?

  Only Robert Wyatt could make the stars shine.

  His lips moved in that small way that meant he was smiling and her heart began to pound. “On clear nights, if you look right there...” He stepped in behind her and pointed toward a distant section of the horizon.

  His body was warm and solid against her back and the lake breeze teased at the hem of her dress. Jeannie didn’t know if this was a seduction or not, because this was Robert and who the heck could tell, but she had to admit, she was being seduced. Perfect, rich, gorgeous Dr. Robert Wyatt, who had his own personal section of the night sky.

  “I’d love to see that,” she said quietly.

  One of his hands came to rest on her waist. Then the other followed suit. “I can show them to you,” he said right against her ear.

  Oh, thank God. Her nipples went hard as his lips brushed ever so lightly over her earlobe. That lightest of touches sent little bursts of electricity racing over her skin. She had to clench her legs together to keep her knees from buckling, but even that small movement spiked the pressure on her sex to almost unbearable levels of need.

  Moving slowly, she lifted his hands off her waist and wrapped them around her stomach so she could lean back into him.

  All she felt and heard was Robert.

  How he’d turned his head and his breath cascaded over her ear as if he’d buried his face in her hair. Of the rise and fall of his chest as he inhaled her scent. Of the way his arms tightened around her, so slowly as to be almost imperceptible, until he had her locked in his grip. Of how he slowly lowered his chin until it came to rest on her shoulder.

  Of the way his entire body seemed to surround her as if he was afraid of startling her or worse, driving her away.

  Of how she felt safe in his arms because this was a man who would never let anything hurt her. Hadn’t he spent the past few days showing her just that, over and over again?

  “You’re touching me,” she said softly as she ran her hands over his exposed forearms. The hair there was dark and soft and intensely male. Her blood pounded harder, demanding satisfaction as it coursed through her body.

  She felt him swallow, then felt his lips move against her neck. “I am.”

  She turned her head toward him, her mouth only centimeters away from his cheek. She could press her lips against his skin if she wanted, but she waited. More than anyone she’d ever been with, she needed to make sure he wanted her to move, to touch, to take.

  “Do you like touching me?”

  He shifted his arms, grabbing her hands and holding them flat against her stomach so she couldn’t pet him. “Yes,” he growled.

  She shivered, wanting to pull him down into her, wanting to unbutton his shirt and strip off his shorts and leave him well and truly bare to her. Just her and no one else. “Then touch me,” she breathed against his skin.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” He sounded like a man begging for salvation.

  She rested her head against his shoulder and he automatically supported her weight. “You won’t. But if something’s not right, I’ll say—” she cast about for a word “—sailboat,” she said as another boat came into view. “If I say that, you’ll stop.”

  He didn’t reply for the longest of seconds—so long, in fact, that she began to think he wasn’t going to agree, either to the safe word or the sex. “Sailboat?” he finally asked, shifting his grip so that he held both her wrists in one hand. The other hand he set low against her stomach.

  She arched her back, pushing her torso into his arms. “It’s not a word I shout during sex a lot,” she said with a smile.

  He jolted as if she’d jabbed him with a needle, his grip tightening. She couldn’t touch him, couldn’t turn into him. All she could do was stand there, watching Lake Michigan shimmer in the summer heat.

  “Jeannie.” Her name on his lips was like a call to arms because this wasn’t going to be some soft-focus, romantic intimacy marked by sweet words and tender touches. Oh, no.

  Sex with Robert was going to be a battle.

  She’d always loved a good fight.

  Then he kissed her like it was a challenge and for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out if he was throwing down the gauntlet for her or for himself. Either way, she met him as an equal on the field, kissing him back just as fiercely as he was kissing her. Their mouths met with a savageness that made her legs shake with need.

  She nipped at his lower lip and felt the responding tension ripple through his body. Something hard and long and so, so hot began to push against her hip.

  She began to pant as the tension spiraled in her body. He didn’t loosen his grip on her, didn’t give her anywhere else to go. And damn him, he didn’t touch her anywhere else. He was holding himself back too carefully, so she bit him again. This time he growled and pulled away, burying his face against her neck. She felt his teeth skim over her skin so she angled her head to give him more.

  “Yes,” she whispered, hoping encouragement would help him get over this whole don’t want to hurt you han
g-up.

  He bit her—gently—right at the spot where her shoulder met her neck. “Yes,” she hissed again. When was the last time she’d been this turned on? Every part of her body practically begged for his touch. “Oh, yes. Just like that.”

  “Don’t,” he growled against her neck. “Don’t talk.”

  Even through the haze of desire, she laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of that order. “Seriously? Come on, Robert. Have you met me?”

  “Please,” he said. “I...need it to be different.”

  Different from what? She pulled away from him and he let her go. “But I thought you said you didn’t...” He didn’t have girlfriends or dates or people he brought back here. But he’d made it clear—he wasn’t a virgin. He was breathing hard, panting almost, looking like he was being torn in two.

  Oh, God—he really was going to break her heart, wasn’t he?

  “Okay,” she told him. “Those are your rules? No touching, no talking?”

  “I... Yes. Those are my rules.”

  Talking was almost half the fun and touching was definitely the other half. But she was getting a clearer picture of Robert all the time and she was beginning to think he hadn’t had a normal, happy childhood. Neither had she, but she had to wonder—how much of what was happening here was Robert letting his scars finally show?

  “Fine. My rule is that either one of us says sailboat, the other person stops immediately.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” She nodded toward the other set of glass doors. This pair was behind a table and chairs set for two. “Is that your bedroom?”

  “Yes.” But he didn’t move.

  This man. Honestly, what was she going to do with him? “Can we use your bed?”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” This time he didn’t hold out his hand and she didn’t reach for him.

  He unlocked the glass doors and led her into a masculine bedroom. The walls were a deep navy blue paper with a subtle blue-on-blue pattern. A fireplace with another marble mantel stood in the same spot where the one in the study had been, another impressive piece of art hanging over it.