Red Hot Holiday Bundle Page 2

  She nodded, answered, “Yes.”

  He slid his hands down her bare arms to her elbows, her wrists, holding her hands, massaging the center of her palms with his thumbs.

  “I understand the ‘no strings.’ But why the ‘no questions’?”

  “Because I don’t want to talk.” She wanted to know him as a lover, not as a friend, and was doing what men had done for eons, objectifying a member of the opposite sex for nothing more than pleasure.

  But she was also taking into consideration the nature of the female beast to judge physical encounters on an emotional scale, as well as her busy life that left no time for involvement running that deep.

  She shrugged, her shoulders scraping over the fabric of his shirt. He was so big behind her, yet not for a second did she feel a threat.

  Instead she felt strangely safe. “I just don’t want to talk.”

  He leaned forward, his breath teasing the hair over her ear as he asked, “Then why are you?”

  Good question. One with a very simple answer. An answer that fell into the category of being careful about what one wished for.

  Diving into the deep end of the pool, she held her breath and said, “Because I don’t know where to start.”

  2

  HER WHISPERED ANSWER raised all manner of red flags.

  What sort of woman was Claire Braden—Randy had learned her name when he’d learned of her air conditioner troubles—that she could be so bold with her invitation yet such a bundle of nerves when he arrived to accept?

  He laced their fingers together, wrapped their stacked arms around her waist, pulled her back into his body and breathed in the soft scent of her perfume.

  She smelled warm and lush and fertile and alive—a combination that had him breathing deeply again, had him holding back a shudder.

  “We can start with a glass of wine,” he finally suggested, sensing her need to relax, recognizing—and fighting not to lose—his own dwindling control.

  “That would be nice,” she said, shivering as he rubbed his thumbs over the lower swells of her breasts.

  When she groaned, he changed his mind. “Or we can start with a kiss.”

  She laughed at that, a light airy chuckle that had him aching to hear more. “That would be nice, too.”

  He started to spin her around, wanting to learn her mouth, the texture of her lips, to feel her tongue slide over his, but he waited because he knew keeping this encounter as impersonal as she wanted wasn’t possible.

  She needed to understand the truth that this would never be casual sex. Not with the heat spiraling between them. Not with the way she responded to his touch.

  Not with his appetite for acquiring expensive and beautiful things.

  He wanted her. He would want her for more than one night. Getting her to understand that was paramount. “What I think we really need to start with is a new set of rules.”

  She stiffened a bit where he held her. “Oh, really?”

  He nodded, his cheek rubbing against her soft hair. “You know as well as I do that we have to talk.”

  “I suppose,” she hedged, leaning her head back into the crook of his shoulder and sighing heavily. “Though I was really hoping to do no more than feel.”

  A woman with a sensuous nature to go with her stunning good looks. She’d invited him up to her place for fun and games, and he was insisting they talk. Hell if he didn’t deserve to have his man-card revoked.

  He released her hands, ran his palms down her rib cage to her hips, worked his thumbs up along her spine, massaged his way to her neck. Her curves were amazing, lush and toned and the perfect fit for his hands.

  And though his body tightened, he held himself in check. They had time. They had all night. As far as he was concerned, they had months into the future to enjoy what they’d started.

  What they didn’t have was a single reason to rush.

  She moaned, her head fell forward, and she said, “Yeah, feeling. Like that.”

  Smiling silently, he moved in, trapping her between the balcony railing and his body, pressing her dangerously close to the edge.

  He wanted her own senses to run as hot as his. He wanted her to sizzle with the same lethal thrill beginning to eat him alive.

  This wasn’t going to be a quick and easy lay. He’d known that last night when their gazes had locked for those few seconds that had gone on forever.

  And because of that, because—he reminded himself—they had time, he let her go and backed away, heading to the table to pour them both a drink.

  When he looked up, he found that she’d turned and now stood with her back to the courtyard. He couldn’t see her eyes; the light on the fan didn’t reach that far, the one from the bedroom was dimmed by the sheer drapes covering the balcony doors.

  He stayed where he was, reached out to offer her a glass of wine. To take it, she’d have to step forward. To move closer, to come to him.

  She did, but slowly, pushing away from the railing, gliding the balcony’s width.

  Her simple dress, the pastel yellow a perfect complement to her near white hair, draped her body as if it were designer wear instead of the same cotton fabric as the black T-shirt he wore. The lines caressed her breasts and hips; his palms tingled, the base of his spine burned.

  She took the wineglass from his hand, brought it to her lips and sipped, doing so without ever releasing his gaze.

  Moments ago she’d seemed uncertain. Now what he saw in her eyes was anything but hesitation or second thoughts. What it was was a challenge.

  And he would never have made it as far as he had in life by failing to accept.

  He brought his own glass to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he swallowed. And then, ignoring the basic rules she’d set, asked her the one question he was most curious to have her answer.

  “Why me?”

  “DO YOU WANT ME to be honest?” she responded even though he wasn’t sticking to the deal upon which she’d insisted. Then again, neither was she. “Or do you want me to be nice?”

  He stared at her for one long moment, then laughed.

  She saw it begin in his eyes; tiny laugh lines appeared, barely visible in the glow from the fan’s light above him. She saw it next in the dimples that bracketed his lips.

  But it was the sound he let go, a great gust of amusement, a severing of the tension around which they’d been dancing, that grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed.

  Yes. Her heart. The very organ she’d determined to keep out of his bed.

  From an emotional standpoint, this encounter was not going the way she’d wanted. His fault for the laugh. Her fault for being susceptible.

  Physically, however, she held out great hope that the sparks between them had only just begun to fly. “I’ll take that to mean honesty works for you?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said and raised his glass in a toast.

  She settled into the closest chair, pretending to relax as she crossed her legs, letting her dangling foot swing. “I like the way you look.”

  “Well, that’s certainly honest,” he replied, taking the chair opposite hers, leaning back, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles.

  “Too much so?” she asked, running her index finger around the rim of her glass and adding, “Would you prefer I be subtle? That I approach you in a bar? Or offer to buy you a cup of coffee at Café Eros? We could flirt and make small talk. You could wonder about my intent. I could pretend to think about letting you take me home.”

  He’d set his wineglass on the table while she talked, and now held it in place with two fingers threaded around the stem, his palm flat on the base.

  She studied the dark hair dusting his wrist and the far edge of his hand. Then she wondered how close the crystal was to breaking; he was so very rigid, his body so very hard and still.

  “That all seems like such a waste of time,” he finally said, to which she replied, “I agree.”

  And then she waited, her hear
t beating hard, and watched him nod, watched him pick up his wineglass and drink, watched him watch her all the while.

  It was a strange sort of cat and mouse they were playing, a game that if done right meant two winners, a game that if done perfectly would mean no regrets, no heartache.

  No heartbreak.

  She’d served the ball into his court. The next move was his, and he made it by asking her, “So, Claire, where do we go from here?”

  Of course he would know her name, she mused. He didn’t look to be the sort of man who overlooked details—especially those that gave him the upper hand.

  “Since I haven’t had the pleasure…”

  “Randy,” he said, inclining his head.

  She’d expected something more highbrow, a name with a Roman numeral at the end. Randy was so all-American approachable, so boy-next-door. Exactly what he was, she thought with a smile—a smile that he mirrored, and the tension returned.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” he reminded her.

  “I’m pretty sure the ground rules made clear that I wouldn’t be answering anything.”

  He returned his glass to the table, slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers. “The first was just an exception then? Exercising your female prerogative?”

  She stared down into her wine colored like winter sunshine. “That would imply that I’d changed my mind.”

  “And you haven’t.”

  She shook her head.

  “About anything.”

  This time, before she did, she looked up and made him wait until the pulse at his temple pounded.

  “Good,” he said and held out a hand. “Then come over here and kiss me.”

  Awareness of the space between them, the very short distance she’d have to cross to do as he wanted—as she wanted—stirred in her belly, more potent than the alcohol already settling there.

  She uncrossed her legs, set her glass on the balcony’s surface, letting the neck of her dress gape to reveal the sheer cups of her bra. Then she got to her feet and reached out, touching her fingertips to his.

  He refused the simple contact, enclosing her wrist in the circle of his fingers and thumb, pulling her forward to stand between his spread legs before pulling her down.

  She settled her weight lightly on his thigh, but he wasn’t having any of that either. No. He tugged her into his body, forced her into the crook of his elbow.

  She had no choice. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.

  He didn’t lower his mouth as she’d expected. Instead, he used his free hand to caress her cheekbones, her jaw, the length of her throat to the hollow where she felt the telltale beat of her heart, the curves of her breasts beneath the tank’s ribbed cotton.

  Her breath caught and her nipples hardened. And beneath her thighs she felt his reaction that was unmistakably thick and hard.

  “Did you know that you have great eyes?”

  “Bausch and Lomb,” she said in response.

  He shook his head. “Not the color. The clarity. The sparkle. Your eyes are…rich.”

  “Rich. Hmm. I think that’s the best come-on I’ve ever heard.”

  Even so, she couldn’t help but think back to last night, to the way they’d connected, to the need for him she’d felt that left her unable to sleep, that made her past experiences with men seem like time spent in a child’s sandbox.

  He touched the pad of his thumb to her lower lip in a way that was all grown-up. “I thought we’d skipped the come-on step.”

  He was right. They had. They’d skipped a lot of other steps between here and there, too. Steps she’d always thought so necessary, yet so incredibly dull.

  “We did,” she said, threading her fingers into the hair that just brushed his nape, feeling a shudder in the hand that still caressed her. “I’m just not good with compliments.”

  “With accepting them? Or believing them?”

  Sigh. What was she doing, telling him personal details, letting him worm his way beneath the surface of this encounter?

  She’d wanted anonymity. Two bodies doing that thing that two bodies do, nothing more than the pleasure of that. And so she finally answered him in the only way she could.

  She pulled his mouth to hers.

  His chuckle tickled her but only for a moment because his laughter quickly dissolved into a groan that rolled up from his gut. She felt it in his thighs where she sat in his lap. She felt it in his arms that held her.

  But more than in his limbs, she felt it in his lips pressed to hers, his tongue seeking entrance. He tasted like the wine they’d drank, like the metallic charge of electricity, like she wanted him.

  He caught at her lips, nibbled, sucked, slid his tongue over hers to play. She held his head and played, too, stroking her fingers over his ear, her tongue over his teeth. The fan overhead did nothing to quell the temperature rising between them like a helium balloon.

  He shifted beneath her, adjusting his erection, slipping his hand between their bodies to cover her breast. Her whimper filled his mouth, and he kissed her harder, rolled her nipple with his finger and thumb.

  Her body was on fire. Her skin burned. Her breath scorched a path up her throat. Flames licked and toyed between her legs. And this was only a kiss. Getting naked with this man was going to kill her.

  She started to pull away to tell him just that, to ask him how he felt about calling things off—or at least taking it inside to prevent the fan from scattering her ashes—but he beat her to the punch.

  He left his hand where it was and lifted his head, staring down into her eyes he thought so rich. His were green, almost pine, darker than jade, his lashes the color of deep fertile soil.

  And then he smiled. “I could use another drink.”

  “So could I.” She started to push up, but he held her.

  “And I’m serious about that new set of rules.”

  By now, she was curious enough to throw her convictions to the wind and ask. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Before I leave tonight, I’ll ask you one question.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “When I see you tomorrow night, you’ll answer.”

  Tomorrow night. Interesting that he was already thinking ahead. Even more interesting that she was falling for that look in his eyes and giving in. “Quid pro quo?”

  He offered a nod of concession. “If you’d like.”

  “I think it’s only fair.”

  At that, the corner of his mouth quirked upward. “You believe all is fair in love and war?”

  “Especially in war.” She straightened in his lap, got to her feet, waited until he’d done the same then offered her hand. “Deal?”

  He took it, shook it. “Deal.”

  Now all she could do was hope she didn’t regret what she was about to do. “Then what do you want to know?”

  RANDY COULDN’T BELIEVE he’d walked away without bedding her.

  He’d had every intention of laying claim to the prize she’d put on the table, of leaving her place and returning home pleasured and spent.

  What happened instead was he found she came with complications he needed time to process.

  The fact that she was open about wanting him in her bed—this, the same woman he’d fantasized about when finding her on her balcony in total dishabille—made her that much more a compelling challenge.

  He was not in the market for a relationship. That didn’t mean he was blind to the benefits offered by an exclusive and intimate arrangement.

  Quite frankly, he thought, staring into the open door of his fridge, having a woman like Claire around would make a lot of his life run more smoothly.

  He wouldn’t have to scramble to find dates for the work functions that took up so much of his time. Sure, he could attend the foundation’s fund-raisers alone and often did.

  But a gorgeous woman on his arm was a near guarantee that he’d be able to spend more time focused on the purpose of the evening and less fending off unwanted advances.

  I
f that sounded arrogant, so be it, he mused, closing the refrigerator door since what he needed to satisfy his appetite wasn’t inside but next door. And if he wanted any relief from what she’d left him feeling, he’d have to provide it himself.

  He jogged up the stairs to his loft, jerking his T-shirt overhead on the way, toeing off his Italian leather loafers and shucking off his khakis once inside the upstairs bathroom. It was late. He needed to be asleep. Tomorrow would be another long day crunching numbers.

  Peeling down his boxers, he climbed into the shower stall, turned on the water and reached for the soap. For some strange reason, however, instead of his mind drifting to work or to Claire, he found himself thinking back to his high school years in Austin, Texas.

  He’d played trumpet in an ensemble with his four best friends, and not a one of them had a clue where he’d come from. The only girl in the group, Heidi Malone, had also been the only one living in a situation that would have needed a hand up to be called lower class.

  His situation, before the Schneiders’ intervention, would have required a shovel.

  Even now, standing beneath the steaming spray in his shower stall with antique brass fixtures and marble walls colored like café au lait, he had trouble believing that he’d once lived on the streets.

  That he’d shoplifted to clothe himself.

  That he’d rummaged in restaurant Dumpsters to eat.

  He’d been a scrapper; he’d have died of exposure otherwise, and was surprised he hadn’t died by a gunshot or a knife blade or a big meaty fist.

  He pushed aside the past and returned to the present, to the shower steaming the stress from his muscles and bones. Now he made sure he never lacked for anything. Clothes, food, the roof over his head, the wheels parked in his garage.

  He didn’t need the money his uncle Luther paid him to manage the finances for the foundation that administered educational grants and scholarship funds.

  He took it because life had taught him to do so.

  Taught him to indulge when he wanted because he could afford it.