Authors: Darah Lace
me later?”
He smiled. Good. He’d lost some of the
discomfort she’d caused. “I need some advice.”
“Hmm, the green one goes with your eyes.”
Pulling the emerald scarf from around his neck,
he handed it to her. “Then that one is for Mom. We
have the same color eyes.”
She ran the scarf through her fingers, enjoying
its silky texture. It reminded her of the lingerie she’d
packed with Marcus in mind—black satin with slits
in all the right places. She couldn’t wait to see his
expression when he saw her in it.
He cleared his throat. “How about Mel?”
“She likes yellow.”
He passed her the lemon chiffon. It wasn’t as
soft as the silk, but it was nice against her skin.
Sifting through the rest, he set aside one after the
other until he was down to two. She wondered why
he didn’t ask her opinion for this selection, and why
he glanced at her every few seconds then grew
flushed. Was he buying it for her?
The thought warmed her. More than it should
have. Still, she could make it easy on him. “The
orange one is pretty.”
“Would it clash with brown hair? Maybe I
should get the purple?”
Brown? Her fists tightened around the material
in her hands. “Melody doesn’t look good in orange,
but I don’t think she’d like the tie-dyed purple
either.”
“It’s not for Mel. But you’re right. The purple
one is more appropriate for a younger woman.” He
tossed the orange scarf back in the pile and reached
for the ones she clutched. “Let me have those before
you wrinkle them.”
She stared after him as he strode to the front
counter and added them to an assortment of items to
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be rung up. Picking up a glass globe with a wooden
pedestal from the shelf near the register, he shook it
and grinned at the fake snow that drifted through
the watery sky to engulf the miniature town at the
base of a mountain. “She’ll love this.”
Behind him, Charlotte fought the streak of hurt
and disappointment that ripped through her at his
barely audible words, obviously not meant for her to
hear. Instead she concentrated on keeping her pride
intact. He wasn’t going to tell her who
she
was. Well,
that was fine. He didn’t have to. Natalie Weaver was
both brunette and young.
So much for her Prince Charming theory.
It was time to snare the Beast.
****
Or at least that’s what it seemed like when
they’d returned to the suite and Marcus had pleaded
exhaustion then hightailed it to his room. He’d heard
the frustration in her voice, seen it in those
goddamned blue eyes of hers.
He yanked a towel off the ring with enough force
to bring down the wall, stepped out of the cold
shower and began a brisk rubdown, hoping to dispel
some of his own frustration along with his goose
bumps.
He sure as hell didn’t look forward to spending a
night between cold sheets. Alone. And with visions of
Charlotte tied to his bed with the same silk scarves
she’d run through her fingers, her naked body
writhing and moist from where his mouth...
“Hell, go tell her you want her,” he grumbled as
he leaned against the sink to glare at the mirror.
“Just do it and get it over with.”
But the image staring back at him didn’t budge.
He couldn’t. Not if he wanted to live with himself
after this godforsaken weekend finally ended.
Regardless of what she thought, he cared about
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Charlotte.
With a disgusted sigh, he left the bathroom and
sat on the edge of the wide bed to towel dry his hair.
A light tapping sound filtered through the brisk
rubbing. He lowered the towel to his neck and
waited, not sure if wishful thinking had affected his
hearing. The knock came again, but not at his door.
It came from the suite’s main entry.
The door to Charlotte’s room opened with a
squeak, followed a few seconds later by the sound of
a deadbolt being unlocked at the main door. The
murmur of a male voice and Charlotte’s husky
laughter brought him off the bed.
He seized a pair of jeans from his suitcase,
jammed one leg in, then the other, and jerked his
bedroom door open, determined to have it out with
Wylie once and for all. If the guy thought he could
take advantage of Charlotte’s restlessness and steal
into her bed just because Marcus wasn’t in it, the
bastard had another think coming.
“Geez, I needed this.” Her breathy whisper came
from the dimly lit entryway.
Damn, was the asshole taking her against the
wall?
Marcus rounded the corner at a run and stopped
in his tracks. The red-faced grinning teenager,
probably sixteen if he was a day, stared at Charlotte
with calf-like eyes as he backed into the hall. His
gaze shifted to Marcus, and the smile on his face
slipped. He swallowed and returned his gaze to
Charlotte. “If there’s anything else I can get you, Ms.
Reese, you be sure to let me know.”
“Mmm,” she moaned again. “Thank you, Tim.”
The door shut, and Marcus waited for her to
turn around. When she did, her eyes collided with
his and rounded. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”
Marcus felt as if he’d been sucker punched. He’d
been so concerned with the boy he hadn’t noticed her
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appearance. Her face, scrubbed clean of makeup,
held a healthy glow. Her long lashes and perfect
brows were a shade darker than her hair, her lips
pale pink. Her blonde hair was brushed into a
ponytail at the back of her head, wisps hanging in
disarray around her face and ears. The white cotton
nightgown was thick enough he couldn’t see through
it—maybe why she felt comfortable answering the
door in it—with narrow shoulders straps and tiny
buttons from the center of the low cut bodice all the
way to the ruffle at the top of her knees.
She was the picture of virginal innocence, and
he had never wanted her more.
“Marcus?”
“Uh, no, I—” He cleared his throat and clutched
the towel around his neck. “I was taking a shower.”
Her gaze skittered over his bare chest, making
him wish he’d grabbed a shirt, and lingered on the
top button of his jeans he’d left undone. He quickly
rectified that error, which drew her attention back to
his face for a brief moment before she swept past
him, muttering something about needing chocolate.
He did a one-eighty and followed her to the bar
as if she held him by some imaginary leash. Once
there, she flipped a switch on the wall and soft light
filtered over them from the lamp above the pool
table. She perched on a high stool and proceeded to
stick her finger into whatever concoction the bellhop
had delivered.
Mesmerized, he watched her insert the goo-
covered finger into her mouth. She closed her eyes
with what could only be described as orgasmic bliss
as she sucked. His mind screamed for him to run,
but his feet remained stationary, rooted to the spot
as she slid her finger out and licked her soft pink
lips. So much for a cold shower.
“Mmm, this is so good.” She wiped her hands on
the paper napkin she pulled from a plastic packet
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along with utensils. With the spoon she nudged a
cherry to the side of the large bowl.
Against his better judgment, he ventured closer.
“What is it?”
“A hot fudge sundae with extra, extra, extra
fudge. Next best thing to sex.” She scooped a
heaping spoonful into her mouth.
Another moan of pleasure escaped her, firing
Marcus into retreat across the room before he proved
her theory wrong. He really should leave her to the
dessert, but for the life of him he couldn’t. Instead,
he began assembling the balls on the pool table.
Anything to stay active and keep his focus off her
while he kept her talking. “What is it with women
and chocolate?”
“Well, if you can’t have sex...”
He jerked a glance over his shoulder, sure her
open-ended statement was an invitation, but found
her once again savoring the ice cream. He tried his
damnedest to drag his gaze from her, but it refused,
same as his feet, giving in only enough to stray to
the low-cut bodice of that damned virginal white
gown. It lay open, several buttons undone, to reveal
the valley between her breasts. Had it been
unbuttoned earlier?
Charlotte smiled as Marcus grabbed a pool stick
and turned his back on her to make the break. She
slipped off the barstool, taking her hot fudge sundae
with her, and padded barefoot toward him.
When he’d suggested they turn in early after
such a long day, she’d labeled the night a bust. With
thoughts of Natalie wearing on her confidence, she
hadn’t bought his excuse. The sting of yet another
rejection had demanded chocolate.
The decadent dessert seemed to be working its
magic, but his inability to keep his eyes off her did
more to soothe her wounded self-esteem than the
fudge.
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Settling on the arm of an overstuffed leather
chair, she indulged in another taste of vanilla ice
cream and hot fudge, licking the spoon to get every
morsel. A heated awareness filled her. She peered
from beneath her lashes to find him watching her
again. His eyes, darkened with lust, traveled from
her lips to her crossed legs, caressing them with fire.
Her favorite nightgown—not one she would have
selected for seduction, definitely not the black satin
she’d hoped to surprise him with—had ridden up to
mid thigh.
A few inches higher, moisture gathered and a
slow throb began. She uncrossed her legs and re-
crossed them, squeezing her thighs tight to ward off
any command her body might make for her to hurry.
Marcus wasn’t the type she could rush even if she
wanted to. “Would you like some?”
His fiery gaze flew to hers, and she was hard
pressed to keep her expression innocent as she held
out a spoonful of ice cream. “You keep watching me.
I thought you might want some.”
Frowning, he leaned against the stick and shook
his head. “Not what you’re offering. I want it all.”
“You ask too much.” Uncertain they talked
about the same thing, she added, “You should never
try to separate a woman from her chocolate.”
That got her a smile. And oh, what a smile. “I’ll
play you for it. A game of eight ball.”
“Pool?”
When he nodded, she stood and made her way to
his side of the table. Propping a hip against the edge,
she said, “I didn’t have you pegged for a chocolate
lover.”
“I’m not.”
“So why do you want the whole thing?”
“Because,” he raised a hand to palm her jaw,
releasing all the tiny butterflies in her belly,
“watching you eat the damned thing is a sexual
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orchestration I’m not sure I can endure.”
She didn’t move as his thumb grazed the
underside of her bottom lip and came away with a
smudge of chocolate fudge. He stuck the digit in his
mouth and gave a nod of approval. “Not bad. Not bad
at all.”
Then just like that he resumed his game while
she stood breathless, longing to glide her hands over
his chest. To trace that little line of feathery black
hair down his rock-hard belly and lower.
From the hard ridge she’d palmed through his
tuxedo pants the night of the bachelor auction, she
knew she wouldn’t be disappointed in what she
found. And from the bulge she saw there now, his
words weren’t idle chit-chat. She hadn’t come onto
him, yet she’d turned him on. And he wasn’t
running.
Charlotte didn’t bother to analyze the how or
why of the situation but considered his challenge
and the opportunity it presented. She could turn his
wager around and get what she wanted if she played
her cards right. Or rather, her balls.