Get Lucky (5 page)

Chapter Three

London couldn’t believe she was doing this. Standing at the end of her dining-room table, she surveyed her work. The white tablecloth, flowers in the middle of the table, her best china and silverware. She had to admit it looked damn good. Why was she going all out like this just because she’d been tricked into having Marc over for dinner?

Maybe not exactly tricked. She returned to her kitchen, running her hands down her apron and making sure nothing had splattered onto her dress before returning to her stove. The roast was done. Potatoes stood in the pot on the back of the stove waiting to be scooped onto the platter. Rolls were in their basket with a cloth over them. She stirred the gravy. If he hadn’t asked her out for Friday night, she wouldn’t be going through all this work.

When he did ask her out she had to give him her spiel about not dating guests. He offered to take her to another town. She’d hesitated. Marc pointed out if he just came by to her house, it really wouldn’t be a date. That had been Wednesday.

Between then and now she’d learned what his favorite dish was. Of course he’d be a meat-and-potatoes man. Then she’d started plotting the evening. Now she stood in one of her nicest dresses, with the best table setting she owned set out on her table that up until this morning she’d used to stack anything she didn’t want to put away or didn’t know where to put.

“The wine,” she told herself, remembering it was supposed to breathe for an hour.

When she started her menu of pot roast and potatoes it didn’t seem that it would be all that much work. Then she told herself Marc coming over was just a good excuse to do some deep cleaning of her house that she hadn’t gotten around to, since she wasn’t ever here. He might not have even noticed she took off a few hours early in order to make sure everything was in order when he came over at eight. Marc had signed up for another of the tours, something he’d been doing almost every day since taking their walking tour.

He managed to come around at least once a day when no one else was around and steal a kiss or at the least compliment her on her looks. Marc wasn’t tacky, pushy, or annoying. It amazed her how when any other guest started coming on to her too strong Marc always seemed to be nearby. He was perfect at getting every annoying weasel to leave her alone. In fact, it was damn hard to fault Marc at all on anything he did.

The gravy wasn’t clumping. Everything was perfect. London glanced at the clock. Two minutes before eight. Something told her Marc would be on time. She spotted the vase she’d set up on her windowsill over her kitchen sink and studied the four silk flowers, each a different color. Marc had snuck those flowers to her throughout the week. Would it be tacky for him to learn she’d saved them and, in fact, put them on display in a vase?

She damn near jumped out of her skin when someone knocked at her door. “Definitely on time,” she said, scrambling out of her apron and frantically folding it and stuffing it in the bottom drawer in her kitchen. “I guess the flowers stay.”

*   *   *

Marc didn’t know if he liked London’s flushed expression with very little makeup or the incredibly stunning, figure-hugging dress she wore without shoes better. London sighed, smiled, and pulled her front door open farther.

“I knew you’d be on time,” she informed him, inviting him into her home.

“I almost wasn’t when I decided to buy these and couldn’t find the florist. My GPS decided to have a brain fart.” Marc held out the bouquet of flowers, red roses with some other flowers stuck into the arrangement. “I didn’t know if you had a vase or not.”

He didn’t usually feel awkward, even on first dates. And he reminded himself this wasn’t a date. London had been very strict about the terms surrounding him coming over for dinner. When her expression transformed as she accepted the flowers and she lifted her gaze to his, not saying anything for a moment, he knew he’d made the right choice.

“Marc, they’re absolutely beautiful,” she whispered, burying her nose in them as she turned and walked barefoot across her living room. “Everything is ready. Come on in.”

He glanced at his car parked out on the street and at the houses across the street before closing the door. London lived in a stable-looking neighborhood, very middle-class, with each home, including hers, appearing neat and well cared for. Her sidewalk and porch had been cleared of snow, and he wondered if she shoveled it or if she had a service tend to the deed. Marc closed the door and secured the dead bolt, done out of force of habit, before turning and taking in her living room.

“Something smells incredibly good.” His stomach seconded the notion, growling when he breathed in the rich aroma of home-cooked food. They ate at home as a family when they could. His mother insisted on it at least once a week since she’d returned home and reunited with their father. Those were memorable, happy times, and sitting down with London for a good meal sounded just as appealing.

“Come on in. I’m not waiting on you. You can help put food on the table.” There was laughter in her tone.

Marc glanced at the dark living room, light flooding into it from the adjoining dining room. There were a few prints on the walls, comfortable-looking furniture, and a round braided carpet that almost reached the walls and showed off the wooden floor underneath at its edges. As comfortable-looking as the room was, it wasn’t personalized. London either didn’t spend a lot of time in this room or simply worked so much she hadn’t gotten around to putting anything personal in there. He noticed there wasn’t a TV in the room and there weren’t any pictures of family or friends. He remembered Meryl’s comment about London refusing to discuss her past. There was proof of that here, with no hint of anything about the woman other than what he already knew.

“If I knew we were eating buffet-style, I would have brought food instead of flowers,” he said, studying the place settings in the dining room as he found his way into her kitchen.

London grinned at him over her shoulder, stirring something on the stove. “I like the flowers.”

He spotted them on her windowsill next to another vase that held all the silk roses he’d bought for her at the gift shop throughout the week. A wave of intense satisfaction rushed through him, and he returned his attention to London. He would have to remember flowers went a long way with this woman. She hadn’t thrown away any of the flowers he’d given her.

“So what do you want me to do?” he asked, the smells of whatever she’d made almost making him drool.

“You could pour wine.” She nodded to a bottle on the counter. “The glasses are already on the table.”

He took to his task, his stomach growling again when she brought in a pot roast, nicely arranged on a formal serving platter with potatoes and carrots surrounding it.

“That looks good enough to be on a cover of some kind of cooking magazine.”

London shrugged, placing it on the table and returning to the kitchen. “I don’t cook that often and it was kind of fun.”

“I’m glad my idea of eating appealed to you.” He watched her walk away, enjoying the hell out of how her dress hugged her figure, showing off her narrow waist and incredible ass. The dress ended above her knees, and her legs were shapely, not muscular but toned and long. “If this tastes even half as good as it smells, I’ll be in heaven.”

He hadn’t poured the second glass of wine when she returned with biscuits. “Well, I hope you like it,” she said, tugging on her dress before sliding into her chair.

Marc hurried to finish pouring the wine and placed the bottle next to his plate as he joined her at the table. “Allow me to serve you,” he said, deciding he should take on at least one more task. London had gone to a lot of work to prepare this meal for them. “It’s the least I can do.”

The food was incredible, the company even better. Marc found himself leaning back, laughing along with London as she told a story about a guest who’d stayed at the ski lodge earlier the previous year.

“By the time he’d checked out I swear he’d stayed in over twenty rooms,” she said, swirling the wine in her glass as she shook her head and continued laughing. “We never did figure out why he complained about each room and insisted on being moved.”

“There are some unique characters in this world,” Marc said, and reached to pour both of them more wine.

“The only bad part about a great meal at home is cleaning up afterward.” London sipped at her wine and slid back from the table. “I guess we can let the dishes soak until later.”

“Nope. I know my manners. You cooked the food; I’ll clean up. Sit there and tell me more stories,” Marc encouraged, taking her plate and his and heading to the kitchen.

London twisted in her chair, looking at him as if he’d grown a third eye. “You’re seriously going to wash all the dishes?” she asked.

“Yup.” With a glance he saw there wasn’t a garbage disposal, turned and found the trash can, then scraped the remaining food off both plates into it. “And you’re going to sit and keep me company. So what did you do before you worked at the Elk Ski Lodge?”

He caught her shrugging before she twisted in her chair again when he entered the dining room and grabbed the platter with the roast and remaining vegetables on it. They’d put a good dent into all of the food, but there would be leftovers. Since he didn’t want her changing the subject, he took the platter into the kitchen, set it on the counter, and returned for the roll basket.

“I’ve been at the lodge for three years. There were a few jobs before that after I finished high school.”

“How old are you?” he asked, realizing he didn’t know.

“Aren’t guys not supposed to ask ladies that?” she asked, grinning broadly.

“I think that rule doesn’t fall into place until we’re over forty.” He rinsed the plates and stacked them next to her sink. “Let me guess. Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”

London leaned back in her chair, laughing, and drank more of her wine. If she was getting tipsy, he liked her this way. “I’m mortally offended,” she said, still laughing. “I’m twenty-five. Your turn. Age and job description please, sir.”

“Twenty-seven and I own part of a family business.” Now it was his turn to change the subject. “Where is the dish soap?”

“You really don’t need to wash the dishes.” She stood, moving toward him with a lazy stroll.

“Is there something else you’d rather do?” he asked, reaching for her with wet hands.

She giggled, making an effort to dodge him. Her dress looked pretty nice, and since it was possibly “dry-clean only” he used that as his excuse to drag his damp fingers through her hair, capturing her face and lowering his mouth to hers.

London didn’t relax against him as easily as she did the last time he kissed her, but she tasted so good Marc didn’t care. Gripping the side of her head, he tilted her so he could devour her better. She tasted of their dinner and the wine. But it was the heat that greeted him, slowly drifting to his brain, that made him slow the kiss and pull her closer. London groaned and he dragged his fingers through all that thick, tangle-free silk down her back until he clasped her rear end.

More than anything he wanted to explore every inch of her. He was acutely aware of the zipper down her spine and forced himself to instead caress her smooth, round ass as he continued feasting on her mouth. If he moved too quickly she’d make him stop. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he didn’t doubt it for a moment.

“You really don’t want your dishes washed,” he murmured into her mouth, knowing he could stop now, but if he held her in his arms much longer he’d be carrying her in search of her bedroom.

“Huh,” she gasped, letting her head fall back and her eyes remain closed when he raised his head. The slight grin on her face added to the vision of beauty Marc stared down at. “Soap is in the cabinet under the sink,” she said, holding her position.

“You are wicked,” he accused, letting his gaze drop to the view of her breasts with the material of her dress stretched over them.

London relaxed even more in his arms. If he let her go, she’d fall backward; not that he would ever let her go. Marc blinked, suddenly realizing this wasn’t casual sex or friends with benefits. They’d known each other a week. He’d booked his room at the lodge for a month. If this was how he felt about her right now, where would they be when it was time for him to leave?

He was a selfish bastard. Marc would take what London offered and worry later about where it might lead them. He wanted London too much to start analyzing something as serious as a relationship.

“I tell you what,” he said, squeezing her ass and pulling her dress up until he felt the edge of the material in his hands. That was enough to open her eyes. “I’m going to wash your dishes and then I want more of this,” he said, lowering his head and nibbling at her lower lip.

“You drive a hard bargain,” she informed him. When she straightened, London appeared a lot more sober than she had a moment before. “And we’ll see. No promises.”

London couldn’t remember when she last had more fun washing and drying dishes. Marc jumped into the task, making her feel obligated to get out a hand towel and dry.

“You see,” he told her. “I learned at a young age washing the dishes was the much better task than drying them. My brother and I had to do this every night. It was our chore; that was before we got a dishwasher.”

“Oh yeah? Sounds like you were so tortured.” She enjoyed hearing about his childhood and trying to imagine what it would be like being in a family where there were actually chores given. Any time her parents told her to do something, they’d forgotten they’d told her before she found time to do it. Although for the most part, her parents ignored her. She kept whatever house they were living in clean because they didn’t. They were always too busy plotting their next venture, or business deal, as they liked to call it.

“Most definitely,” he told her, grinning and showing how little he was tortured. “Washing is the easier half of the task. When you dry, you have to not only dry the dish but also put it away. Usually the dish towel is too wet to keep drying dishes and so you have to get another one. Yet another part of one task. When you wash, that is all you do. This is the easier half of the job.”

“Sounds like you put a lot of thought into the matter,” she said, laughing.

“Yup. I was all about making sure Jake did more of the chores. I lived to see to that fact.”

“So you were the oldest?”

“Yup. And definitely the better of the King men,” he told her, suggesting there might be a competition between the two of them. “Jake is a player.”

“And you’re not a player?” She twisted her damp dish towel and aimed it at him. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

Marc shifted his attention from her face to her towel. “I’d think twice before doing that,” he said, his voice lowering into a challenge.

London let the towel go, releasing it with one hand and aiming low. The towel slapped against Marc’s waist before he ducked backward, his blue eyes suddenly glowing as his mouth twisted into an ornery grin. London’s heart skipped a beat and started pumping too quickly in her chest. She reloaded as fast as she could, aiming higher when he straightened and started for her.

“You think I’m a player, do you?” He tried grabbing her towel.

London jumped out of his reach, letting the towel fly again. It made a slapping sound against his chest. “What would you call it?” she asked, laughing even harder when he lunged at her.

She barely made it out of his grasp and darted out of the kitchen. There wasn’t time to twist her towel again and reload before he pounced on her, lifting her off the ground. Her back was pressed against all that steel muscle and his arms were all bulging muscles. London lost her towel and gripped his arms but couldn’t budge his grip on her.

“You would attack an unarmed woman?” she asked, barely able to get the words out as she laughed harder than she had in ages.

“You attacked an unarmed man!” he accused, his voice a deadly growl in her ear.

Her heart exploded in her chest. A warmth stretched over her body, causing immediate swelling between her legs and a tingling starting over her flesh. She’d had a few glasses of wine but not enough to make her drunk. As she continued laughing and twisting against his impossible grip, fumes flooded her brain. London might blame it on the wine, but suddenly she wanted to fuck him.