His Perfect Woman (Urban Hearts Series Book 1) (12 page)

The snow had finally subsided, transforming downtown into an ethereal otherworld.

“You know, I think this is the first time I’ve ever been in a hotel room with you.”

Ross Berenger stood a few feet behind her, a fresh shirt over his shoulders, hands on the buttons, halfway through their task. “Is this…uncomfortable? For you? I mean we could—”

“No, it’s fine.” Azure rushed to reassure him.

“I just thought, there was no other place to talk…without someone stopping—”

“Ross, it’s fine. Don’t worry.”  She paused because he’d stepped closer, an arm’s length away, too close and too far at the same time. Her entire thought process had condensed to that one moment of vibration—an unidentifiable hum, an unknown frequency that was impossible to resist.

“Good, because I’ve…” Time swirled around them as he stopped talking and looked at her. The final levee break was hers. Her arms circled his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his head down. His mouth was soft, full and moved elegantly against hers. She knew he was a good kisser, having limited samplings in elevators and empty conference rooms, but she was surprised at how much more this was. Ross was thorough and took his time, open mouthed and hungry but not harsh—just a perfect exploration of her. She offered him everything to explore.  He broke off only once to ask if she was sure, barely waiting for a breathless yes before his weight melded into hers, spilling them onto the bed.

Her blazer hit the floor and covered her sensible two inch heels, discarded like the rest of her sensibility. She’d managed to undo his earlier work of dressing and his shirt fluttered open as her hands spread across his chest. Moving her thumbs back and forth across the hard nubs, she elicited a soft grunt from him.  He stopped kissing her, allowing both of them to catch a breath before tilting his forehead against hers—as though finally being together was unbelievable. 

She should have been having second thoughts, but the hum inside pushed to the surface and she felt powerless to stop it.  Her fingers curled against his still-clothed shoulder—metallic blue fingernails on clean white cotton. His head lifted, his green eyes searching hers before they closed and his lips parted to press in further, his tongue seeking. Caught between wanting to undress him, or pulling her own clothes off to feel his hard chest against her skin, she pushed at him gently. The soft sound he made as her mouth moved away made her dive back in, taking her time with his mouth, savoring every second.

The tension within her ratcheted up with every swipe of his tongue, every soft kiss and nibble, his open-mouth moving over her throat.   Stretching, she tipped her head back against the bed. Her hands fumbled with the front of her blouse, pulling at the thin rayon and tiny buttons.  Across the hotel room, a phone alarm started beeping. They ignored the interruption. The beeping became louder, insistent. Ross pulled away slightly.

  “I can’t,” he said. Az stopped, her fingers only halfway down her shirt.

“What?” Her eyes widened in surprise. He was having second thoughts.

  “No, I mean, right now, I can’t. I have the workshop in like…” he glanced at the clock. “Five minutes.”  In response, she wrapped her fingers around the back of his head and pulled him to her. He kissed her again. “Never mind, I’ll blow it off.”

“Wait. This is for Mac-Lehrman? The new clients?”  When he didn’t say anything, she pushed against him. “You can’t blow this off.” Seeing the conflict in his eyes before he rolled away, she watched as he retreated into the bathroom. She lay there on the rumpled California King, a resonant white noise rumbling through her body.  Seconds later, he was back, shirt buttoned and tucked in, planting quick kisses over her face, lingering on her mouth.

“Wait for me; I’ll be an hour, hour and half, tops. Okay?” He laughed at her brisk nod. It was the most carefree sound she’d heard—ever, ever, in her life. “Please, just wait.”

He stood in the little space just in front of the door, patting his pockets, eyes scanning the room for his laptop case. Abandoning the search when he saw her, he reached the bed in two strides and sprawled once more over the top of her, kissing her as if it were the last time. He pulled away and she couldn’t bear to watch him leave. She closed her eyes, the vision of him burning into her memory as the door closed with a soft metallic click.

Sitting up, her hands running across the soft fuzz of the hotel blanket, she sought some remaining warmth of him. There was none. She rose from the bed, pulling her skirt down and stepping over the duvet that had been kicked to the floor, and went to pour herself another drink. Maybe she should make a quick trip to her room for a toothbrush. Or a maybe a conscience, Azure smirked, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she gazed out the window, still reeling with that incessant vibration, thinking how completely right it felt.

She had more conviction and security about the next few hours than she’d felt in her whole life. After all the close calls, the near misses of getting together, and now, finally, she would have him. They’d laughed a lot, cheered and jeered at the TV in the sports bar—ran on the treadmills in hotel gyms, comparing music on their I-pods. Ross knew when Eli was sick, or when she was having issues with her husband, Jonathan. He understood her grief over not having more children. Ross was the one who got all of this about her and more. He simply got Azure.

Lifted by the Minnesota winds, snow swirls from the neighboring rooftop pattered against the window. The pane chilled her fingertip as she traced a droplet. She shivered and took another sip of over-priced whiskey to warm herself. Except for the abundance of snow, the view of St Paul resembled nothing like the outdoor wonderland of Colorado. Azure watched snow flurries dance on the wind.

  A month earlier, she and Jonathan had made a trip to a mountain resort in an effort to regain a spark that had been missing for some time.

Jonathan had nagged at her to take some vacation time, which she’d adamantly refused citing all the events she’d lined up—workshops and conferences which couldn’t possibly go on without her. But after the disastrous dinner they’d had with Ross—Jonathan’s first meeting with him, her guilt, coupled with Jonathan’s insistence compelled her to take a weekend. What could it hurt? It was only two days. Things never seem to work out the way you plan them. That trip had been no different.

They’d left their son with her mom and Aunt Margaret and driven to Vail, only an hour, maybe two in traffic outside of Denver, but a completely different world.  A modern mountain town wedged between high peaks and a million-dollar highway, its appeal juggled movie-star glamour and rustic wilderness. With its big hotels and condos nestled in the foothills and the wide white ribbons dotted with skiers weaving through blankets of pine trees on the slopes, Vail was the original winter wonderland.

She pushed away all thoughts of work and the next conference, the next workshop and especially all thoughts of Ross Berenger.

Azure had been a city kid, and she’d never much enjoyed the wilderness that surrounded her home state. While other Colorado kids were rafting, rock climbing and snowboarding, she’d been exploring the adventurous shelves of the Tattered Cover Book Store or the flea market in Larimer Square.

Jonathan grew up urban also, having been raised near London, and both of them were a bit at odds in the outdoorsy ski-resort town. But they were oddballs together and that was the point.

“There’s live music at Garfinkel’s.” Jonathan perused the Vail magazine left in their hotel room. “We could go there.”

“Sounds good.” She made an effort to smile—feeling tired and a little put upon that he’d sprung this “vacation” on her at the last minute. How were they supposed to make up for all the distance they’d created over the past year in two measly days?

“Good, let’s do that. Where do you want to eat?” His forced brightness played on her last nerve. He’d even had the concierge print out a carefully thought-out itinerary of activities for the weekend. Every moment filled with some inane recreation to spare themselves the awkward silences. After seeing her look when he’d whipped out the list, he’d wisely put it aside.

“Anywhere that I don’t have to decide.”  She sighed and he frowned at her. She wasn’t playing nice. “Okay, something light then.”

“They don’t have light.” He sounded put out. Jonathan hated decisions. “Everyone here burns calories on the slopes. They have French, Italian, Mexican, and home-style. Not a salad bar in sight.”

She pressed her lips inward in tired resignation. She was getting a headache. Or heartache, she wasn’t sure which.

“Italian. Maybe they have a good antipasto.”

“I’ll call and make a reservation at eight.” He punched the buttons on his phone as though a mini crisis had been averted. He’d rescheduled his own work projects to go on this weekend because it was the only weekend she could get away. She’d wondered why at the time, but now she knew. They’d been headed for disaster and she was powerless to stop it. She couldn’t see it then, but Jonathan could, so the least she could have been was grateful.

The air was startlingly crisp when they headed to the restaurant. She tucked her arm inside the crook of his while they walked at a pace more suitable to business people late for a meeting than a couple on vacation. They had always been that way. In London, even when they first met and would walk along the Thames or the walkway near the Eye of London, they’d both walked and talked as though there were no time for anything. There wasn’t the lingering, the relaxed, comfortable space she’d felt with Ross that first time in Memphis. She pushed that thought out of her head as they settled into the plush leather booth in front of a window.

Instead of a generic Tuscan décor, the place exuded an old world Italian ambiance, with excellent waiters garbed in black ties.  Jonathan ordered in badly accented Italian, confounding the waiter. They later learned the boy hailed from St. George, Utah, and his name was not Giovanni as it said on his nametag, but Gerry. No one wants to tip thirty percent to a guy named Gerry from St. George. But Giovanni served each plate like it was a DaVinci masterpiece. He deserved thirty percent. 

“Do you have to flirt with every waiter you come into contact with?” Jonathan asked after Gerry/Gio’s last whisking away of appetizer plates. It was another indication of how things had changed. Jonathan was not an insecure guy and rarely commented when another man noticed or complimented her—in fact he took some pride in the fact that he had an attractive wife.  That is, until the dinner with Ross Berenger. After the strained evening, everything she said, every look, every move, came under some sort of scrutiny. Jonathan had taken his natural British reserve to a new level of haughtiness during dinner with Ross. She recalled with chagrin the last day of the conference, when she’d tried to apologize for Jonathan’s behavior, Ross had kissed her—she hadn’t pulled away.

“I was being friendly. It’s not flirting.”

“He certainly thinks it is.” Jonathan turned to frown at the departing waiter, bringing his profile into sharp relief against the restaurant lighting.  His nose was a bit too large for his forehead and exceptionally straight, his chin jutting out sharply to match it. If it weren’t for a full head of wavy hair and a dark beard, he’d resemble Ichabod Crane from this angle. At least all depictions Azure knew of the literary figure.

They sipped some very good wine and nibbled on the antipasto plate with a minimum of talking. There should have been lots to say. She wondered aloud about Eli as he seemed about the only topic they had in common anymore.

“I’m sure he’s fine, but we can call your mother and check on him if you want.”  He faced her again, his eyes the clear dark lager color she’d fallen for six years earlier. A pang of longing went through her for different eyes—green ones. She shook her head.

“No, it’s late. He’s probably asleep. I’ll call in the morning.”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched. Azure followed suit. They both knew her mother and aunt probably had Eli up playing Candyland or something. They finished dinner, and she curbed her flirtatious comments with Giovanni, whom Jonathan tipped thirty-five percent.

The three piece band was situated outdoors, despite the cold. Tall gas burners glowing warm at various intervals gave the large terrace a temperate atmosphere. The music was good, the fiddle and guitar backed by a keyboardist and playing a combination of bluegrass and Celtic ballads. People in après ski apparel clustered beneath the heaters.

Jonathan and Azure were some distance away from the band, but they’d managed to find seats near the door and ordered Irish coffees. Listening to the strains of Irish fiddle, she shivered. Jonathan pulled one of her hands away from her coffee mug and laced their fingers together. He slipped both their hands into his big jacket pocket. It was the most intimate thing he’d done all night and when the song ended she didn’t want to pull her hand loose to applaud, so she slapped her thigh instead.

“Remember the Irish folk festival?” she murmured in the lull between songs. He grinned into the air. Of course he’d remember. They’d been dating about three weeks, and he’d rented a car to take them out to the country for some music fair. They’d camped in a moth-eaten tent he’d borrowed from his buddies. It was cold and damp, but the music and beer were excellent and plentiful.

“I remember the tent.” His lips were close to her ear. They’d made love for the first time in the little tent–about 600 hundred other campers around, some within ten feet of them. Both drunk and rather exuberant, they’d managed to dislodge a few of the stakes and one pole, the poor canvas shelter collapsing around them as she dissolved into a fit of laughter.