Public Affair, Secretly Expecting (8 page)

‘I wasn’t a child,’ she said abruptly, her heart tripping at the concern in his gaze. ‘I knew exactly what I was doing.’ She hadn’t been prepared for the consequences of her actions, but that didn’t matter any more.

‘Hell, Juno.’ He framed her face, planted a kiss so full of tenderness on her lips she felt a frightening ache around her heart. ‘What happened?’

She took his hands in hers, pulled them from her face. The ache getting worse.

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t risk falling into any kind of intimacy with this man. What they’d done could never mean anything more than one night of pleasure. She knew that. He was so far out of her league it wasn’t even funny. And even if he hadn’t been, she knew she couldn’t afford to mistake sex for love. Not a second time.

‘It was a long time ago,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s not important.’

She lifted the sheet, scooted across the bed, shivering despite the sultry summer heat. ‘I’m tired. I ought to go.’

But as she bent to pick up her discarded gown the bed tilted behind her and then long thighs bracketed hers. His arms folded around her waist, trapping her against him. ‘Stay.’ He let out a slow breath. ‘Stay for tonight. No more questions, I promise.’

She should go, but somehow the warmth of his arms, the brush of his breath against the top of her head felt so solid, so reassuring she couldn’t make herself say the words.

‘Come on, darlin’,’ he murmured against her ear lobe. ‘I won’t ravish you again. We both need our sleep. And it’s late. Past midnight. You won’t get a taxi too easily at this time of the night.’

She watched over her shoulder as he piled the pillows against the bed’s ornate headboard. Propping himself on them, he reached out, threaded his fingers through hers.

‘Come back to bed,’ he whispered, the rough cadence of his voice more addictive than any drug. ‘I’ll give you a lift wherever you need to be first thing in the morning.’

She gave a huge yawn and he chuckled.

‘Lord love it, but good sex is exhausting, isn’t it?’ he teased, cradling her head on his shoulder and drawing the sheet up to cover them.

‘I can’t stay for long,’ she murmured, another yawn escaping as she snuggled into his embrace.

She couldn’t stay the whole night. That would be dangerously self-indulgent. But what real harm would it do to stay for a little while? She knew exactly where she stood. Exactly what this meant and what it didn’t. She’d sorted it all out clearly in her mind. And her limbs seemed to have got so heavy, as if she’d been running a marathon. She laid her hand on his chest, took a deep breath of his exquisite scent and felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her palm.

It felt so nice to be held, just once.

Her eyelids drifted closed as she gave herself permission to enjoy the feeling. For a little while.

He should have let her go. Why hadn’t he let her leave?

The question tormented Mac as Juno’s head grew heavy on his shoulder and her body relaxed into sleep. He switched off the bedside lamp and glanced down as a beam of moonlight turned her soft curls to a dull gold.

Hadn’t he always avoided cuddling after sex? Sharing a bed all night made him feel claustrophobic. So why didn’t it feel claustrophobic now? Why did it feel reassuring, listening to her gentle snores and having her body snug under his arm?

And why couldn’t he get rid of that picture of her at sixteen, alone and vulnerable, out of his head?

Something had happened to her six years ago, something unpleasant. Why else would she have gone without sex for so long?

But why should it matter to him? And why should he feel responsible?

He’d been careful with her, patient even, though it had nearly killed him. But for some dumb reason he’d still needed to hold her tonight, to keep her with him. To be sure she was all right.

He squeezed his eyes shut, a series of other unsettling pictures from the day intruding on his memory like unwelcome ghosts. Connor and Daisy walking down the aisle towards him, their hands clasped together. Connor’s baby son asleep in his daddy’s arms. The flicker of fear in Juno’s face when she’d caught sight of his arousal for the first time.

He sighed. Was it any wonder he was behaving irrationally? Hadn’t he been on an emotional roller coaster the whole day?

Coming to Connor’s wedding had been a mistake. He’d known it from the start, but he’d let his libido rule his head and come anyway—and very nearly opened up old wounds in the process. He’d taken advantage of the girl, and used the attraction between them to make sure he kept those wounds well and truly closed. And now he was paying the price.

Guilt. Good old Catholic guilt. That was all this was. He didn’t feel responsible for her, he felt guilty about the way he’d used her. Especially once he’d found out how innocent she was.

He inhaled the summer-meadow scent of her shampoo, listened to her breathing and a wry smile curved his lips.

What was he beating himself up for? He’d given her a good time. More than a good time. He was pretty sure he’d given her her first orgasm. She’d even thanked him for it. So what if he’d used her—she’d enjoyed it, hadn’t she?

Arousal pulsed in his loins at the memory of how much they’d both enjoyed it.

Down, boy.
A repeat performance wasn’t the best idea.

He’d be letting her go in the morning with no regrets.

He needed to return to his life and the work he loved. To get back to the clean, uncomplicated solitude of his house in Laguna Beach. And he needed to forget all about Connor and his family, and the girl lying so trustingly in his arms.

But as he fell into dreams she shuddered in her sleep, and his arm tightened around her shoulders instinctively.

Chapter Seven

J
UNO
lurched awake to the sound of an overzealous sparrow on dawn-chorus duty, the brilliant morning sunshine blurring her vision, but none of her other senses.

The heady scent of sex smothered the light perfume of the terrace flowers. Goosebumps prickled on her naked skin and a large, rough hand lay possessively on her hip. A low grunt sounded behind her and the hand twitched, sending shock waves rippling through her.

She sneaked a look over her shoulder. And her vision—and all the torrid memories from the night before—came into sharp, vivid focus. Mac Brody lay spreadeagled on his stomach, his broad shoulders and long legs hogging most of the bed and the sheet riding low on his buttocks. His back rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The shadow of stubble on his jaw made him look as swarthy as a pirate, highlighting chiselled cheekbones, but his thick dark lashes were almost boyish.

She shifted onto her back and lifted his hand to place it by his side, being careful not to wake him. She paused, noticing for the first time the nasty scar that slashed from his bicep down to his elbow. Why hadn’t she noticed that last night? The hot spot between her legs pulsed hard as she took in the red scratches on the tanned skin of his shoulder blade. Of course she hadn’t noticed the scar, she’d been too busy availing herself of his staggering skills as a lover.

Not that she was an expert on such things, but she’d leapt into the lion’s den last night and he’d made it the most exhilarating, the most erotic experience of her life. He’d been so careful with her, so patient. Knowing who he was and what he was, she never would have expected such care or generosity.

Edging closer to him, she pressed a light kiss to his cheekbone. He gave a soft grunt, but didn’t stir.

‘Thank you, Mac Brody,’ she whispered, and felt the tingle of tears.

Horrified, she wiped her eyes. What was she doing? She mustn’t let herself get over-emotional about their night together. It was only sex—and she had to remember that.

Her heart wedged into her throat. She should never have spent the entire night in his arms. This was just the sort of intimacy she’d been determined to avoid.

They’d made no promises, no commitments. How long was he even likely to remember her name? After all, a man didn’t make love like that unless he’d had a lot of practice.

She slipped out of the bed. She’d seized her Cinderella moment and made the most of it. But she’d taken a foolish, self-indulgent risk falling asleep in his arms. She wasn’t about to make it worse by hanging around like some star-struck groupie until he woke up.

Having wiggled into her underwear and the heavily creased gown, she gathered up her shoes and crossed the room. She hesitated next to the antique desk beside the door, then picked up a pen and dashed off a quick note on the hotel’s letterheaded stationery. She folded the thick white paper, scribbled Mac’s name across it, then tiptoed to the bed to prop it by the phone on the bedside table.

Tilting her head, she took one last opportunity to admire Mac’s magnificent body sprawled across most of the bed. And felt the inevitable throb of response.

How could he still look so dangerous when he was fast asleep?

She took a fortifying breath and crept back across the silk carpet barefoot, suddenly eager to get as far away as possible. But as she shut the door the soft click of the lock echoed in some small neglected corner of her heart.

Five hours later, a raucous ring jolted Mac out of a nicely carnal erotic fantasy. Swearing, he kept his eyes shut and groped for the phone.

‘Brody,’ he grunted into the mouthpiece once he’d finally located the damn thing. ‘This better be really good.’

‘Mac, why have you had your cell off for two days? And what the heck are you doing in France, man?’

Mac groaned, recognising the harassed Brooklyn accent of his personal publicist, Mickey Carver. ‘None of your business, Mick,’ he said, his head now throbbing as insistently as his groin. He went to dump the phone, but heard Mickey’s panicked plea crackling down the line.

‘Don’t hang up, Mac. I’m begging you, here.’

He exhaled slowly and brought the handset back to his ear. There was no point hanging up on Mickey. He’d call the management and have them storm the hotel room. ‘All right, Mick.’ He opened his eyelids and got blasted by five thousand watts of sunshine in both retinas for his trouble. ‘But keep your voice down,’ he whispered, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m not alone.’

He eased over onto his back and blinked groggily at the indent on the fluffy goose down pillow beside him.

Holding the phone away from his ear, he strained to hear any sound from the en suite. All that greeted him was Mickey’s muffled voice and the rustle of a breeze in the terrace vines.

He frowned. Strange. Where was the woman who had starred in the dream Mickey had so rudely interrupted?

‘Hold up, Mick,’ he said, interrupting the whining monologue he hadn’t heard a word of. ‘Can I call you back?’

Mickey heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Sure. But do me a favour. Next time you decide to rearrange the tonsils of some London shop girl, give me a heads up, will you? I’ve been fielding calls from the British tabloids most of the night. They haven’t quit yet and it’s now six in the morning LA time.’

Mac bolted upright, his knuckles whitening on the handset. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, somewhat redundantly, as he’d heard every word this time—and was having the heart palpitations to prove it.

‘The photos are all over the morning papers in the UK.’

‘What photos?’ Why couldn’t Mickey ever get to the point?

‘Of you and the shop girl,’ Mickey said, sounding taken aback. ‘Getting physical on some balcony in France.’

Mac’s astonishment turned to fury.

Some bastard had snapped their photo last night. And now that private, impossibly sexy kiss had been served up for public consumption, to titillate people over their morning coffee. A snarled expletive cut the country quiet as his stomach turned over.

‘Hey, man. Don’t sweat it.’ Mickey’s voice drifted on as Mac’s temper surged out of control. ‘They’re long-range but you both look really hot. All we need here is our own angle.’

He hated those damn parasites. Why couldn’t they leave him the hell alone?

‘It’ll be great publicity for the European release of
Death Game
,’ Mickey wittered on. ‘Especially as the girl’s British. Hey, she’s not there with you, is she?’ Mickey’s voice peaked with excitement. ‘Could I get a quote?’

Mac took a couple of deep breaths. ‘No, she’s not here,’ he growled, suddenly glad of her temporary absence.

He wanted to kill someone and it might as well be the messenger. ‘I don’t want any damn quotes. Not a one. I’ve told you before, my sex life is no one’s business but my own and if you give a single column inch of mileage to this story you’re fired.’

There was a pregnant pause on the end of the line, then Mickey’s voice came back on, considerably subdued. ‘Understood, Mac. How do you want me to spin it, then?’

Was he hitting his head against a brick wall or what?

‘No spin, Mick. No nothing. Tell them no comment and that’ll be the end of it.’

Mickey cleared his throat. ‘Not quite, man.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’ve got the girl’s name.’

Damn. ‘I’ll take care of the girl,’ he said and realised he meant it.

Juno would be completely unprepared for what was about to hit her—and he planned to be there to protect her from the worst of it. He decided not to think about the fact that he’d never been the knight-in-shining-armour type before.

He went to hang up and then a thought occurred to him. He brought the phone back to his ear. ‘Mick, wait. By the way, what
is
her name?’

He didn’t know where she’d popped off to or how long she’d be and he needed to put the wheels in motion. He’d start by booking them a couple of flights to LA to get her out of harm’s way.

‘Man, you didn’t get her name before you nailed her?’ Mick’s laddish chuckle grated on Mac’s last nerve. ‘Boy, oh, boy, you’re such a player. If I had that kind of power, I’d be hitting on everything that moved too—’

‘Shut up, Mick, and give me her damn name,’ he snapped, not liking the renewed spurt of guilt at his publicist’s insinuations.

He listened to the rustle of paper before Mickey spoke. ‘According to this one she’s called Juno Delamare. Works in some dress shop in Portobello Road in West London named The Funky Fashionista and—’