47
Claire and Dillon were crossing the bridge when a light rain began to fall. When they reached the other side, they dashed into a small French dinner club where the jazz was cool, the house wine tasted like buttery sunshine, and the round tables were so small their knees touched beneath.
Over bowls of steamed mussels served with fragrant hunks of artisan-baked sourdough dipping bread, they talked easily about the team, which had gone on to lose two games before winning again, which Dillon hoped would be the start of a streak.
She told him about the renovations she and Lucas were working on, while he shared stories about his sisters, all of whom were happily married and raising families back home in Texas.
“I think Lorenzo was right,” he said as he topped off her glass from the carafe the waiter had left in the center of the table.
“About what?”
“That this collection could well establish your name in serious art circles.”
She laughed at that. “I hadn’t realized you were an expert on glass art.”
“I’m not. But I know what I like.”
And he liked her. Although she’d claimed that her dress was nothing special, the way the neckline skimmed across her shoulders made him want to touch his lips to that smooth, fragrant flesh.
She’d worn her hair up, he supposed to appear more formal, and to show off those delicate silver earrings he knew were her own creation. He was accustomed to seeing her without makeup, but whatever she’d done to her face—darkening her eyes and brightening her lips—added an exoticism that was another layer to the California girl who’d first caught his eye.
“Plus,” he added, “I was listening to all those people who probably know what they’re talking about. And the buzz was definitely there.”
“I am proud of the collection.” Her face lit up with a smile. “I was offered a commission tonight,” she revealed. “From an architect who’s designing a waterfront home for some tech mogul in Seattle. The owner’s putting in an indoor lap pool. It’s going to have colored neon tubes beneath a glass ceiling that opens on clear nights.”
“Good luck with that,” Dillon said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” she said with a light laugh.
“What does he want you to do?” Surely she wasn’t going to waste her incredible talent making neon tubes?
“He wants me to create an underwater garden. With sea anemones and sea flowers.”
Dillon immediately saw the potential. He even indulged in a quick fantasy of making love to her in a pool with a glass sea garden shimmering beneath the water. “The question will be, to people swimming in the pool, are they manmade? Or from nature?”
“Oh, you
do
get it.” When her eyes got a little misty at that, Dillon figured he could live to be a hundred and never understand the female mind.
“Yeah. Right away. But I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“You didn’t.” But she did dash away a bit of moisture below her left eye with a knuckle. “But I recently realized I haven’t really had anyone to talk with about my work, at least on a personal level, since my mother died.”
“I’m sorry.” Damn, could he have screwed this up any worse?
“Don’t be. I was just thinking how, at this precise moment, I’m as happy as I’ve been in a very long while.”
Dillon had a few suggestions as to how they could try to make her night even more memorable, but he knew better than to push.
But that didn’t mean he was going to let her get away, he thought as the singer launched into a sultry, breathy version of “Let’s Fall in Love.” Not yet.
“Dance with me,” he said.
* * *
Claire could have said no. Perhaps she even should have. But lulled into a sense of pleasure by the mussels and the music and, yes, the company, and assuring herself that it was just dancing, that people did it all the time without it leading to anything more, she let him lead her out onto the postage-stamp-sized dance floor.
She fit perfectly in his arms. Perhaps too perfectly, she considered as she settled against him, enjoying the fluid way his athlete’s body moved her around the wooden floor.
“You smell so good.” He nuzzled her neck as his fingers skimmed up and down her back. “And feel even better.”
He was humming along to the song, which was all about taking chances, and not being afraid, and falling in love.
“You keep making it sound so easy,” she complained as he actually sang the line about not being shy, “but our situation is complicated.”
“So you keep saying.” He pulled his head back far enough to look down at her. “And I get your point about the fact that we’ve found ourselves in a sticky—”
“It’s not sticky if we avoid it entirely.”
“Now, see, here’s my problem with that.” His fingers were doing that light, feathery seductive rhumba on her back again. “I don’t want to avoid it. Because I want you.”
“Has anyone ever told you that we can’t all get everything we want?”
“Sure.” His smiling lips brushed against her temple. “But here’s the deal. That only makes me want it more. And more determined to win it.”
“I’m not a prize to be won.” She knocked away his hand when it began playing with her dangling earring. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the hotel now.”
“Your call,” he said easily.
The rain had stopped, but fog rising from the river was swirling around their feet as they walked the rest of the way to the waterfront hotel, where they stood side by side as the elevator took them up to the seventeenth floor, awareness humming between them.
“By the way, how did you manage to get the room next to mine at the last minute during the holiday season?” she asked. “I couldn’t even get one on a different floor for Matt.”
“Vet connections. I know a guy who knows a guy. Who knows a guy. Who pulled some strings. Hotels always keep a few rooms open they don’t advertise. Plus, it wasn’t last minute. I booked it the day you made the green flash. When you told me about your show.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? I’ve been up front from the start about my feelings, Claire. About wanting to be with you.” The fingers that skimmed over her lips were calloused, and although she’d never considered herself a very sensual woman, she suddenly ached to feel them everywhere on her body. “And you’ve already admitted that you want that, too.”
“Of course I do.” Her lips parted beneath his thumb. “But we can’t.”
“Now, see, that’s where you’re wrong.” That seductive Texas drawl was back as he treated her to a slow, devastating smile. “We can.” That tantalizing touch traveled to the corner of her mouth. “And we will.”
“My son is important to me,” she insisted. “Our having an affair would not only be unethical—”
“I’ve been thinking about that. And you’re wrong. Because lots of high school coaches have their own kids on the team. Even in college. And nobody cares. In fact, lots of times it’s considered a good thing. No one’s going to think I’m playing favorites, Claire. And those who do just aren’t paying attention to reality.”
He had her there. But she still wasn’t entirely convinced. “Even so, I’ve already made him miserable by moving here—”
“He’s starting to fit in,” he interrupted her yet again.
“Which is exactly why I’m not going to put aside my responsibilities and risk hurting him for a dalliance, or an affair, or a quick roll in the sheets.”
“Believe me, Claire. When I do finally have you in my bed, where you belong, there’ll be nothing quick about it.”
Oh, she did believe him. And wasn’t that the problem? She’d never been so tempted. So torn. But she also knew she was right.
Because her pulse had gone impossibly jittery, she forced herself to look straight up into his eyes. “I’m not going to put aside my parental responsibilities to play games with you, Dillon.”
“I’m not playing games, sugar. Not about wanting you.”
But he did lower his hand. They stood there, face-to-face, inches apart, the energy between them as palpable as sheet lighting on the horizon before a coastal storm.
Then, finally, after what seemed an eternity, the bell dinged as they reached their floor. Dillon stepped back, letting her exit first, then walked down the carpeted hallway beside her. “But one of the things EOD taught me is patience. So, although it’s going to mean a lot more cold showers, I’m willing to wait until you’re ready.”
She wanted to tell him that he’d be waiting a very long time. It was what she should tell him.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said instead as they stood outside her door.
“The pleasure was all mine. And hey, if you’re serious about that no-involvement deal, at least we’ll always have Portland.”
As she entered her room and shut the door between them, Claire wondered if she was making a mistake. It wasn’t as if anyone in Shelter Bay would know if she and Dillon Slater spent the night together.
Then again, when Matt found out his coach had come to Portland, and he would, if he asked if anything had happened, she wanted to be able to tell him the truth. She’d never lied to him. And she wasn’t about to start now. But while he might like the idea of his coach and her in a relationship, she suspected there wasn’t a teenager on the planet who wanted to think about his parent having sex.
She’d put her bag down on the desk and had taken off her earrings when there was a knock at the door.
Her foolish heart fluttered in her chest as she looked through the peephole and saw him standing there.
“Did you forget something?” she asked as she opened the door.
“Yes.” His smile was slow. Sexy. Devastating. He cupped her cheek. When his fingers felt like sparks against her face, Claire knew she was sunk. “This.”
His mouth claimed hers with a hot, hungry passion that created an instantaneous flare of heat.
He didn’t coax Claire into the mists; he dragged her weak-kneed into the flames. His lips didn’t tease or tantalize. They plundered.
Her body flamed, her mind emptied, as a dark, dangerous desire unlike anything she’d ever experienced surged through her veins.
And then, just as suddenly, he released her.
“One more thing,” he said, his drawl amazingly tinged with good-natured humor. She dragged a hand over her upswept hair, which had begun to tumble down. “What?”
He caught her trembling hand on its second pass and brought it to his lips. “I’m leaving that door between our rooms unlocked. Just in case you happen to change your mind.”
He waited until she went back into the room, flipped the lock, and put on the chain.
Only then did she hear him walk back to his adjoining room.
He was whistling.
4
8
It had taken a Herculean effort, but Dillon had managed, just barely, to keep from dragging Claire back into her room and doing what she’d already admitted she wanted as much as he did.
He flung himself onto the bed, his skin burning as if some Taliban torturer had put matches beneath it, and, turning on the news, he tried to concentrate on the weatherman’s charts and arrows predicting—what else?—more rain.
But his mind kept going toward that door, imagining the luscious woman on the other side.
The news had segued to
Letterman
when the door opened and she was standing there. She was wearing a white satin nightshirt, and in the flickering light of the TV, he could see the pebbled hardness of her nipples. Her hair was down, tumbling over her shoulders. Her long legs and feet were bare.
“This is just for tonight,” she said.
She was wrong. But as he dragged his gaze back to her face, Dillon knew this was no time to argue the point.
“Deal.” He turned off the TV, then pushed aside the sheets to go to her, but she held up a hand.
“This is my decision,” she said. “My move.”
Again, there was no way he was going to argue with that.
Desire had claws as he forced himself to lie there on his back. Wanting. Waiting.
And then she was standing at the end of the bed, bathed in the colored lights of the city outside the tower’s windows.
“I want you, Dillon.” She undid the first button on the nightshirt. “I think I’ve wanted you since that first moment in the gym.”
Another button.
“I remember it well.”
“Do you?” She smiled like the seductress he suspected she just might have lurking inside her. “Sometimes I lie in bed at night and think about what might have happened if you’d just taken me. Right there and then.”
Two more buttons opened, revealing breasts that gleamed like porcelain in the lights of the bridge below.
“I think one of us would’ve gotten a really bad floor burn,” he managed as he struggled not to swallow his tongue.
“Probably.” She sighed. Then with a flick of her fingers, she released the final button and shrugged the shirt off her shoulders, where it fell to the carpet in a pool of white satin.
“You want me, Dillon?”
“Only like I want to breathe.”
She held her arms out to him. “Then take me.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. Leaving the bed, he dragged her against him, chest to chest, thighs to thighs, mouth to mouth, as he pulled her down onto the mattress.
He’d wanted to be gentle. Whenever he’d imagined being with Claire, he’d fantasized taking her slowly, tenderly, showing her that he understood that some things—some very special people—were worth waiting for.
But needs that had been pent up since that first day burst free, like a tsunami crashing in from the sea. He rolled over, pressing her into the mattress, and took her breast in his mouth.
When her gasp filtered through the roaring in his head, Dillon struggled to pull back.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” Her fingers grabbed his hair, pulling his mouth back down. “Take me.”
She was wild beneath him, every movement a demand that he take more, go faster. He left her only long enough to retrieve one of the condoms he’d optimistically brought to Portland. Then he was back, braceleting both her wrists in one hand, holding them above her head.
His free hand cupped the source of her heat, ruthlessly sending her soaring. She peaked instantly, bucking against his touch, her back arching bowstring tight.
Even as she poured over his hand, he whipped her up again. Higher. Harder. The second climax left her shuddering.
“Claire.”
She murmured something incoherent and tossed her head on the pillow.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes were dazed as they met his.
“You’re mine.” When he slipped his fingers into her, she arched up against him.
Take me.
“Say it.”
“Yours.” The single word was torn from her throat, a ragged thread of sound.
Digging his fingers into her hips, he lifted her, settled between her warm silk thighs, and plunged into her.
She cried out again, not in pain, but pleasure, and wrapped her long legs around his hips, holding him in a viselike grip as he drove her deeper and deeper into the mattress, and they rode out the storm together.
Feeling as if he’d been turned inside out, Dillon finally collapsed on top of her. Neither said a word for a long, long time.
There was only the rough sound of steady breathing and the distant hum of night traffic on the street below. The earthy scent of their lovemaking mingled with the fragrance of flowers emanating from her damp skin.
“Are we still alive?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“Good.” Afraid he was crushing her, he rolled over onto his side, taking her with him.
“Well, that was certainly worth waiting for,” she murmured.
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
“I’ve never done that before.”
“Come into a man’s hotel room wearing only a nightshirt?”
“Well, that, too. But I’ve never had so many. . . . I mean, usually I’m lucky to have one. . . . Never mind.”
“Don’t stop now.” Dillon grinned as he left the bed to dispense of the condom, then returned to draw her into his arms. “You’re doing wonders for my ego.”
“As if you’d need any more ego strokes,” she murmured as she lifted her lips to his.
The storm behind them, for a long delicious time they indulged in the slow kisses and tender touches they hadn’t taken time for earlier.
“I honestly can’t believe how you can make me feel,” she sighed.
“How’s that?” He pressed his lips to the little heart-shaped birthmark at the base of her spine.
She exhaled a slow, rippling sigh of pleasure. “As if I’m floating about three feet above this bed.”
“That’s a start.” He skimmed his tongue up her spine. “Let’s see if we can make you fly.”
As the hour grew later and the kisses grew longer, Claire discovered that Dillon Slater was definitely a man of his word.