Tempt Me (36 page)

Their eyes locked.

“Why don’t you take over the tour from here?” Brooke patted her forearm. “We'll talk soon, dear.” She disappeared into the crowd.

There was an awkward silence. “You look tired,” she blurted. Oh, God. She hadn't talked to him in almost two weeks, and those were the first words out of her mouth?

He smiled ruefully, acknowledging her words with a nod. “You, on the other hand, look simply stunning.” His eyes dropped to her stomach, then climbed back to her face. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” What an understatement. Funny how slowing down, not allowing life’s white river rapids to simply sweep her along, made her feel better than she had in ages.

He reached toward her, hesitated, and then stuck his hands in his front pockets.

She absorbed the sting, waited for it to dissipate. Even if she’d ruined things between them forever, the next move was hers. “I owe you an apology, Rafe.”

“For what?” His nostrils flared—unnecessarily so, because she wasn't about to leave without letting him know exactly how she felt, even if she had to declare those feelings here, in the midst of hundreds of curious people.

And she very well might. Rafe would draw attention anywhere he went, but here, at his own gallery show, wearing those body-skimming clothes and his hair catching the light? He looked like a golden god standing center stage.

She took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry for letting you walk out of my hospital room without stopping you. I’m sorry for thinking you were anything like Wyatt.” She swallowed, hard. “I’m so sorry I didn’t trust my feelings for you.”

He didn’t respond, just stood there looking at her. In the silence, she overheard a woman murmur to her friend, “Is that the chick he was with in Underbelly’s bathroom?”

He still hadn’t said anything, and her heart dropped to her feet with a big, soggy splat. “I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”

Silence greeted her words.

Well. She had her answer. Now she just had to figure out how to make her legs work so she could get out of here.

“Bailey.” Removing his hands from his pockets, he came closer, taking her champagne glass and setting it on the nearest pedestal before taking both hands in his. “I love you so damn much.”

He was already lowering his head.

A small, thready moan escaped as she gave herself over to the rush, as their lips touched and she finally tasted him again. It didn’t matter that she was over-dressed, or that she could barely balance in her high-heeled shoes, because Rafe was worshipping her with his mouth, holding her steady so she wouldn't fall. Her entire world narrowed to the feel of his lips slanted over hers. Unlike Wyatt’s textbook-perfect kiss, Rafe’s was hot, hungry, and completely lacking in technique. His arms and hands clamped their bodies together with no smoothness or savoir-faire whatsoever. She couldn't get close enough to him, to his exotic hothouse scent. She wanted to climb into his body, burrow under his skin.

“Rafe.” Brooke’s voice.

Rafe lifted his head, blinking.

Brooke picked up the glass Rafe had so carelessly placed on the pedestal, wiping away a minute bit of condensation with the hem of her blazer. “You have an audience.”

She glanced around, at the too-interested gazes of Rafe's guests, at the Sebastiani family smiling at them from the corner. Lorin grinned and lifted her glass in a tiny toast. Someone with teeth like a chipmunk eyed them with interest, scribbling in a small notebook.

God, he was working. “Rafe, I didn't mean to get into this here—”

“Don't you dare apologize.” He dropped another kiss on her lips before reluctantly dropping his arms. She barely had time to miss his touch before he took her hand again. “Would you like to see the rest of the sculptures?”

“I’d love to. They look so different when they're fired and glazed.” She gestured toward the nearest pedestal. “I swear I see you... yet I don't.”

“Good eye.” He rested his free hand on her back, just below her waist—a little too low for propriety. The possessive weight thrilled her, but he was starting to look a little uneasy.

Brooke handed him a fresh glass of champagne. After a muttered “thank you,” he raised it to his lips, drained it, and handed the empty glass black.

He tugged on her hand, drawing her toward the next sculpture. Rafe’s presence was a little more obvious, if you knew what to look for—and she most certainly did. This sculpture had been inspired by the first time they’d made love down in his studio. She’d climbed on top of him and ridden them both to oblivion. “Why do you get to be an amorphous blob, and I...?” She gestured toward her naked form.

He shot her a grin. “You're much prettier to look at.”

“I beg to differ,” she said wryly. But she couldn't complain about how she looked—no, not at all. Somehow he'd captured her abandon, and her confidence, in a way that felt artistic and emotionally rich instead of exploitive and porny.

As Rafe led her through the next few sculptures, she noticed that he’d rendered himself with an increasing level of detail. She trailed a fingertip over his clay back, his body half-covering hers as his lips trailed down her stomach. Glancing back at him, she eyed the warm, shallow crater between his collarbones, so alluringly showcased by his open-necked shirt. Licking it drove him wild.

Rafe’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his nostrils flaring as he absorbed her helpless desire. His body scent deepened, delicious tendrils swirling around them, as he leaned closer.

This—he—felt right. Perfect. Inevitable. She wanted to lick him from stem to stern.

Rafe kissed her, a light caress that ended way too soon. “You’re killing me here.”

“And you’re working. I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize.” He ran his hand down her back, transferring warmth through the satin fabric of her dress. “Let’s just get through the rest before I lose what’s left of my mind and drag you to the floor.”

He seemed to tense up as he drew her towards the last sculptures. She didn't recognize the poses from the time they’d spent together, but the emotion he'd captured—the yearning, the love—made her throat clog with sudden tears.

“The critics are wrong, you know,” he said softly. “About
The Dreamer.
”

“How so?”

“She's not the dreamer. He is. I am.” He led them to the final sculpture, of the man—him—down on one knee before a standing woman.

Her breath dissolved, leaving her lungs empty. Did he understand the human signifi—yes, apparently he did, because he suddenly stepped back, reached into his pocket, and dropped to one knee before her.

“Bailey?”

She looked down at Rafe, who looked up at her with a face blazing with love, and extreme nervousness. He held a black velvet box. “Oh, my God.”

The people around them went silent, unabashedly watching as he opened a small, black velvet box with a flick of his finger.

“Bailey Brown, will you marry me?”

The ring, glorious fire opals set in a wide band of gold, blazed under the gallery lights, but she barely noticed. She looked around the room, at all the people watching them—
oh, my God, Rafe’s entire family
—then back down to Rafe's nervous face. A giggle escaped. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. I love you so much.”

Ignoring the ring, she kissed him—a kiss that laid her heart bare. Ignoring the cheering, clapping and congratulations, she breathed him in, forever locking the moment in her memory.

Her head and her heart were finally in synch. He was her home.

She didn't know how much time had passed before she drew away from him, ever-so-slightly. “How about right now?”

“Right now what?” He slid the ring on her finger.

Though the weight would take some getting used to, the ring fit perfectly. Wiggling her fingers, she admired how the opals caught the light. “Let's do it right now.” She giggled when his pupils dilated, when his eyes flared with sensual heat. “No, not that—though I can’t wait to get my hands on you again. No, I meant let's get married right now.”

“You want to catch a flight to Vegas instead of having a traditional ceremony?” He grinned. “Let’s go.”

He’d marry her in a human religious ceremony if she’d wanted one? A tear fell, and she hastily brushed her cheek. What did she ever do to deserve this man? “In your world, we can marry now, with a single word.”

“Bondmates? Are you serious?”

She nodded. She’d never been more certain of anything in her life. “Ask me.”

He bent his head so their foreheads touched, creating a curtain of privacy with his hair. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

His beautiful eyes glowed. “Will you be my bondmate, Bailey?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

And with a single word, an oral contract between them, it was official.

As they kissed, a private celebration in the midst of the party surrounding them, she realized Rafe was wrong, or maybe he was half-right.
They
were
The Dreamers
, partners for life, for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, leading each other into temptation...to wherever their dreams might lead.

––––––––

THE END

W
riting a story is such a solitary endeavor, and it’s a pleasure and a relief when we finally release our words into the world, knowing the fruit of our labor is in our readers’ hands. If you enjoyed this story, please help others find it by giving it a positive review or rating wherever you buy books.

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Thanks!

Tammy

T
amara Hogan loathes cold and snow, but nonetheless lives near Minneapolis with her partner Mark and two naughty cats. When she’s not telecommuting to Silicon Valley, she writes paranormal romance with a sci-fi twist. A voracious reader with an unapologetic television addiction, Tamara is forever on the lookout for the perfect black boots.

Tamara’s debut novel,
TASTE ME,
won the Daphne du Maurier Award for Mystery and Suspense, Prism Awards for Best Dark Paranormal, Best First Book, and Best of the Best, and was nominated for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart® Award.