She stared at him, her heart beating high in her throat. “In most ways,” she whispered, thoroughly shaken and hot and wanting something beyond what he'd already given.
Cort saw the rise of desire in her gaze and felt the dangerous pull of need within him again. Dropping his fingers from her chin, he gritted his teeth in an excruciating effort to control the hunger. She was open to him in
most
ways, yes...but not all. And he wanted all.
All
.
Torrid emotion stormed through him. They had reasons,
solid reasons, for not making love. He remembered only one.
She considered him the wrong man
. He could look and touch and taste; he could make her come again and again in his arms; but he couldn't have her.
That realization ate away at something vital inside of him. She had offered to tend to his sexual needs, and in keeping with their game, he should consider himself lucky. But he wanted her in a way that transcended any game he'd ever played. If she thought that mere physical release would satisfy him, she was wrong.
And he wanted her to know it.
“Talk to me, Cort,” she pleaded. “Tell me why youâ²re holding me at arm's length when we've just been so intimate. I'll respect whatever reason you have. But without understanding the situation...” she shook her head, her eyes glazed with hurt “...I won't carry on a one-sided affair.”
The tension within him twisted another painful notch. She was tearing him in two. He didn't want to settle for less than all of her. The undisputed right to all of her. But if he held out for that right, he'd undoubtedly lose all chance of looking and touching and tasting. And making her come in his arms.
- Her caring gaze fanned the heat he was trying to bank, and her thick tangle of wet ringlets called out to his fingers. Her scent clouded his mindâa provocative mix of chlorine, heat and woman. And the scant towel draped low across her breasts barely reached her thighs.
He looked away from her, clenched his jaw and reached deep inside for self-control.
Intercourse won't enter into it
, he'd promised. His lungs pumped hard and slow; his heart spewed liquid fire through his veins. “Okay,” he rasped, turning a smoldering gaze to her. “Okay.” He tangled his fingers into her billowing ringlets and cocked her
face to his. “Tend to my needs then, Laura,” he whispered, rubbing his thumbs beside her mouth.
And he kissed her with all the hunger that savaged his heart and body. He stripped their towels off, lifted her from the floor and perched her at the very edge of the marble vanity. Ignoring the questions in her gaze, he parted her thighs and wrapped her legs around his hips.
His arousal strained hard and erect between their bodies, planted against the curl-matted threshold of her womanhood. He braced an arm around her back and proclaimed in a torrential outpour against her ear, “I'm making love to you now.”
A sound tore from herâhalf cry, half groanâbut she didn't pull away. She didn't stop him. Cort shut his eyes, overwhelmed by the crushing weight of his promise. He couldn't have her.
He was the wrong man.
Clenching his jaw against her temple, he rocked his aching hardness against her. And in a pained rasp, he clarified, “In my mind, I'm making love to you.”
Laura heard those last few qualifying words through a simmer of desire.
In his mind. Only in his mind.
Conflicting emotions rioted in her heart. Temptation to make that fantasy a reality ran the strongest.
Her throat worked in hard, dry swallows as she struggled to resist temptation. But even as she struggled, her hands swept to his taut buttocks and pulled him closer. Her fingertips kneaded muscles that bunched and flexed. Pleasure flooded her loins with every grind of his hips.
“Touch me,” he breathed.
She did, in reverent awe of the power, the heat, the size. He guided her hand downward and wrapped it around the smooth, hard base of his erection. His hand then clamped over hers, and he moved in sinuous gyrations. His hardness pumped through her grip, pulsating and
growing. Sensations curled in her loins from the undulating pressure against her femininity.
Heat flared. Pleasure glowed. His hand abandoned hers and climbed higher, to fist around the very top. His thrusts quickened. His muscles clenched. He groaned, stiffened and bucked.
A torrid ripple of contractions broke through both of them.
He remained absolutely still for a long moment after, his breathing ragged, his sweat-dampened face against hers. She fought for control of her own erratic breaths while the quivering in her loins subsided.
“There,” he uttered almost inaudibly. “That takes care of that . . .” he drew back and locked her in his stare “...doesn't it?”
And though she knew he'd found release, the troubling intensity remained in his gaze.
8
N
OTHING, BUT NOTHING, soothed a troubled soul as well as color schemes, fabric choices, window treatments and fine architectural detail, in Laura's opinion. Glad that her work allowed her to indulge, she rose before dawn, gathered her notebook, sketch pad and camera, and engrossed herself in the wonder of the house.
From its grandly scaled entrance doorway to its courtyard garden with an exquisite fountain to its sumptuously detailed library, the house abounded with dramatic spatial and decorative effects. Her hand almost shook as she sketched ideas, scribbled notes and snapped photographs.
She'd made her way through most of the downstairs before she realized it was almost nine-thirty. She usually started her workday with clients around eight. And Cort had not yet put in an appearance. Surely he meant to consult with her about the house. After all, he
had
insisted she break her appointment at the clinicâwhich would have been today, she realized with a pang of surpriseâto spend the week with him.
Was he avoiding her? If so, why?
The questions renewed her emotional turmoil. Something had deeply disturbed him last night, she knew. She believed it had been the sexual limit they'd set, although he himself had agreed to the need for it. Had she been unfair to let herself revel so openly in their intimacy, when it couldn't lead to its natural conclusion? But
he
had been the
one to initiate the intimate play. He had been the one to promise that intercourse wouldn't enter into it.
He had also been the one to honor that promise, even when she'd been ready to ignore it. Gratitude warmed her. He'd been strong, honorable and trustworthy.
He just doesn't want to get you pregnant, you nitwit!
Which was wise. Very wise.
She, on the other hand, had been thoroughly lost to wisdom or rational thought. She'd spent years arming herself against just such mindless passion, yet within the first day she'd entered Cort's home, she'd unconditionally surrendered.
A vague fear stirred within her. It would be
so
easy to fall in love with him again.
She'd convinced herself over the years that she'd felt only a schoolgirl's infatuation for him. At the time, though, she'd believed it was love. And she'd been sure, absolutely sure, that he felt the same for her. He hadn't. He'd considered their relationship “just sex.” She couldn't allow herself to forget that, or to make the same mistake twice.
Her best defense, she realized with a sinking heart, was to keep personal involvement to a minimum. She'd come too close to disaster already.
I'm making love to you now,
he'd whispered. She'd been more than willing...and he hadn't even been wearing a condom! How, how,
how
could she have been willing to take such a ridiculous risk?
Besides the risk of pregnancy, her intimacy with Cort threatened in other ways, too. Last night had led to more strained relations between them. He'd left her at her bedroom door with barely a word...and he hadn't shown his face this morning. Not a good beginning for the business she'd come to transact.
With a frustrated glance at her watch, Laura climbed the stairs, stalked down the corridor and prepared to beat on
his bedroom door. She found that door open, the bed neatly made and Cort dressed in dark jeans and a black sweater, seated in an armchair with a telephone to his ear. “No, tell him the price is firm. We're not coming down a penny. And if he doesn't finalize the deal by Thursday, he might find himself in a bidding war.”
Laura considered tiptoeing away to allow him to conduct his business uninterrupted, but another glance at her watch changed her mind. After all, she had canceled an important appointment to cater to his tight schedule. The least he could do now is respect her schedule. Bracing herself for whatever reaction he might have to seeing her this morning, she remained in the doorway of his room and briskly cleared her throat.
Cort glanced up. Met her gaze. And winked. That was itâjust a slight, unsmiling wink while he listened to whoever spoke at the other end of the line.
The mere sight of his midnight-blue eyes was enough to set her pulse leaping. Dismayed at how much the slightest communication with him affected her, she returned to her own work downstairs, hoping he'd taken the hint and would soon join her.
By ten-thirty, he still hadn't.
Determined to snare his attention, she resorted to deviousness. She cooked breakfastâa particularly aromatic one that was guaranteed to draw him to the kitchen. Unless, of course, his tastes had changed drastically.
Sure enough, he soon appeared in the kitchen doorway looking morning fresh and impossibly handsome, his jet hair shining, his chiseled jaw smoothly shaven, the sleeves of his black sweater pushed up his muscled forearms. “Do I smell onions and peppers...and feta cheese?” he asked incredulously.
“And mushrooms.” She tossed a glance at him from the stove. “How does an omelet sound?”
“Fantastic.” He ambled closer, making her heart speed up at his nearness, and peered over her shoulder into the skillet. “You haven't salted it yet, have you?”
“Just a couple of times.” She glanced at him in time to see disappointment flicker in his gaze. She elbowed him in the ribs. “No, I haven't salted it. I know you don't like much salt.”
He stared at her as if she were one of the seven natural wonders of the world. His surprise made her uneasy. Maybe she shouldn't have admitted to remembering such a trivial fact after all these years. Maybe he'd make too much out of it...and start to worry that she'd never really fallen out of love with him....
He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, studying her. “Are you going to pick the peppers out of yours?”
It was her turn to gape. She hadn't known he'd ever noticed that! “Actually, I've acquired a taste for bell peppers,” she informed him, feeling marvelously mature and worldly. After a moment, though, she admitted, “But it did take almost the whole fifteen years.”
They gazed at each other with smiles brimming in their eyes.
Cort couldn't say why the idea of remembering her dislike of peppers pleased him so much, or the fact that she remembered what he liked for breakfast, and how he liked it cooked.
For a moment, he'd almost felt as if she were his again.
She dished the omelet onto plates, plucked toast from the toaster and buttered both slices. She'd always been a good cook, he remembered. He'd usually refused to join in the feasts she prepared for everyone at the Hays Street
house, though, unless he'd helped pay for the food. Or unless she made omelets with onions, peppers and feta cheese, which he always found a way to afford. She herself had never given the cost a thought, stocking the pantry and refrigerator with everything she knew her housemates liked.
She'd brought the Hays Street house to life with savory aromas and flavors. And colorful wildflowers. And holiday decorations on every occasion. And warm, welcoming smiles.
He'd missed her so damn bad.
The force of that feeling shook him. Why hadn't he realized it sooner? Why had he stayed away from her for fifteen years? He knew the answer, of course: he'd tried to block every conscious thought of her from his mind. He'd known he hadn't been good for her, and when he'd left, he'd meant for the break to be permanent.
And now, though he knew he could wear down her resistance to him sexuallyâoh yes, last night had proven that muchâshe'd effectively blocked him out of her heart and life with walls that seemed impenetrable.
He had to find a way inside those walls.
He had to tear them down.
The fierceness of his longing clanged warnings in his head.
When she detects serious heat in a relationship, she runs.
Steffie and Tamika had told him so. His gut told him so. If she guessed how much he wanted what she wasn't offering, she would run and never look back.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Please.”
She smiled as she poured the steaming fresh brew. She wore slim, camel-gold slacks and a soft ivory sweater with tiny buttons down the front. Her nape looked tender and sweet beneath the shining braid that lay over one shoulder.
He wanted to kiss her there...and wrap his arms around her...and nibble his way down her shoulder, as he had while she'd cooked at the Hays Street house. The very thought started the wretched heat churning in his gut
He'd made it through their intimacy last night without breaking his promise, but barely. Until he had more faith in his self-control, he couldn't let himself touch her again.
“There's no table,” she remarked, glancing around the kitchen as if she'd just realized that fact. “Where do you eat?”
He hesitated. When he'd had his furniture moved into storage, he'd considered himself clever in the pieces he'd chosen to keep. “We have three choices. There's a table on the veranda off my bedroom....”
Distinct uneasiness entered her gaze, which made him wonder about her morning-after reaction to their intimacy.
“Or?” she prompted.
“A sofa and coffee table beside the fireplace in my bedroom.”
“Or?”
“A reasonably uncluttered desk...in my, uh, bedroom.”
She stood perfectly still for a long moment “Are you saying that the only tablelike surfaces in the house are all in your bedroom?”
His strategic placement of furniture suddenly seemed devious. “I tend to use my room...as a private apartment,” he haltingly explained. Which was, and always had been, the truth.
“How long have you lived here?”
Uneasiness glanced through him. “A few months.” Eight. Not a good topic to expound on. She'd probably find it odd that he'd lived in a house of this size with so little furniture for eight months.
The hazy gray area between truth and deception regarding
the decoration of his home made him uneasy. He'd never been less than honest with her. He didn't like having to evade issues now. But how else could he have gotten her to break her appointment at the clinic and stay with him for any length of time, if not to decorate his house? Only one minor detail had stood in his way of a perfect planâhe'd already had the house professionally decorated a few months ago. He'd simply removed all the furniture and accessories, except for a few select items, which wasn't too devious...was it?
“The courtyard pavilion has a table,” he remembered.
She brightened immediately. “Great!”
He carried their coffee cups; she followed with the plates. He led her through a bedroom wing, down a wide, gleaming, oak-floored hall with graceful overhead arches and high windows, to the pavilion porch that overlooked the courtyard.
They settled at a round glass table, in wicker chairs padded with plush white cushions. He was glad for the moving company's oversight in leaving this outdoor furniture. He wasn't sure he could have stood taking Laura to his bedroom right now.
A brisk late-November breeze gusted through the two open archways and she shivered. Her shiver reminded him of last night, when she'd been wearing nothing but a damp towel and her gaze had blazed with potent invitation.
“It's brisk out here.” His voice sounded hoarse. “Want to go inside?”
“No, no, this is lovely. The Palladian windows in the hall are breathtaking, and this pavilion, the courtyard, the fountain...well...” she gazed around with a vibrant smile “...it all makes me want to sing.”
He lifted a eyebrow. “Do you sing?”
“No!”
They laughed, and he forced his attention to his breakfast. The omelet had been cooked and seasoned exactly to his liking. The coffee had been brewed to the perfect strength, with just the right amount of cream. And the woman seated across from him was everything beautiful, everything fine.
“You
are
planning to spend time with me today to discuss the house, aren't you?”
“I'm all yours.”
She beamed. “I consider the initial consultation the most important part of the design process. It's vital that the home reflect its owner. Your home should be your personally tailored space. Your haven for peace and comfort. The place you most want to be.” The ardor in her eyes and voice thoroughly captivated him. “This home exudes elegance, Cort. It breathes history. But it should also immerse you in the mood that most pleases you.”
He had no doubt what mood that would be. Except he needed more than a beautifully decorated house to immerse him in it.
The moment they'd finished eating and carried their plates to the kitchen, she caught hold of his hand, like a kid at a county fair eager to see the sights. The warm spontaneity of the gesture made him smile. “Come on,” she urged. “Let's get started.”
Never one to turn down an opportunity, he wove his fingers through hers and savored the feel of her hand in his as she led him to the front entrance hall, out the door and down the steps.