Trouble When You Walked In (Contemporary Romance) (12 page)

Boone was the mayor. Boone was why those books and cards were going to be moved to a strip mall.

“You’re thinking about something,” he said.

She was a librarian first, the instigator of a secret sexual liaison second. She couldn’t forget it. “Why do you suppose that?”

“When you got in the water”—his voice took on a husky quality—“you forgot to tell me to close my eyes.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

When Boone wrapped his foot around her calf in the hot tub and used it as leverage to float himself over next to her, Cissie was no longer thinking about her love of Dick Francis and
To Kill a Mockingbird
. She wasn’t thinking about books at all. Or the library.

All her good intentions flew right out of her head.

“So,” Boone said when they were practically hip-to-hip.

Bubbles popped and churned between them.

“So,” she replied, feeling wary but also hypnotized by the timbre of his voice. It was a crackling fire, merry and bright and warm, with an undercurrent of white-hot embers that sparked off and landed right where her naughtiest thoughts were, illuminating them, searing her through from top to bottom.

She was a shameless hussy to sit in a hot tub naked with Boone Braddock. Why, she barely knew him!

And here he was putting his arm around her. His fingers were this close to her breast. He pulled gently on her and drew her close enough that their hips actually did touch. The whole side of her naked body touched his. The shock of it—the thrill of it—made her ask for more champagne.

“Please,” she said, as if she was going to die.

“No prob,” he responded like a man used to having sex all the time. She wondered if he and Janelle were still hot and heavy.

“We’re going a little fast here.” She gulped down her second glass and put it on the side of the tub. “Usually, people have first dates in clothes.”

“They do.”

“I know I’m the one who suggested this, but—”

He didn’t say a word. Not a damned word. She was hoping he’d help her out of this situation. A gentleman would, but he just kept looking at the sky. And then he poured himself another glass of champagne.

“Boone?”

“Yes?”

She shrugged. Tears stung at her eyes, but he couldn’t see them, she was sure, with all the steam whirling around them.

He put his glass down and turned her right shoulder so she was facing him. “If you want out, I’ll pass you a towel. But if you stay, I’m not going to ignore you next time I see you. I’m not going to talk to anyone at all about what transpires here tonight. But I’ll remember it. Because it’s going to be good. Trust me on that.”

She just kept leaning and leaning toward him, her eyes on his, and her mouth parted, and then she had her arm wrapped around his slippery neck and she had to cling harder because she was kissing him, a champagne-flavored kiss for the ages that went on and on, even as he pulled her onto his lap, on top of some very hard evidence that he found her an agreeable sex partner.

Finally, she broke off for air. “Mmm,” she managed before he grabbed her bottom with both hands and they started up again.

It got very, very sexy because she was straddling him now, and there was no place for him to go but inside her.

She pulled her rear up to give him some space, even though she didn’t want to—she wanted to sit on him while he thrust inside her, but he was acting as if he didn’t even notice they could do that.

“Do people do it in hot tubs?” She was trying to give him a hint. Hopefully, it was subtle. But she was feeling really desperate, so maybe it didn’t come across that way.

“All the time.” His hand cupped her right breast, his thumb making swirling motions around her nipple. His other hand was on her waist, but then it was between her legs stroking her, steam and bubbles and water be damned.

She went rigid at the sensation. It felt good—so good.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said.

She relaxed into him, and he put two fingers inside her. His mouth flirted with her breast, then took full possession of her nipple.

No more thinking. Instead, she clenched hard, arched her back. Her hair dangled so low, it touched her butt. His thumb pulsed provocatively over the hard nubbin which had seen no action with a man in over a decade.

She came so swiftly, she almost got whiplash.

“Whoa,” Boone said when her hair flew forward again, her back curving toward him.

The hot tub was oblivious. It just kept churning away. The stars didn’t seem to notice anything was different, either.

Cissie rested her forehead on his. “I don’t know what to say. Except … I loved it.”

He grinned. “That’s only the beginning.”

The pulsing radiance continued to flow through her. She shivered, and not from the cold air on her shoulders. She felt powerful. Ready—

Ready for more sex.

Ready for other things, too.

It was like the world had only just now blossomed inside her.

“Let’s take it inside,” Boone suggested.

The night air grew chillier. A hoot owl called from the trees below. Far away, a train whistled past. It was lonely out here. But inside was warm. That was where Cissie wanted to be. In Boone’s bed.

Oh, how she wanted to be!

But it wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. Not now.

She sucked in a breath, feeling extremely wistful, her forehead still resting on his. Reluctantly, she pulled back. “I said there was something else I needed to tell you, but I didn’t know what it was. Now I know.”

“I thought it was about your sexual experience. Or lack thereof.”

“I thought so, too. But that’s not all.”

“Spill.”

She looked straight into his eyes. She could barely believe what she was about to say. “I’m going to run for mayor.”

He chuckled. “Very funny. I can just see it, you and me in the middle of a debate, and I have a sudden recollection of your beautiful naked breasts right as I try to talk about the town budget.” He pulled her close, his mouth headed straight for one of her nipples, which were standing at full attention, aching for his touch. The V between her legs wasn’t done with him, either.

But they had to stop. It wouldn’t be right.

She pushed off him, stood up, and waded to the opposite side. “I really mean it.” She grabbed a towel and put it over her breasts. “If I can get the signatures, I still have time to get my name on the ballot. I didn’t think I could do it. But I don’t have anything to lose.”

“Cissie, this is crazy.”

“It’s not
crazy
. But you’re probably wondering how this came to me.”

“I kinda sorta am.”

“Fooling around with you. Taking that chance, and having fun, and right after I—after you—after I, um—”

“Experienced extreme satisfaction?” he supplied for her.

“Yes.” She nodded brightly. “It just unfolded in my head like a big banner: ‘Cissie Rogers for Mayor.’”

“That’s a great story,” he said. What did it say about his sexual prowess? She wanted to stop fooling around. She wanted to run for
mayor
. “Maybe someday it’ll go in your autobiography, the one that sells like hotcakes after you win the governor’s office. Or heck, the presidency.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm.”

“How about some facts, then? The election’s in less than a month! And you decide in the middle of sex in a hot tub that you’re running for mayor?”

“Yes.”

He slapped a hand to his forehead. “I’m definitely losing my touch.”

“Stop taking this so personally.”

“It’s hard not to, considering you’re running against
me
, the guy who was being rather friendly with you in that hot tub.”

“I know it sounds odd—”

“What about your job at the library?”

“I’ll call in my sub, a retired librarian in Weston. I use her for a week every summer and whenever I get sick or have to take Nana to an appointment. She’ll be glad of the work.”

“But what about your house? It’s going to need some attention.”

“Insurance will cover the repairs, I’m sure. That’s what it’s for. I’m not going to panic and run scared about a lot of paperwork and some phone calls.”

“Rebuilding is pretty involved.”

“Well, I can’t bother my parents. I’ll insist they leave it to me.”

“Oh, yeah? How about finding a temporary place to live, too? You can really afford to take on a mayor’s race in the midst of all that?”

“Nana and I will stay with friends, even if we have to move every couple of days.”

“That’s rough. If not for you, then for her.”

Her shoulders slumped a little. “I didn’t think about that. You’re right. Maybe I can find her a permanent place, and Dexter and I can move around. Whatever,” she said blithely. “We can do it.”

She tried to get out without getting naked, but it was too much hassle. She leapt out, grabbed another towel, and wrapped it around herself, but not before he’d enjoyed the view.

“Get used to seeing me dressed again,” she said. “I’m your political opponent. As soon as I read up on it more. Maybe I’ll call that nonprofit group that’s all about electing women.…”

“I’m about to get out naked, too, Miss Political Opponent. Better look away.”

She looked away.

“I’m decent now,” he said.

When she looked back, he had a towel slung low across his hips. Her teeth started to chatter.

“Go on inside,” he said. “Rinse off in the shower. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Gone was the lover. He knew he sounded like a mayor again. A stranger.

“Okay.” At the door, she turned around. “Edwina mentioned that running against you was the only way I could stop the library from moving, but I wasn’t at all interested earlier tonight. It seemed an impossible thing. But then there was the tree. And the—the—”

“Masterful way your opponent goaded you into running.”

She sure liked recalling that moment, didn’t she?

“I’m sorry you’re mad.” She opened the door. “Thank you, by the way—”

“Please don’t thank me.”

“And I’m really sorry about”—she actually looked at the towel over his crotch—“about
you.
”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll survive.”

“That’s a relief,” she said, her voice thin.

And then she rushed inside.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next morning, Boone woke up at 6:00 a.m. feeling two things: hungry and sex starved. He decided that the best way to approach the situation was to run on the treadmill—his daily morning ritual—then go all out and make waffles. They were his specialty. He didn’t like Belgian ones, only the skinny, square ones he could cook in his mother’s old waffle iron. With the skill of a master chef—which he called himself on a regular basis because who else was there to brag on his cooking?—he whipped up some cream, rinsed off fresh wild blueberries, warmed a leaf-shaped bottle of genuine Vermont maple syrup, and mixed the batter.

He had the coffee going and the bacon sizzling on the griddle when Cissie made an appearance in the kitchen at seven. Last night popped into his head like a movie into a DVD player, and that was fine by him. He saw himself kissing her pert, naked breasts, the graceful way she arched her back at his touch, and that little moan she gave deep in her throat before she curled back into him like a jungle cat.

If he ignored the part about her running for mayor, the memory put him in a great mood, although he knew sooner rather than later he’d run into a wall of sexual frustration that would make him a difficult man to be around. To avoid that—he had several meetings that day, one of them with a bunch of older ladies who made quilts for vets—he had to keep busy. Stay hospitable. Cissie would be leaving soon. That was his aim, to charm her right out of his house.

She looked warily at the walls, the floor—classic morning-after slinking-around behavior. He knew that tune, although he had no reason to slink. He’d only done what he was asked. And she’d loved every second of it.

He made it easy for her by lifting a mug off the hook below the cupboards and filling it with fresh, hot coffee.

“Thank you so much.” She wrapped slender fingers around the mug. “It smells delicious in here. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

Polite chitchat worked for him, too. “I wanted to send you off with a good breakfast. You’ve got a big day ahead of you.” He kept himself busy at the griddle. “Is Nana up yet?”

“Yes,” she said, “and she’s going to phone some people about possible places to stay after breakfast.”

“That’s great.” He mentally crossed his fingers. “Paper’s on the table.”

“Thanks.” She wandered over and glanced at the headlines.

He preferred TV news himself. But he took a look at the front page every day. “How’s Dexter?”

“He’s doing well. Still curled up on the chair.” Her voice sounded a little thin.

Still embarrassed about her abrupt departure last night, maybe? He wouldn’t be surprised.

No doubt she also had a lot to do to get her house back in shape. And on top of that, if she wanted to run for mayor—he still couldn’t believe it—she really had a full plate. He almost felt sorry for her.

“Boone,” she began, her fingers rubbing her right temple.

Here it came. The big apology or the backpedaling. She’d probably woken up feeling stupid that she’d told him she was running for mayor as a result of getting off in a hot tub.

“Yes?” He’d be totally gracious about it. That was his thing. Mayors rose above pesky distractions and problems to see the big picture, and in this case, it was that this woman craved more excitement in her life. Plain and simple. It was practically stamped on her forehead:
I need more sex, more fun
. She should put aside the books now and then and stop dressing like a nun.

“I’m tiptoeing around,” Cissie said in a confessional tone, “because I have a little headache from the champagne. And maybe my sinuses are acting up.” Sure, they were. Good cover. “Do you have any pain relievers?”

“Right here,” he said gallantly, and handed her a bottle from the cupboard.

“Thanks.” She downed two brown pills with her coffee. “And about last night?”