Читать книгу Escape for Valentine's: Beauty and the Billionaire / Her One and Only Valentine / The Girl Next Door - Caroline Anderson - Страница 11

When Hunter reached the ground floor of the office building that housed Castlebay Spas, Sinclair was waiting on a bench near the exit.

She jumped to her feet as he neared. “I couldn’t wait,” she said.

“Apparently.”

“If you came down with anyone else, I was going to hide.”

Hunter couldn’t help but grin.

“What happened?”

“Looks like we may be buying ourselves some spas.”

Richard would have to review the contract, but Hunter was satisfied with the price. And, the combination of Lush Beauty and Castlebay Spas was going to be dynamite. His grandfather insisted Hunter run Lush Beauty Products? He was damn well going to run Lush Beauty Products.

“Just like that?” asked Sinclair, with a snap of her fingers.

“Just like that,” echoed Hunter.

“I can’t believe it.” She skipped a step to keep pace with him. “So we can use Luscious Lavender in the spas?”

“That would be the point.”

“How much—” She stopped. “Never mind.” She shook her head. “None of my business.”

“Lots,” said Hunter. He’d drained the available cash in the Osland investment account, and put up a manufacturing plant as collateral to secure low ratio interest.

“How many spas?” she asked.

“Twelve. I have a list if you want it.”

They started down the steps.

“You bet.” Her face nearly burst with a grin. “So, what do we do now?”

“Who is Richard sending to the hotel?”

“Miles something …”

“We drop the papers off with Miles something for review. Then we carry on with your makeover.”

“Do we celebrate?”

“As soon as the deal is approved,” Hunter answered as they turned onto the sidewalk. “The financing has to be put in place first. And we need to get the signatures on the contracts.”

She nodded eagerly.

“And, until then, we carry on as normal.” He hesitated over the wording of the next part. “And we don’t tell anyone about it.”

She squinted up at him. “Anyone being?”

“Anyone. Including Kristy and Jack.”

“But, why—”

“Convention.” Hunter shrugged with feigned unconcern. “We investigate things like this all the time. No point in cluttering up everyone’s desk over it until there’s something concrete.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. The deal was somewhat larger than Hunter would normally undertake on his own. And he hadn’t yet figured out exactly how to tell Jack and his grandfather. He knew they’d be worried, and they’d definitely come at him with accusations that he was being reckless and impulsive. But he didn’t have time for his grandfather’s plodding approach to due diligence, which had taken weeks, even when he’d “rushed” the Lush deal.

Still, Hunter was fully confident in his decision. And he was fully confident time would prove it to be an excellent investment. But, for the short term, he needed a few days to work up to an explanation.

In the meantime, all the reasons for Sinclair’s makeover remained.

“Jewelry store?” he asked her.

She laughed and unexpectedly captured his hand. “You are in a spending mood.”

“I am,” he agreed, kissing her knuckles and pointing to a five-story, stone-arched jewelry store across the street.

They dashed across the traffic and entered to discover the building decorated for Valentine’s Day. Golden hearts, red ribbons and bows hung from the ceiling. Massive bouquets of red roses covered every surface. And tiny, heart-shaped boxes of truffles were being handed out to the ladies as they exited.

Hunter scanned the glass cases and the stairway leading to the second floor. Then he looked down at their clasped hands.

“You with me on this?” he asked.

She nodded.

He rubbed a finger across her nose. “No complaints now.”

She took in the festive scene. “I’m not complaining.”

“I may buy you something expensive.”

“Just so long as you take it back when we’re finished.”

He frowned. “Take it back?”

“Save the box,” she said. “Or you can give it to a girlfriend in the future.”

Hunter had no intention of taking anything back, or giving it to some future girlfriend. But he didn’t see any point in sharing that with Sinclair.

“Sure,” he agreed.

Sinclair smiled and turned her attention to the display cases.

Convinced she was buying for some other mythical girlfriend—who Hunter could not remotely picture at the moment—Sinclair plunged right into the game.

She selected a sapphire-and-diamond choker, a pair of emerald-and-gold hooped earrings, teardrop diamonds, delicate sapphire studs, a ruby pendant that Hunter was positive she thought was an imitation stone, and a whimsical little bracelet with one ruby- and one diamond-encrusted goldfish dangling from the platinum chain.

Hunter bought them all, clipping the bracelet on her wrist so she could wear it back to the hotel.

Then they walked to a nice restaurant, taking seats overlooking the river. The maître d’ brought them a bottle of merlot and some warm French rolls.

Sinclair jangled her bracelet. “You’re very good at this.”

“I have a mom and a sister.”

“Nice answer,” she nodded approvingly, lifting her long-stemmed glass. “Never buy for girlfriends?”

“Why do you keep setting me up?” He didn’t want to talk to Sinclair about his former girlfriends. “Tossing out questions I can’t answer without being a jerk?”

“I know you’ve had girlfriends.”

“But I don’t want to tell you about them.”

“Why not? Wouldn’t I like them?”

“You’re really going to push this?”

“No reason not to.”

“Is that what you’re telling yourself?” He didn’t know what was going on between them, but he sure as hell didn’t want to hear about any of her old boyfriends.

Then again, maybe her feelings were different than his. There was one way to find out.

“Melissa,” he said, watching Sinclair’s expression carefully, “was a weather girl in Los Angeles. We dated for three months, played a lot of squash and beach volleyball. She was a vegetarian and a social activist. She wouldn’t let me buy anything from a very long list of countries with human or animal rights infractions.”

Sinclair’s expression remained impassive.

Hunter tore one of the rolls in two. “Sandra worked in a health club. She also played squash. We dated maybe two months. Deanne taught parasailing. We did a lot of mountain climbing, and some swimming, and she loved dancing at the clubs. But I introduced her to one too many movie stars, and she was gone.”

Sinclair’s expression faltered. “Did she break your heart?”

Hunter scoffed out a laugh. “It was at the six-month mark, normally my limit. Now, Jacqueline—”

“Is this going to take the entire dinner?”

“You did ask.”

“I’ve had two boyfriends,” she offered.

“I didn’t ask,” Hunter reminded her.

“Roberto decided his mother was right after all, and Zeke drove off on his Harley.”

They left her? Now, that surprised Hunter.

“They break your heart?” he found himself asking, genuinely wanting to know.

“I thought so at the time. But, you know, neither of them even took me to Paris.”

Hunter grunted. “It’s a sad day when a man won’t even take his girlfriend to Paris.”

“Now that I’ve seen Paris—” Sinclair spread her hands palms up “—that’s going to be the baseline.”

“Smart girl.”

“Thank you.”

“You might want to add diamonds to that list.”

“You think?”

Hunter nodded and pretended to give it serious thought. “Private jet, too.”

Sinclair picked up the other half of his roll. “How else does one get to Paris?” She took a bite.

“A woman needs to be smart about these things.”

“Thank you so much for the advice.”

To his surprise, Hunter wasn’t jealous of Roberto and Zeke. The men were morons.

He signaled the waiter for menus, and sat back to enjoy the company.

Sinclair awoke with a smile on her face in the river-view room at the Ciel D’or Hotel in downtown Paris. She felt different. The clothes Hunter had bought her were hanging in the closet and the jewelry package was sitting on the nightstand. Someone was tapping gently on her door.

She flipped back the comforter and slipped into the plush, white hotel robe, tying the sash around her waist. The fish bracelet dangled at her wrist. She knew it was silly, but she hadn’t wanted to take it off.

Through the peephole, she could see a black-tuniced waiter carrying a silver tray. Coffee. Her entire body sighed in anticipation.

She opened the door, and the man set the tray down on a small table beside the window. She realized she didn’t have any money for a tip, but he assured her it was taken care of.

Before she had a chance to pour a cup of coffee or tear into one of the buttery croissants, the phone on the bedside table began to ring.

“Hello?” She perched on the edge of the unmade bed.

“You awake?” came Hunter’s voice.

“Barely.”

“Did the coffee arrive?”

“It did.”

His breath hissed in. “Call me when you’re dressed.”

Her gaze darted to their connecting door. “I’m covered from head to toe.”

“You sure?”

She glanced down. “Well, maybe not my toes. But everything else. Come and have coffee.”

“Toes are sexy,” he said in a rumbling voice.

“My nails need trimming, and I haven’t had a pedicure in months.”

“In that case, I’ll be right over.”

She grinned as she hung up the phone and opened her panel of the connecting door. Then she settled into one of the richly upholstered chairs and poured a cup of extremely fragrant coffee and gazed at the sparkling blue sky against the winter skyline.

The door on Hunter’s side opened. “Did I mention the Castlebay Spa offers pedicures?”

“Are you offended by my toes?”

He took the seat across from her, pouring his own coffee. “I’m not even going to look at your toes. If you lied about their condition, they’ll probably haunt my dreams.”

She tore a croissant in two. “You got a fetish?”

“Only for gorgeous women.” His gaze caught her bracelet. Their eyes met, and there was something excruciatingly intimate in his look.

And then it hit Sinclair. They were having an affair. They were having an affair in every possible way except sleeping together. The awareness brought a warm glow to her stomach. She deliberately moved her hand so the bracelet would tap against her wrist. The sensation sent a shot of desire through her body.

Hunter cleared his throat. “So, do you want to continue the makeover in Paris, or perhaps we should switch our base of operations to London … or Venice?”

“Is there a better place than Paris for a brand-new hairdo?” She had absolutely no desire to leave.

“Not that I know of.”

“Then I vote we stay here.”

She sipped her coffee from the fine china cup and bit into the most tender croissant she’d had in her life.

Hunter selected an apple pastry sprinkled in powered sugar, and Sinclair decided she’d try that one next.

“Are you at all worried I’ll get spoiled and refuse to go home?” she asked, taking another bite.

He grinned. “Go ahead.”

“You’re not serious.”

He paused for a moment, gazing at her in the streaming sunlight. “Actually, I am. But you’re not.”

Sinclair didn’t believe it for a second. Although it was nice of him to say so. As fantasies went, Hunter sure knew how to put on a good one.

“Have you called for a special opening of a hair salon?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about hair salons in Paris. But I do know people who know people.”

“And they’ll do you favors.”

“They will.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m a nice guy.”

“That you are.”

Sinclair sat back, gazing around the room, at the ornate moldings, the carved ceiling, the marble bathroom, and the four-poster bed. “But the money must be frustrating. I mean, how can you tell if people like you or not?”

He shrugged. “How does anybody tell? They’re friendly. They don’t jeer at me. They laugh at my jokes.”

“But how can you tell it’s you and not the money?”

“You can tell.”

“I bet you can’t.”

“Most people are terrible liars.”

Sinclair pushed her hair behind her ears. “Not me. I’m a great liar.” She and Kristy had pulled the wool over her parents’ eyes on numerous occasions.

“Yeah?” asked Hunter, his disbelief showing.

“Yeah,” she affirmed with a decisive nod.

He put down the pastry and dusted the sugar off his hands with a nearby linen napkin. “Okay. Go ahead. Tell me a good lie.”

Like she’d fall for that. “You’d already know it’s a lie.”

“Then tell me something that may or may not be a lie, and I’ll tell you if it’s the truth.”

“Oh … kay.” Sinclair thought about it. After a minute, she sat forward, warming to the game. “That morning at the Manchester mansion, I stole something from your room.”

Hunter sat back in apparent surprise. “What did you steal?”

“Is it a lie or not?”

He peered at her expression. “You’re telling me you’re a liar and a thief?”

She shook her head. “I’m either a liar or a thief. If I’m lying about being a thief, then I’m only a liar. But if I’m telling the truth about being a thief, I’m only a thief.”

His eyes squinted down.

“Come on,” she coaxed. “Which is it?”

“You’re a liar,” he said. “You didn’t steal anything from my bedroom.”

“You sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“You got me,” she admitted.

“Okay. Now it’s my turn.” He folded the napkin and set it aside. “I once wrestled an alligator.”

“A real alligator?”

He nodded.

She was intrigued. Who wouldn’t be? But she wasn’t sold, yet. “Where?”

“A little town in Louisiana.”

“Was it a trained alligator? Like in a zoo or something?”

“Nope. Out there in the bayou.”

“It must have been pretty small.”

“I didn’t measure it or anything, but Jack guessed it was about six feet long.”

“Jack was there, too?”

Hunter nodded.

Sinclair held out her hand. “Your phone.”

“What?”

“I’m calling Jack.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.”

“Oh, yes, I am.” She wiggled her fingers.

Hunter shrugged and handed her the phone.

“You’re so lying,” she said. “Which speed dial?”

He grinned. “Four. And I’m not lying.”

Sinclair hit number four, and waited while it rang. “You are busted,” she said to Hunter.

“Jack Osland,” came a sleepy voice. Too late, she remembered the time-zone difference.

“Hi, Jack,” she offered guiltily. “It’s Sinclair.”

There was a pause. Jack’s voice turned grave. “What did he do?”

She watched Hunter while she spoke. “He claims he wrestled a six-foot alligator in a Louisiana swamp.”

“He told you that?”

“He did.”

“Well, it’s true.”

Sinclair blinked. “Really?”

“Saved my life.”

“Really?”

“Anything else?” asked Jack.

“Uh, no. Sorry. Bye.” She shut off the phone. “You saved his life.”

Hunter shrugged. “He exaggerates.”

Sinclair whooshed back in the chair. “I’d have bet money you were lying.”

Hunter took a sip of his coffee. “I was.”

She stilled. “What?”

He nodded “I was lying. I didn’t wrestle a six-foot alligator. Are you kidding? I’d have been killed.”

She looked down at the phone. “But … Jack …”

“Was lying, too.”

“You couldn’t possibly have set that up.”

“We didn’t have to.” He lifted the phone from her hand. “You started the conversation by saying ‘Hunter told me he wrestled an alligator.’ Jack’s my cousin; of course he’s going to back me up.”

“Tag-team lying?”

“It’s the very best kind. Your turn.”

“I’m not going to be able to top that.”

“Give it a try.”

Sinclair racked her brain. What could she possibly say that might throw him? Something believable, yet surprising.

Aha!

“I’m pregnant.”

Hunter’s face went white. “What?” he rasped.

Oh, no. No. She’d gone too far. “I’m lying, Hunter.”

He worked his jaw, but no words came out.

“Hunter, seriously. I’m lying.”

“You’re not pregnant?”

“I am not pregnant.”

“If you were, would you tell me?”

“I’m not.”

“Because we’d get married.”

“Hunter. It’s a game.”

“Will you take a pregnancy test?”

“No.”

“I let you phone Jack.”

She stood up and rounded the table to him, bending over and putting all the sincerity she could muster into her eyes. “I’m sorry I said I was pregnant. I’m not.”

He searched her expression. “You scared me half to death.”

She smiled at that, reaching out to pat his cheek. “Not ready to be a daddy?”

He snagged her wrist and pulled her down into his lap. “Not ready for you to keep that big of a secret.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t. I’d tell you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He kissed the inside of her wrist. And then his gaze dipped down to her stomach.

She followed it and realized her movements had opened the robe. Her cleavage was showing, and the length of one thigh was visible nearly to her hip.

But Hunter wasn’t looking at her thigh. His gaze was fixed on her stomach. His big, warm hand moved to press against the robe. It stayed there, and electricity vibrated between them. Then he slipped his hand beneath the robe to cup her soft stomach.

Arousal bloomed within her, radiating out to tingle her limbs. Her lips softened. Her eyelids went heavy. And she molded against his body.

He drew her head down, kissing her softly on the lips, trailing across her cheek, to the crook of her neck, to the tops of her breasts, burrowing down and inhaling deeply.

“I can’t fight it anymore,” he rasped, tipping to look up at her. “I can’t.”

“Then don’t.” She shook her head as she stared into the molten steel of his eyes. “Because it’s killing us.”

He bracketed her hips with his hands, lifting and turning her, so her legs went around his waist.

She ruffled her hands through his hair, kissing his hairline, his forehead, the tip of his nose.

He tugged the sash, and her robe fell away.

Then he smoothed his hands along her waist, wrapping around, splaying on her bare back, pulling her close over the rough fabric of his slacks. She bent her head and kissed his lips, slanting her mouth over his.

He met her tongue with his own, and she savored his taste, content to let it last forever. But his hands slipped down, ratcheting up her arousal.

She whimpered.

“I know,” he breathed, kissing her harder and deeper, letting his hands roam free, along her thighs, over her breasts, between her legs.

Her breathing turned labored, and she fought a war within herself. Part of her wanted him, right here, right now. Another part wanted to wait, to make it last. He felt good. He felt right.

She arched her back, pressing herself against his slacks.

He braced his forearms beneath her bottom, and came to his feet. She clung to his neck, anchoring her legs around his waist.

A few short steps, and they were there. The high four-poster. He set her down, then laid her back, pushing away the robe until she was completely naked.

She watched his hot gaze linger on her, not even considering adjusting her spread-legged pose. He traced a line between her breasts, down her belly, over her curls, into her center.

She closed her eyes, held on to the image of the unbridled arousal on his face.

She heard him stand.

Heard the rustle of his clothes.

The slide of his zipper.

The creak of his shoes.

“Sinclair?” he whispered, and she opened her eyes to see him standing naked above her.

She stretched out her hands, and he came down beside her, covering her with the weight of one thigh, smoothing her hair back from her face, kissing her gently on her cheek and on the tip of her shoulder.

“You are astonishingly, outrageously beautiful.” His tone was reverent.

His words made her shiver.

He was beautiful, too. But more than that, he was Hunter. He was tender and funny, smart and determined—everything she could possibly dream of in a man.

“I want you so bad,” he confessed.

Her throat closed up. She was beyond words, but she managed a nod of agreement.

“Do you remember?” he asked.

She nodded again, finding her voice. “Everything,” she rasped. “Everything.”

He inched a hand up her ribcage, finding the soft underside of her breast. He smoothed his thumb over the peak, drawing a lazy circle, pulling her nipple to a pebble. “I remember it, too.”

Then he proved his knowledge, finding secrets and hollows, making her purr and moan.

She reached for him in return, running her fingertips over his chest and abdomen. He sucked in a breath as she brushed his erection. He let her test the length and texture, before trapping her wrist and calling a halt.

He pushed her arms over her head, where they had to behave. Then he kissed her mouth, and her neck, and her breasts. He released her hands, as his lips roamed free, testing and suckling. She tangled his hair, moaning his name, everything inside her tightening and heightening.

But he kissed his way back. And merged with her mouth. He moved atop her, linking his fingertips with hers, pressing them down against the softness of the comforter. Her knees moved apart, and their bodies met, slick and hot and impossibly sweet.

He eased inside her, slower than she could bear. She thrashed her head and squeezed his hands, her kisses growing deeper and more frantic. Then she instintively flexed her hips, and he pushed the final inch to paradise.

He set a rhythm, speeding up and slowing down. She felt the fire of passion build within her. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her focus contracted to the spot where their bodies met.

The world turned to heat, and sensation and scent. She felt his muscles clench, and his desire take over. He sped up and stayed there, his thrusts intent and solid. A moan started low in her throat. It grew louder and more frantic, until she cried out his name, and the world fell apart, and his body pulsed within her.

They breathed in sync for long minutes after.

“You okay?” His voice seemed to come from a long way off. His body was a delicious weight on top of her, and she couldn’t move a muscle, including her eyelids.

“Sinclair?” he pressed, sounding worried.

“I think we’ve cured the tension,” she mumbled.

There was a chuckle low in his throat, and he eased his weight to the side, gathering her in his arms. “I do believe you’re right.”