Читать книгу Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires - Rebecca Winters - Страница 34

IT WAS LATE when Max eased the front door open. He paused on the threshold, listening. The apartment was silent. Maddy had gone to bed.

Good.

He carried the foldaway camp bed his sister had loaned him inside and propped it against the wall. She’d raised an eyebrow when he’d asked if he could borrow it. His explanation that he had an old friend staying for a few days hadn’t gone far toward satisfying her curiosity. She’d already been suspicious of his continuing presence in her apartment.

The crisis she’d called him over—a problem with the latest babysitter the agency had sent—had been resolved in the first hour. Charlotte had really only wanted a stand-in for her absent husband, a shoulder to cry on while she expressed her fury and disappointment that her little girl had once more been let down and misunderstood.

Her gratitude had slowly turned to inquisitiveness as the hours wore on and he’d stayed to help bathe Marcel and Eloise then cook dinner. By the time he’d settled beside her on the couch after dessert she’d been looking at him out of the corners of her eyes, clearly wondering why he was still hanging around.

He’d been avoiding going home, and they’d both known it. As soon as he mentioned the bed and the fact he had an old dancing friend staying over, he’d seen the cogs begin to turn in his sister’s mind. Which was why he’d made his escape and finally come home. He wasn’t up for twenty questions regarding his friendship with Maddy. Not that there was a lot to discuss; he just preferred not to have his sister jumping to conclusions.

He eased off his shoes and crossed to the stairs. He could make out the pale oval of Maddy’s face on the pillow as he moved toward the chest where he kept his spare linen and blankets. He found a sheet by feel, then what he hoped was a pillowcase.

“Is everything okay at your sister’s?”

Light washed over the bed as Maddy flicked on the lamp and propped herself up on one elbow.

“She was fine once she calmed down. Just a problem with an inexperienced babysitter. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t really asleep, anyway.” She frowned when she registered the linen in his arms. “Max, tell me you weren’t about to sneak down to sleep on the couch,” she said.

“I borrowed a camp bed from Charlotte. If you’re going to stay for a while, I figured you might prefer a bit of privacy.”

There was a moment of silence. He felt about as transparent as a teenager. It didn’t help that the mere sight of her in his bed springboarded him into about a million different sexual fantasies.

She threw back the covers.

“I told you, I’m not stealing your bed. If anyone is sleeping on the camp bed, it’s me,” she said.

She stood and crossed the space between them, pulling the folded sheet from his hands.

“Wait a minute,” he said, trying to grab it back.

She stepped away and shook her head. “No. You’re already doing me the hugest favor, letting me crash here. Plus, I’m about half your size. There’s no way you’ll be more comfortable on a camp bed than me.”

He started to protest again, but she held up a hand.

“Have you got a spare quilt?”

She turned and grabbed her pillow from his bed, tucking it under her arm. She looked immovable and determined. He yanked a thick duvet from the chest.

“Maddy, this is crazy. I’ve slept on the camp bed a million times, it’s no big deal. We kept it for when Père was bad and needed constant care in his room.”

“Not listening,” she said as she started down the stairs.

He had no choice but to follow her. She was wearing his T-shirt again, and he was acutely aware of her bare legs beneath it and the way her pert backside swayed from side to side with each step.

“Help me set this thing up,” she said, eyeing the bed frame.

“Maddy. This isn’t what I brought it home for,” he said.

“Stop being so damn noble.” The bed frame protested with a rusty groan as she unfolded it flat. “I’ve slept in far worse places, believe me.”

She tugged the duvet from his arms.

“Go to bed. You’ve spent the whole day thinking about everyone else. Get some sleep.”

He stared at her. If only she knew that from the moment she’d arrived on his doorstep she’d dominated his thoughts, pushing almost everything and everyone else aside.

The realization made him turn away. Maddy was a friend in need. That was all. His days of obsessing over her were in the past.

“Fine, you win. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said over his shoulder.

“Night, Max.”

Upstairs, he stripped to his boxer-briefs and slid into bed. The sheets were still warm from her body. He lay on his side, staring at the wall. He could hear her moving around downstairs, making the bed up. Then there was nothing but silence.

If he hadn’t brought the bed home, she’d be beside him right now, the sound of her breathing soft in the darkness.

He rolled onto his belly and fisted his hand beneath the pillow.

Getting the camp bed had absolutely been the smart thing to do. He just wished like hell he didn’t regret doing it quite so much.

FORGET ABOUT what you saw. Go out there, take your clothes off, start working. Max is waiting for you.

Maddy reached for the bathroom door handle for the third time that morning, and for the third time she hesitated.

She’d spoken to Max yesterday. Argued over the camp bed last night, in fact. So it wasn’t as though this was their first meeting post-shower scene. There was absolutely no reason for her to be loitering in the bathroom. Hadn’t she decided this wasn’t going to be an issue between them, that she was going to push the memory of what she’d seen into the very darkest corner of her mind and ignore it?

“Idiot.”

She pushed the door open and marched into the apartment. Her stomach dipped as she stopped in front of Max. He was sitting on his stool opening a new box of charcoals, his head bent over the task. She watched the muscles work in his forearms, the way his deft fingers teased the packaging open. Instantly she flashed to an image from yesterday: Max’s arms rigid with tension, his biceps flexing as his fist slid up and down his erection.

He glanced up, a frown on his face. Almost as though he’d somehow guessed what she’d been thinking.

“I forgot to ask. How did you get on with the specialists yesterday?”

She blinked stupidly at how normal the question was. While she agonized over the illicit glimpse she’d inadvertently gotten into his sex life, it was business-as-usual for Max. He didn’t know what she’d seen. He never would.

“Really well. I spoke to Anna yesterday and she texted me first thing this morning. She got me an appointment next week with her specialist, Dr. Rambeau.”

“That’s great news.”

“He hasn’t got a huge reputation, but both Anna and Jean-Pierre swear by him. Now I just have to contact Dr. Hanson and get my records sent over.” Frankly, she’d rather chew glass but it was something that had to be done.

“Not looking forward to it?” His gray eyes were sympathetic.

“Asking for a second opinion is a slap in the face, no matter how you look at it. He’s not going to be gracious about it,” she said. And, rational or not, she was angry with Dr. Hanson. Both he and Andrew had given up on her before she’d had a chance to prove herself. The last thing she wanted was talk to either one of them.

“Want me to do it for you?”

“Yeah. But I’m not going to let you. You know, Monsieur Laurent, I’m beginning to think you have a bit of a Sir Galahad complex. You’re always primed to ride to my rescue at the drop of a hat.”

He made a dismissive noise.

“What do you call trying to sleep on the camp bed last night?”

He looked caught out.

“Exactly. You’re too gallant for your own good.”

“Humph.”

“What?”

“My sister said something similar the other day.”

“Well, then, it must be true.”

He smiled, and she smiled back, and for a long moment they enjoyed the camaraderie.

See? This is normal. Just like old times, B.S.S. Before Shower Scene.

Then he looked at his watch.

“Guess we’d better get started, huh?” she said.

That quickly, she was nervous again.

“Guess so. Unless you need to do something else today?”

“No. Nothing else.” Unfortunately.

She reached for the sash on the robe. This was her way of repaying Max for his hospitality. It was the least she could do for him.

She let the robe slide down her arms.

Like yesterday, he was busy organizing his pencils when she looked at him. She turned her feet out and pulled in her belly and squared her shoulders.

“Okay, I’m ready when you are,” she said.

He barely glanced up. It struck her again how commonplace this must be for him. She was simply another model, another body. Which made it even more stupid and pointless to feel so self-conscious and uncertain.

“Let’s start with fourth position, en pointe,” he said.

She moved smoothly into the pose, concentrating fiercely on achieving perfect form and posture. Anything to stop herself from thinking about the fact that she was standing naked in front of Max, and that yesterday he’d been so hard and—

Enough!

She gritted her teeth and arched her back a little more. He began to sketch. She kept her mind busy reviewing the choreography for the production of Giselle she’d been rehearsing before Dr. Hanson ended her career. After ten minutes, Max asked for a second pose, then a third, each of which she held for close to fifteen minutes as he worked. Nearly an hour later, he paused to flick through his sketch pad. She stretched out her calf muscles and surreptitiously massaged her bad knee.

“Do you feel up to something more dynamic?” he asked.

His gaze was on her knee. He’d caught her rubbing it. She turned her feet out and stood tall.

“Whatever you’ve got.”

“I don’t want to aggravate your injury.”

“You won’t. It’s healing. Work is good for it,” she said. “I have to start building my strength up again.”

He looked doubtful. Self-consciousness forgotten, she rose up en pointe and began a series of battements, her feet flashing as she flicked one pointed foot in front of the other in a rapid, beating movement, her arms held in a graceful curve at midchest height.

“Okay, okay. Point taken,” he said, shaking his head.

“What were you thinking of?”

“Do you remember the season of La Sylphide we did right before I left the company? There was that series of fouetté rond de jambe tournants toward the end of the last act.”

She tried to recall the choreography he was referring to. It had been a long time ago and there had been many, many sequences since.

Max stood and took up position, rising up onto his toes in his bare feet. Despite the fact that it must have been years since he danced professionally, his form was perfect as he began to spin on his left foot, his right leg raised and bent at the knee as he demonstrated a fouetté. His right leg whipped around his body again and again as he spun, powering his turns, while his arms were held extended at shoulder height.

“Yes! I remember now,” she said. The sequence spilled into her mind in an unbroken chain. The grand jeté, followed by the increasingly frantic fouettés, then the despairing collapse and surrender at the end.

Max stopped, barely breathing hard from the exertion.

“Still got the old moves, Max,” she said admiringly.

He’d been such a wonderful dancer. Watching him was like seeing a ghost from the past.

A shadow passed over his face. Yearning, regret, disappointment—she saw it all in his eyes for a few unguarded seconds before he picked up his sketch pad.

“A few more rotations and I probably would have spun into a wall or torn a muscle,” he said dismissively.

She took a step toward him.

“Do you think you can hold the end position for me?” he asked without looking up.

She stilled. He didn’t want to talk about it or acknowledge his reaction. For a long beat she considered how she would feel if their positions were reversed. Then she pivoted on her heel and walked to the farthest corner of his work space.

Some things were too painful and private to talk about.

When she turned to face him, he was once more armed with his charcoals.

I don’t ever want to know what it feels like to not have dance in my life.

The thought came from her gut. Rationally, she knew she had to retire someday. No dancer could perform forever. But she wasn’t ready to hang up her slippers yet. Not even close. The thought of losing the most important, fulfilling thing in her life was unthinkable. Unbearable.

“Do you have enough space?”

“Yes.”

She pulled her focus into her body. She reviewed the choreography in her mind, then found her starting point. With an explosion of power she sprang into a grand jeté. Her muscles stretched and her body soared as she leaped across the space. Everything receded into the background. She landed and rotated fluidly into the first fouetté. Her support leg en pointe, she spun, her working leg whipping the turn to greater speed with each rotation.

As her speed increased, her moves become more desperate, more frantic. She allowed her spin to waver, let her arms drag her off balance. Finally, she fell out of the spin, collapsing onto the ground in an abandoned-yet-controlled sprawl, one leg bent beneath her, the other stretched forward, her body draped over it in a posture of absolute despair and defeat.

There was a moment of silence. She could hear her own breathing, feel her chest heaving against her extended leg.

“Beautiful, Maddy. Beautiful.”

She heard him begin to draw. She kept her body alert despite the temptation to relax into the stretch. She knew without asking that Max wanted the dynamic tension of the position and the emotion of the dance, not simple anatomy.

After five minutes, her body began to stiffen. She concentrated on each protesting muscle in turn, tensing and releasing them without changing posture. After ten minutes, she heard the scrape of Max’s stool on the floor.

“That was great. Absolutely what I was looking for,” he said as he approached.

She allowed herself to sit upright at last. He extended a hand to help her to her feet. She started to rise, but the leg that had been bent beneath her buckled, refusing to hold her weight. She stumbled, but his arms were around her before she could fall, one big hand splaying beneath her rib cage, his fingers grazing the lower curve of her right breast, the other grabbing her hip. Instinctively she reached for him, too, one hand finding his shoulder, the other his back.

For a shocking moment she was pressed against him, breast to chest, hip to groin.

She froze.

The soft fabric of his T-shirt brushed against her breasts. She inhaled pure Max—soap and sandalwood. She could see each individual hair of his morning stubble, the whiskers black against his olive skin, and feel his warm breath on her cheek.

Her heart began to pound against her rib cage. If he moved his hand, he would be cupping her breast in his palm.

The thought made her tremble with sudden, hungry need. Her nipples tightened in anticipation.

“You okay now?”

She could feel his deep voice vibrating through her body.

“Yes,” she said, even though it was a big fat lie.

His grip slackened and he stepped away from her.

The loss of his heat and hardness was a shock. She blinked and tried to pull herself together. She was afraid to look at him, afraid he would see only too readily the thoughts that had been racing through her mind. She ducked to collect her robe, painfully aware of her aroused nipples. Only when she’d tied the sash did she dare look at him again.

He was studying the drawing he’d completed, an expression of concentration on his face. He seemed utterly unaware of the fact that he’d just held her naked body pressed against him and that she was vibrating with the aftershock of the contact.

“I think we’re done for the day,” he said. “That last pose was great, Maddy. Thanks.” He looked up, his face unreadable. “Sometimes I forget what it’s like when you dance.”

She stared at him for a long moment. How was it possible that she’d felt so much when he held her while he was completely unaffected?

You don’t want him to be affected. He’s your friend. Sex is the best way to destroy that. Remember how every relationship you’ve ever had has ended?

She tightened the sash on the robe again. For the second time in as many days, Max had reduced her to incoherent jelly. It confused the hell out of her, as well as being damned embarrassing. She could only imagine how he’d respond if he knew what was going on in her head. Since when did old friends suddenly want to jump each other?

She crossed to the camp bed and scooped up her clothes. In the bathroom, she dressed quickly, ignoring the sensitivity of her skin and the telltale heat between her thighs. She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“What are you doing?” she asked herself, her voice low and serious.

She’d come to Max seeking sanctuary, not sex. She was on the verge of making a mistake she knew she would regret for the rest of her life.

He was at the kitchen table working on one of his sketches when she emerged.

“I’m going out,” she said, hovering awkwardly at a distance. “I need to buy some things. A coat, another pair of shoes.” And get away from you for a few hours.

“Sure. I should be around but take the spare key. I want to do some more work on these sketches.”

“I’ll bring something back for dinner. Maybe some chicken fillets,” she said vaguely.

He surprised her by laughing.

“What’s so funny about chicken fillets?”

“Have you had cooking lessons or bought a cookbook since we last lived together?” He was grinning at her, highly amused.

“I signed up for some classes, but I never got there,” she admitted.

“So what were you planning on doing with the chicken?”

“Something.”

He looked so damned familiar, sitting there with his eyes alight with laughter as he teased her. Her old Max, the friend she’d instinctively turned to in her most desperate hour. Which only made it even more confusing that five minutes ago she’d been ready to jump his bones.

“Tell you what. Why don’t I take care of dinner? In the interests of it being edible,” he said.

She stared at him, utterly bewildered. Why was she suddenly having these feelings for him, after all these years?

“Fine. I’ll buy some wine,” she said.

She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. Out in the street, she blinked and wrapped her arms around her body.

She had to get a grip. Stop thinking about Max in any terms other than as a friend, and start thinking like a normal person.

A normal, really, really cold person. She shivered and hugged herself tighter. It was damned frigid, and she was too used to the blue skies and searing heat of home.

A normal person would go buy herself a coat rather than stand freezing in the street. A coat, some shoes and maybe some jeans. And, while she was at it, some underwear and toiletries.

She kept herself occupied with a mental shopping list as she walked along the cobblestone street and out into the main thoroughfare. Traffic whizzed past as she looked left, then right. She shrugged. It didn’t matter where she went. She was just getting away from Max. She knew Paris well enough to know that she would find good shopping no matter which direction she headed.

Within an hour she was bundled in a full-length black wool coat, a long, brightly striped scarf and a stylish scarlet wool cap that covered her ears and reflected some color onto her pale face. She found jeans, a pair of low-heeled black ankle boots she could wear with pants or a skirt, underwear and various other essentials at the huge BHV department store on Rue de Rivoli. Twice she forced herself to put down small items that caught her eye for Max. A scarf the exact color of his eyes. A pair of gloves made from the softest calfskin. Today was not a day to buy gifts for Max.

After she was satisfied that she had enough to survive a week or two, she rode the escalators to the top floor and sat in a corner of the vast cafeteria nursing a cup of watery, burned-tasting coffee.

She didn’t want to go home yet. She stared out over Paris, her mind zigzagging between worrying over her inappropriate attraction to Max and speculating about her appointment with Dr. Rambeau. He had to give her hope. He had to have a magic rabbit to pull out of his hat. If he didn’t…She couldn’t let herself go there.

She left the department store and struck out aimlessly into the winding streets of the third arrondissement. Her shopping bags banged her calves as she meandered blindly past colorful window displays.

She was about to seek refuge from the cold in a bistro when the passionate, hip-swinging beat of Latin music met her ears. She followed the music down a busy side street and beneath an archway into a cobbled courtyard. A tall, whitewashed building surrounded her on three sides, the ground floor of which was open to the world thanks to large floor-to-ceiling windows. She stared into a wooden-floored dance studio, filled with brightly clad women in various interpretations of Spanish flamenco costumes. Frills and lace and full skirts, petticoats, fishnet stockings—one woman even had a mantilla in her hair. A teacher stood in front of them, demonstrating a move.

Maddy watched with a smile as they all began to dance, feet stomping, fingers clicking and curling and gesticulating, skirts swirling as they spun. They weren’t all good. Some were very bad, in fact. But that was beside the point. They felt the music. They were having fun.

She’d always loved Latin. When she’d first started out as a professional dancer, she and her friends would seek out the small Latin-American nightclubs in Sydney’s inner city and spend the night dancing for fun instead of perfection and achievement. Max used to come with them, she remembered. She’d loved matching her moves to his to the demanding beat of a rumba or samba. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced for fun, until she was sweaty and laughing and exhausted. Too long. Even before her injury her life had become so defined by her career and her position within the company that her world had shrunk to rehearsal, performance and more rehearsal.

A particularly bitter gust of wind reminded her that it was too cold to be standing around. She returned to the street, but the rhythm of the music stayed with her. For some reason, she felt calmer, more settled. Ready to go face Max and put the craziness of the past few days behind her.

If she hadn’t heard the music and seen the dancers, she probably would have walked right past the dress. She wasn’t shopping for frivolities, after all. The vibrant red of roses on a black silk background caught her eye first, then the style of the dress, with its tiny spaghetti straps and buttoned bodice. It had an old-fashioned full skirt, and she could imagine spinning in it, the fabric floating around her. Even though she had nowhere to wear it, she added it to her purchases. It would be a souvenir of her time in Paris.

She stopped at a wine shop then ducked into the fromagerie to buy some of the thick, oozing Camembert she knew Max adored.

She was feeling considerably lighter of heart by the time she turned her key in the front door. Time away from Max had given her the perspective she needed. This morning’s confusion had assumed its rightful place as a momentary aberration. She was under stress. She’d had an unexpected, explicit glimpse into another side of Max’s life yesterday. Combined, the two things had made her silly for a few hours. Nothing more.

He was lounging full-length along the couch reading the newspaper when she entered.

“You’re back. I was starting to think I’d have to send out a Saint Bernard.”

“I bought some things,” she said, holding her bags high to illustrate her point.

“Ah. Silly me. I thought five hours was far too long for any one person to spend looking at shoes.”

“Hey! I only bought one pair. And I found a dance school.” She dumped her bags beside the coffee table and sank into the armchair. “In this funny little courtyard. There was a flamenco class on. Remember when we used to go to Carmen’s and The Latin Bar and dance all night?”

She eased off her shoes and wiggled her toes to relieve the ever-present ache in her feet.

“God, yes. What a pack of show-offs.”

It was true. Wherever they went, they’d dominated the dance floor, reveling in their superior skill and flair. She laughed, remembering some of their worst moments.

“We were all so desperate to be onstage. But you’re right, in hindsight we must have been pretty obnoxious.”

“And the rest.”

She reached into her shopping bags and slid the wine and cheese onto the coffee table.

“My contribution, humble as it is,” she said.

Max leaned across to inspect the cheese.

“My favorite,” he said.

“I know.”

He looked surprised, then pleased. She told herself the warm pleasure she felt was just happiness at making him happy. Nothing more.

“I’ve made us coq au vin for dinner,” he said, swinging his legs off the arm of the couch.

“Delicious. I’m starving.”

Technically, she needed to be vigilant about what she ate. But it had been cold out, and it wasn’t as though she was going to pig out on the cheese alongside Max.

He served the chicken with fresh green beans and baby carrots. She had two glasses of wine and was feeling mellow and sated by the time he pushed back his chair from the table and started to collect the plates.

It’s going to be all right, she realized with relief. This morning is history. We’ve moved on already.

The invisible tension that had been banding her chest eased.

“I’ll do that,” she said, standing and tugging the plates from his hands. “The chef should never have to clean up.”

“We’ll do it together,” he said. “Then you can help me eat this cheese.”

“I don’t think so,” she said with a laugh. “The pâté yesterday was bad enough. No man will ever be able to lift me again if I keep packing it on.”

He gave her a reproving look. “Maddy, there’s not a spare ounce on you.”

“Says the man who doesn’t have to fling me around a stage.”

They crossed to the kitchen together and he threw her a tea towel after she’d dumped the plates in the sink.

“I hate drying,” he said unapologetically.

“Another thing I remember.”

“And you hate to vacuum.”

“And clean the bathroom. Don’t forget that. But I’m great with laundry.”

“Together, we almost make the perfect housemate,” he agreed.

“Except for forgetting to take the garbage out,” she said.

They both laughed.

“Remember the tantrum Jacob pulled that time when we missed the garbage collection two weeks in a row?” she said. Jacob had been one of several dancers who had lived with them.

“Definitely an eleven on the Richter scale.”

“Nothing like a gay man for a really good, wall-shaking, knee-trembling tantrum.”

He squirted detergent into the sink and reached for the taps.

“Did I ever tell you about the time he tried to seduce me?”

Maddy gave a shout of surprised laughter. “No way!”

“Way.” Water shot out of the faucet with a hiss and spray ricocheted off the plates and up into his face.

“Merde!” he said, flicking off the taps and wiping water from his face with his hands. “The water pressure in this place is completely screwed. Half the time it’s a trickle, then this happens.”

“You see? Drying does have its good points,” she said with a grin.

He shot her a wry look, then reached for the hem of his soaked T-shirt. Before she understood what he was doing, he’d whipped it over his head. She watched, mesmerized, as he used the balled-up T-shirt to dry his face and mop up any excess moisture on his broad chest. Then he threw the T-shirt to one side and reached for the taps again.

She could barely do more than blink and breathe as she stared at his chest and shoulders and belly. Dark hair curled across his defined pectoral muscles, narrowing down into a sexy trail as it moved south. His jeans rode low on his hips, revealing the hard planes of his abs and the beginning of the delicious, uniquely male groove where his belly muscles met his thighs.

All her hard-won comfort flew out the window. Her mouth was dry. She wanted to reach out and touch him so badly that her fingers clenched into the tea towel. He was beautiful. Perfect. And so damned sexy she wanted to rub herself against him like a cat in heat.

“It was after that party we had when Georgie went off to America. We were all wasted, since we had a long weekend to recover. Remember?”

He was watching her, waiting for her response. She lifted her eyes to his face but was unable to stop her gaze from dropping once more to his chest. He was so male and hot…

“Um. Yeah. That was the party where Georgie threw up in someone’s shoe, right?”

He laughed. She stared, fascinated, as his head tilted back on his neck and his belly muscles flexed.

Oh. Boy.

She was in big trouble. Big, big, big trouble.

“I woke up at about four in the morning and Jacob was standing beside my bed, the corner of the sheet in his hand, about to slide in with me. I asked him what he thought he was doing and he said—and I shit you not—’my mother always told me it never hurts to ask.’”

He laughed again. And again his belly muscles did their compelling flex-and-contract thing. She was officially obsessed. And about to do something really, really stupid. She’d never been good at denying her sexual needs. She’d never had to be. She enjoyed sex, and she’d been lucky enough to live and work in a community where she’d never been judged for her appetites. There had been very few men who she’d desired in her life that she hadn’t had. She drew the line only at married men—and Max.

But now…Standing so close to his half-naked body, it was difficult to see him as anything but a sexual prospect.

“I told him that if he got into bed with me, he was going to find out that his mom was wrong. Big-time. Then he actually tried to talk me into it. Like he was a car salesman, and all it would take was a bit of good sales patter to get me to change teams.”

He shook his head, grinning at the memory. She took a deep breath, then another. She forced herself to take a step backward.

“Jacob always had a thing for you,” she said. She could barely recognize her own voice, it sounded so tight and controlled.

“Yeah, it was called a penis.”

He passed her the first clean plate, and she almost dropped it she was trying so hard to avoid making contact with his bare skin. One touch. That was all it would take to slip the leash off her self-control right now. He was way, way too sexy and masculine and desirable.

Somehow, they got through the dishes. If Max noticed that she barely lifted her gaze from the floor and that she kept a good few paces between them at all times, he didn’t show it. She sighed with relief when he disappeared upstairs afterward and returned wearing another T-shirt.

But to her dismay, it didn’t help any. Not enough, anyway. Now she had two images vying for attention in her subconscious—Max in the shower, horny and hard, and Max’s chest and belly, up close and personal. Every time she so much as glanced at him both images danced across her mind. Heat fizzed along her veins. Her skin felt sensitized and she could hear her own heartbeat in her ears.

“There’s a Godard movie on tonight,” he said as he dropped onto the couch, propping his long legs on the coffee table in front of him and palming the remote control. He patted the couch next to him. “Come on. I’ll translate for you and tempt you with cheese.”

She stared at the couch. There was no way she could survive a whole evening sitting next to him without climbing aboard and taking him for a ride.

She closed her eyes as she imagined his reaction if she tried to enact any of the fantasies running riot in her mind right now. He’d be stunned. He might even laugh at her. Whatever he did, it would be the end of their friendship as she knew it, the comfort and ease between them a thing of the past.

“Let’s go out,” she suggested.

He frowned. “Out? It’s too cold, Maddy. Below zero, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Her glance skittered around the apartment, seeking inspiration, and finally landed on her shopping bags. She remembered the dress she’d bought and the flamenco class that had inspired her purchase.

“Let’s go dancing,” she said. As soon as she said it, she knew it was right. Dancing was safe. She could churn up the dance floor, get sweaty and breathless in the safety of numbers.

Max was still frowning.

“There must be someplace nearby. Somewhere with Latin-American music?” she asked. God, she was almost begging. She needed some outlet for all the frustration and confused tension building inside her.

“There’s The Gypsy Bar. They have dancing. I’ve been there a few times with a friend of mine,” he said.

“Good. Great. Let’s do that.”

She grabbed the shopping bag with her new dress in it and retreated to the bathroom. She seemed to be spending a lot of her time doing that lately.

Get a grip, Maddy. Get over this. Don’t screw up the one good, enduring relationship in your life.

Excellent advice. She just hoped she had the sense to take it.

THE GYPSY BAR was heaving with people and throbbing with loud music as Max pushed open the front door. Maddy bumped into him as he halted to let a couple of women pass by. He stood to one side to make room for her in the crowded foyer. He watched as she tackled the buttons on her coat, knowing already what was beneath it. He’d stared like a tragic schoolboy when she’d stepped out of the bathroom half an hour ago, her new dress swirling around her legs. Slim straps accentuated the delicate lines of her shoulders, while the tight bodice outlined her breasts. He’d known instantly that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts moved with each step, and the gentle, pouting outline of her nipples was visible against the silk.

She was his own personal siren, sent by some higher power to tempt and taunt him. As if it wasn’t tough enough to stare at her naked body half the day, wanting what he could never have. Hell, he could still remember the feel of her when he’d hauled her to him to stop her falling this morning. Soft yet strong, her skin warm and velvety, the curve of her breast just the slide of a hand away.

It was getting harder and harder to deny his body’s desires. In that respect, her wish to go dancing tonight was a godsend. He needed to let off some steam, release the tension binding him tight.

On the other hand, there was that dress. And the way her hips were already moving in time with the music. It was highly probable that he’d simply traded one form of torture for another.

“Where’s the dancing?” she asked, standing on her tiptoes to shout near his ear. The music was so loud the beat reverberated through his heels.

“Up front,” he said.

She nodded and immediately began to push her way through the crowd. He followed more slowly and was just in time to watch as she found the edge of the dance floor, filled with gyrating bodies. She didn’t hesitate, she simply slid in amongst them and started to move. She’d piled her hair high on her head, leaving wispy tendrils free to hang around her face and shoulders, and she lifted her hands high and shook her head and shoulders and hips in time with the music.

It didn’t take long for a man to home in on her, a tall, dark-skinned guy with an appreciative gleam in his eyes. Max watched as they began to salsa together, their bodies locked in rhythm. The other man was smiling with delight at the way Maddy moved in his arms, limber and light and provocative.

Max turned away. He could watch her and go crazy, or he could find his own release in the steamy darkness of the club. He pushed his way to the bar and ordered a cognac. He downed it in one swallow and slid the glass back onto the bar. Then he turned back to the dance floor and let his eyes find her again.

She was spinning, her skirt a swirl of silk around her legs. She stopped only when her partner reeled her in, her body slamming into his.

“Max. What are you doing here?” He felt a tug on his arm and turned to find a tall slim blonde standing beside him, a surprised smile on her face.

“Marie-Helene,” he said. He leaned close to kiss both her cheeks and she caught his mouth in a third kiss before he could pull away. She tasted of wine, and he realized she was a little drunk.

“You haven’t called me for an age,” she said, cocking her head assessingly. “Have I done something wrong? Worse, have I been replaced?”

He forced a laugh. “I’ve been busy.” He shrugged. They had no ties between them, after all. With Marie-Helene, it had always been about sex and nothing else.

“So you haven’t settled down or anything disgustingly boring like that?” she asked, a suggestive smile curling her mouth.

“No.”

“Then come dance with me, Max,” she said.

She took his hand and led him onto the floor. Eyes holding his, she slid into his arms, their bodies touching from chest to hip. She began to move, and he quickly found the beat.

She was a good dancer, but nothing compared to Maddy. He pushed the comparison from his mind the moment he registered it. This was about forgetting Maddy, losing himself for a few hours.

His step sure, he spun Marie-Helene. She laughed with delight, quickly closing the distance between them so that their bodies were once more pressed together. Her full breasts flattened against his chest, and she ground her hips against his.

If he wanted to, he could go home with her tonight. The invitation was there in every move she made. He could close his eyes and pound into her and find release in her welcoming body.

She smiled, almost as though she could read his thoughts.

She was a generous lover, uninhibited, sensual. But she wasn’t Maddy, and he didn’t want her the way he wanted Maddy. He wasn’t a saint, but the idea of using Marie-Helene as a human scratching post held little appeal.

He wouldn’t be going home with her. More fool him, he suspected.

Marie-Helene leaned close to be heard.

“Stop scowling, Max. You look so serious,” she said.

The music changed to a fast-moving rumba. He stepped up the pace, turning with Marie-Helene, his hips leading hers.

She laughed with pleasure and at last he felt the music begin to take over, his body following instinctively. This was what he’d wanted, what he’d needed. No thinking, no second-guessing. Just sweat and movement and mindlessness.

A reprieve only—but he’d take what he could get right now.

MADDY TRIED TO STOP herself from watching Max dance with the blond woman. They’d been together for over an hour. She told herself she didn’t care what he did, that it was good that he was with another woman. The best thing, in fact. If he went home with her, he’d be well and truly out of bounds. But she couldn’t stop herself from watching them.

The way Max splayed his hands over the other woman’s hips. The way the blonde pressed her pelvis and her breasts against him. The way she laughed with him, her eyes flashing an unmistakable intimate invitation. There was something about the way they moved together, a certain sure knowledge in their touch that told her they’d been lovers before, that she’d already lain in Max’s arms and felt him inside her.

Jealousy burned in Maddy’s belly at the thought. Jealousy and envy. Standing on the edge of the dance floor, Maddy toyed with the straw in her drink and tried to make herself look away. Sweat cooled on her skin now that she was no longer dancing, but her body still hummed with the exhilaration of losing herself—even for a short while—in movement. She’d lost her first partner when he’d suggested they go somewhere more private to dance, her second partner when he’d slid his hand down to cup her ass and she’d slid it back up onto her hip again.

A few years ago, she might have gone home with one of them after a few hours of foreplay on the dance floor. She might have let the excitement and rhythm of moving with a skilled partner spill over into the bedroom. But one-night stands had lost their appeal some time ago. She’d had a series of regular lovers for a while now—successive men who she’d kept at arm’s length for as long as possible, then broken off with when it became clear they wanted more than she was willing or able to give.

Across the room, the blonde slid a hand behind Max’s neck. Maddy knew what was coming, knew that she should look away, but she couldn’t. She watched, her hands clutching around her glass, as the other woman pressed her lips against his. Maddy held her breath as she waited for Max to take up the invitation. After a few taut seconds, he pulled back. She saw the scowl on the other woman’s face.

He isn’t interested.

Maddy experienced a surge of bone-deep satisfaction. Which was so stupid, she didn’t even have the words. But there it was.

She wanted Max for herself.

They were talking now, the woman gesturing toward the bar, signaling she wanted a drink. He nodded and followed her as she fought her way off the dance floor.

The music slid from one song to the next, this one a throbbing, driving salsa. She didn’t stop to think. She pushed her way forward and intercepted Max before he disappeared into the crowd near the bar.

She met his eyes, smiled and hooked her finger through one of his. Just one dance, she promised herself as she led him back into the thick of things.

He pulled her into his arms the moment they found a spare inch of space. His hips started to move, and she matched his rhythm instantly, easily. One of his hands rested on her hip, the other held her hand, pulling her close. He moved effortlessly, confidently. A sharp, fierce joy hit her. She’d forgotten how good it felt to dance with him.

They danced a salsa, then segued into a rumba. The club was a whirl of lights as Max spun her in his arms. Then the music changed again, switching to a sultry, sexy tango. He pulled her closer again, his hips finding hers, his hand occupying the small of her back.

Locked hip to hip, they strutted across the dance floor. His shirt was damp beneath her hands, clinging to his back. Sweat dripped between her breasts and ran down the column of her spine. Once, twice, three times his thigh inserted itself between hers. Her hand slid from his shoulder to trace his back, then the taut muscles of his arm. His skimmed the top of her backside, his long fingers burning her through her dress. Her breasts tightened, the damp silk of her bodice rasping against her sensually as their bodies moved in unison.

She eyed the column of his throat, watching the pulse that throbbed there. She wanted to press her mouth to his skin. She wanted to taste the salt on his skin and feel the throb of his blood racing through his veins. She wanted to rub herself against him, measure him with her hands and discover if he really was as big and hot and hard as she imagined he would be.

Slowly she lifted her face to his. They locked eyes. Their steps slowed. She didn’t stop to wonder if what she was about to do was smart or wise. And she certainly didn’t think about tomorrow. She stood on her tiptoes, palmed the back of his neck. Then she kissed him, her tongue tracing the fullness of his bottom lip before sliding into his mouth.

He tasted of brandy and coffee and heat. His tongue met hers, danced with it, stroked it. He pulled her closer. She felt the unmistakable ridge of his erection pressing against her belly. A shiver of need raced through her as she rubbed herself against him.

Max said something in French and his hand swept from her shoulder down to her breast. She arched herself into his palm, her hands gliding over his back to find his butt.

The sudden jostle of another couple backing into them broke their kiss. For a long moment they stared at each other, breathless with need.

Maddy glanced over her shoulder, saw an exit sign. She stepped away from him, linking her fingers with his.

“Come with me,” she said.

And she led him outside.