Читать книгу Just Toying Around... - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 9

“FLASHING HER, that’s a direct approach. Little forward if you aren’t going to seduce her.” Ron licked his forefinger, leaned forward and smoothed his eyebrows, then stood back and admired his Fonzie-like reflection. “Myself personally, I like to woo a woman.”

“Woo?”

“Yes, woo. It’s all part of the chase, the thrill of the hunt.”

“This is a woman, Ron. Not an elk, for chrissakes.” Dropping into the desk chair in his brother’s room, Nick exhaled wearily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He shuddered to think of what Ron considered wooing. A trip through a drive-thru, then back to his place to show off his lava lamp collection?

“So what’s she look like? She a hottie?”

A cloud of dark-chocolate hair, kiss-me mossy-green eyes, smooth skin and a mouth designed for sin flashed through Nick’s mind. The hair, the eyes and the skin were pleasing to look at, not remarkable on their own. But the mouth that tied it all together… Damn.

“She’s attractive,” Nick managed, feeling a telltale tightening in his groin.

Ron nodded, apparently satisfied with Nick’s assessment. “So, did you sense any interest? She hot for you yet?”

“She’s interested,” Nick said casually.

And though he had no intention of taking advantage of the situation, she was most definitely hot for him.

Out of all the uncertainties surrounding this scheme, Nick didn’t have a doubt about that one fact. She’d practically devoured him with her eyes. That bold green gaze had inventoried every inch of his exposed flesh…and then some.

Nick took care of his body, worked out regularly. He wasn’t ignorant of his build and the resulting effect it had on women. He’d been covertly studied before. But he’d never been so intensely scrutinized. Never felt a woman’s gaze like that.

Furthermore, when his towel had come off, she’d made no pretense of turning away. Her gaze had dropped to his male equipment, lingered, then she’d had the audacity to smile.

Appreciatively.

Nick found himself equally intrigued and baffled. Baffled because, while he’d gone into her room to set things into motion, he’d been the one knocked for a loop. He’d demonstrated an appalling lack of control, something he never permitted himself to do. Something that mustn’t happen again.

Ron grunted as he shoved a foot into his boot, pulling Nick from his reverie. “Listen, if you find anything out tonight that might be helpful, give me a call no matter what time. Keep me posted. I—I need to know what’s happening, okay? This is my future we’re trying to protect.”

“Sure,” Nick said, frowning at the desperation in Ron’s tone. Ron was very adept at playing him, Nick knew, but he seemed genuinely worried this time. Who knew with Ron? It could only be wishful thinking. “But I seriously doubt anything will happen tonight. We’re just meeting for drinks.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Whatever. Just call me. I’m meeting Cindy, but should be back by ten.”

“Cindy?”

Ron smiled. “The check-in clerk. I’m giving her some free samples.”

Nick’s brows rose. On that note, he decided to take his leave. He stood. Desiree had said she’d be back by eight, and it was pushing that now. “I’m gone,” Nick told him, heading for the door.

“Work your magic, big brother.” He paused, giving Nick a small glimpse of Ron’s more vulnerable side. “I’ve got a lot riding on this.”

That last statement lacked Ron’s trademark bravado and, for the first time, Nick detected a hint of fear in his brother’s voice. Ron was genuinely afraid of losing this business. Fear was the beginning of wisdom. Given that, perhaps the end would justify the means.

Nick fervently hoped so.

“MR. KENT will be arriving tomorrow. He rarely attends these trade shows, but he’s very anxious to meet you.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him as well,” Meg murmured. Marcus Kent, the senior editor for Foreplay magazine, had recently decided to personally handle Desiree Moon’s reviews. They had communicated via e-mail and telephone, but had never met in person.

“Do you have everything you need?” Ann Dolan, Marcus’s assistant asked. “Everything in your room to your liking?” She smiled. “You’re our star, you know. I was told to keep you happy.”

Meg laughed. “I’m happy and I have everything I need, thank you.”

“Good.” Ann sighed. “Well, we’ve covered your schedule, outlined your workshop. I think we’ve done everything we were supposed to do.” She quirked a brow. “Would you like to go to the lounge and get a drink?”

Meg hesitated. She nudged up her sleeve and checked her watch. “Er, actually I’m supposed to meet someone.”

Ann’s eyes widened. “Oh, of course,” she said knowingly. “You brought Antonio. Naturally, you would. Duh.” Ann popped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “This is a trade show. You’re here to critique. How else would you…well, you know?”

“I, uh—”

She nodded approvingly. “Mr. Kent will like that,” Ann confided. “The majority of our critics are women. He’s been very interested in getting a fresh hetero male perspective. I’m supposed to call in tonight with a report. I’ll be sure and let him know that you brought your partner with you. He’s been anxious to meet the legendary Antonio,” she shared with a droll smile. “We all have.”

Meg’s insides froze. Antonio? The fictitious Antonio? “Well,” Meg faltered, “I’m not sure that my, uh— That Antonio would be comfortable talking about our—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Mr. Kent will put him right at ease. He has a way of doing that.”

That would be fine, Meg thought, if she had an Antonio to put at ease! How on earth would she get out of this mess? She’d have to think of something, and quick. The man would be here tomorrow, expecting to meet her…and dear old Antonio. Dread mushroomed inside her. Her dinner—which she’d enjoyed—curdled in her stomach.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Ann told her, standing. She drew her purse from the back of the chair. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get upstairs and, er, get started.”

Meg managed a weak goodbye. Her mind whirled. Actually, she had been anxious to get back upstairs so that she could wait for Nick. But now… Now, she had a mess to deal with. It had never occurred to her that she would need to bring a partner, that they would expect her to have him here with her.

But it should have.

This was a sex-toy trade show and she, a critic.

Meg absently worried her bottom lip. Well, she would think of something. She would make up a lie. She’d simply tell them that poor Antonio had been called home on an emergency. His mother was ill, his house had been hit by a tornado, his brother needed a kidney transplant and he was the only match. Something. Meg snorted at the extreme scenarios her desperate mind created. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. Might as well make it a good one.

Meg stood and refused to think about it anymore. She would handle it in the morning. Right now she needed to get back upstairs. To wait for Nick. A tingle of excitement bubbled through her.

Though the meal had been delicious, she’d barely been able to eat. It had been a long time since she’d had anything that remotely resembled a date—she’d been too busy double-timing it up her career path to enjoy any sort of social life—and something about this guy… Meg paused consideringly. Physical attraction aside, something about this guy seemed different. She didn’t know exactly what yet, but she intuitively knew that the potential for something extraordinary had been presented to her and she didn’t intend to waste it.

Besides, now that she’d decided to momentarily ditch her ho-hum life and trade it in for the week for an exciting one, she couldn’t wait to get started. Meg shuddered to think about what that said about the life she’d led to date, that she’d be so willing to abandon it. True, since the scholarship fiasco she’d forsaken all men and pursued her career with single-minded determination. But had it really been that bad? That boring? That empty?

Yes.

With that disturbing realization in mind, Meg hurried to her room. Rather than sit on the end of the bed and twiddle her thumbs while she waited for him, she took the opportunity to straighten up. Meg couldn’t stand clutter, liked her surroundings balanced, harmonized and color-coordinated. In her line of work, presentation was almost as important as the quality of the dish she prepared and that mentality had spilled over into other areas of her life. She’d been told she was maddeningly meticulous. Meg grinned. She just considered herself thorough.

Less than five minutes passed when a soft knock sounded at the connecting door. So he’d been just as anxious. Meg felt a grin tug at her lips. Taking a fortifying breath, she smoothed her jacket and opened the door.

“Hi,” she managed. He looked devastating. He wore khaki trousers, a white oxford shirt and a come-hither smile that melted Meg’s insides.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

Meg slipped her key card back into her purse and allowed him to escort her from the room. The sheer size of him struck her again. Her head lay a good two inches below his shoulder. Though totally against her feminist nature, the thought made her feel safe. Protected. This was the sort of man that a cave woman would want to take as a husband. A big, tough, muscled warrior who would defend and protect.

A ribbon of heat curled through her. Need consumed her, made her knees momentarily go weak. Hell, they hadn’t even made it to the elevator and yet she found herself hit with the insane notion to skip the drinks altogether and drag him back to her room.

Which was ridiculous, of course, because Meg had never dragged any man to her bed, much less a complete stranger. And while this man happened to be the answer to her every carnal fantasy, he was still a stranger.

He was just a stranger she was impossibly attracted to.

But she didn’t have to consider what Meg would do, she reminded herself, only what Desiree would do, and this week she was Desiree. A sly smile curled her lips as she cast a sidelong glance at her companion. The possibilities were endless.

Nick guided her into the elevator with a hand at her elbow. The minimal contact nonetheless ignited a sparkler of pleasure low in her belly. “Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked, pulling Meg from her mental musings.

“I did,” she replied. “What about you? Have you eaten?”

“I ordered room service.”

Well, that took care of that line of conversation.

Now what were they going to talk about? Meg wondered as the silence yawned between them.

“Fifty percent chance of rain tonight,” he remarked casually.

“Is that right?”

He rocked back on his heels. “So I heard.”

“I like rain,” Meg replied, her lips curling into a small grin.

“I do, too.”

“Makes me sleepy.”

The elevator glided to a smooth halt. He twined his fingers with hers and waited for the doors to open. “That covers the traditional pleasantries,” he murmured, his voice a smooth decadent rumble. “How about we move on to a more interesting topic of conversation.”

“Like what?” Meg chuckled.

His lazy, half-lidded gaze captured hers. “You.”

Oh, he was smooth. Definitely out of her league and she out of her element. What on earth was she doing? “You’d be sadly disappointed if you thought I’d be a more interesting topic of conversation.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I doubt it.”

They strolled into the lounge and found a secluded table tucked past the bar. In a gentlemanly fashion Meg hadn’t witnessed in ages, Nick obligingly pulled out her chair.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“Chardonnay.”

“It’ll be quicker if I go to the bar.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t go away.”

Like hell, Meg thought as she watched him cross the room. Once again she found herself thrown into the grip of another bout of yearning. The man walked with an economy of movement, languid yet purposeful. Nick Devereau was obviously a man who felt comfortable in his own skin.

Meg had always prided herself on her ability to size a person up. She read confidence in the breadth of his shoulders, a smidge of arrogance in the tilt of his jaw and—the most distracting of all—the invitation to sin in those warm, heavy-lidded butterscotch eyes.

While Desiree Moon might long to throw caution to the wind, Meg Sugarbaker was still more than a little gun-shy. She’d been burned before and repercussions for that one stupid mistake had blistered her enough to make her very cautious. The last time she’d dropped her guard she’d lost a scholarship that would have saved her thousands of dollars and garnered respect in the snobbish circles of haute cuisine. She’d also been made a laughingstock. Though she was more mature now and circumstances were different, old habits died hard. Meg chose her company carefully, kept her circle tight.

But hadn’t she decided not to worry about Meg’s concerns this week? Hadn’t she decided to be Desiree Moon? If that were the case, then she shouldn’t be bound by all the old doubts, reservations and insecurities. She should simply live in the moment and see where this week took her. And she’d only have this week. Once it was over, it would be back to good old Meg. The thought struck a curious pang of regret, but Meg forced it away and concentrated on the present.

After all, this was the first time she’d been out on anything that remotely resembled a date in ages, and Nick Devereau was by far the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. She would simply enjoy herself and the rest would take care of itself.

Resigned to that end, Meg took a moment to survey the bar. Though relatively early, a sizable crowd had gathered. A soulful jazz tune emanated from hidden speakers, creating an intimate bare-your-soul atmosphere. A smoky haze swirled near the ceiling, casting an eerie glow in the dimly lit lounge.

Nick returned with their drinks. “Now where were we? Oh, yes. You were going to tell me about yourself.”

Her gaze tangled with his. “I was?”

“Certainly. We decided you were a more interesting topic of conversation than the weather.”

Meg grinned wryly. Aside from the fact that she was a sex-toy critic, there was absolutely nothing interesting about her life. She was a single, twenty-seven-year-old pastry chef, a frustrated semivirgin who owned a small patio home in a middle-class subdivision. Rather than succumb to the old-maid cat cliché, she’d bought a gerbil. Whoopee. Didn’t she live life in the fast lane?

Well, that would all change when she pulled together the tuition and travel fees for the school in Paris. Her dream was almost in reach. Just a few more months and she’d be a true cosmopolitan woman.

But she wasn’t yet.

“No,” she clarified, drawing in a cautious breath. “You decided I would be a more interesting topic of conversation.”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Semantics. Tell me about yourself.”

Another interesting discovery, Meg thought, unreasonably impressed. Nick Devereau didn’t seem to have any intention of dominating their conversation with the usual bullshit bravado men normally felt compelled to impart. He seemed genuinely interested in her. Meg couldn’t help but be impressed. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Everything.”

Meg chuckled. “Not much, eh?”

“Why don’t we do a little Q&A? Tit for tat, so to speak.” He stilled, studying her intently. “If I ask something that’s too personal or something you don’t want to answer, then just say ‘pass.’ I’ll do the same to any question you ask me.”

Meg mulled it over. “Okay,” she conceded grudgingly. “Sounds fair.”

“What do you do for a living?”

Hell. Meg mentally rolled her eyes. He would ask that first. While the sex-toy critic job was more interesting, it wasn’t her primary source of income. Besides, she didn’t know how to do the Heimlich and he’d probably choke if she imparted that little factoid. “I’m a pastry chef,” Meg answered. “What do you do?”

He sipped his whiskey. “I’m an attorney. A pastry chef,” he repeated, seemingly intrigued. “That’s a great deal more interesting than the weather. What restaurant?”

Hmmm. Too personal, Meg decided. Too risky as well. Though unlikely, she still might discover some hideous character flaw. She might not want him knowing where she worked. “Sorry, I’ll pass on that one,” she told him. An earlier suspicion surfaced and she regarded him shrewdly. “Are you gay?”

He strangled on his whiskey. “Wh-what? No! Why?” His brows winged up his forehead. “Do I— Do I act gay?”

“That’s two questions,” Meg pointed out as she resisted the urge to laugh. His abrupt, outraged, vehement “no” certainly left no doubt that he was straight. “I’ll answer the last question. No, you don’t act gay…but you seem too good to be true.” Meg narrowed her gaze, studied him thoughtfully. “Are you married?”

“No.” A hint of humor danced in his eyes and a bit of self-satisfaction clung to the edges of his halfhearted smile. “Why do you think I’m too good to be true?”

That had been too telling a remark, Meg thought ruefully. She’d have to watch herself. Pass or be forthright? She chose forthright. It seemed the Desiree thing to do. “Because you’re a seemingly sane, heterosexual, unmarried, attractive professional over thirty.” Meg leaned forward. “Do you live with your mother?”

A burst of laughter erupted from his chest. “No. Are you married?”

Meg shook her head. “Does mental illness run in your family?”

“No.” His gaze captured hers and he lowered his voice. “Do you realize you are the most entertaining woman I’ve met in a long time?”

Meg blushed, pleased at the unexpected compliment. “No, I didn’t. Are you currently taking any prescription medications, mood elevators, anti-depressants?”

The perpetual grin kicked up around the edges. “No. Would you like to dance?”

Meg’s drink stalled halfway to her mouth. “Er…” Meg glanced around the increasingly crowded room. Some industrious patrons had shoved several tables out of the way and had created a makeshift dance floor.

“Didn’t catch a ‘pass’ or a ‘no’, so I’ll take that as a yes.” Nick stood and drew her to her feet, then gently tugged her toward the dance floor. Within seconds, she found herself curled into his masculine embrace. His warm palms lay anchored at her hips and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to twine her arms around his neck. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow under his chin. His scent, a clean woodsy fragrance, swirled around her senses, enveloping her in a sensual haze. The music throbbed around them and for Meg, the rest of the room simply faded away.

For all intents and purposes, they were glued from the knee up, and the contact had all but set Meg aflame. Her blood pulsed warmly in her veins, pooled at her womanly center. The desire for release, the unequivocal need, spiraled inside her, an ever-tightening coil.

She felt his breath stir near her ear. “You’re a good dancer. And you smell wonderful.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, impossibly warming more with the compliment. “You dance well yourself.” She paused. “Did you learn how at your anger management classes?”

His chuckle vibrated through her, and she could feel his smile against her hair. “Still looking for faults, I see. Can’t you just accept the fact that I’m perfect?”

Meg giggled. “Aha!”

He drew back to look at her. “Aha, what?”

“You’re not perfect.” She sniffed. “A perfect man would never be so conceited.”

“Touché,” he said, laughing.

As much as she dreaded it, Meg knew the time had come to bid him good-night.

While she still would.

While she still could.

Her shoulders rounded with a sigh as the song drew to a close. “It’s getting late,” she confided regretfully. “I’ve got an early morning.”

“I do, too. We should probably head back upstairs.”

Meg nodded, pleased to note that he didn’t seem any more eager to end their date than she did. The trip to the room went entirely too fast for Meg’s liking, but she knew she shouldn’t linger. It had been a pleasant evening and, other than that last dance, she’d managed to keep from launching herself into his arms. Or into his lap. Or at his mouth.

Which would have been entirely too easy.

Meg paused outside her door and turned to face him. Lashes at half-mast, those butterscotch orbs had darkened into a warm caramel. Meg suppressed a shiver. Her mouth dried…watered. Her gaze strayed to his full, firm lips and, with effort, she swallowed. “I’ve had a really good time tonight. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. Lingered. He cleared his throat. “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

Meg shook her head. “I’ll be here all week.”

He released a small breath. “Me, too. Can I see you again?”

A bud of pleasure unfurled in her chest. “Sure.”

The space between them had mysteriously lessened, Meg noted as her gaze once again returned to his lips.

“Same time tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date.”

“Then let’s seal it with a kiss.” He framed her face gently and his mouth descended to hers. His lips were firm, yet soft, and deliciously warm, and the taste of whiskey still clung to them. Meg moaned with pleasure, sank more firmly against him and angled her head to grant him better access.

Mamma-mia. This man knew how to kiss.

He knew precisely how to alternate pressure, how to suckle, how to explore the ultra-sensitive recesses of her mouth. His tongue curled around hers, plundered in and out, back and forth, and while his mouth laid siege to hers, his hands had started an equally thorough expedition.

But that was okay, because hers had too.

Meg mapped his chest with her palms, felt the hard muscles bunch beneath her hands, vibrate at her touch. When she’d gotten her feel for those areas, she moved north, to his massive shoulders, then on to his nape, where she curled her fingers into the silky tawny locks.

Nick’s hands were equally eager. He palmed her ribs, barely thumbing the undersides of her breasts. Up! Up! Meg wanted to scream. Her nipples ached with need, puckered for attention. She longed to feel his mouth anchored there, feeding on her as his lips fed now on her mouth.

His big warm hands traveled round the small of her back and settled on her rump. He squeezed her there, drew her upward and aligned her so that she came navel to zipper with the evidence of his arousal. Desire flooded her sex, moisture drenched her feminine folds. Nick swallowed her groan of want as she moved impatiently against him. Need clawed at her, consumed her, made her wiggle shamelessly against him. She wanted—

“Didn’t we get you a room?”

The vaguely familiar humorous male voice shattered the sensual fog and Meg and Nick broke apart guiltily. Meg turned…and came face-to-face with Ann and a man whom she could only assume was Marcus Kent.

Mortification glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I—uh.”

The man extended his hand. “Marcus Kent. You’re Desiree, right?”

Meg nodded, still bewildered. “Right.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” His gaze bounced to Nick, glinted with something strangely akin to hunger. “And your significant other, Antonio.”

Nick frowned. “An—”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Kent,” Meg rushed to impart before Nick could finish.

Mr. Kent reluctantly returned his attention to Meg. “I know that you have a busy day tomorrow, Desiree. But at some point over the next week, I’d really like to meet with you and your partner. I’ve been anxious to get a hetero male opinion of some of those new products we’re reviewing.” He eagerly turned to Nick. “For instance, those new penis jelly rings. Man to man, Antonio,” he confided, edging closer to Nick, “do they really prolong an erection?”

Nick’s eyes bulged. “Wh—”

“We’ll have to get back to you on that, Mr. Kent. It was a pleasure meeting you.” Meg crammed the key card in the lock, shoved the door open and herded Nick inside. “See you tomorrow,” Meg trilled amiably. She sagged against the door, then turned to face Nick.

Meg winced at his thunderstruck expression. “Sorry about that.”

“Penis jelly ring? What the hell is that man talking about?”

“Dunno,” Meg lied, studiously avoiding his gaze. She opened her side of the connecting door and nimbly guided Nick to it.

Gone was the jovial charmer. The shrewd attorney had taken his place. “I suspect you do. And why did he call me ‘your partner’?”

Inwardly, Meg sighed. There was no way around it. She had to level with him. Especially if she thought he might be persuaded to don the role of her partner while they were here. She’d considered it. What choice did she have now that they’d been seen together? The he’s-gone-to-donate-a-kidney story certainly wouldn’t fly now—they’d see him around the hotel.

Honestly, who would have thought that one cocktailed trip through cyberspace in search of a vibrator to remedy her perpetually aroused state would result in this chaos?

Meg nervously cleared her throat. “Okay, here’s the truth. I am a pastry chef.” The rest she spewed out in a rush. “I’m-also-an-online-sex-toy-critic-in-town-for-a-trade-show-and-that-man-in-the-hall-was-my-editor-and-he-thinks-that-you’re-my-partner-Antonio-whom-I’ve-been-sleeping-with-while-I’ve-been-critiquing-various-products-over-the-past-several-months. Understand?”

If possible, his dumbfounded expression intensified. “No, I—” Meg leaned forward and captured his lips with hers. She threw every bit of her yearning into the kiss—every ounce of want—then abruptly drew back, making him stagger forward. “G’night,” she murmured breathlessly. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Then she closed the door on his gorgeous, thoroughly bewildered face.