Читать книгу Going Too Far - Tori Carrington - Страница 9

NOW THAT WAS A LOADED question, wasn’t it?

Marie stared up into Ian’s strikingly handsome, fear-stricken face and wondered why she didn’t just come out and ask him if he was up for Round Three in the Marie and Ian physical relationship match. Of course in terms of sex it would only be Round Two, but she always rated the first time they’d kissed as Round One simply because it was the first time she’d ever climaxed.

She fought to keep her gaze straight. And that’s exactly what she wanted now, wasn’t it? For him to give her another out-of-this-world orgasm? To exorcise the rebellious emotions roiling through her bloodstream? To have sex? Wild, decadent, monkey sex with the man most qualified for the job?

Just think, an orgasm and revenge in one fell swoop…

Marie gulped, thinking she’d finally careened over the edge.

Insane. Unthinkable. Absolutely impossible.

And tempting.

Naughty Ian Kilborn was ten times more charming now than he’d ever been, making the prospect of sleeping with him even more appealing. But that wasn’t why she was thinking what she was. He was the ultimate way to get her family back for interfering in her life yet again.

The only problem was having sex with Ian wasn’t nearly as simple as all that and she needed a few minutes to remind herself why.

But then she remembered she was already running late and that she really didn’t have time for this, and damn Jena and her sex-fiendish ideas anyway. “Never mind—”

“I already have plans,” Ian said at the same time.

Well, that really stank, didn’t it? Before she could retract her loaded question, he’d turned her down cold.

Marie absently wondered how the planets were aligned and just which one of them had it in for her this morning.

“Well, then,” she said, trying to shrug off the uncomfortable sensation sticking to her skin along with the sizzling heat produced just by being close to Ian, “I guess I’ll see you around the courthouse.”

“How about tomorrow night?”

Marie stared at him, her nipples bunching into tight points. “I already have plans,” she lied.

His grimace could match, if not better, any of hers. “There’s something I think you and I need to discuss.”

That got a suggestive smile out of her. “Oh? And would that conversation include words?”

His eyes held the onset of one of his killer grins.

“I’ve got to get going,” she said and rounded him. She also needed to have her head examined. What was she thinking, leading Ian Kilborn to believe she was interested in anything more than throwing darts at his picture on her wall? No matter how much her body vibrated like a divining rod whenever he was within a hundred feet of her?

She purposely kept her back straight as she hurried down the hall. Okay, so maybe she didn’t really have his picture on her wall. Well, not now, anyway. But she had at one point. She’d used her father’s copy machine to blow up Ian’s senior class picture and had hung it under a poster of Shawn Cassidy inside her closet door. Whenever she’d had a bad day, she’d take Shawn down and have at it with the darts she’d swiped from her brothers’ dartboard in the garage.

Of course, the look on her mother’s face when they’d painted her room later that year and all the holes in her closet door had been revealed was absolutely priceless. Marie had told her they must have termites. Her mother called in the exterminators the next day.

Marie finally rounded the corner, then leaned against the wall out of sight of Ian. She didn’t check to see if he’d watched her depart because she was afraid of her reaction if he hadn’t.

“Miss Bertelli. I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.”

Marie nearly jumped out of her skin as a young man addressed her.

She drew in a deep breath and tried for a smile for her client, the owner of a small computer programming company being sued for copyright infringement.

Business. All business. That was going to be Marie Bertelli for the rest of the day.

And if she was just a wee bit afraid that might be the inscription on her gravestone…well, she wasn’t going to go there now.

IF IAN KILBORN NEEDED A reminder of just how small the world really was, running into Marie Bertelli was exactly the stimulus. It was midafternoon but he felt like he was still standing in the courthouse hall watching her walk away from him. Puzzlement, interest, and a deep burning sensation combined to completely distract him.

Thirteen years since they’d met and he still couldn’t figure out what, exactly, the attraction was. But, oh boy, was there ever one. He’d been seventeen, she’d been thirteen, and one little blink of her blue eyes had rendered him little more than putty in her hands right from the start. And while he held off stripping her of her virginity until she was eighteen, it still took little more than a blink to get him hot and bothered all over again.

Only he’d never let her know that. He scratched the top of his head, then smoothed his hair back in place. The reasons for keeping her in the dark had varied over the years. From the ridiculous adolescent excuse of never letting anyone know they had power over you, to the irrational adult fear of rejection that was crazy but very real just the same.

There had only been a brief two-year stretch when she’d been banished to the back of his mind and then only for geographical reasons. Chicago was a long way from Albuquerque, and further still from L.A. Yet that hadn’t stopped him from having the occasional white-hot dream about her, or catching a glimpse of a woman and thinking it might be her even though she was at least thirteen hundred miles away.

Sex, pure and simple. That’s what he’d told himself then, and that’s what he continued to tell himself now. There was something exciting and unforgettable about forbidden desire. About wanting something you knew you shouldn’t and going after it anyway. She’d been thirteen and the youngest daughter of a family renowned for getting physical with the guys chasing after her if they didn’t take the first verbal hint. But that hadn’t stopped him from thoroughly kissing her—and wanting to go much further. But five years later at her brother’s college graduation party, he’d done just that in her parents’ pantry of all places.

Then there was his own Irish-Catholic family and their twisted ideas on procreation and how it should only be done with another Irish-Catholic.

Ian leaned back in his chair and grinned, thinking about how very small the world was. And as he glanced at some papers on his desk, he knew he had a very good reason to think that way.

He’d been careful about his attraction to Marie and had been spared not only the scrutiny of his own family, but the verbal and, thus, the physical reminders that little Marie Bertelli was off-limits to everyone except whoever her family approved of. Which was nobody in the neighborhood where they both lived. And, he suspected, nobody in the world—especially since he’d heard the story of what went down nearly three years ago with the groom from Italy.

It was shortly after Marie’s taking off for L.A. that he’d accepted a job offer from a college friend in Chicago.

A high-profile case sat on the corner of his desk. Ian eyed the file, glanced at his watch, then at his calendar.

Ah, a very small world, indeed.

And Marie was about to find out just how small.

AT LEAST SHE WASN’T wearing the blue poofy dress.

Marie considered the very sad state of her life as she got out of her Mustang in the sweeping driveway of her parents’ house. The two-story white stucco looked like it could have been at home in the Mediterranean or the southwest and stood a testament to large family life. This was where Marie had grown up. And the place she still called home even if she couldn’t live there anymore.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out what she was doing here. She’d gone straight home to her apartment after calling it a day to find the refrigerator she’d bought secondhand on the fritz and what she had planned to make for dinner not fit for a bad date. Her mother had called just as she’d discovered that and waved insalata malfitana in her front of her hungry face, reminding her that not only had she not had dinner but that farsumagru o briolone was her favorite, not Frankie Jr.’s.

Okay, so she was weak. The way she figured it, she was entitled to be a little soft just this once. Her day had gotten better after bumping into Ian, but only marginally. She needed a little bit of her mother’s fussing and worrying if just to remind her that someone did care.

Her gaze slid down the block where the Kilborn house still stood, even though the Kilborns didn’t live there anymore. A Mexican-American family lived there now. But that didn’t stop Marie from remembering how she used to sit on the front porch and mentally will Ian to drive by in whatever shiny new sports car he had at the time.

Ever since seeing him that morning, the craving that had pretty much defined her adolescence had anchored itself in her stomach, making her feel needy and hot and just a tad reckless.

Reckless. If she knew what was good for her, she’d completely forget the definition of that word. Whenever her family pushed a little hard, she tended to rebel in very dramatic ways—in ways that made even her outrageous friend Jena look good. Her dad pushed her, she slept with Ian Kilborn.

Oh, boy.

That was so not why she was here. She’d come to try to shrug off unwanted emotions via a dinner session with her family. She didn’t want Ian any more than he wanted her.

Oh, yeah? Try telling that to her hormones.

She heard a long, wistful sigh and realized it was her own.

Oh, great. Grimacing and sighing. She was turning into a regular hopeless wonder.

Pulling her jacket closed against the late January chill, she stepped up the winding walkway to the door, briefly knocked, then let herself in. She told herself she knocked because she didn’t want to find one or the other of her parents flagrante delicto. When she was twenty-one, she’d come home early from a party Jena had thrown. Marie shuddered at the memory of her parents going at it like randy teenagers on the foyer couch. Her mother often reminded her that it had only happened once and wasn’t likely to happen again. But Marie wasn’t taking any chances.

She peeked around the door then called out. Her mother’s voice immediately responded from the kitchen, telling her to come in.

Marie shrugged out of her jacket, then hung it up in the closet. The sweet scent of basil filled the hall, leading her back to the kitchen. She couldn’t remember a time when the house hadn’t smelled like one spice or another mixed with the pungent scent of tomato. And when her mother made bread…

She gave a mental groan as she pushed open the swinging door and moved into the airy, terra-cotta-tiled kitchen with its hanging copper pots and pans, pots of fresh herbs, strings of garlic and a table large enough to hold the entire Bertelli family, including her brothers’ wives.

“You didn’t wear the dress.”

Marie made a face. How was it her mother could tell what she was wearing without even looking? “I didn’t feel like wearing a dress.”

Francesca Bertelli was well into her fifties but the image she portrayed was that of a much younger woman, despite the strands of silver in her thick red hair. Marie rounded the cooking island to where her mother was cleaning Spanish onions in the sink and kissed her cheek. “And you consider jeans and a sweatshirt proper attire?”

“For dinner at my parents?” She smiled. “Yes.”

Her mother made her trademark sound of disapproval deep in her throat, even though her blue eyes shone with love and amusement.

“Where’s Dad?”

Francesca motioned with the knife. “In his office. He’ll be out in a minute.”

Marie reached for a piece of mozzarella, then instead took a piece of cut celery on the counter.

“Eat the cheese. You’re too skinny.”

A familiar refrain. And a refrain that Marie had long since grown used to ignoring.

She automatically went to the cupboard to the right and reached for the plates.

“What are you doing?” her mother asked.

“Setting the table.”

“It’s set.”

Marie squinted, wondering if her mother had inhaled too many onion fumes as she stared at the clear kitchen table.

“We’re eating in the dining room tonight.”

Marie’s hands froze where she still touched the plates. The dining room had been the one room in the house that should have been fully capitalized. THE DINING ROOM. The only room off-limits to her and her brothers when they were younger, and a room that was used only on holidays. She slowly withdrew her hands and closed the cupboard door. Sure, while Valentine’s Day might be around the corner, the minor observance didn’t rate on THE DINING ROOM scale.

“Mama…” she said in warning.

The last thing she needed was another unsuitable suitor to ruin a perfectly good dinner. She sighed and leaned against the counter. She’d assumed that since she’d been so late in accepting the dinner invitation that she wouldn’t have to face another one of her mother’s matchmaking attempts tonight.

She rubbed her throbbing temple. Knowing her mother, she’d probably made the trip across town to sabotage her daughter’s refrigerator.

“Get the wine from over there on the counter and open it so it can air.”

Marie turned and stared at the three bottles. She glanced back at her mother. “How many?”

“All of them.”

Uh-oh. Her mother had given up on the one-by-one approach and was going to fill the table with possible grooms from hell.

She groaned, leaving the bottles right where they were. “You know, I’m suddenly not very hungry,” she said, giving her mother a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to go home.” She swiped one of the mozzarella sticks. “Tell Papa I said hi, won’t you?”

She made a beeline for the kitchen door and the hall beyond, hoping to duck out of the house before the guests of honor arrived.

She swung open the door and, for the second time that day, ran straight into the hard, broad chest of Ian Kilborn.

IAN’S PHYSICAL RESPONSE to having Marie flush up against him for the second time that day was swift and unforgiving.

“We, um, have to stop bumping into each other this way,” he said, surprised that his voice was low and gravelly.

Marie stared at him as if he’d grown another head. Well, he hadn’t actually grown one, but one was growing just beneath the material of his slacks.

She leapt back and he quickly closed his suit jacket to cover any telltale bulges.

Only both he and Marie knew the truth.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Marie’s father said from where he stood behind Ian. “Hello, baby girl.”

Marie’s gaze shifted and so did the look in them as she skirted around him and gave her father a loud kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Papa. I just got here.” She cleared her throat as Frank Bertelli Sr. hugged her in his meaty arms, then released her. “Unfortunately I, um, can’t stay though.”

“Shame,” Ian said.

Frankie and Marie both stared at him.

Okay, so maybe he could have been a little subtler. But the truth was that he didn’t exactly intend for Marie to find out how really small the world was until some point down the road. Like maybe never.

“What’s this nonsense? Of course you’re going to stay,” Frankie said, easily wrapping his arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and then Ian’s, and maneuvering them both through the kitchen door. “Your mama made your favorite.”

Marie made a move Ian admired and wished he could emulate as she ducked right out of her father’s grasp. “I know, I know. But the truth is I’m not feeling very well right now.”

Ian eyed her. Sure, her color was high and her eyes overly bright. But he’d bet dollars to doughnuts that her physical state had nothing to do with any sort of illness. Rather her reaction was more likely due to the stimulus behind his own uncomfortable response: feeling her against him.

Frankie finally released him and Ian moved off to the side of the room, watching as Marie’s mother swooped down on her, making a ceremony out of laying her hand against her forehead and cheeks checking for a temperature. Ian hid his smile and shoved his hands in his pockets. Oh, Marie’s temperature had risen all right. But a fever wasn’t to blame.

Ian knew what it was like to be the baby of the family. Much fussing and cooing and clucking had gone on in his house while growing up.

He also knew what it felt like to want something he knew he shouldn’t have.

He moved the back of his collar away from his neck, finding his skin more than a little hot. To think, he’d gone thirteen years without letting the Bertellis in on how he really felt about their daughter. Now, after an accidental meeting or two he was a hairbreadth away from giving it all away.

Damn, she was beautiful. Even in her old sweatshirt and jeans, Marie Bertelli made him want to…well, get her out of that sweatshirt and jeans.

“I’m fine, Mama,” Marie said, swatting Francesca’s hands away from her face. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

“You wouldn’t be tired if you were staying in the house. Late nights, parties, dates with ax murderers. Lord only knows what’s behind your not getting enough sleep.”

“I get plenty of sleep.” Ian watched her walk to the counter and pick up a bottle of red wine. “I’ve just been feeling a little stressed lately.”

Ian watched her face blanch, as if she’d just said something she hadn’t meant to. She popped the cork on the bottle of wine, then poured a healthy portion into a water glass.

“Stressed. Stressed. Of course you’re stressed. Having to worry about keeping a house all by yourself.” Her mother took the water glass, then poured the wine into a goblet without missing a beat.

Marie rolled her eyes and stared at Ian. He grinned. “It’s an apartment, Mama, and… Oh, never mind.” She swiped the wineglass and took a deep gulp from it. When she finished, her lips were a provocative shade of red, contrasting against the pinkness of her tongue as it flicked out to lick the corner of her mouth.

She narrowed her gaze on him. “What is he doing here anyway?”

Ian raised his brows. It had been awhile since someone had talked about him in the third person while he was still in the room.

And this particular room had just grown very, very quiet.

For a big man, Frankie Sr. could pull off uncomfortable remarkably well. And given Francesca’s avoidance maneuvers as she returned to preparing dinner, Ian got the impression that she knew exactly what was going on.

The only person who didn’t know was Marie.

And Ian knew she wasn’t going to be very happy about it.

Frank cleared his throat. “Marie, I want to tell you the real reason I wanted you here tonight.”

Ian stared at the older Italian. Frank had told him that he’d wanted to meet briefly. Hell, dinner hadn’t even been mentioned, much less Marie’s possible presence.

Not that it mattered, Ian reminded himself. Frank had no idea about Ian’s past with his daughter.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Marie said dryly.

Ian glanced at her. Could he have been wrong? Did she already know?

“Marie,” Frank said again. “I’ve hired Ian on to act as my attorney.”

Where Marie’s face had been filled with color only a moment before, it was now paper white. She blinked several times as if trying to absorb the words, to make sense out of them.

Obviously she hadn’t known—not only about her father hiring Ian on, but about the trouble he was in.

Oh, boy.

And if things weren’t complicated enough, Ian was afraid that if he and Marie were forced to be in the same room for any extended period of time, he was going to sleep with her.

Again.

Well, okay. Maybe that part wasn’t so bad….