Nick watched her leave and didn’t follow, though he wanted to, damn it. Despite everything else, including the knowledge that they were in danger.
Gritting his teeth against the lust that burned through his body, Nick forced himself out of the room. He didn’t like the turn of his thoughts. Seeing her lying there, feeling her warmth through her pajamas, smelling her perfume, knowing she was vulnerable made him want to hold her, to comfort her, to kiss her and touch her . . . “You miserable bastard,” he growled under his breath as he made his way downstairs. This woman was so unlike the conniving Marla he’d known in the past and yet he was drawn to her, wanted her, felt the need to make love to her even more strongly than he had fifteen years ago. She was different, he sensed that. Mature. Self-reliant. Sexy without knowing it. This stronger woman appealed to him at a deeper level “Give it up,” he muttered on his way to the kitchen. He’d nearly scared her out of her wits when he’d knocked on her door and she’d seemed so vulnerable and frail for a second that all he’d wanted to do was hold her. And make love to her. Until they were both spent and gasping. Hell, he was a fool. There was too much to do before he allowed erotic thoughts to enter his head, but his damned stiff cock wasn’t taking the hint.
He needed to tell her about Pam, and about Monty, but it could wait. In the cavernous kitchen, he dug through the cupboards, scrounged up some coffee and made a pot in a machine that gurgled and sputtered. He glanced outside to the darkened garden where he’d spied Marla on the swing looking lost and frightened. As if Marla Cahill had ever been afraid of anything. He tapped his fingers nervously on the counter, his head crowded with thoughts of Alex, Julie, Monty . . . and, of course Marla. Alex was fast running out of money, he was bribing every one under the sun, lying between his teeth and all of it centered on his wife. Somehow . . . slowly the pieces were fitting together and the puzzle picture being created scared the hell out of Nick.
But Marla’s involved. You know that. You still can’t trust her.
The coffeemaker gurgled its last dying breath. Hooking two cups on his fingers, he carried the pot upstairs to the suite, then poured them each a cup.
He told himself to wait for her in the sitting area, that she’d emerge in a few seconds, but curiosity and pure male lust argued against him and won. He pushed open the door to her room and, hearing the shower running
, walked toward the bathroom where steam was fogging the mirrors and the smells of soap and water were heavy in the air.
Don’t do this, the rational part of his brain screamed, you’re only begging for trouble.
But he couldn’t stop himself. He set her cup on the counter near the sink and, in the mirror, caught a glimpse of her body through the steamy glass doors. His gut tightened. Through the hot mist he saw a flash of long legs, and an impression of white breasts with dark nipples. She was bent over, rinsing her hair, and he noticed a flash of her rump, two firm cheeks that caused his manhood to swell, harder than before.
Get out now, before she sees you, he told himself, but she turned then, lolling her head back and the fleeting image of a dark triangle at the apex of her legs was visible through the wispy veil of steam.
God, she was beautiful, nearly ethereal looking with her thin waist and sleek, wet skin. His damned cock thickened painfully, pressing hard against his jeans. She was humming, slightly off-key, over the rush of water.
For Christ’s sake, man, you don’t have time for this!
Knowing that he was playing with fire, that he should just leave her cup near the sink and make tracks back to the suite, Nick didn’t budge. Instead he waited, sipping his coffee, leaning his hips against the edge of the counter and staring at the foggy vision as he listened to the sound of her voice. She rotated under the spray, lifting her arms. He saw the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her spine and just a glimpse of two dimples over her buttocks.
Caught in her own world, she hadn’t noticed him yet, which suited him just fine. A smile played upon his lips as she twisted off the faucets suddenly and opened the shower door. She reached for a towel as her eyes met his through the haze.
A glorious flush swept up her skin. “What’re you doing?” she asked, startled and dripping, dark, damp ringlets framing her face.
“I brought coffee.” He motioned to her steaming cup, took a sip of his own.
“And stayed for the show?” Her green eyes glimmered with naughty intrigue and her smile was downright wicked as she placed her hands on her wet hips in mock disgust.
“I only caught the final act.”
“How did I do?”
“Pretty good.”
“Just pretty good?” she teased, not bothering to reach for a towel. She stood dripping, water running down her face and neck, beads drizzling over her breasts and collecting in her hair.
“Actually,” he said, setting his cup down, and knowing he should be doing anything, anything other than what he was planning. “I think you were good enough for an encore.”
“Meaning?” she asked, her full lips twitching, one eyebrow arching coyly as her gaze lowered to the waistband of his jeans for just a second. That was it. To hell with everything else.
“Meaning this.” With an evil grin, he reached forward, grabbed her around the waist and felt her tumble against him. She laughed and he captured her lips in his. Warm and wet, they molded to his as her giggle turned into a sigh. He didn’t need any further encouragement, wouldn’t think of the hundreds of reasons why he couldn’t take the time, couldn’t get involved with her, couldn’t be with her. Now, for the moment, he just wanted to escape. To love her again. His hand slid down the curve of her spine as he pressed hard against her, forcing her to walk backward into the shower.
His tongue explored her lips and mouth, his fingers kneaded her slick skin and he wanted her with the same desperate ache that he’d always felt whenever she was near. He’d thought he’d killed his need for her years before, but realized now he’d played himself for a fool. He wanted this woman, needed her. Reaching behind him, he scrabbled for the handle of the glass door, pulled it closed, then turned on the spray.
“Oh!” she cried out and he kissed her harder, felt his pulse leap as he slid his hands over her soft flesh. Warm water splashed over them and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her breasts rising in open invitation. His blood was pounding through his brain, his cock straining against his suddenly wet jeans. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t think, damned the consequences as he kissed the curve of her neck.
She gasped as the hot water streamed down. “Nick,” she whispered. “Oh, God . . .”
Her fingers were in his wet hair and she let herself go, forgot for the moment all her doubts, all her fears, all the craziness that was her life. She felt the pulsing spray of hot water against her back, his hard body pressed against her breasts and abdomen, his long jean-covered legs spread and molded to hers. This was madness, ludicrous, and yet she couldn’t stop. Liquid fire swept through her blood, desperate want pounded through her brain and she throbbed deep inside, aching, needing, hurting to feel his touch.
His arms surrounded her, one hand splayed against the small of her back, imprisoning her close to him, long fingers brushing the cleft of her buttocks. “God, I want you,” he whispered, his voice ragged, his eyes haunted as dewdrops of spray caught on his lashes and ran down his nose.
“And . . . and I want you,” she admitted as shame burned through her mind. Don’t do this Marla, you’re making a horrible mistake, one you’ll never be able to rectify.