скачать книгу бесплатно
She was turning on the faucet, sticking the glass she’d retrieved from the cabinet beneath it. Turning back to face him, she folded one arm over flat abs left bare by the bikini top she wore. Lifting the glass to her mouth she gave him a quizzical look. “I know. Couldn’t sleep. Since you’re standing down here with me at this late hour I have to conclude that you can’t either.”
“True,” he responded with a nod. “How long have you been here? At the resort I mean, not in the kitchen?”
She smiled and Max thought maybe the sun was coming out early.
“Just a couple of days. I’m Deena Lakefield,” she said offering her free hand to him.
Closing the distance between them, he took her extended hand. Petite would seem like the right word for her. Still, he had an idea there was much more to her than her slight size.
“Max Donovan. I’ve been here a couple days, too. Wonder why we haven’t met before now.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been working a lot from my room.”
“What type of work do you do?”
She paused, like she was considering her answer, then with a tilt of her head said, “I’m a writer.”
“Really?” He would have placed her in media or something where she could talk and smile. It seemed she liked to do both. He liked to see and hear her do both. “What do you write?”
Her brown eyes brightened, her grin going from cordially nice to sensually soft. “Romance,” she said, her voice lowering slightly. “Know anything about that subject, Max Donovan?”
Chapter 2
Was she flirting with him?
Of course she was. He was, hands down, the finest man she’d ever seen. And because she’d gotten into boys early—at around ten was when she had started noticing the opposite sex—she’d seen her fair share of good-looking men.
But this man was like a walking god. All right, that was probably cliché, she’d blame that on the romance writer’s mind. Still, she couldn’t argue the facts.
He was tall—damn, she loved tall men—over six feet, like a good couple of inches above it, she concluded. His skin was the color of melted caramel, his eyes some dreamy toss-up between green and gray. It was hard to tell in this kitchen with the not-so-great lighting. He was muscled and sculpted and just basically existing as if he were meant to be painted, put in a frame and thoroughly enjoyed. His hair was great, she surmised immediately. Thick, a sandy-brown color and long. Not down his back long, but not close-cropped either. Actually, it looked as if he may have at one point had dreads or twists, because the two- to three-inch length looked wavy and soft. That was really the clincher for her since her own hair was worn in shoulder-length twists. She loved natural styles and applauded men for stepping outside the box and wearing their hair differently as well.
She wanted to lick him, like a caramel lollipop. That made her sound like a slut with a sweet tooth.
Yet, it was so true.
Standing here in this old-fashioned kitchen with its linoleum floor and Formica countertops with the moonlight spilling through the windows was the perfect prelude to hot summer sex.
And her imagination was on total overload.
“You write romance novels? Hmm, wouldn’t have pegged you for the fairy-tale type.”
He was talking.
Stop ogling him and talk maturely, she warned herself.
“Why? What’s wrong with fairy tales?”
“Reality’s better,” he said and she knew he was being honest. She liked that in a man.
“A fairy tale can happen in real life. It’s all about the imagination. Prince Charming can come in many forms, a millionaire businessman, a talented NBA player, a suit-and-tie corporate type, the cable guy,” she said, ticking off her answers with her fingers.
He smiled. His eyes changed when he did, becoming a little lighter, she thought.
“Come on, would you really consider the cable guy a Prince Charming?”
“If he provided the heroine with everything she needed or desired, yes. It’s not about the wrapping, it’s what’s beneath that makes the package worth while.”
There, chew on that a minute, Mr. Nonbeliever.
He shrugged. “Okay, I guess you can rationalize your opinion. So what brings you here? Are you from South Carolina?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. No Southern accent.”
“I’m from New York. My family runs an art gallery there.” She wasn’t sure why she’d told him this. She never used her family background to impress men. Ever. Was she trying to impress him?
“What do you do, Max?” she asked, loving the way his name rolled off her tongue.
“I’m in real estate,” he responded. Then, with a nod of his head, he signaled that they should have a seat at the big table across the room.
The chairs were wooden, as was most of the furniture here. But she liked the kitchen, with its big windows and open floor plan. Cabinets lined the better part of two walls, with windows decorated with eyelet curtains at equal intervals. The floor was bright white with little blue flowers, an old design but it worked in here. Pulling out a chair, she almost smiled at the heavy feel against her hands. Old furniture, antiques, had that feel. Weathered. Used. Loved. She liked it, so she sat down.
“That’s a vague answer. What do you do in real estate? Buy? Sell?”
He sat in the chair right next to hers, so close she caught a whiff of what would be his cologne, a little muted because he would have put it on early this morning, after his shower maybe. Still, the scent seemed to match what she’d seen of him. Confident. Intriguing. “Both.”
“Cryptic again. You don’t like talking about yourself much, huh?”
He shrugged. “I just think there are more interesting things to talk about.”
“Okay, well let’s talk about the company you work for, what do they do?”
He smiled and she smiled back.
“Persistent. I like that.”
His words sent little shivers dancing down her spine.
“My cousin and I are partners in a company that purchases properties, refurbishes and resells them.”
“Oh, you’re house flippers. I’ve seen them on television.”
His quick frown was unmistakable. “We’re not house flippers. We buy properties such as large estates, office buildings, resorts. We’re a much higher class than those you see on television.”
Because he seemed a bit bothered by her assessment of his business, Deena pushed on. She couldn’t help it, it was just her way. “You’re into the ‘class’ thing? Like you’re better than them because you don’t buy houses that everyday people would want? What class are your clients? Better yet, what class am I?”
He straightened in his chair, those intriguing eyes keeping her still, frozen in his gaze.
“First, that’s not what I meant. I do not abide by any class system. I was referring to the level of real estate work I do in comparison. Second, I never judge people by their circumstances. And third, I like your tattoo.”
Deena opened her mouth, fully prepared to blast his response, but then she snapped it shut. “Okay,” she said finally, clearing her throat. “Ah, thanks.”
He’d seen her tattoo. When? Probably when he’d first come into the kitchen because she knew she’d been alone at the pool. She shifted in her chair and tried to keep her gaze steady with his. But she had to admit, his compliment had thrown her off.
“Do you like butterflies?” he asked, his voice suddenly somber.
“Butterflies and moonlit walks.”
He lifted a brow. “Are you asking me to walk with you under the moonlight?”
She stared at him a second longer, thought about what he’d asked and what she wanted. He was fine, but he was also sure of himself. Sure that he could have anything and anyone he wanted. Of course, this was her quick assessment of him and she could certainly be wrong. But for right now it was what she thought, and so, she needed to react accordingly. “No, I don’t think so,” she replied. “I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”
Standing, she extended her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Donovan.”
Max, still in awe of her quick wit and spirited personality, not to mention her pretty face and sexy tattoo, stood, taking her offered hand. Before he could examine the action, he was lifting her hand to his lips and placing a tender kiss on its back. “The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Lakefield,” he said.
Slipping her hand easily out of his grip, she said simply, “Good night.”
Yes, Max thought when she’d left him alone in the kitchen. This had turned out to be a good night. And if he had his way it would end up being a very good trip.
New York
“She’s where?” Monica Lakefield slammed her briefcase onto her desk before pulling out her chair and taking a seat.
“Hilton Head, South Carolina,” Karena replied in a tone that was too nonchalant for her.
“What’s she doing there?”
“Probably writing her next book.”
“Book? Are you serious? When is she going to find a job?”
Karena sighed. “Writing is her job, Monica. Her book’s in the stores in case you didn’t know.”
“I know about the book. I’ve ordered a couple hundred of them in the past week. But really,” she said, her coral-painted nails moving swiftly over the keyboard, “is she making this a full-time permanent thing?”
“Yes. I think she is. Actually, I think she should. She’s good, Monica. You should read one of those hundreds of books you bought. This might be what she really needs to do.”
“She really needs a steady income and a pension plan.” Monica sighed. Why was she the only person in her family who thought along the lines of responsibility? Well, there was her father, Paul Lakefield, but he was more like a dictator in Monica’s book. She, on the other hand, was just being practical.
“Deena will be fine. She has her trust fund that she hasn’t touched. And besides, Deena’s always done whatever was necessary to take care of herself. She doesn’t ask us for anything.”
“You’re right,” Monica agreed. Her youngest sister never asked her for help. Truth be told, Monica was a little hurt by that fact. But she’d never let anybody else know that.
“Well, does she at least have an agent or an attorney to make sure she’s not signing her soul away on one of those publishing contracts?”
“Last time I talked to her she was interviewing a couple of prospects. Don’t know if she’s actually signed with one yet, but it’s one of her priorities.”
Monica chuckled.
Karena looked at her in a funny way. “What?”
“Nothing. I just can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh.”
“Well, I’m not the one shacking up with the handsome detective so maybe I don’t have anything to laugh about. But you’ve got to admit, Deena with priorities is funny.”
Karena smiled. “At one time you would have been right but I think she’s changing.”
Karena had reached into her own briefcase, no doubt to pull out the sales report they were meeting to go over. That was to signal the end of the discussion on Deena.
Monica still wasn’t certain she liked the idea of her sister being so far away by herself but recognized there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it at the moment. Maybe Deena was changing, maybe she could handle things on her own. No, her little sister was still naive to the world and all its pitfalls. For that reason she vowed to keep a close eye on her, to make sure that nothing or anyone would ever hurt Deena, the way she’d been hurt.
She’d done something different with her hair today. The shoulder-length locks had been pulled up in the front, twisted into some kind of knot, a red flower adding a splash of color. The flower matched a long flowing skirt of red and white and a skimpy red halter top that showed more skin than was probably legal. On her feet were a combination of sassy straps and sexy heels.
Max was totally undone.
He’d thought about her all through the night—or the remaining hours after he’d found himself a snack in the kitchen. Laying in his bed while an almost-cool breeze seeped into his room, making the thin gauze curtains dance mysteriously, all he could see was her smiling face. There was something bright and fresh about Miss Deena Lakefield that Max hadn’t encountered in a very long time.
In the circles he and his cousins ran in back in Vegas, women came in one of two categories: fast and ready to seduce, those were the ones who knew the Donovan name and had already counted the dollar signs before smiling into the face of one of the illusive men; or naive and impressionable, those were the ones who didn’t have a clue but would have a man so tied up in scandal and delusions of love affairs he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.
No, Deena Lakefield was surprisingly different and refreshingly arousing.
Jogging down the front steps, he caught up with her just as the stone pathway turned to grass.
“Taking an afternoon stroll in lieu of the moonlight one you denied me last night?”
She turned, looked up at him, laughter already sparkling in her eyes. At her ears, large gold hoops dangled. “I didn’t deny you anything. I just didn’t feel like walking.”
Max nodded, slowing his pace so that his long stride matched her short, quick one without missing a beat.
“I didn’t ask you last night if you were here for just business or a little pleasure, too,” he said, noting the quietness that surrounded them. There wasn’t another house for miles and they were walking along the generous acreage of Sandy Pines. He wondered where she was going since he was currently following her lead. He knew which parts of the island he wanted to visit, needed to get around to visiting to secure the appropriate permits required to get started on the renovations. But for right now he was content to take some time to get to know her better. The slow Southern pace was doing something to him, something he wasn’t sure he liked.
“A little of both. I can write anywhere, but my next book is set on a secluded island.”
“Really? Does the hero save the heroine from a vicious shark attack? For which she must repay him by spending one glorious night in his bed?”
She stopped and used a hand to shade the sun from her eyes as she looked up at him. “Just how many romance novels have you read, Mr. Donovan?”
“I like it better when you call me Max.” Reaching out, he took one of her hands in his and continued their walk. “And I don’t read romance novels. The formula is just so cliché anybody would know it.”
“That’s not true. Granted, there are certain plots that work well over and over again. The author’s goal is to not be cliché, to let the characters fall in love on their own.”
“Yeah, with candlelight dinners and violinists in the background.”
“Or something as simple as lovers walking on the beach.”
Her words seemed to float on the breeze as the grass shifted to sand. Max looked to his left and saw that their walk had led them right to the shoreline. Broad Creek greeted him with glistening blue-green water and rustic sand. The sky was a periwinkle blue with the sun like a huge orange beacon in its center. The breeze was gentle, the air fresh. It was, Max thought, the perfect scene.
