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“I’ve seen you toss men twice my size out of your bar when they’ve gotten obnoxious. I didn’t think you’d be afraid of me, particularly not when I’m seeing two of you.”
She tugged on her lower lip with her teeth and released her arms to her sides. Just as Charlie had told her, just as she suspected from her own observations and brief interactions, Max was a man she could trust. Trouble was, she didn’t trust herself.
She hadn’t factored in his natural charm and instinctive warmth when she flipped through the pages of that magazine and imagined Max making love to her in all those exotic locales in the city. What if, after a night of hot sex, she wanted more? What if sating this particular hunger only whet her appetite? Would she be able to walk away? Would she have the chance? The courage?
“Can you see the Golden Gate from here?” she asked, pointing at the bank of clear-glass windows in Max’s dining room facing the bay, delaying her decision if only a moment more.
Glancing over her shoulder at her backpack, she thought about the magazine. She hadn’t read the whole article, but she remembered one of the romantic settings was an incredibly posh hotel suite overlooking the bay. The view of the Golden Gate glittered to the northwest, the Bay Bridge gleamed somewhere farther southeast, and the lighthouse at Alcatraz flashed at the center. The couple made love against a wall of windows with an unhampered view of the city.
“The best view is from the third floor, my balcony. I would show you…”
She lifted her foot to step on the carpet, then sat instead and unzipped and removed her boots.
“You’re not in any condition to climb stairs. Maybe I should make you some coffee.” She lined up her shoes by the door. “Point me in the direction of the kitchen and I’ll brew a pot.”
“I think I’ve had enough of your libations,” he answered.
“I could just leave—” she teased.
He hoisted an arm in the air from where he lay stretched full length on the sofa and pointed to her right. “Through the archway and up the stairs. I’m not sure where the coffeemaker is.”
She stepped onto the carpet, sinking nearly an inch, the plush softness of the flooring cushioning her stockinged feet as she walked. “I know my way around a kitchen.”
“What about bedrooms?”
She stopped beneath the archway. Damn, but anything the man said sounded like a come-on, with that deep, raspy voice of his. She was suddenly glad they hadn’t exchanged more than a few dozen words over the past two years or she’d have ended up in his bed a long time ago.
Nevertheless, so long as he was asking about bedrooms, she might as well find out exactly what he had in mind. She stepped slowly to the edge of the couch. Leaning forward, she braced her hands on the armrest on either side of his bare feet.
“What do you want to know about bedrooms?”
A lock of her hair fell forward, brushing over his toes. His lips opened as if to answer, but no words came out.
“Max?”
“Sweats. I could use a pair of sweats.”
She nodded and smiled, then headed back toward the kitchen. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Again, the room lit up the moment she entered, and like the living room, the light gleamed off polished white surfaces. She searched first for the coffee and a pot to brew it in. Then she’d think about his bedroom.
His bedroom. Dangerous territory.
She had no idea if his request for sweatpants had been what he’d originally intended to ask for, but she didn’t doubt that he’d chosen a safer topic by requesting the change of clothes. He had no way of knowing that her knowledge of bedrooms was essentially limited to the art of sleeping in one. Her sexual experiences from her marriage—more specifically, the first few weeks of her marriage—seemed a lifetime ago rather than just a few years. She vaguely remembered the sex between her and her husband to be wild in the beginning, but even then she hadn’t had much of a reference from which to draw comparisons.
She’d married as a virgin, sheltered by a family and community who clung to strict codes of feminine conduct—codes she’d wanted to rebel against for a very long time, but hadn’t had the courage until her nineteenth birthday. She’d packed her bags and bought her plane ticket without telling a soul. Only after she was securely on her way to live with Uncle Stefano in San Francisco did she call her parents from her layover in Atlanta. She hadn’t wanted a big scene. She just wanted to experience life on her own, with her own rules.
Her first goal had been to meet some gloriously sexy man and have a whirlwind affair. And she’d actually met Rick while waiting for a cab at the airport. A musician with his guitar slung over his shoulder, shaggy blond hair and kind eyes, Rick had captured her sensual imagination with his first smile. He’d offered to share the cab, and on the twenty-minute ride to the Wharf, they’d chatted and laughed and flirted and fallen in love.
But it was the wrong kind of love. The kind of love that didn’t last. The kind of love exchanged by people who had little in common but lust. The kind of love that destroyed her second goal—the restaurant she finally now had just within her reach.
She’d learned the difference between lust and love the hard way, even if she’d never really experienced the latter emotion firsthand. Working with Stefano and Sonia, even intermittently before her aunt’s death, taught her that what she’d had with Rick wasn’t even close to what she deserved. She’d confused lust and love once. She certainly wouldn’t do so again.
After her divorce, she realized that maybe if she’d just slept with Rick a few times before the quick wedding ceremony at the courthouse, the magic might have worn off long enough for her to see that they weren’t in the least compatible. His goals included fame, fortune and, ultimately, a move to Nashville where he now lived and performed. At the time, her only goal had been independence, complete freedom from her family and the chance to run her own business. Marriage pretty much canceled both out. She’d inadvertently traded one controlling force for another. Once Rick was completely out of her life, she’d realigned her goals, recaptured her dream of being in charge.
But her personal goals? Her private wants? Until tonight, until she’d glanced through that magazine, she hadn’t allowed herself the luxury of those. Such an unattainable, dangerous dream could spin her in the wrong direction yet again. So she limited her fantasies to when she was sleeping, or when the romance and rattle of the cable cars worked a sly magic on her tired, lonely heart.
Until tonight, she hadn’t had time for a lover, even a temporary one. She worked twelve to sixteen hours at the restaurant every day of the week. Her one indulgence to pampering herself was practicing tai chi with Mrs. Li, her landlady, and sharing an occasional tea and conversation with the women who gathered in the shop below her apartment.
If she’d learned one thing about men in the past eight years—heck, in her whole life—it was that they demanded attention. Men like Max Forrester needed either a dutiful, socially acceptable wife to cater to his every need, or taffy-like arm candy—sweet and pliable to his slightest whim. She couldn’t allow herself to be either. She’d end up investing herself in her lover rather than in her own future. She’d done it before and damned if she’d do so again.
She found and set up the coffeemaker, impressed at the organization she found in the cabinets and drawers. Either Max was completely anal-retentive or he had an incredibly efficient housekeeper. Probably a combination of both.
While the coffee perked and popped, emitting an enticing aroma that reminded her that she’d had nothing to eat since lunchtime, she decided to search his bedroom for the clothes he wanted. The staircase she’d taken to the kitchen continued upward and she figured the master suite more than likely took up the greater portion of the top and final floor.
The house reacted to her entrance by engaging the lights again, but this time the glow was slight from a single lamp at the bedside. The lampshade’s geometrically cut, stained-glass design reflected hues of gold and amber, with a touch of ruby red that reminded her of fire. Where the bottom floor reflected cold class and wealth, his bedroom was all male heat and casual comfort, though the lingering smell of money still teased her nostrils like aged wine or hand-rolled tobacco.
The walls were paneled with rich wood—not the cheap stuff her father had in his den back home, but thick, carved planks of teak that reminded her of the opulence of a castle—the sort of room a knight or duke might entice his lover to. The paintings, from what she could make out with the individual lights above them unlit, captured outdoor scenes—listing cutters with fluttering sails on an angry ocean, a majestic lake surrounded by snowcapped mountains, a single aquamarine wave rolling in on a honey beach.
And the bed—the California king, with a simple sleigh headboard and footboard—was huge and, most likely, custom-made. The fluffy comforter, half-dozen pillows and coordinating shams picked up the blues and greens from the paintings and swirled them with just enough gold to brighten the dark space to a subtle warmth. A pair of gray sweatpants had been tossed across the perfectly made and arranged linens. This was Max’s room. The real Max. The Max she had wanted to seduce.
Truth be told, the Max she still wanted.
She grabbed the sweatpants, then thought to bring him a T-shirt as well. With a shrug, she carefully opened the drawers in his dresser, smirking when the top drawer yielded an interesting collection of party favors he’d obviously gotten from Charlie’s bachelor blowout: a package of cheap cigars shaped like penises, chocolate lollipops sculpted like breasts, several foils of condoms with doomsday sayings about marriage printed on the packages.
She hadn’t exactly planned and prepared for this evening’s possible seduction, so in the interest of safe sex, she grabbed the square with the least offensive message and tossed it on the bed before resuming her search for a shirt. After grabbing one with Stanford emblazoned on the front, she moved to return to the kitchen, but stopped when she noticed the wall of heavy drapes facing the bay. Curious after remembering his comment about the best view being from the third floor, she fumbled behind the thrice-lined curtains until she found the right button. One click and the window treatments slid aside, a mechanical hum accompanying her awed gasp.
The entire wall was a window—sliding glass doors, to be exact. Beyond was a tiled balcony almost entirely enshrouded in thick San Francisco fog. She couldn’t resist a closer look. Tossing Max’s clothes back onto the bed, she worked the locks with ease, then stepped into the mist as if entering a dream.
The air stirred with the breath of the Bay. An instant chill surrounded her, penetrating her clothing and dampening her hair. Her clothes drank in the moisture, making the cotton cool and clingy. Her nipples puckered beneath her turtleneck, rasping tight against her satin bra. She thought of Max, nearly passed out in the living room. Dizzy. Flirtatious. Sexy and charming and more potent than 120-proof rum.
Too bad he wasn’t here when she needed him, when she just might be tempted to surrender to desire.
Tiny red lights blinked to the west, indicating the span of the Golden Gate. She strolled through the wispy fog until she approached the wall, surprisingly low—maybe three feet tall—that enclosed the patio. She kept a safe distance from the edge and closed her eyes, remembering the image in the magazine of the lovers on the bridge, right up against the railing. She superimposed her face on the woman again. And this time she did the same to the man, giving him Max’s thick, dark hair, rugged square chin and gentle, probing fingers.
She saw them clearly. A man—Max. A woman—her. An undeniable desire, hidden by just a touch of fog. Tonight’s mist was particularly thick for such a late hour—San Francisco fog usually rolled over the city around four o’clock and dissipated by midnight.
Yet nothing about this night was usual. Definitely not her. Not her uncontrollable desire for Max. Not the circumstances that brought her here or the consequences she’d face in the morning if she stayed.
She pursed her lips, realizing the consequences—a little embarrassment, perhaps a dose of discomfort in the morning light—were more than worth the price of living her fantasy, grabbing her dream with both hands and saying, “Yes! Now!” That strategy had paid off once when she’d taken over the operations at the restaurant. Had she not succumbed to her youth and married the first man she met at the airport, she might have been able to say the same about the day she bought her ticket to San Francisco and left her loving, but stifling, family behind.
“Yes. Now,” she repeated aloud, trying the words on for size.
“Just tell me what you want.”
His voice rolled over the tiles and through the thick fog like a warm blast of summer air. The contrast spawned a ripple of gooseflesh up the back of Ariana’s neck, then crept beneath her turtleneck and played havoc with her skin.
She squeezed her eyelids tighter as the sensations rocked her balance, nearly unraveling her completely when Max’s breath mixed with the fog and whispered into her ear.
“Tell me what you want. Anything, Ariana. Anything goes.”
4
“IS THAT A FACT?”
Her tone was saucy, despite the whimper begging to erupt from the back of her throat. She tamped down the sound of surrender with a thick-throated swallow and willed herself to remain in control. Acquiescence to the night—the passion, the mood, the man—should be resisted. She had to keep her wits. But she couldn’t deny that this liaison would be more than a fantasy come true, more than a living dream.
The night. The fog. The man. The desire. Ariana knew without a doubt that what swirled around her at the ledge of the balcony was a gift, a once-in-a-lifetime twist of fate that she’d be a damn fool to refuse. If only he was thinking clearly!
Max stepped around, taking her hand and leading her to the ledge. His bare arm brushed against hers as he reached for the round, brass railing that edged the thigh-high brick wall enclosing his patio. Tan skin stretched tight over powerful arms and sinuous shoulders.
He’d removed his shirt. The sprinkle of tawny hair over his arms and across his chest prickled in the cool air. When the fog shifted, she realized he’d shed his pants on the way upstairs as well. He wore nothing but a thin pair of midnight-blue boxers, damp from the mist.
She tried not to allow her gaze to linger, but found her quest impossible. The shape of his erection, swathed in silk and taut with want, ignited a throbbing heat between her legs. A thrill skittered straight to the center of her chest.
She swallowed and rubbed her arms to ward off a shiver that had little to with the temperature. “Aren’t you cold?”
He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding impressively. His muscles were distinct and smooth, honed from running and perhaps some weight lifting or rowing—the kinds of exercise a rich man used to mold his body for the torture of women like her.
“I like the cold. It’s invigorating.” He turned and sat on the low railing, his legs stretched leisurely outward. Plucking her sleeve with his fingers, he snapped the clingy material against her skin. “You should experience it for yourself.”
A zing of awareness shot through her arm, but she found it hard to enjoy with him poised so precariously on the ledge. Her stomach clenched. A threatening whirl of dizziness danced at the edges of her eyes. God, she hated heights!
“That railing is awfully low, you should be…”
Max smiled and leaned completely backward. Ariana screamed and shot forward, grabbing both his arms and fully expecting both of them to tumble over. But a wall of clear, thick Plexiglas caught him before he rolled them off the three-story building. The shield vibrated from their combined weight.
The wall of his chest caught her, vibrations of a sensual kind rocked her to her core.
“Cool feature, huh? Lower wall, better view,” he explained, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her between his thighs and onto his lap. He was hard beneath her, hard all around her. Hard and male and dangerous. “But still completely safe.”
Ariana decided then and there that men like Max Forrester shouldn’t be allowed to use the word safe in any form. She shivered from the cold, from the pure, unadulterated lust coursing through her bloodstream and firing her every nerve ending. She panted to catch her breath.
“That was a cruel trick,” she answered, forcing herself to look him in the eye.
His grin faded. “The cruel trick is you coming out here without me and leaving one of these on my bed for me to find when I came looking for you.” He held the foil packet aloft. “An invitation?”
She arched an eyebrow. “A friendly reminder.”
“I do remember that I promised to show you this view myself.” He tugged her closer. The scent of sandalwood, enhanced by his body heat and diffused into the fog, assailed her. The result was a light-headed euphoria that made her hold him tight.
“And I promised to touch you wherever you wanted me to. Put those two promises together,” he said, grinning at her impassioned grip on his arm, “and the experience will be absolutely unforgettable.”
He swallowed deeply, and Ariana watched the bobbing of his Adam’s apple and the undulation of his throat, fascinated.
“You say that now. But that drug can alter your memory.”
“I don’t feel drugged by anything but you.”
Her chest tightened in response to his declaration. She couldn’t see clearly in the dim lighting on the balcony, but Max certainly seemed to have control of his balance now, something he hadn’t had earlier. Maybe the Mickey had lost some of its effect.
Anticipation warred with her uncertainties—sexual excitement battled with a lifetime’s worth of repression and regret. She had every reason to believe that Max’s desire was honest—true in a way that was elemental to a man and ideal for a woman like her. She could have him tonight, love him tonight, knowing they were both sating a desire born long ago and hidden for reasons that, right now, simply didn’t matter.
What did matter was that in the morning she’d have an adventure to remember, a sensual liaison that would erase the erotic pictures from the magazine with images of delight so much more personal and real.
She grazed her hands upward from his elbows to his shoulders, kneading the thick sinew as she worked inward to his neck. For a man who reportedly wielded great power during the day, his muscles were now completely relaxed and pliant to her touch. His eyes, half-shut as she threaded her fingers into his hair, were focused entirely on her, seeming to see something fascinating, something no other man ever had.
She moved forward to kiss him, but his hands snaked from her waist to her elbows and stopped her.
“Wait,” he ordered.
Confused, she instinctively pulled back from his grip. He released her, but stood and stepped immediately back into her personal space. She gasped and retreated. He shadowed her move.
“Don’t bolt, Ariana.”
“Why’d you stop me? This isn’t a good idea.”
“You were going to kiss me,” he answered simply.
She bit her lower lip before replying. “And?”
“And you were touching me.” He did as she did earlier, sliding his hands from her elbows to her shoulders, then massaging inward to her neck until his thumb teased the lobes of her ears.
“You didn’t like it?” she murmured. She couldn’t imagine how he wouldn’t have. She was having a damn hard time keeping her eyes open and her moan of pleasure contained in her throat.
“I loved it, but that’s not what tonight is going to be about.”
“Huh?”
If a more intelligent response existed, Ariana couldn’t summon it. Not with his scent, hot and male and potent, assailing her nostrils and his body heat defeating the night’s chill like fire against ice.
“My brain has defogged. My balance is back. And if I remember correctly, I promised that if you stayed, tonight would be about you. Me pleasing you. Not necessarily the other way around.”
She barely had time to register that he had just voiced her ultimate fantasy, when he lowered his head and brushed her lips with a teasing sweep. The sensation unleashed that imprisoned whimper, then several more as the kiss deepened, mouths opened, tongues danced. Before she realized it, Max untucked her shirt from her jeans and skimmed her belly with a light, exploratory touch.
Electric need surged through her. She jumped, startled and thrilled and excited, then grabbed his cheeks and pressed closer to force herself past her panic. Max wouldn’t hurt her. Max would stop if she asked.
And she definitely didn’t want to stop.
His lips stretched tight as he grinned beneath the kiss. He unbuttoned her jeans and released the zipper, barely touching her in the process, which only stoked her hunger for more. She broke the kiss long enough to whip off her turtleneck, tossing it aside to disappear in the soupy mist swirling around them, then kissed him again. He led her backward until her calves bumped against an outdoor chaise lounge.
Pressing his hands on her shoulders, he guided her into the chair, following her down so that he knelt beside her. With intimate slowness, he eased her fully against the cushion, altering his kisses from bold and insistent to soft and scattered, touching her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks, her chin, lulling her into an anticipatory state where she held her breath and waited for his next touch.
When she finally opened her eyes, his grin was pure sin.
“Do you feel it?” he asked, his green eyes twinkling with some untold secret.
“Feel what? You stopped.”
