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That kind of startled him. “Me? But I haven’t even seen you since Monday. How could I—”
“Stop.” She hissed the word at him, red-rimmed eyes flashing.
“But I—”
She got a hand between them, waved it in his face. The rows of diamonds on the watch he’d given her the other day glittered in the light from the crystal chandelier overhead. “Just stop,” she commanded in a hot whisper. “Just listen.”
Fine with him. “Okay. What?”
“Let go of me.”
He didn’t want to let go. He never wanted to let go. He had a feeling she was only going to turn and stride away from him on those incredible long legs of hers. And he was fed up with waiting for his chance with her, tired to the bone of biding his time, of keeping it cool with her, when all he wanted was to take her down in flames.
“Let me go, Fletcher.”
Reluctantly he took his hands away and dropped them at his sides.
She didn’t run. Instead she drew herself up, straightening those fine shoulders, pointing that pretty chin high. “It’s this way, okay? I’m nuts for you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I keep trying to forget you but it’s not working. I broke up with Danny—or, I mean, Danny broke up with me. Because of you, because of … us. Because he saw us together Monday and he knew. He’s the best guy I’ve ever known, he’s the kind of guy I’d always dreamed about. And now he’s gone. Because of you.”
All this sounded pretty damn good to Fletcher—well, except for the part about the blue-collar boyfriend being so damn special. He asked wryly, “This is a problem?”
“Oh, very funny—and just tell me this. Tell me now. Have you got someone else, someone who loves you and thinks it’s just you and her?”
“Absolutely not.”
She blinked. “Well. That’s something, I guess.”
“Cleo, there’s no one.”
Her sweet lower lip quivered. She bit it to make it stop. “You know, even your sisters-in-law aren’t so sure about you—well, except for Celia. She told me to go for it. To take action. And look at me now. I guess that’s just what I am doing.”
“Action is good. Action is exactly right.”
“Oh, well. Yeah. You would say that.”
“You’ve been talking to Celia—and Jillian and Jane?”
“Yes, I have. We did lunch. Just now, as a matter of fact, up at Celia’s place. There was a very nice Chenin Blanc and I bawled my silly eyes out and told them everything. What do you think about that?”
He thought he wanted to touch her—everywhere. Now. But they were standing in a public hallway. A couple of plump tourists—a man and a woman in matching blue plaid shirts and khaki pants—had paused near the wall to take in the show. And a maid had stopped to watch, too. Fletcher only had to flick a glance at the maid and she scuttled off down the hall. The tourists, however, stayed right where they were. And there were others, strangers and one or two of his employees, striding past, not pausing but giving them way-too-interested glances as they went.
Cleo noticed their audience, too. “People are staring, you know that? We’re making a spectacle, you and me.”
Enough of this. He grabbed her hand. “Come on.”
Wouldn’t you know it? She dug in her heels. “To where?”
“My apartment.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. And don’t you have some meeting you just have to go to?”
“Nothing that can’t be rescheduled.”
“Well, this is pretty sudden, and I’m not sure if we should just—”
He moved in a little closer. A hot burst of something that might have been triumph blasted through him when she didn’t cringe away. He pitched his voice low. “Cleo, it’s not the least sudden. We’ve been moving toward this for a month, since that first meeting in my office, and I have counted every damn endless day. It’s too late to back out now. You’ve made your move. Now it’s my move. Will you please let me make it?”
She shut her eyes, shook her head. And then her eyelids popped open and she glared straight at him. “Tell me this isn’t really happening.”
“I can’t tell you that. Because—at last—it is.”
He led her along one hallway and then another, holding tight to her hand, pulling her onward, giving her no chance to stop and think it over, no chance to change her mind.
Cleo didn’t object. What was the use? In spite of all her doubts, she wanted this, she burned for it. Her blood sang through her veins and her belly felt hot and hollowed-out, hungry for the pleasure she knew he would bring her. She followed along, letting him lead her, until they reached the bank of elevators that included the one to his penthouse. He ushered her in ahead of him.
She went, in a sort of walking swoon of surrender. Once the car was swooping upward, he took out his cell phone and auto-dialed a number. “Marla,” he said. “Reschedule with Thacker. Cancel my five o’clock. I’ll reschedule that myself later … Yes … No.” He disconnected the call and instantly made another. “Celia?” Oh, God. “Yes. That’s right. It’s Fletcher. I’m with Cleo … Exactly. Will you pick up Ashlyn from preschool and keep her with you for a while?” And what was going to happen for a while? As if she didn’t know …”Thanks … Yes. I’ll pick her up by six.” He flipped the phone shut and slid it back into the inside pocket of his suit coat.
By then, they had reached the penthouse floor. The doors whooshed open. Fletcher took her arm again. The contact—the absolute command in his touch—made her knees go to jelly. They stepped out into the hallway side by side. She tried not to cling to him, not to sway against him on her wobbly legs. She tried to show a little pride in this … total sexual capitulation, for crying out loud. Light from the skylight above made the gorgeous inlaid floor beneath their feet seem to glow.
He punched a code into the box by the wide doors to his suite and then he led her into the foyer, where a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman greeted them.
“You won’t have to pick up Ashlyn, Mrs. Dolby,” Fletcher told her. “Celia will take her for a few hours.”
“Good enough, Mr. Bravo.” With a sweet smile, she turned and left them.
Fletcher still had her arm. “This way.” He guided her to the right, past the kitchen and the dining room and the family room where she had first met his daughter.
It seemed years ago somehow, that other day he’d brought her up here, the day she’d said yes to his plans for KinderWay. Forever ago. When she had still been able to tell herself that what was happening right now wouldn’t happen, when she still believed that she would stay with Danny, that he was the right man for her.
She had no such illusions now. Now she understood that this attraction between her and Fletcher was too powerful to deny. It was exactly what she hadn’t been looking for, but it was also something she could no longer escape.
He released her arm—but caught her hand instead. They went through a door, which he paused to close and lock behind them: his bedroom, the master suite. He went on, tugging her behind him, past the sitting area where the fat chairs and the sofa were of wonderfully soft-looking caramel-colored leather scattered about with pillows of tan and sage-green.
The bed was wide, with a sage-green spread and piles of gray and ivory pillows against a wide curving headboard of some grainless light-colored wood. He stopped right beside it and pulled her around so that she faced him.
“I want you. Now. Here.”
Her body thrummed with excitement, with heat and desire. Already she could feel wetness between her legs.
“I’ve waited,” he said. “I won’t wait anymore.” She only stared at him, at his lean face and his burning pale eyes. “Cleo,” he said. It was a command.
And somehow from her clutching throat she got the necessary words out. “Yes. All right. Now.”
Chapter Eight
Cleo lay on oyster-gray silk sheets.
She turned her head toward the bedside chair in the corner. Her clothes were laid out on it: her conservative knee-length silk dress of vivid royal blue, her bra, her panty hose, her white leather bag. In front of the chair, standing neatly side by side, were her camel suede pumps.
It was true. It was real. Her clothes were over there. And she was here.
In Fletcher’s bed. Naked.
He rose up above her, naked as she was, all lean muscle and hard, hot flesh—and glowing wolf eyes. He braced himself on his fists. “Cleo,” he said. “At last …”
And then, oh-so-slowly, he lowered himself down to her.
She couldn’t stop herself; she moaned as his lips touched hers.
Unbelievable. Their first kiss—with both of them naked, their bodies pressed close. She wrapped her arms around those wide shoulders, her fingers slipping upward into his thick, silky hair. She breathed in and she breathed him—the expensive aftershave, the healthy male scent of his skin.
His mouth moved on hers, his tongue seeking, parting. With another low moan, she opened for him. His hot tongue swept her mouth, burning where it touched, and his body moved above hers slowly in one long, all-over caress.
She could feel him acutely—all of him. There, at the place where her thighs joined, he was thick and hard, nestled and nudging against her. He moved his hips, a slight, slow rocking. She rocked with him, holding him close, loving the way he felt, the way that their bodies fit so perfectly together, as if they’d been made to make love with each other.
He broke the burning kiss and he looked down at her, the blue rims around his irises darker than before, his fine mouth swollen from plundering hers. “Everything,” he whispered. “Everything, all of you …”
And all she could say was, “Yes,” and “Yes,” again.
He eased his legs between hers, pushed up to his knees and loomed above her. She cried out at the loss of his fine, strong body on hers. And then she looked up at him and …
He was so thrilling to look at—wide shoulders, lean arms. A light dusting of silky dark hair formed a cross on that hard chest, nipple to nipple and trailing down in an enticing line over his corrugated belly. The lean, taut muscles of his thighs were temptingly prominent. From the nest of dark hair between those thighs, his erection jutted, stiff and ready for her.
His gaze was on her, moving, those eyes pale and shining as moons in the dark of night. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “More beautiful than I imagined. And I did imagine. Often …”
He bent close again. And he began to kiss her—all over. She heard the hungry pleading noises coming from her own throat as he laid a knowing hand over the curls that covered her sex.
He sought and found the swollen secret flesh where her pleasure was greatest. With his thumb he teased that spot as his fingers delved lower, between the slick folds.
She cried out again at the searing delight he brought her, a cry he took into himself as he once more covered her mouth with his.
Her mind was on fire, like her body. She was liquid and she was fire, both at once. She was thoughtless, needful flesh and all she knew was the searing wet heat of his tongue in her mouth, the knowing way his fingers played her below.
He didn’t rush. Oh, no. He took his time. He had the slow hands women whisper of, the erotic skill to make her burn for the feel of him inside her.
More than once she tugged at him, moaning, urging him to fill her—but he wouldn’t. He only kissed her some more and touched her yet more deeply.
Until she gave in. Until she couldn’t hold out, couldn’t wait. She felt her body rising, gathering, reaching the crest.
And then she went over with another sharp, shattered cry. Sweat dewed her body. She went limp with satisfaction. Sighing in contentment, she pushed his hand away.
But he wouldn’t let her rest. His fingers, wet with the evidence of her desire, played along her rib cage, traced teasing patterns on her stomach. He tormented her with pleasure, arousing her all over again.
He stroked her thighs, took her breasts in each hand, covering one with his mouth, teasing her nipple between his teeth, worrying it and then latching on and sucking, drawing the yearning into a shining thread, a strand of pure heat spinning out and pulling tight from her breast to her womb.
And in no time she was crying out all over again, rising to meet him, all yearning and open and hungry for more.
It was then, deep within the delicious web of pleasure he wove so expertly around her, that she found herself remembering her mother, remembering Lolita, scenting again the smell of perfume and sex; seeing in her mind’s eye the flushed, loose, dewy smile on her mother’s beautiful face when she would come home from the first night with a new man.
These were powerful memories, old images that had always brought Cleo pain and bewilderment that her mother could be such a fool, could surrender to the same temptations over and over again.
Now, though, Cleo smiled between moans.
Incredible, but while Fletcher touched her, while his hands worked their thrilling magic on her flesh, in the heat and the wonder of this, she understood …
Everything.
She understood her mother for the very first time, understood how a woman might be willing to give up so much for the shining, hot joy of this; saw why Lolita had always chosen to toss herself, heedless of old lessons learned, into the arms of yet another player who could sweep her away like this.
Again Cleo rose to the peak, clutching the silk sheets, moaning his name, whispering, pleading, “Oh, please. Make it now….”
He kissed her so deeply and then he reached for the drawer in the bedside table, brought out a condom, tore the wrapping open and expertly slid it down over himself.
She watched him as he performed those necessary actions. She was achingly eager for the moment when he would slip between her thighs—and also reminded again that he was so good at this, that he must have had lots of practice.
But then, that wasn’t news. She had known from the first he would be skilled at lovemaking. After all, there had been others before her, a glittering string of them, beautiful women every one of them, she had no doubt. Practice makes perfect, as they say.
How many of those women had really loved him? And how many only hungered for the pleasure he could give them, for the prestige having him at their side could bring them?
How many of them had Fletcher loved? If any …
Doesn’t matter, she decided, gazing up him longingly. She was here now, naked, in his bed. Too late to wonder about the ones who came before her, too late to do anything but go where this magic took her.
His gray gaze was on her again. He held her eyes as he settled himself in place. She was way beyond ready, so wet and eager and open that he glided in all the way with the first thrust.
They both moaned.
And then she grabbed for him, pulling him fully down upon her, lifting and wrapping her legs around him, pressing her heels hard against him, urging him on.
He didn’t need encouragement.
He moved, slow and long and deep at first, then gathering speed, stoking the fires within until the world spun away and there was only white-hot pleasure expanding out from the center of her, sweeping through her whole body, carrying her up and sending her over in a shower of endless, shimmering light.
Chapter Nine
“Come with me,” he said, when six o’clock approached and with it the time to go to Celia’s and pick up Ashlyn.
Cleo gazed up at him from her nest of silk-covered pillows and told him regretfully, “Oh, Fletcher. No.
Not tonight …”
He bent his head and kissed her, hard and quick. “Why not?”
Naturally he would choose the question she didn’t really know how to answer. Gamely she gave it a try. “I need a little time to myself, that’s all. Time to think.” He was shaking his head. “Bad idea.” She frowned up at him. “What? Thinking?”
“Yeah, thinking—or more specifically overthinking. You’ll go home and you’ll start stewing and before you know it—” he cupped her bare breast, flicked it with his tongue, bringing a pleasured gasp from her, before he lifted his dark head again, met her eyes and finished “—you’ll have yourself convinced that this afternoon was a bad idea.”
“No, I won’t.”
