Slow Burn: Seducing Mr. Right / Take Me. Cherry Adair
touch burned like a brand. Catherine shifted enough to dislodge his hand from her face. Her emotions were already on overload. All the old fears and doubts about making him see her differently came rushing to the fore.
The sun turned the short hairs on his arms the color of coffee; his skin shone with vitality. He was close enough for her to feel the brush of his shorts against her bare thigh. Close enough for Catherine to inhale his unique scent.
She loved him so much it hurt.
“It’s a one-bedroom, Luke. And I’m in it. You can’t even go to the bathroom without tripping over my stuff.”
“I don’t trip over your stuff. In fact, if I hadn’t insisted you unpack, you’d still be living out of your suitcase. You’re so neat I hardly notice you’re there.”
“You can’t bring anyone home.”
“At the moment I don’t want to. And in the unlikely event that changes, I’ll handle it. I’m not a sex fiend, Cat. As much as I’d like to tell you I have a smorgasbord of women who sleep over, I don’t. Not nowadays.”
“What about Suzette. Or Elizabeth the Wretch?”
“Both charming and delightful, but nothing serious.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Stay, Cat.” He slung a brotherly arm around her shoulders. “Honest to God, I enjoy having someone to cook for. Besides, look how pink my nail beds are.” He stuck a broad hand in front of her.
Catherine’s lips twitched. “Your nail beds?”
“All that oxygen your rain forest is producing is good for me. And what would I do if I had the use of all my saucers again, or if I couldn’t see the carpet because you weren’t there to pick up my socks?”
“You could get a maid, Van Buren.”
The temptation to lean into him was overwhelming. His skin felt hot, and the sensation of having it touching hers zipped through her like expensive French champagne.
“A maid wouldn’t keep me centered, or laugh at my jokes.”
“Just promise me something, okay? If it starts getting to you, just come straight out and tell me. No hurt feelings.”
“Never happen. You’ll always have a home with me. Always.”
She rested her head against his shoulder, hoping he couldn’t see her moist eyes. “I love you, Luke Van Buren, do you know that?”
“I love you, too, Catwoman. A guy couldn’t ask for a better baby sister.”
Zing. Direct hit. After a stunned second, Catherine pressed her fingertips into her eye sockets. Hard.
Luke shifted beside her. “Are you okay?”
“Sand,” she mumbled into her wrists. “Darn, that stings.”
Not her eyes. Her heart.
“Want me to look?”
No, he wouldn’t be able to see anything. He didn’t have twenty-twenty vision where she was concerned. “I’ll be fine in a moment.”
Give or take fifty years.
* * *
LUKE RETURNED TO the house alone. Cat had decided to go for a run on the beach. He shook his head. The woman was insane. It was hot out there. He found Nick in the kitchen.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just had a little chat with Cat. She’s staying.”
“I’d have made book on that.”
“Let’s get some work done, Stratton.” He and Nick crossed the entry hall side by side, their workboots vibrating on the subflooring. The front door stood open to catch the summer breeze, bringing with it the scent of briny air and the mouthwatering aroma of the beach barbecue. A couple of guys were out on the wide porch sanding, and the sweet smell of the sawdust mingled with the scents of tung oil, paintz and wallpaper paste.
Two different radios blared from opposite ends of the house, each on a different station, naturally—salsa from the back, hard rock from the front porch. Luke inhaled deeply as he stepped through the wide double doors into the great room. Home. It was becoming home.
Suzette and Kirsten, Nick’s date du jour, a statuesque blonde of awesome proportions, glanced up as they strolled in, but the music was too loud to have a conversation, and they went back to staining the baseboards.
Nick poured more soda for the two women, then leaned back against the hearth to chug down his own drink before hunkering down to do a little hammering on the floor.
The stone fireplace soared to the cathedral ceiling. Dusty sunshine shone through the plastic-covered windows onto the oak plank floor. The plastic billowed with the breeze like an animal breathing.
Luke envisioned the room filled with his furniture. Two black leather sofas framing the fireplace. The steel wall unit over there. The metal sculpture there. His slick, stylized, monochromatic paintings grouped on the far wall.
He frowned.
Suddenly, a jungle of plants materialized next to the windows and animal print cushions on the sofas. A bowl with a single goldfish appeared on the steel-and-glass coffee table placed between the sofas.
Suzette rose from her position on the floor and sauntered over to give Luke a hug. “I hope that fearsome scowl isn’t aimed at me.” She raised her voice and ran a finger between his brows. She had straight white teeth and a very pretty smile. She smelled of Obsession. She had a brain.
She bored him to tears.
“Kirsten and I are declaring mutiny for a couple of hours so we can eat, then go for a swim. We’ll come back in time to help you finish the floor in here, okay?” Suzette whipped her shirt over her head, exposing nicely tanned breasts and a flat midriff showcased in a minuscule white bikini. Luke’s eyelids didn’t even flicker. “Are you coming?”
He’d noticed the woman was barely dressed, but didn’t care. He pressed his fingertips into his temples and dredged up a smile. “Yeah. In a while.”
Coming? It was a dim memory....
* * *
“YOU DON’T HAVE to skulk. I’m awake.”
Luke looked adorably rumpled as he emerged from his cocoon of blankets to sit up the second she opened the front door the next evening. He’d left a lamp on for her, and the dimly shaded bulb cast a golden glow on his bare chest. He lay back against the arm of the sofa and eyed her yellow silk dress with approval. “You look very daffodilish. How’d it go with Ted?”
Catherine shrugged. “He knows a lot about fungus.”
“He’s a botanist.”
She set her purse on the end table and took off her shoes. “I might never eat a mushroom again.”
“Limiting, but not impossible. Will you see him again?”
Catherine shook her head, then picked up her shoes. “No sparks. Let me put it this way. You offered me white bread when what I crave is devil’s food cake.”
* * *
LUKE SAT ON Nick’s patio, a beer can balanced on his stomach, his bare feet crossed and propped up on the wrought-iron railing. It had been a swelteringly hot day, so they’d ordered pizza and taken a cold one outside. Now soft, damp fog misted around them as they sat in the dark and watched the lights across the Bay twinkle. Appear. Disappear. The fog oddly amplified, then dampened audio and visual details, making the foghorn sound close enough to touch tonight.
“Hey,” Nick said lazily. “Guess who called today? Rochelle Lemmon. She wants us to design the addition, after all.”
Luke glanced at