Almost A Honeymoon. Susan Crosby
but he helps me out sometimes.”
“Is the limousine his or yours?”
“It’s rented. Why?”
“The windows are tinted. We would be safe inside, wouldn’t we? I can’t stand the thought of being cooped up here.”
Ending the conversation with a “We’ll see,” he picked up the telephone, leaving her to her own devices as he began a series of calls that required decoding to be fully understood. He spoke in the jargon of his business, words sprinkled with numbers, letters and abbreviations. He filled the yellow pad before him with page after page of notes. Part of her stayed tuned in to him because she admired the way he dealt with the business first then took a minute for the social niceties, remembering to ask about family members, health statuses, even special occasions.
He had never had a phone conversation like that with her. Resentment burrowed into her and built. What was she? Less than a human being to be treated as cavalierly as he had these last years? Why had she deserved less consideration than any other client?
When he made probably the tenth call in two hours, his voice changed. Softened. Took on a note of tenderness.
“Hi... I’m doin’ great. How are you?... I’ve missed you, too. Are you feeling okay?... I’d be with you if I could, you know that... How’s our little one?”
Our little one? The pencil in Paige’s hands snapped. So, he has someone special in his life. A wife? Perhaps even a child? So what? And why does that surprise me? she thought, disgusted with herself. He’s intelligent and attractive and successful, and he’s proving right now that he can be tender. A lot of women probably like a macho superstud. Not me, though.
So why are you so disappointed? she asked herself. Because a part of me—a tiny, almost insignificant part—wishes a man like that would be interested in me. There! She’d said it. A moment of honesty. She’d dealt with it; now she could relegate it to the strongbox of lost dreams she kept locked in her head.
Thoughts of her mother escaped as she tried to close the lid. A perfect woman, according to her father. The perfect woman. Soft-spoken and soothing, a paragon of femininity. Paige had tried to emulate what she knew of her. Only Rye had broken through the wall of control she’d cultivated.
If she had learned nothing else from her debacle with Joey Falcon, she had figured out that she just wasn’t herself right now. She had been feeling more than restlessness, more than a mild desire for something to happen. For the last year, she’d felt an urgent tug toward something unknown, a yearning to discover passion, not only physically but spiritually. She wanted to break out. But to what? How do you stop continually strolling down garden paths if no one ever invites you on a marathon?
You sign up, she admonished herself. She knew she had to take charge of her own destiny. She just didn’t quite know how to do it, especially when she was being reminded by her father and Rye that she was powerless at the moment. Follow orders; we’ll take care of you.
And she didn’t recognize the person inside of her who just wanted to be taken care of.
Rye hung up the phone and stretched hugely. A glance at his watch confirmed what his stomach announced—that it was time for lunch. His gaze settled on Paige as she hunched over the too-high table her laptop sat on. She shifted her shoulders and rolled her head, easing unseen tension. Or was it really so unseen? As little as he had observed her, he was already able to pick up on her moods.
She would undoubtedly deny she had moods, of course, but he’d already seen several. Of them all, he most liked the playfulness he’d seen when she’d commented on his socks last night. He liked her belligerent side pretty well, too. Both made him laugh. He scrutinized her a little longer, pushed himself up from the couch and moved behind her.
When he settled his hands on her shoulders, she nearly jumped out of her seat.
“Don’t sneak up on me,” she ordered as she tugged herself forward.
He pushed his thumbs into the knotted muscle at the base of her neck and smiled at the involuntary groan he drew from her. “Should I stop?” he asked.
“No.”
He grinned, deepening the massage, adding his fingers and palms. Her fragility startled him, making him ease the pressure. Her head drooped forward. “Hang tight a sec,” he said. He swept up a pillow, instructing her to stand. Spinning the chair around, he laid the pillow over the chair back.
“Sit backward,” he said. “Lay your head on the pillow.”
She eyed her skirt, then the chair. Cautiously, she straddled the seat, but for every inch she lowered her body, her skirt raised an inch. She started to back off. “I don’t think—”
“Harry, I’ve seen my share of female leg. It won’t bother me.”
“But—”
“Trust me.”
Four
Her skirt rode up, exposing the tops of nude-tone stockings, garters attached to strips of midnight blue satin and a few mouth-watering inches of skin. She plucked ineffectually at her hem while shifting her bottom, only succeeding in hiking her skirt higher.
“Leave it,” he ordered, an unfamiliar hoarseness scraping the words along his throat.
Stiffly, she leaned forward, until she could lay her head against the pillow.
“Close your eyes. Relax.” In other words, don’t watch me drool over you, he thought with little humor. He settled his hands on her shoulders again, finding them even more tense than a few minutes earlier. Involuntary little sounds filtered from her mouth as he attended her, making him wonder if she moaned during climax. Damn. He shouldn’t think about it.
But how could he not think about it when his fingers itched to slide under the edge of her stockings and tease her skin, when he wanted to tug the hem of her skirt higher and see if her underwear matched the satin of her garter belt.
He trapped a groan of his own and tried to focus on her back. How delicate it was, how slender. The scent of her perfume drifted around and through him. She wasn’t wearing a bra under her top, but a lacy sliplike thing. What was it called? He couldn’t remember, but he wanted to see it. He wanted to pull the skimpy blouse over her head and feast his eyes on the skin and silk beneath, slide the straps down, cover her breasts with his hands...his mouth.
A new scent reached him—arousal. He let go of the effort to restrain his own, knowing she felt the same. Welcoming the heat and the swelling, he closed his eyes and slowed his hands, letting his fingers glide over her shoulders to press against her collarbone, feeling her push herself into the pressure in unspoken invitation. Did he dare let his fingers drift farther, touch the nipples he’d earlier watched tighten enticingly? Could he pull her back against him and let her feel the strength of his desire as he ran his hands down the front of her body?
This was crazy. He’d been hired to protect her, not seduce her. Ignoring the ache in his loins, he concentrated only on her shoulders. Her eyes opened for a few seconds, as if she was about to say something, then they shut again, allowing her retreat.
Paige jerked upright as the jangle of the phone sliced into the tense quiet. Pushing herself off the chair, she stood and straightened her clothes as she listened to his end of the conversation, deciding Lloyd was on the other end. Rye had his back to her, but she saw him attempt to unobtrusively adjust his jeans. She didn’t know whether to crow or cower.
She glanced at the holstered gun cradled under his arm. His strength scared her a little. His pure maleness was a hundred times more potent than she’d ever attempted to handle. He could crush her so easily. She was inordinately pleased that he was attracted, especially given their adversarial relationship, but knew she was a fool to think he’d risk letting down his guard.
Then there was