Starstruck

Claire made a face. “Okay, you have a point.” She stood up and hooked her purse over her arm.

“Wait a second. Where are you going?”

“Drinks,” Claire said. “Joe. He’s going to pick me up.” She held up her cell phone. “My side of the pledge is moving forward just fine.”

“But—”

“You’ll get there. I have absolute faith.”

Alyssa watched her friend go, wishing she had Claire’s certainty. Because at the moment, the only way she could think of to get to that gala was to ask Russell for a ticket. But that was hardly the image that she wanted of her in Russell’s head. He needed to think of her as competent and capable. A woman who could represent his legal interests and slide easily into his life. She wanted him smitten on absolutely every level.

And one didn’t reach smitten by begging for a room.

No, she’d get to the resort on her own. Or not at all.

Unfortunately, not at all was looking more and more likely.

Maybe she should book a room at a nearby motel and then wander over to the Starr Resort for the evening festivities.

A quick look on the Internet put the kibosh on that plan, though, as it was clear that privacy had been one of Russell’s primary concerns in designing the resort. It wasn’t close to anything. And with the predicted snow and the winding roads, Alyssa had no intention of driving from a Motel 6 to the resort on a daily basis.

Damn.

There had to be a way.

Except there wasn’t.

She sat back on the couch, the mug cupped in her hands, her entire being shifting into mope-mode. Probably best to accept the reality that saving her job and getting the guy was idiotic and oh-so-unlikely.

Sometimes reality really was a bitch.

She sighed, took another sip of chocolate, and decided that it was time to forget about crazy fantasies and force herself into getting some holiday spirit. From the corner of her apartment, the small Christmas tree she’d bought seemed to beckon. She’d held off decorating it, because despite the lights and the carols and the parties and the wassail, the season didn’t feel like Christmas. Not when she was sitting there, a dateless wonder.

“Pathetic.” With a sigh, she dragged a chair to her hall closet, her head spinning slightly from the schnapps and lack of dinner. Her apartment was ancient and had great—if poorly designed—closet space. The hallway linen closet was designed in two sections, with the main section being reachable by normal people, and the top section being accessible only by giants. Add to that the fact that the space went back several feet, and Alyssa sometimes wondered why she hadn’t bought a full-blown ladder to keep in the apartment so that she could get to all her stuff.

Balancing on the chair, she yanked open the cabinet, then pulled down the giant plastic bags stuffed full of summer clothes. Behind them, she’d stashed the boxes of Christmas ornaments, and now she stood on her toes, trying to get her fingers to connect with the boxes.

Just a teensy bit closer…

Her fingers brushed the cardboard, but she couldn’t get a grip on the smooth box. Dammit. She knew there was a reason she should’ve hung on to that ugly step stool she’d hauled to Goodwill last month. Now what was she going to do?

With no other options, she climbed off the chair, grabbed a broom from the pantry, and climbed back on, this time armed. She shoved the broom into the abyss, eased it between the box and the wall, and started using it to ooch the box forward. The box, however, was not inclined to cooperate, and so she jerked hard on the broom, punctuating the move with a rather loud, rather definitive curse.

The box moved.

Not only did it move, it shot forward, having apparently been blocked by a slight bump in the wood that Alyssa’s persistent shoving had overcome.

It teetered at the edge of the closet, Alyssa’s fingers keeping subtle pressure so it didn’t fall, every ounce of her concentration going to keeping her balance despite the mushiness that was her head. She took a breath, satisfied that all she had to do now was shift a little and close her fingers around the box.

But when she tried, the box—that same box with her grandmother’s delicate glass ornaments—tilted forward at a dangerous angle.

She could picture the box sliding through her hands, crashing to the ground, and the ornaments her grandmother had passed on to her smashing into so many bits of colored glass.

Who knew that decorating a tree under the influence could be so dangerous?

She tried to edge the box back into the closet, figuring she could borrow a proper ladder from the manager and try again, but the box was having none of that. Instead, it seemed, her destiny was to remain right there, balanced on a chair, her hands above her head getting tired as she kept a box from falling. And there she would remain until she passed out from hunger or her arms atrophied for lack of blood.

Three taps sounded at the door, and the wave of relief that crashed through her was so intense it almost had her sagging—and the box dropping. “Chris! Come on in!”

The doorknob rattled, and even as she remembered that she’d locked the door, she heard his frustrated “It’s locked, Alyssa.”

The box teetered, she tilted back to catch it, her head swam and she yelped. “Chris!”

“Hang on!” he called.

She heard the slam of his own apartment door, followed a few seconds later by the rattle of a key in her lock. She said a silent thank-you that she’d designated both Chris and Claire as the keepers of her spares, and then muttered a desperate “help!” as the door burst open.

“What on earth—”

She heard the confusion in his voice contemporaneously with his footsteps pounding across her apartment. She couldn’t turn her head to look, but she didn’t have to. She felt his hands around her waist, holding her tight, and the simple pressure gave her such a sense of security that she wanted to cry. She wasn’t going to fall backwards and break her neck. She wasn’t going to drop her grandmother’s heirloom ornaments.

Chris had arrived, and everything was going to work out just fine.

“What were you thinking?” His arm shifted, and she realized he was in short sleeves. The bare flesh of his arm brushed against her midriff, exposed now because raising her arms had raised the pajama tank top above the waistband of her Sylvester and Tweety pajama pants. For a moment—the briefest of moments—she felt a sensual thrill whip through her. Her nipples peaked, and her breath hitched, and she cursed Claire for all her talk about boyfriends and holiday romance because right then all those old Chris-lust thoughts that she’d so thoroughly quashed came rushing back.

At first, she’d ignored that sensual tingle because she’d been dating Bob when Chris had wandered into her life. Then, she’d tamped it even more firmly down because she’d learned about his frequent travel schedule and utter disinterest in managing his money or his career.

Best just to be friends, she’d told herself, and that had been easy advice to follow when she was dating Bob. Now, though, she was single, and even if Chris was as N.M.M. as they came, she couldn’t stop the heat—the desire—that was bubbling up inside her.

She told herself it was the schnapps. The. Schnapps.

Because this was Chris. Her friend. Her best friend besides Claire, and she was not in a million years going to let herself get the hots for him. She treasured the friendship too much to let holiday cheer and an innocent touch blow everything good there was between them.

But, oh, my gosh, she’d like to feel the heat of his kiss right about then.

“Alyssa!”

“What? What?” She realized he’d been talking to her. She’d been in a sensual funk, and she’d completely spaced out. “What did you say?”

“I said, how heavy is the box?”

“Oh. Not very.”

“Then let go.”

“No way! It’s full of Christmas ornaments. The thin glass kind. No way I’m letting them shatter. Why do you think I’m teetering on my toes in the first place?”

The hand on her abdomen shifted, and Alyssa stifled a moan. Alcohol and skin-on-skin touches really didn’t mix. Not if she wanted to keep her wits. Not to mention her distance.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice thick and rich, like warm, delicious chocolate.

“I—” She cleared her throat, mortified that talking was so difficult. The drink, she thought, and the fact that she was currently in the midst of a major romantic dry spell. But she had a plan, and a goal, and a Starr on the horizon. And she would focus. “I do. I trust you.”

“Then let go of the box.”

She took a deep breath and pulled her fingers away, moving to grab the door even as he broke contact with her, his own hands going up to catch the box as it fell.

“Got it. Now let me get you.”

She looked over her shoulder to see that the box was safe and sound on the floor, and when she turned back to face the closet, she felt Chris’s hands on her bare waist. “Turn around,” he said.

“No, I—”

“Turn.”

She turned, and he lifted her off the stool even as he pulled her closer to himself, then slowly eased her down until her feet were touching the floor. It was a sensual journey, and though she imagined that the elapsed time could probably be measured in seconds, to her it seemed like hours. Lazy, hedonistic hours with the press of Chris’s hard body against hers, and the glancing thrill that accompanied the way her breasts brushed softly over his chest as he lowered her body in front of his.

Once her feet were on the ground, she tilted her head back to tell him thank you, and suddenly his mouth was right there, the corners curved up in a grin that was both sexy and cocky, and she realized that she wanted to taste those lips more than she wanted to breathe. And even though a reasonable, rational Alyssa screamed that she was about to make a huge mistake, the Alyssa in Chris’s arms shut her ears and raised herself onto her toes, and then closed her mouth over his and took exactly what she wanted.

4

FOR ABOUT two seconds, Chris was certain that he’d not only died, but had landed squarely in heaven. The second after that, his brain processed the fact that Alyssa—his Alyssa—had pressed her mouth hard against his, her arms tight behind his head as if she wanted to deepen the kiss.

Chris was a lot of things, but he wasn’t an idiot, and he opened his mouth, giving her access, then swallowing a low guttural groan as her tongue swept inside, hot and demanding.

She tasted of chocolate and mint, and though he had absolutely no idea what had gotten into her, he saw the kiss as a challenge—a chance to prove he was worthy of this woman who every day filled his thoughts and fantasies.

Chris had always loved a challenge, and he met her lips with gusto. His tongue warred with hers, his mouth claiming her, sucking and nipping on her lower lip even as his hands splayed across her back, holding her closer to him, the contact setting every inch of his body on fire.

She wore a thin pajama top, and her body rubbed against him, her nipples like hard pebbles against his chest. He wanted to touch, to explore, to memorize every inch of her body, but he didn’t, terrified that at the slightest wrong touch she’d pull away and this magical bubble would burst.

Part of him wanted to risk it, though. To take his cue from Max Dalton, who wouldn’t leave his hands on her waist. He’d slide them up, skimming under the skimpy top, his fingers on her back, his thumbs easing forward to stroke the curve of her breast.

He wouldn’t stop there, either. He’d present a full assault, sliding his thumbs forward until the pads teased her nipples, then deepening his exploration of her mouth as his hand slid down to the waistband of her flimsy pants. He’d feel every twitch of her skin, every sweet hesitation, but she wouldn’t tell him to stop, and that simple surrender would arouse him as much as the feel of her body against his.

He’d slip his hand down, his erection painful with need, then moan when his finger found damp curls and her slit, already wet and ready. Only a little bit more, and he would brush her clit and she would tremble in his arms, her back arching, and her lips parting beneath his mouth as she whispered one sweet, simple word: Yes.

No.

The real world rushed back to smack Chris in the ass. “What?” he said, groggy and confused.

“No,” Alyssa repeated. “I’m sorry.” She backed away from him, managing to look both completely turned on and utterly mortified.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I should never have—I’m just…I’m just sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, though it wasn’t at all. His body was on fire, his desperation acute. He wanted her back in his arms. He wanted to finish what they’d started, and then he wanted to go from there.

But in truth they’d barely started anything. The woman who’d melted under his touch had been only in his fantasy, and the woman he desired so desperately was now standing in front of him regretting a single kiss that had passed between them.

And that, thought Chris, was a damn shame.

“I’M SORRY,” she said again, but Alyssa was certain she needed to keep repeating that in order to make it real. Because at the moment, she didn’t feel sorry at all. She felt incredibly turned on, and that really wasn’t good.

She turned away, scrubbing her face in her hands. “I mean, that was really beyond the pale, wasn’t it?” She’d kissed him.

And good Lord, but that had been one hell of a kiss. Soft, yet firm. Demanding, yet sweet. The kind of kiss that not only soaked a girl’s panties, but had her thinking about pink roses and hand-holding.

Dear God, what had she been thinking? Not only did she not want to go there with Chris, but he had never once given her any hint that he was remotely interested in her.

Or, rather, he’d never given her any hint before five minutes ago. Because from the way he’d kissed her back…from the way his hands had stroked her…the way he’d felt, all hot and hard as he’d pressed up against her…either he was a very good actor, or there was some definite interest going on there.

And though she told herself there was absolutely no way she would repeat that kiss or go any further whatsoever, her own body was calling her out as a liar. Her damp panties. The way her skin seemed to tingle like someone standing next to fifty thousand volts of raw electricity. And her nipples, now hard as rocks under her thin pajama top. Not good. Definitely not good.

Since she really couldn’t have a conversation with him about how that kiss was a mistake if her body was screaming otherwise, she ducked into the bathroom for a robe to toss on over her pajamas, then came out hoping she looked cool and collected. “I…um…I’ve been drinking schnapps.”

“Ah,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“It’s just that Claire was here earlier, and we were drinking and talking about sex and—” She stopped. Her rambling was definitely not improving things.

“Anyway, I, um, totally stepped out of line and I’m really sorry and really embarrassed and—”

“Alyssa,” he said, an obvious smile in his voice. “It’s okay. I get it.”

She pretty much sagged in relief. “Really? It’s just—the schnapps, and—”

“Seriously. I get it.”

“Right. Of course.” Of course he got it. He was probably as mortified as she was. He was a guy, though, so was it any wonder his body had sprung to attention? He was probably happy to push the whole thing behind them fast, fast, fast.

He waved toward the hall closet. “So what exactly were you doing?” He turned before she could answer and moved into her kitchen. She heard the water running, and by the time she arrived behind him, she saw that he’d splashed water on his face and was patting himself dry with a towel.

“I’ve got cocoa in the slow cooker,” she said, wishing a million times over that she could erase this sudden awkwardness between him.

“Sounds good.” He knew her kitchen as well as she did, and grabbed a holiday mug for himself, then fixed cocoa with just a splash of schnapps. “How about you? A refill?”

“I don’t know,” she said wryly. “Schnapps seems to be dangerous to me.”

As she’d hoped, he laughed. But what she hadn’t expected was the heat in his eyes when he said, “I’ve never run from danger.”

“Chris…”

He held his hands up. “Just lightening the moment.”

“Sorry. I’m still edgy.” She ran her fingers through her hair. This was Chris. As good a friend as Claire. She should not be feeling all awkward and weird around him. “Too much holiday cheer. Not to mention holiday sugar.” She squinted at him. “And it’s late. Why did you come over here, anyway? It’s Saturday, shouldn’t you have a hot date like the rest of the human race except me?”

“Working,” he said.

She perked up. “Are you doing another article? You were complaining last month that you were going to run out of rent money early next year and—”

“I’m cool,” he said. “And yeah, I have another job in the pipe. But I’ve been working on the next Max Dalton book.”

“Oh.”

He laughed. “Tell me how you really feel, Alyssa.”

She could feel her cheeks heat. “I love your book, you know I do,” she said, meaning every word. “But wouldn’t it make more sense to cram in a few more articles? Really pad your bank account?”

“Your concern for my well-being is overwhelming,” he said with a lazy grin. “But if I worked all the time, when would I play?”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t play. You either work for money or you work for free. I just think you should—”

“Work for money. I know.” He shrugged. “Hopefully I am. My agent seems really encouraged.”

“Yeah? That’s awesome.”

“But?” he asked, his tone so teasing she almost rolled her eyes.

“Fine. Fine.” She held up her hands in self-defense. “Pretty soon you’ll tell me I sound like your mother, so I’m dropping it. But I have two words before I do.”

“Good times?” he teased.

“Retirement plan,” she said.

He nodded. “Don’t worry. Got it covered.”

And since she was quite certain that he didn’t, she decided that was her cue to drop the subject. In truth, his work ethic impressed her. She knew he was perpetually broke, of course, but at least he knew what he wanted, and he threw himself after it wholeheartedly. She just wished he was a little smarter about the whole thing. Or at least smarter than her dad had been. Because her parents were heading into retirement with little more than dust in their IRAs, and while Alyssa would do what she could to help them out, she’d hardly reached the point where she was made of money, and she was desperately afraid that her childhood would be repeated in their old age, and they’d lose the house that they’d bought during her senior year of high school.

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