Pursued

That was her story, and like her philosophy, she was sticking to it.

Which was why it was so strange when, after she finished chewing, Nic simply handed her the fork and went back to what he was doing without so much as a backward glance. Was she the only one affected by this strange night of theirs?

It was a definite possibility, she told herself. He could totally be the kind of guy who picked up a different one-night stand at every party he went to. Which would mean that tonight—hot sex and cool banter and delicious ­pancakes—could be standard operating procedure for him. Which was fine, she told herself, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. One-night stands weren’t SOP for her—far from it—but that was what she’d expected, what she’d wanted, when she’d come home with him. Deciding in the middle of it that she wanted something more wasn’t okay, no matter how much pleasure he gave her or how much she enjoyed sitting here, teasing him.

“So, favorite movie is off the table,” he said, after he poured another round of pancakes onto the griddle. “How about favorite song?”

She forked up another bite of pancakes under his watchful eye, took her time chewing it. “What’s with all the questions?” she asked after she finally swallowed it.

“What’s with all the evasive answers?” he countered.

“I asked you first.”

“Actually, if you think about it, I asked you first. About your favorite song. And I’m still waiting.”

“You are a persistent one,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is charming.” He crossed to the fridge, took out a bottle of champagne and a quart of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Debonair. Maybe even…sexy?”

He wiggled his brows at her then, and it took every ounce of concentration she had not to burst out laughing. “Sexy, hmm. Maybe. And here I was thinking humble.”

“Well, obviously. Being humble is what PR professionals the world over are known for.”

“Is that what you are?” she asked, intrigued by the rare glimpse into his real life. “A public relations guy?” It would explain the gorgeous house and even more gorgeous artisan decorating scheme.

He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

He faked a surprised look as he slid a mimosa in front of her. “You don’t actually think you’re the only one who can dodge questions here, do you?”

She did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. He really was the most charming and interesting man she had met in a very long time. Maybe ever.

She reached for the champagne flute he’d put in front of her and took a long sip. As she did, Nic took advantage of her preoccupation and grabbed her smartphone off the counter.

“What are you doing?” she demanded as he started pressing keys.

“Programming my number into it, so you can call me whenever you want.”

“What makes you think I’m going to want to call you when tonight is over?”

He gave her what she guessed was his most unassuming look. “What makes you think you aren’t?”

“Are we seriously going to spend the rest of the night asking each other questions and never getting any answers?”

“I don’t know. Are we?”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. But before she could say anything else, his phone started buzzing from where it sat next to the stove. He made no move to answer it.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” she asked, partly because the reporter in her wanted to know who was calling him at two-thirty in the morning and partly because he was standing just a little too close to her. They weren’t touching, but she could feel the heat emanating from his body, and it was making it impossible for her to think—and even more impossible for her to maintain the distance she was trying so desperately to cling to.

“It’s just me, calling from your phone. So now I’ve got your number, too.” He looked her in the eye when he said it and there was something in that look, something in his voice, that made her think he meant a lot more than the ten digits that made her phone ring.

Suddenly she was taking far too much effort not to squirm.

She didn’t like the feeling any more than she liked the vulnerability that came with the knowledge that he could see more of her than she wanted him to. And so she did what she always did in situations like these—she went on the offensive. “What if I hadn’t planned on giving you my number?”

He raised a brow. “You don’t want me to have it?”

“That’s not the point!”

“It’s exactly the point.”

“No, it—” She cut herself off. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

“I have been told that a time or two.” He paused, then said, “So I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“Uh, no, thanks.” She moved to stand up, but he pressed her back into the seat.

“You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”

“Yeah, well, when a guy says those words to a girl he hardly knows, it usually ends with her chained in a basement somewhere while he maps out patterns to make a dress from her skin.”

“Wow!” He cracked up. “Suspicious much?”

“I’ve seen Silence of the Lambs. I know how these things work.”

“It appears that you do. But, sadly, I have no basement. And no handcuffs. And no deep-seated psychopathology, at least not that I know of. Also, I don’t have a clue how to sew. So, you’re probably safe.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” She eyed him with mock suspicion. “So what exactly is this proposition of yours?”

“That I keep your phone number, even though you aren’t exactly overjoyed that I’ve got it. And I promise that I won’t call you until you call me first. Fair?”

“What if I never call you?”

“Then I’ll be very sad, but I promise I won’t bother you with harassing phone calls. Deal?”

She thought about it for a moment, thought about whether or not she would ever want to talk to him again once this night was over. And decided, what the hell. She might as well leave the option open. If she didn’t want to use it, well, then, he was giving her the perfect opportunity to walk away, no harm, no foul.

“Deal,” she told him.

“Excellent.” He smiled, then reached a hand up to rub the back of his neck. Involuntarily, her eyes were drawn to his very enticing six-pack and the V-cut that peeked out of the top of his low-slung jeans. She locked her jaw and, for the second time that night, tried not to drool.

She must not have been very successful, though, because his voice was amused a few seconds later when he asked, “See something you like?”

“I like you.” The words were out before she had a clue she was going to say them. The second it registered that she’d actually spoken what she’d only planned to think, she clapped her hand over her mouth in horror.

She wanted to take them back, wanted to pretend she hadn’t just screwed up everything by letting her tongue—and her emotions—get away from her. But it was too late. The words hung there in the air between them, like a bomb waiting to go off.

He didn’t look horrified by her admission, though. Didn’t look as if he was about to duck and cover in an effort to avoid the shrapnel from the bomb she had just dropped. In fact, Nic looked absolutely delighted, as though she’d given him a present…or the best orgasm of his life.

Which wasn’t so far-fetched when she thought about it. He’d certainly done that for her, after all.

Before she could think of something—anything—to say that might work as damage control, he closed the small distance between them. He turned her stool around so that she was facing him, then moved closer still, until he was nestled between the V of her spread legs.

“I like you, too,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then another one to her cheek and yet another one to her lips.

“Do you?” she asked, tilting her head back so he could skim his lips along the side of her neck.

“I do. And since we’ve established that you like me as well…” His hands went to the buttons of the too-big shirt she was wearing. His shirt, she thought dazedly as he slipped the first two buttons through their holes then gently skimmed his knuckles along the undersides of her breasts. “I think we should maybe head back to my bedroom and like each other some more.”

“Like each other some more?” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady despite the heat arcing through her like a lightning storm. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

He laughed. “It’s what I’m calling it. Sorry. I know it’s not very romantic, but my brain pretty much stops working the second I touch you.”

She was charmed by the admission despite herself. Determined to keep things light after the confession she’d had no intention of making, she told him, “I guess it’s all right if your brain isn’t working, as long as other parts of your anatomy are.”

He quirked a brow at her. “The other parts of my anatomy are working just fine, thank you very much.”

“Oh, yeah?” She ran a hand over his firm, hard chest. “Prove it.”

His eyes darkened at the challenge and he grabbed her hips. Pulled her forward until she was balanced right on the edge of the seat and her sex was nestled right up against the hard ridge of his erection.

“Proof enough for you?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

“I don’t know. I think I might need a more detailed demonstration.” She arched against him then, reveling in the groan he didn’t even try to hold back.

“A more detailed demonstration, hmm?” He slid his hands under her and picked her up as if she weighed nothing. For the second time that night, Desi wound her arms and legs around him.

She clung to him like a limpet as he carried her out of the kitchen, through the family room and down the long hallway that led to his bedroom. She waited until he’d crossed over the threshold before she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “‘Need You Tonight.’”

“I need you, too,” he said as he carried her over to the bed.

It was her turn to laugh. “I meant, that’s my favorite song.”

Something moved in his eyes—something wonderful and terrifying and so, so exhilarating. Then he was kissing her, his mouth slamming down on hers with the same desperation that was suddenly crashing through her.

And then they were falling onto the bed with him on top of her.

“What’s your favorite song?” she managed to choke out as he finished unbuttoning her shirt, pressing kisses to each new bit of exposed skin. Her brain was going fast, her body taking over, but after all the back-and-forth, she wanted—needed—to know this one thing about him.

“I thought that was obvious,” he said and she could feel him smile against her stomach. “Eric Clapton’s ‘Wonderful Tonight.’”

Four

Nic woke up alone. Which was unexpected. And which also really, really sucked.

Especially since it wasn’t as if Desi was temporarily gone, like in the kitchen making coffee or the bathroom taking a shower. No, she had bugged out of his place and taken every last trace of her existence with her. She hadn’t left a note, hadn’t left a last name, hadn’t left so much as a high-heeled glass slipper behind for him to go by.

She was really gone. So gone that if he didn’t have scratches down his back from her nails, a bed that looked like a disaster zone, and—he glanced at his phone, just to make sure—her phone number in his contacts list, he might be tempted to think he’d imagined the whole damn thing.

But he hadn’t imagined it. Desi was real. He had her number to prove it, he told himself as he stared at the 323 area code of his last missed call. Unfortunately, he also had a promise—not to use that phone number until she used his first.

Which, again, really, really sucked.

Because he liked her. He really, really liked her. More than should be possible considering he knew almost nothing about her—and what knowledge he did have, he’d gained from asking questions and pushing the issue until she very reluctantly responded.

Which, now that he thought about it, probably should have been his first clue that this wasn’t going to go the way he’d wanted it to. Damn it, he really hated playing the fool.

A quick look at his bedside clock told him it was barely 7:00 a.m., and since he knew she’d been asleep in his bed at five, when he’d finally succumbed to exhaustion, he couldn’t shake the idea that he had just missed her. That if only he had woken up a few minutes earlier, he would have caught her before she disappeared.

The thought made him crazy, especially since he’d planned on starting the morning the same way he’d spent most of the night. Deep inside Desi, watching her fall apart, as the defensive wall she’d built around herself crumbled one tiny brick at a time.

It seemed like a ridiculous plan now, considering he was alone in rapidly cooling sheets. After all, he’d known she was emotionally closed off—he would have had to be an idiot not to see the No Trespassing signs she had posted over pretty much every part of herself. And yet…and yet she’d opened up to him, over and over again through the night. Oh, not about big things such as who she was or why she had such a bleak outlook on people or even what her favorite movie was. But she’d let her guard down enough for him to catch glimpses of a lot of the mixed-up pieces that made her who she was.

He’d liked what he’d seen, a lot. Which was just one more reason this disappearing act of hers bothered him so much. For the first time in a very long time, he’d been looking forward to exploring her. To exploring them and finding out all the little things that made Desi tick.

For God’s sake, he’d brought her to his house, which was something he did not normally do. At least not until he’d been on a few dates with a woman. And definitely not until he knew she was someone he wanted to get serious with.

Yet last night, on that balcony, he’d been adamant about convincing Desi to come home with him. True, part of that was because he’d really, really wanted to sleep with her again—the two times on the balcony hadn’t been close to enough to exhaust the sexual chemistry between them. But that didn’t explain why he’d been so determined to bring her home, to his house. They’d been at a hotel, for God’s sake. How much easier would it have been to simply stop by the front desk and get a room for the night?

Instead, he’d brought her home. He’d made her blueberry pancakes and asked her questions and—when she had commented on various pieces of his furniture—had even thought about showing her his studio, which was pretty much the most sacred place in his house. He barely let his brother, Marc, in there, let alone anyone else.

But she didn’t know any of that, a part of him rationalized. He’d thought he had made his interest clear to her last night, but maybe he hadn’t. Maybe she’d thought she really was nothing more than a one-night stand to him. Maybe she’d thought he expected her to be gone when he woke up. After all, he hadn’t said otherwise.

No, but he’d made a point of giving her his phone number, he told himself as he rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom. Had made a point of getting hers. Surely that had given her a clue that he was interested in her.

Then again, maybe his interest—or lack thereof—wasn’t the problem. Maybe hers was. She’d been pretty damn reluctant to answer even his most innocuous questions, and when she had answered, it was usually with a nonanswer. As if she was afraid of letting him too close, of letting him learn too much about her. Or maybe, more accurately, she didn’t want him to get close to her.

Just the thought annoyed him. It had been a long time since he’d met a woman who really interested him. Who was smart and funny and also sexy as hell. So why was it that the first woman he did meet who interested him on all those fronts had gone running from him the first chance she’d gotten?

He turned on the shower, and while he was waiting for it to warm up, he took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. As he did, he couldn’t help wondering what it was Desi had seen when she’d looked at him. Had she seen his public persona, the easygoing, happy-go-lucky guy who was always up for a beer or a game of golf? The guy who didn’t make waves and always had a joke at the ready?

Or had she seen deeper than that? Had she seen who he really was under all the polish and bull? He’d tried to show her a little bit of that guy last night, had thought—when he caught her looking at him as if she had a million questions—that maybe she had seen him. And if she had…if she had, was that who she had run away from? Not the man she’d picked up at the gala, but the one who lurked below his surface?

The idea grated. But it also lingered, long after he’d all but scrubbed himself raw in the shower in an effort to get rid of the warm-honey scent of her that had somehow embedded itself in his skin.

He was still poking at the wound, still turning it over in his mind, when he cruised into his brother’s office an hour later.

“How was the gala?” Marc asked without looking up from where he was checking his first emails of the day.

“Enlightening,” Nic answered, walking over to the window that made up one whole wall of the room. Beyond the company grounds were rocky cliffs and a small sandy beach. Beyond that was the endless Pacific. He watched the water for long minutes, saw the waves build out at sea, then crest, then roll harmlessly onto shore. It was winter, so the water was cold, but there were a few surfers out there, paddling on their boards as they waited for the next big wave.

For a second, he wanted to be out there with them. Wanted to be free, wanted—for just once in his life—to do whatever he wanted. To be whomever he wanted and to hell with the consequences.

But then Marc asked, “Enlightening how?” and the fantasy was shattered.

“What do you mean?” He turned to look at his brother.

Marc pushed back from his desk, then crossed the room to the small minifridge embedded in the bar. He grabbed a bottle of iced coffee for himself, then tossed Nic a pint of the fresh-squeezed orange juice he favored. He caught it neatly.

“When I asked you about the gala, you said it was enlightening. How so?” Marc came to stand next to him by the window, glancing out at the ocean before turning to Nic, an inquisitive look on his face.

Nic started to gloss over it, to focus on the people he’d met or the money he’d pledged from Bijoux. But Marc was his brother and his best friend, the only person he ever really opened up to. And so, before Nic even knew the words were there, he found himself saying, “I met a girl.”

“You met a girl?”

“A woman,” he corrected himself, thinking of Desi’s lush curves and quick wit. “I met a woman.”

“Do tell.” Marc gestured to the chair opposite his desk, and though Nic had too much energy to really want to sit, he found himself doing so anyway. As usual.

“What’s her name?” his brother asked.

“Desi.”

“Desi…?”

“That’s all. I don’t have her last name.”

“Well, that’s sloppy on your part.” Marc studied him closely. “Which is not an adjective I would usually use to describe you, so… This must be big.”

“It’s not big. It’s not anything, really.” And yet Nic really didn’t like the way those words tasted in his mouth.

Marc laughed. “Of course not. Which is why you look like you swallowed a bug just saying that.”

“Look, it’s complicated.”

“Dude, it’s always complicated.”

“Yeah, well, this time, it’s really complicated.” And so he told Marc the whole story, about how he’d fallen for Desi’s looks at first sight and her startling quick wit almost as fast. About how he’d taken her home…and how he’d woken up alone.

“But you have her phone number, right?” Marc asked when Nic was finished with his tale of woe. “Please, tell me you were smart enough to get her number.”

“Of course I was. But I was dumb enough to promise her I wouldn’t call her until she called me.”

Marc rolled his eyes. “All these years and have I really taught you nothing about how to woo a woman?”

“Considering you’ve spent the last six years licking your wounds from Isabella, I’d have to say that your own wooing skills are pretty lacking right now.”

“I haven’t been licking my wounds,” Marc growled. “I’ve been busy running a multi-billion-dollar diamond corporation.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Call it whatever you like. Besides, I’ve been right here with you every step of the way, turning Bijoux into the second-largest responsibly sourced diamond corporation in the world.”

“I know that—I wasn’t implying otherwise. I was just saying I haven’t had much time to woo anyone lately. Then again, neither have you. Maybe you’re rusty.”

Nic shot him a look. “I am not rusty, thank you very much.” Sure, he preferred quality over quantity and always had, despite his playboy image in the press. But it wasn’t as if he’d gone months without sex, for God’s sake. His skills weren’t rusty. At least, he didn’t think they were.

God, what if that’s why Desi had snuck out before he’d woken up? Because she’d thought he was bad in— No, no, no. That was one rabbit hole he was not going to fall down this morning. Because if he did…hell, if he did, he was afraid he’d never climb back out of it again.

“I’m not rusty,” he said again, perhaps with more force than was absolutely necessary.

“I’m not saying you are.” Marc held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, if you have her phone number, why don’t you use it?”

“I already told you—”

“I know. You can’t call her until she calls you. But that doesn’t mean you can’t text her, right? Or did you make promises about that, too? And let me just say, if you did, you’re stupider than you look.”

“I didn’t, actually,” Nic answered as the wheels started turning in his brain. “I mean, I suppose an argument could be made about the spirit of the agreement—”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.