Always On Her Mind: Playing for Keeps / To Tame a Cowboy / All He Ever Wanted

“Connections, a family member on the police force. Lots of warnings, but nothing happened.”

Her lips went tight, and she shook her head. “His mother should have protected him.”

“Damn straight,” Troy agreed. “But I’m sliding off my path here. Let’s get back to more entertaining brotherhood tales, like the time a few of us were stuck staying at school over Christmas break. So we broke into Salvatore’s office, spread dirt on the floor and tossed quick-grow grass seed. He had a lawn when he returned. He knew we did it, but the look on his face was priceless….”

Malcolm started strumming again, adding his own impromptu score to Troy’s tales, but his brain was still stuck on the moment Celia asked why Elliot’s mother hadn’t protected him. Her reaction was so swift, so instinctive he couldn’t avoid the image blaring in his brain. An image of Celia as the mother of his child, fiercely doing everything in her power to protect their baby. He’d been so frustrated—hell, angry—for so long over losing the chance to see his kid that he hadn’t fully appreciated how much she’d been hurt.

And damn it all, that touched him deep in his gut in a way that had nothing to do with sex. Right now, he had less of a clue about what to do with this woman than he had eighteen years ago.

The next night, after Malcolm’s concert in the Netherlands, Celia put together a late-night snack in their suite. Foraging through the mini-fridge, she found bottles of juice, water and soda, along with four kinds of cheese. She snagged the Gouda and Frisian clove to go with the crackers and grapes on the counter.

Yes, she was full of nervous energy since Malcolm’s friends had all gone home. Now she was finally alone with him. How strange that she’d resented their presence at first and now she felt antsy without the buffer they’d provided. Malcolm’s manager had stood backstage with her at the concert tonight in Amsterdam. But Logan had his own room here on another floor.

Not that Malcolm had pressured her since they’d checked into the posh hotel. In fact, since her panic attack during the Seine River tour, he’d backed off. On the one hand, she’d wanted him to quit tempting her, but on the other it hurt to think he was turned off by her anxiety.

They had a two-bedroom suite with a connecting sitting room. He was showering, the lights having been particularly powerful—and hot—tonight at yet another sold-out show.

As she heard the shower in the next room stop, she arranged the food on a glazed pottery tray to keep her hands busy and her thoughts occupied with something other than wondering how different the adult, naked Malcolm looked. And what he thought of the “adult” her. She smoothed her hands down her little black dress, lacy, with a scalloped hem that ended just above the knee. Should she rush and change?

She shook off vanity as quickly as she kicked off her heels and loosened her topknot. Lifting the tray with food and a pot of tea, she angled around the bar, past the baby grand piano and into the living area.

Overall the room was brighter, lighter than the other places they’d stayed, the Dutch decor closer to her personal style. On her way past, she dipped her head to sniff the blue floral pitcher full of tulips. She placed the tray on top of the coffee table and curled up on the sofa with her tea. She’d made a pot with lemon and honey to soothe Malcolm’s throat after three straight nights of concerts. He had to be feeling the effects.

The door to his bedroom opened, and her eyes were drawn directly to him. So drawn. Held. He stood barefoot, wearing a pair of jeans and T-shirt that clung to his damp skin. His hair was wet and slicked back. And God, did her hands ache to smooth over those damp strands.

What else did she want?

Silly question. She wanted to sleep with Malcolm again, to experience how it would feel to be with him as a woman. All the tantalizing snippets his friends had shared of his past and present drew her in, seducing her with both the Malcolm he’d been and the Malcolm he’d become. She burned to sleep with him, and she couldn’t come up with one good reason why she shouldn’t.

Would she have the courage to throw caution to the wind and act on what she wanted? “I made us something to eat—as well as tea with lemon and honey to soothe your throat.”

“Thanks, but you don’t have to wait on me,” he answered, his voice more gravelly than usual, punctuating her point about the need for tea. He walked deeper into the room, his hand grazing a miniature wooden windmill, tapping the blades until they spun in a lazy circle.

“Direct orders from your manager,” Celia said. “You’re to have something to eat and drink, protect your health for the tour.”

“What about you? Any more dizzy spells today?” He sliced off a sliver of Gouda. “Here … have some cheese.”

She rested her fingers on his wrist, a small move, just a test run to see how he would react. “I’m good. I promise. Your pal the doctor gave me two thumbs up.”

Malcolm eyes narrowed before he tossed the cheese into his mouth and paced restlessly around the room, past the baby grand piano, a guitar propped against the side. “You two seemed to hit it off.”

Wondering where he was going with the discussion of Rowan, she poured another cup of steaming-hot tea. “What exactly did he invent?”

Malcolm dropped onto the other end of the sofa and reluctantly took the tea. “He devised a new computerized diagnostic model with Troy. They patented it, and they both made a bundle. Essentially, Rowan can afford to retire if he wishes.”

Interesting, but not surprising given what she’d gleaned about Malcolm and all his friends. “And he chose to work in a West African clinic instead. That’s very altruistic of him.”

“You can join the Rowan Boothe fan club. It’s large.”

She lifted an eyebrow in shock. “You don’t like him?”

“Of course I do. He’s one of my best friends. I would do anything for him. I’m acting like a jealous idiot because you two seemed to hit it off.” He tossed back the tea, then cursed over the heat. He set the cup down fast and charged over to the mini-fridge for bottled water.

He was jealous? Of her and Rowan? Hope fluttered.

She set her cup down carefully. “Your charitable donations have been widely reported. Every time I saw you at an orphanage or children’s hospital … I admire what you’ve done with your success, Malcolm, and yes, I have kept up with you the way you’ve kept up with me.”

Malcolm downed the bottle of water before turning back to her. “Rowan’s the stable, settle-down sort you keep swearing you want now. But damn it all, I still want you. So if you want him or someone like him, you’d better speak up now, because I’m about five seconds away from kissing you senseless.”

“You silly, silly man.” She pushed to her feet and walked toward him. “You have nothing to be jealous of. I was asking for his medical help.”

“What did you say?” He pinned her with a laser stare. “Are you ill? God, and I’ve been hauling you from country to country.”

“Malcolm, stop. Listen. I have something I need to tell you.” She drew in a bracing breath and willed her fluttering pulse to steady. Before they got to the kissing-senseless part, she needed to be sure he was okay with what had happened during the boat ride. Trusting him—anyone—with this subject was tough. But she hoped she could have faith in the genuine, good man she’d seen earlier with his friends. “I was having a regular, old-fashioned panic attack.”

He blinked uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before clasping her shoulders. “Damn it, Celia, why didn’t you tell me, instead of—”

She rested a hip against the baby grand piano. “Because you would have acted just like this, freaking out, making a huge deal out of it, and believe me, that’s the last thing I could have handled yesterday.”

Comprehension slid across his leanly handsome face. “Rowan helped you. As a doctor.” He plowed his fingers through his hair. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Not an idiot. Just a man.” She sighed with relief to finally have crossed this hurdle without a drawn-out ordeal. “I left my medicine at home. He helped connect with my doctor and get my prescription refilled.”

“You’ve had panic attacks before?”

“Not as often as I used to, but yes, every now and again.”

His shoulders rolled forward as he rubbed his forehead. “The concert tour was probably a bad idea. What was I thinking?”

“You had no way of knowing because I didn’t tell you.” She couldn’t let him blame himself. She stroked his forehead for him, nudging aside his hand. Just a brief touch, but one that sent tingles down her arm. “Staying home with some criminal leaving dead roses in my car wasn’t particularly pleasant, either. For all we know, I would have had more anxiety back home. You’ve taken on a major upheaval in your life to help me.”

“Are you okay now?” He reached for her, stopping just short of touching her as if afraid she would break.

“Please don’t go hypercautious with me.” She eased back to sit on the piano bench. “I felt much better after a good night’s sleep. The medicine isn’t an everyday thing. Not anymore. The prescription is just on an as-needed basis. And while I needed help yesterday, today’s been a good day.”

He sat beside her, his warm, hard thigh pressing against her. “When did the panic attacks start? Is that okay to ask?”

Gathering her thoughts grew tougher with the brush of his leg against hers. “I had trouble with postpartum depression after … The doctor said it was hormonal, and while the stress didn’t help, it wasn’t the sole cause—” she pointed at him “—so don’t start blaming yourself.”

He clasped a hand around her finger, enfolding her hand in his. “Easier said than done.”

“You are absolved.” She squeezed gently, her heart softening the rest of the way for this man. She’d never had any luck resisting him, and she wondered why she’d ever assumed now would be different. “And I mean that.”

“After what happened yesterday, I’m not so sure I can buy into that.” Guilt dug deep furrows in his lean face.

“You have to.” She cupped his cheek in her palm, the bristle of his late-day beard a seductive abrasion against her palm. Until, finally, she surrendered to the inevitable they’d been racing toward since the minute he’d walked back into her life again. “Because I desperately want to make love with you, and that’s not going to happen if you’re feeling guilty or sorry for me.”

Ten

Malcolm wondered what the hell had just happened.

He’d been turning himself inside out to come up with a plan to romance Celia back into his bed, except then he’d been derailed by thoughts that Rowan was a better man for her, then by concerns for her health and how best to approach her in light of all she’d just told him.

Instead, she propositioned him when he was doing … absolutely nothing.

God, he would never understand Celia Patel. He’d also never been able to turn her down. “Are you sure this is what you want? It’s been a stressful couple of days and I want you to be certain.”

“I may have had a panic attack yesterday, but I am completely calm and certain of this.” Her fingers curved around the back of his neck, her touch cool, steady … seductive. “You and I need to stop fighting the inevitable. I could have sworn you felt the same.”

“I do.” His answer came out hoarse and ragged, and that had nothing to do with hours of singing. No second thoughts, he reached for her. He gathered her against him. Finally, he had her in his arms again.

Kissing her was as natural as breathing. She sighed her pleasure and agreement, her lips parting for him. A hint of lemon and honey clung to her tongue. His body went harder, his need for her razor-sharp after so damn long without her. No matter how many years had passed, he’d never forgotten her or how perfect she felt in his arms. Better yet, how perfect she felt coming apart in his arms.

Pulling her closer, he stood, guiding her to her feet, as well. Her fingers plowed through his hair, tugging lightly, just hard enough to increase the pleasure. She took his mouth as fully as he took hers. Owning. Stamping possession of each other.

The press of her body against him, the roll of her hips against his, the soft give of her full breasts against his chest ramped up his pulse rate. The heat of her reached through their clothes, tempting him with how much hotter they would feel skin to skin.

His hands roved up her back, into her hair—this woman had the most amazing mass of hair. The curls tangled around his fingers as if every part of her held him, caressed him. He swept the tangled mass over her shoulder and found the top of her zipper. He tugged the tab down the back of her lacy black dress, stroking along her spine as he revealed inch after inch of the softest skin. The scent of her soap, her light fragrance, teased him, and he dragged in a deep breath to take it in.

Hungry to feel more of her, he tucked his hands in the open V of her dress and palmed the satin-covered globes of her bottom. He guided her hips closer as she rocked against him in response, the perfect fit sending his pulse throbbing louder in his ears. The sound of her ragged breathing stoked the heat in him higher, hotter as he kissed along her jaw, the delicate shell of her ear. She whispered her need for more, faster, and damned if he could scrounge the restraint to hold back.

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