Beneath the Covers (Kimani Romance) (2 page)

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es.
Now she knew where he was, but that didn’t calm her frayed nerves. She knew he wasn’t naked. He probably had on a pair of jeans or shorts; he wasn’t the type to go around bare, although the image was always pleasing. She silently swore. What was wrong with her? Had jet lag obliterated her common sense? She knew how dangerous it was to be susceptible to him. Yes, he was still good-looking with a great voice, but cyanide was said to smell like almonds. Both could destroy you. Annoyed by her wayward thoughts, Claudia moved past Peter down the hall and crashed into a stand-alone glass wall cabinet.

“What are you doing?” he asked, amused.

“Trying to find my way around. I need to find a flashlight.”

“Still afraid of the dark?”

“I was never afraid, just uneasy.”

“Right.”

Claudia didn’t care if he didn’t believe her; she would focus on her task not on him. But she could feel herself starting to panic. She’d never admit that she was still afraid of the dark. It was ridiculous to have such a childish fear. She was a trained health-care professional. She’d studied the roots of phobias and helped others conquer theirs. She opened the doors and frantically searched the cabinet for a flashlight or candle while quietly counting to calm herself.
One Mississippi.
She wouldn’t think about the elevator.
Two Mississippi.
And how she’d gone in although something said she shouldn’t.
Three Mississippi.
And she’d almost been…

She nearly screamed when a warm, solid hand wrapped around her forearm and pulled her close. “Breathe, Claudia.”

“I’m all right,” she said, although her shrill voice said otherwise.

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m cold.”

“I’ll get the candles.”

“But—”

“I know where things are. It will be faster if I do it.”

He was right. Claudia let him lead her to the sofa then stopped. “Wait. I can’t sit down.”

“Why not?”

“I’m wet.”

Peter seemed to stumble over his words for a second then said, “So what?” He gently pushed her onto the couch. “You’ll dry.”

She sat and folded her arms. She was going to be fine. She was in a safe environment. No one was going to hurt her. Not like last time. She had to focus. She turned her gaze to the rain-soaked moonlight, but it cast a weak glow as it filtered through the window, so she focused on the sound of the rain.

“How long have the lights been out?” she asked, again anxious to know where he was.

“About twenty minutes. They’re working on them now. Fortunately, the lightning has stopped.”

“Where is everyone?”

“The crew is in the villa next door.”

“So it’s just us?”

“Yep.”

Claudia wrung her hands together, feeling on edge. Just hearing his voice was enough to cast a spell. And in the dark it was dangerously intimate, and that was something she didn’t want. Not with him. She tried to imagine him as he was now. She knew he hadn’t changed much in eight years. She’d seen his latest photo in a national men’s magazine. He had looked attractive and cocky, wearing a crisp light blue shirt and gray tweed jacket that complemented his toffee-colored skin and imposing dark eyes. He’d looked handsome, boyish
and
charming. The type of guy men could trust and women thought they could tame.

But in real life he was a lot more dangerous. A photo couldn’t capture his virile, rugged strength and magnetism. He looked uncomplicated but she knew that behind his seductive smile was a dark, complicated man few people really knew. But he was off-limits to her. She didn’t want to remember when he hadn’t been.

“You’re still shivering.”

“I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth.

Claudia jumped when a large, soft vellum blanket wrapped around her. She hadn’t heard him move. “Thanks,” she said, feeling awkward. Why was he being nice to her?

As if he’d read her thoughts, he said, “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Hmm.”

“We couldn’t have the show without you.”

Claudia’s wariness subsided. At least she knew it wasn’t personal. She was a commodity. That made sense. This was the way it needed to be. It had to be.

She heard Peter set something on the coffee table. Then he lit a candle and she breathed a sigh of relief as light pushed away the darkness. She felt the cushion shift as he sat down beside her. The faint scent of his cologne drifted toward her, reminding her of jasmine. She glanced at him, not wanting to appear overeager to see his face. He was still mostly in shadow, but the flickering candle flame highlighted his strong jaw and sensuous mouth. He hadn’t put on a shirt, but just as she’d guessed, he was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans.

“Here,” he said.

Claudia felt a soft package placed in her hands.

“It’s a sandwich.”

“Thank you.”

Claudia unwrapped the sandwich from its plastic encasing then bit in with gusto, too famished to be dainty. “Mmm, a BLT with extra mayo. My favorite.”

“I know.”

He would. It was his, too. She swallowed hard. Why couldn’t he let the past stay buried? What was he up to? She glanced down at the sandwich. Was she eating his dinner?

“I bought two at the airport. Don’t worry, I’ve already eaten.”

Unnerved by how easily he could read her, Claudia squeezed the sandwich until mayonnaise oozed out the sides. Even back then he’d been able to pierce her thoughts like no other man.

“You might as well finish it since you’re still hungry.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Reading my thoughts.”

He turned to her and grinned. “You used to think it was romantic.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Peter shrugged. “I’m hardly a mind reader. Otherwise—” He stopped and his grin dimmed. He turned away.

Claudia took another bite, determined not to force him to finish what he was about to say, although part of her wanted him to.
Otherwise what?
They would have been married? Las Vegas wouldn’t have happened?

“We’ve always had a strange connection, that’s all. You can read me as easily as I read you.”

He was only partially right. They did have a connection, but she hadn’t been able to read him as well. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have let him break her heart.

She looked at him again, sensing he was lost in thought as he stared at something in the distance. In the past she would have asked him what he was thinking. Back then every thought, feeling or mood he had was important to her, but now she didn’t care.

She dabbed her mouth with a napkin he’d given her. “You don’t have to stay here with me.”

Peter sent her a look but didn’t reply. He stretched out his legs.

To someone else he might have looked relaxed, but Claudia knew he wasn’t. She sensed he was waiting for something. What, she couldn’t guess. It had nothing to do with the power outage; it was more instinctual, predatory and patient.

Peter was his most formidable when he was patient, because he was a man of movement. Always in motion, he could cook, watch TV and hold a conversation all at the same time. But when he concentrated on a goal, he expected a specific outcome that always landed in his favor.

“Are you expecting someone?” she asked him, trying to gauge his mood.

His gaze slid to her face. “Not anymore.”

Claudia finished her sandwich then rubbed her hands together. Somehow the darkness didn’t seem as frightening as the man beside her. But she was a professional. She’d dealt with drug-addicted surgeons and crisis-driven top executives. She would handle him by being cool and detached from the situation. Emotions altered objectivity. Perhaps he was
also
uncomfortable with the situation. She would put him at ease and then take control.

“Congratulations on your last book and your radio show,” she said, making sure her voice was suitably impressed. “I’m so happy you’ve done so well for yourself.”

A bitter smile touched Peter’s mouth. “Don’t even try that with me, Claudia. You know better than that.”

She stiffened, feeling caught and exposed, but quickly hid her emotions behind defensiveness. “I was only trying to have a conversation.”

“By treating me as one of your patients? Do I look that stupid?”

“I don’t have patients anymore.” She sighed fiercely. “This isn’t going to work. In less than an hour we’re already getting on each other’s nerves.” She looked at him. “Why did you say yes to this show, anyway?”

He continued to stare at something else. “Why did you?”

“Opportunity, money, exposure.”

He nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“At least no one knows about us.” Few people knew about their relationship, and even fewer knew about their rash decision to meet in Las Vegas and get married. “That’s a relief, don’t you think?”

He ignored the question and stood. “I have another reason why I’m here.”

“What is it?”

He took her hand and lifted her to her feet. “I wanted to see you again.”

Claudia’s heart began to race. “Why?”

He showed her. His mouth covered hers, stirring feelings of longing she hadn’t realized were still there. Years floated away, and in an instant she was a med student again, in love with a man she’d known only a few weeks. A man who made her laugh and feel beautiful. Who believed in her. Claudia closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the special allure of the past.

His warm, wet lips called to the core emptiness in her, uncovering a hollowness she’d been desperate to keep hidden. It scared her how he made her feel vulnerable, but fear was quickly banished by ecstasy. Then, just as quickly as he’d started his sensual assault, he abruptly stopped and drew away. Claudia opened her eyes, startled by his sudden change, then noticed the electricity had returned. The lights blazed bright, causing her to squint against the glare. Her eyes surveyed her surroundings.

And what she saw was thirty-three hundred square feet of absolute elegance. The villa had floor-to-ceiling solid glass, and screen doors which faced the ocean and retracted into hidden pockets, creating a complete open-air living experience.

The interior design consisted of inlaid mosaic tile floors in the entryway, polished dark mahogany and rosewood floors and cabinets, ceilings outlined with mahogany trim, bamboo handrails, and in the kitchen sea-foam green marble counters. The walls were a mix of soothing natural colors with Hawaiian Print wallpaper, and in the living area were silky handwoven Tibetan area rugs and imported leather and Italian furnishings.

Then her eyes moved to the tall man in front of her. Yes, he was still gorgeous, with silky dark brows and lashes and eyes smoldering with desire so evident her throat went dry.

Peter shook his head, reading her face. “Don’t think of running away from me. We have unfinished business.”

“That business ended years ago.”

He moved in closer and brushed his thumb against her lower lip. “You really think so?”

Claudia turned her face away from his touch. “Yes. What just happened was a release of tension after a highly stressful situation. Nothing more.” She folded her arms, trying to create some distance. “I was anxious about the lights being off, and it was an adequate diversion.”

“But the lights are now on.”

“I know that.”

Peter glanced at her arms, then her face. “And you’re still scared.” He winked. “Night, Claudia.” He turned on his heel and left.

Claudia watched him disappear into his bedroom, amazed by how easily he’d gotten past her guard. She knew she’d need all her strength to fight him, but that wouldn’t be tonight. She sank back into the couch and buried her head in her hands.

“T
he camera loves her, but she’s going to cost us money.”

They were on location shooting a scene in the villa. The weather was perfect as the camera crew moved about.

Peter looked over at the producer, Frank Brady, a compact man with a bald head, an eye for detail and an uncanny ability for stating the obvious. He’d been working with Frank for the past five years. Frank had known him before his fame when Peter used to create documentaries for public and cable television, traveling the world to give voice to the voiceless. They’d gotten malaria together; he’d been at Frank’s wedding and commiserated with him through Frank’s divorce. Peter credited Frank as the man behind his fame.

Peter’s bestselling book
Your Bed or Mine?: Tips from the Ultimate Bachelor
had started out as a dare when Frank was tallying up his legal fees after the breakup of his three-year marriage.

“I didn’t know a divorce would cost this much,” Frank had said, spreading papers out on the dining table. He was staying at Peter’s expansive bachelor pad while he tried to get his life back in order. Peter came from money, although he never talked about it. He let Frank stay with him rent free and wouldn’t discuss payment of any kind. Frank was glad, because he needed all the money he could get. His ex-wife had ended up with the house (Frank hated the rambler, anyway), the dog (a purebred Pomeranian named Zou Zou) and all the china (what the hell did he need expensive china for, anyway?). They had split the rest.

“That’s the price you pay for dreaming,” Peter said as he lay on the couch and flipped through the TV channels.

Frank looked up from his bills. “What?”

“Weddings, marriage. They’re all a big fantasy meant to prevent us from seeing the truth.”

Frank rested his arms on the table, curious. “Which is?”

“If you want to stay happy, you don’t get married.”

“I had to get married.”

Peter shook his head. “No, you didn’t.”

“But she wanted to get married. I would have lost her otherwise.”

“You believed that you would.” He held up his forefinger. “That was your first mistake. Never let a woman know your fear, or she has the upper hand. She sold you a myth that you paid for. Ultimatums are manipulations. I never fall for them.”

“But I loved her.”

“And you told her, right?”

“Yes.”

Peter shook his head. “That was your second mistake. There are only three times to tell a woman you love her. In the heat of passion (few women take that declaration seriously, so you can retract later), when you don’t mean it (just to see what she thinks of the relationship) or three, when you want something.”

“Like what?”

Peter sat up. “Say you’ve been seeing a woman for three months and she’s still skittish. You tell her that you love her, and in an instant—” he snapped his fingers “—you’re in. She feels special and safe with you.”

“Isn’t that cruel?”

“No. You can love a lot of things without being stuck with it forever, and don’t be fooled—women play the same game. Tamika said she loved you, too, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re sleeping in my guest bedroom. Most women care about the ring more than the man. Again, it’s about not falling for the myth. The moment a woman knows your weakness, you’re a lost man.”

“But if you really love a woman…”

“You remind yourself that there’s always someone better. And if that doesn’t work, remember the definition of love by Ambrose Bierce:
‘Love: a temporary insanity, curable by marriage.’
”

Frank sat back and shook his head. “You don’t really believe that. You were the best man at my wedding! You were the one who gave a speech that left half the women in tears.”

“I know how to be sentimental.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“Because you wouldn’t have believed me. Back then you were blinded by love. Now your eyesight has been restored.”

Frank folded his arms. “Haven’t you ever been in love?”

Peter paused. “Once.”

Frank waited, but when Peter didn’t expand on his answer, he shook his head again and gave a low whistle. “She must have been some woman to turn you off love completely.”

“I believe in love. I just don’t believe in forever.”

Frank rubbed his chin. “Everything you’ve said sounds nice in theory, but if you want a good woman…”

“You don’t have to get married to have a good woman. I have had my fair share.”

“But you’re different.”

“No. I know the traps, and I avoid them. I plan to stay a bachelor for life.”

“Impossible.”

“I could show you how.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s easy. There are key modes of operation that a man must follow in order to stay free. Here are a few pointers. The best women for great sex are divorced women. They have something to prove and aren’t ready to ‘settle down.’ Avoid women with small children. They deserve someone stable and committed—that’s not going to be you. And…what are you doing?” Peter asked when he noticed Frank writing something down.

“I’m taking notes. This stuff is good.”

So he talked and Frank wrote. For weeks they worked on the book. Then when they were through, they stared at the computer screen where Frank had cleaned up his notes.

“What should we call it?” Frank asked.

They brainstormed different titles then decided on
Your Bed or Mine?: Tips from the Ultimate Bachelor.

Frank hit Print and watched the pages pile up. “This is going to make you a fortune.”

“It was just for fun.”

But Frank disagreed. Without Peter knowing, he acted as his agent, typed up a marketing plan and sent out Peter’s photo, along with the manuscript. Publishers scrambled to buy it. Frank sold it to the one he thought would do the best job of promotion and distribution. Once the book hit the market, it was an instant bestseller and shot to the top of
The New York Times
list. It led to guest appearances on TV talk shows, covers of magazines, a radio talk show and a weekly online column. Peter wanted to share the credit, but Frank refused, preferring to stay in the background. “I just typed the book,” he said. “You wrote it.” When the book’s second edition came out, it reached number two in
Publishers Weekly.
The number one spot was held by Claudia’s book. That’s when his plan was born.

During this period, Peter used his connection with industry insiders to negotiate a way to turn the two books into a television series. He wanted to see Claudia again, because she was more than unfinished business: she was his ultimate challenge. The woman who’d gotten away and almost destroyed him. He still couldn’t remember what he’d done the two weeks after she’d jilted him. The last thing he remembered after returning to the apartment they’d shared and finding all her things gone was going to the local liquor store to buy a bottle of scotch.

The next thing he remembered was waking up in a Sudanese hospital, getting a bullet removed from his arm. He discovered he’d accepted an assignment to film the warring factions in the western region of the Sudan. Peter didn’t remember accepting the job or anything prior to that moment, so he decided then to stop drinking. But he didn’t stop taking risks. Instead of embarking on the radio career he and Claudia had talked about, he decided to stay behind the camera and not use the voice she admired.

Once released from the hospital, he finished his assignment, then filmed a documentary about a brothel in India and the ongoing problem of child slavery in countries where it is still being practiced. The possibility of death didn’t scare him. Fear was better than the pain he felt.

But once he’d returned to the States and completed the book with Frank, he realized he wanted to face Claudia. His determination grew when he saw her on a TV show one day sharing how men make wonderful “accessories.” He wanted to show her that this man wasn’t going to accept being tossed away. He now had that chance. He was coming full circle, back to his roots in TV and to the woman who’d broken his heart.

Peter looked over at Claudia as her makeup artist touched up her foundation. That was one thing he’d never had to deal with before—a makeup artist. Fortunately, Ashley Leroy was good and efficient—meaning she fit their budget. She made Claudia look fabulous, which wasn’t difficult. Claudia had a gentle, exquisite beauty. She was tall, with a willowy figure, just a little meatier than those rail-thin models one sees on the runway, with a perfect set of size 36Bs and a great pair of legs. Her medium-length hair was cut in a fashionable style, framing her face and emphasizing her almond eyes and slightly turned-up nose. But her most alluring feature was her perfectly formed lips. Her rosebud top lip was smaller and darker than her full, fleshy bottom lip, and it always looked kissable no matter if she was wearing lipstick or just lip gloss.

Unfortunately, scheduling was critical, and they were nearly two days off because Claudia kept getting her cues wrong and forgetting her lines. And when she did get her lines right, she sounded stiff and rehearsed. If he didn’t do something soon, Peter knew he was about to see years of effort disappear like a soap bubble.

He knew he was to blame. The kiss two days ago had rattled her. That hadn’t been his intention. He hadn’t even planned to kiss her. He’d rehearsed how nonchalant he’d be when he finally saw her again. He’d take his time and let her simmer until he was ready to turn up the heat. He would be slow, steady and patient. She wouldn’t know she was his until there was no turning back. It was the perfect strategy.

And it would have worked if the lights hadn’t gone out. That changed everything. Suddenly, in the darkness, his senses were on high alert. It was instinctual—a result of his experiences in the dark forests of Russia to when he’d gotten caught in the cross fire of warring ethnic tribes in a remote village in Gambia. The night could be dangerous, and you were only one of two things—prey or predator. He knew his prey, and that made him more attune to her. When she’d stepped through the door, the first thing he heard was the sound of her earrings and bracelets, clinking together like a wind chime, followed by the sound of her heels clicking against the tile.

The scent of her floral perfume came next: a heady mix of passion fruit and vanilla, which reminded him of how she used to smell after a shower, leaving the steamy bathroom behind her. But he’d steeled himself from that memory, determined not to be distracted. He had to maintain a calculated distance, but that night her fear of the darkness shattered his resolve. It was a weakness he had yet to master. Her fear had always been a trigger for him, and it still was. That’s when he’d made his mistake and touched her. The feel of her damp skin sent an electric shock of awareness through him. When she’d refused to sit because her clothes were wet, he had to steel himself from acting on his impulse to pull them off her.

But the image stayed, even though he covered her with a blanket. He thought of her wet body underneath, pictured the fabric of her blouse clinging to her chest and imagined being a raindrop sliding down her stomach and disappearing in her panties…

He managed to stay in check. He was determined not to sacrifice years of preparation for an impulsive desire. And it would have been fine if Claudia hadn’t used her clinical tone with him. That’s when he didn’t care about risking his plan. His only goal was to make her as aware of him as he was of her. His kiss made it certain. Her voice may have been neutral, but her body wasn’t. He could sense how quickly she responded to him, and it was an intoxicating drug.

He’d had to use all his strength to pull away and keep his gaze on her face instead of the outline her bra made through her still-damp shirt. But the moment he left her, he knew he’d made a tactical error. He shouldn’t have kissed her so soon. He should have waited a few days. Because of his haste, he couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of her lips, the touch of her hand on his chest, silently begging her to go lower. The attraction was stronger than he’d expected, but he wouldn’t let it rule him.

He was going to prove that he was completely over her by using every trick in the book that had made him famous. This time he’d be the one to walk away.

But he had to fix his current problem. He’d come on too strong, which wasn’t like him. He wanted Claudia to be aware, but not at this price. It was bad for business, and he needed this show to work. Few knew that he was the money behind Frank’s production company, Productions Unlimited Inc. It was only one of his investments in an industry filled with risk. His father thought he was wasting his time, but he would show him. If this show was a hit, Peter knew he’d be able to segue into other projects that mattered to him and use his celebrity status to raise money to fight curable childhood diseases.

But right now he had to make his selection of the cohost, Claudia Madison, work. Luckily, the screen lit up every time the camera had her in view. She had the perfect “it” factor, a special innate quality that drew viewers to her. From her bob haircut and lithe body, to her dazzling smile and bright brown eyes, she gave a person the feeling that good times were ahead. That was the quality he’d fallen in love with all those years ago.

Peter looked away and frowned. Thank God he wasn’t still in love with her. His love for her had made him as weak and pliable as wet cardboard. She’d used it to her advantage to humiliate him. He was glad they hadn’t married. He would have been miserable. He hadn’t known who she really was until that night in the Las Vegas chapel where she’d left him standing at the altar. He’d waited there for hours, called her cell phone until his battery went dead while he sat in a pew watching other couples start a life together as his fell apart.

But he wouldn’t think about that now. She wouldn’t hurt him again, and he would make sure this project worked.

Peter patted Frank on the back. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“But—”

“Do you trust me?”

“Certainly,” Frank said with some apprehension. “But—”