Authors: Lori Foster,Deirdre Martin,Elizabeth Bevarly,Christie Ridgway
Tags: #Erotic Stories; American, #Man-Woman Relationships, #Mate Selection, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Short Stories
Double the Heat (29 page)
Amanda hesitated—probably because she was trying to come up with an excuse to say no that didn’t involve work, Max thought—then, with clear reluctance, nodded. “Just let me get dressed.”
He started to tell her not to bother, that he’d never seen her looking better than she did wearing what she had on at the moment, but he managed—just in time—to keep his jaw clamped shut. First off, saying something like that would be sure to send this new side of Amanda back into her shell. Not that he cared, of course. And second, flirting with Amanda Bingham would be like flirting with Dwight Schrute.
So how come Max wasn’t gagging the way he would be if Dwight Schrute were in the room wearing wispy, flowery PJs? And then washing his eyes out with soap and water to remove what an image like that would involve?
He pushed all those thoughts away and said, halfheartedly, “Yeah, and I’ll throw on a shirt.”
But it wasn’t halfhearted because he regretted ever asking Amanda to join him for breakfast, which should have been the case. Instead, it was halfhearted because he didn’t want to throw on a shirt. On the contrary, he suddenly wanted to shed what clothes he had on and go back to bed. Only he didn’t want to go back to bed alone. He wanted to take Amanda with him. And he wanted to shed what clothes she had on too.
He told himself it was only because of his early-morning boner, that any woman would look good to a man who woke up aroused. Yeah, that must be it. No other explanation made sense. Especially the one that was suddenly trying to worm its way into his brain.
That maybe, just maybe, Kate had been right about him and Amanda.
Five
Why had he invited her to breakfast? Amanda wondered as she watched Max drag the last bite of his bacon through a puddle of leftover pancake syrup and tuck it into his mouth. And why had she accepted in the first place, when she
should
be scarfing down a muffin while huddled over her laptop keyboard, doing the work she promised Mr. Hoberman she’d have finished by this afternoon? Why was Max being nice to her? Why was she being nice to him? They’d actually managed to share an entire meal together without him calling her a corporate collective peon or her calling him a flag-waving jingoist from Macholand. And why had she put on a pale yellow sundress and taken care to brush and rebraid her hair just to go to breakfast, when she could have just thrown on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and left her hair sleep-scattered?
should
be scarfing down a muffin while huddled over her laptop keyboard, doing the work she promised Mr. Hoberman she’d have finished by this afternoon? Why was Max being nice to her? Why was she being nice to him? They’d actually managed to share an entire meal together without him calling her a corporate collective peon or her calling him a flag-waving jingoist from Macholand. And why had she put on a pale yellow sundress and taken care to brush and rebraid her hair just to go to breakfast, when she could have just thrown on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and left her hair sleep-scattered?
But more important than any of those things, why couldn’t she take her eyes off the tiny smudge of syrup at the corner of his mouth that he seemed to be completely unaware of? Why did she want so badly to reach across the table and wipe it away with her thumb or, even worse, some other body part—and maybe one of his body parts too? Maybe even
more
than one of his body parts. Maybe
lots
of his body parts. And lots of her body parts. All mingling together. In a tangle of hot, passionate . . . earthy, erotic . . . steamy, sweaty . . .
more
than one of his body parts. Maybe
lots
of his body parts. And lots of her body parts. All mingling together. In a tangle of hot, passionate . . . earthy, erotic . . . steamy, sweaty . . .
Uh . . . She meant . . . um . . .
Suddenly feeling the need to do something with her hands—something that didn’t involve
any
of Max’s body parts—she glanced surreptitiously at her watch. And she was surprised to realize it was the first time she’d even wondered about the time since the two of them left the condo. She was even more surprised to realize they’d been gone for more than two hours.
any
of Max’s body parts—she glanced surreptitiously at her watch. And she was surprised to realize it was the first time she’d even wondered about the time since the two of them left the condo. She was even more surprised to realize they’d been gone for more than two hours.
“Dammit,” she hissed when she saw the time.
“What?”
“I need to get back to—” She halted herself before finishing with the word
work
, and quickly amended, “—the condo.”
work
, and quickly amended, “—the condo.”
“Why?” he asked, grinning in a way that made a glint of sunlight wink off the speck of syrup. Thankfully, just as Amanda was about to lose her battle to reach across the table, he turned his head toward the ocean so that the syrup was out of sight. “I mean, look at this day. It’s gorgeous. Not a cloud in the sky.”
He turned to look at her again, his smile still sweet with syrup, and she made herself shove her hands under her thighs. But the victory was short-lived, because the breeze kicked up, blowing open the placket of his gaudy red Hawaiian shirt to reveal a tanned, luscious-looking collarbone beneath, and nudging a thick strand of mahogany hair over his forehead. The backdrop of cobalt ocean and sapphire sky made his blue eyes even more startling than before: clearer, deeper, more expressive. And when he grinned, it was one of those crooked, spontaneous grins Amanda had always reluctantly found charming, the ones that surfaced roguish dimples on each cheek . . .
Well. Suffice it to say her hands really wanted to be somewhere other than under her butt. Like maybe under his—
“Why don’t we take a walk on the beach?” he asked suddenly.
She wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d suggested they build an atomic bomb. Walk along the beach? With Max? A man who, until forced into contact yesterday, had done his best to avoid her and whom she’d done her best to avoid? A man with whom she shared nothing in common save a double-booked condo for the week? A man who hadn’t had anything to say to her from the day she met him in freshman English except to tease her relentlessly because of her good grades, her conscientious work ethic, and her desire to get into an Ivy League college?
He
wanted to walk along the beach with
her
? Just how much vodka did this place pour into their bloody Marys?
wanted to walk along the beach with
her
? Just how much vodka did this place pour into their bloody Marys?
“Uh . . .” she began, stretching the word over several time zones in an effort to stall while she formed an answer. Not that she had an answer for a question like that at the moment. “I can’t,” she finally said.
She told herself she only imagined that he looked disappointed by her answer. “Why not?”
She sighed her surrender. There was no way around it. If she said it fast, maybe it wouldn’t sound like she needed to work. “There are some things I have to do for Mr. Hoberman by the end of the workday.”
Now Max was the one to sigh. Only his sounded more like exasperation than surrender. “Oh, come on, Amanda. At least take a morning for yourself. Haven’t you been having a nice time up ’til now? I know I have. We should take advantage of an armistice like this while we can. It doesn’t happen often.”
He sounded as surprised by their sudden camaraderie as she felt, but it was true. Although she never in a million years would have guessed that she and Max Callahan could get along for two minutes, let alone two hours, they had indeed been having a nice time. Oh, sure, there had been a couple of lively exchanges during breakfast, along with the occasional raised voice when they’d disagreed on some topic. But unlike those times when they disagreed at home, their words had been civil and thoughtful, and the voices hadn’t been shrill or exasperated. And they’d actually taken turns listening—
listening!
—to each other before offering a counterpoint to what was said.
listening!
—to each other before offering a counterpoint to what was said.
“You can’t work like this all week,” he added. “You’re on vacation.”
“Why do you keep reminding me of that?” she demanded hotly.
“Because you keep forgetting,” he fired back.
“Yeah, well, like you always say, Max, I’m nothing but a corporate drone. I have no life because I’m so focused on my work. And I’m the loudest suck-up you’ve ever heard,” she concluded with more emphasis than was really necessary, since he’d been saying that just a couple of hours ago.
To hammer that point home, she lifted her bloody Mary—sans vodka, naturally, since she had to work—and slurped what little was left with as much gusto and noise as she could.
Instead of responding, Max only gazed at her in sullen silence. But then, what could he say? She’d only repeated, pretty much verbatim, what he’d always said to her before. So she stood, rifled through her purse for a handful of bills, and tossed them onto the table without even bothering to count them out.
“That’s to cover my share of breakfast,” she muttered. “I’ll take a cab back. You can take a walk. I’m sure you’ll find
some
one to keep you company.”
Someone,
she added to herself,
who has about as much work ethic as you. Someone whose job doesn’t depend on being available to their boss 24/7.
some
one to keep you company.”
Someone,
she added to herself,
who has about as much work ethic as you. Someone whose job doesn’t depend on being available to their boss 24/7.
As if cued by the thought, a curvy, bronzed blonde who was squeezed, just barely, into a teeny bikini and not-so-long sarong sauntered by their table, deliberately—Amanda was certain it was deliberate—brushing Max’s shoulder with her hip.
“Oh,excuseme,”shegiggled.Truly.Shegiggledthewords,something Amanda thought happened only in badly written novels.
“No problem,” Max said automatically. But he was looking at Amanda when he spoke, something that made her wonder if he was talking to the blonde or to her.
The blonde didn’t seem to realize, either, because she glanced back at Amanda, apparently expecting to see a worthy adversary with whom she would have to fight for Max’s attention. One look at Amanda’s face, however, and the blonde smiled a smug, victorious smile. Obviously, she didn’t think Amanda would be any competition at all.
But Amanda wasn’t competition, was she? Not only was she nowhere near as beautiful as the other woman, nor as curvy, and not only did she not have the know-how to deal with men that the blonde clearly had in abundance, Amanda wasn’t the sort of woman Max liked anyway. Which was good, because Max wasn’t her type either. It didn’t matter how well they’d gotten along over breakfast. It didn’t matter how much she still wanted to swipe away that syrup in an earthy, erotic . . . hot, sweaty—
The blonde made a soft
tsk
ing sound and bent over Max. Waaaaaay over, enough that her teeny bikini top became a gravitational necessity if she didn’t want to be arrested by the decency police. “You have a little smidgey of syrup on your mouth,” she said, giggling the words again. And then, as Amanda watched helplessly, she lifted a perfectly manicured hand to trace her thumb softly over the corner of Max’s mouth, making the swiping of syrup look like something from a pornographic movie.
tsk
ing sound and bent over Max. Waaaaaay over, enough that her teeny bikini top became a gravitational necessity if she didn’t want to be arrested by the decency police. “You have a little smidgey of syrup on your mouth,” she said, giggling the words again. And then, as Amanda watched helplessly, she lifted a perfectly manicured hand to trace her thumb softly over the corner of Max’s mouth, making the swiping of syrup look like something from a pornographic movie.
Unbelievable, Amanda thought. If she’d tried to do that when she wanted to, she probably would have inadvertently poked Max in the eye.
The blonde’s touch finally got his attention, which was pretty amazing, considering the fact that the gravitational pull of her bikini top hadn’t. And when he moved his gaze from Amanda’s face to hers—her face, not the two things most men would have looked at first—he smiled and said, “Thanks, sweetheart. I appreciate it.” Then he looked at Amanda again—her face, too, alas, and not the two things most men would have looked at first . . . had she had two things men might want to look at. Alas. “I don’t know why no one else bothered to let me know.” Then he turned back to the blonde. “I hate it when people would rather let you look ridiculous than help you out.”
Hoo-kay,
Amanda thought. Obviously whatever small armistice the two of them had managed to negotiate this morning was off. She wasn’t sure who had violated it first, but she supposed it didn’t matter. She and Max had never been allies. They were like those troops during World War I who had taken off Christmas Day to play soccer, but now, with the spirit of the season over, it was back to war.
Amanda thought. Obviously whatever small armistice the two of them had managed to negotiate this morning was off. She wasn’t sure who had violated it first, but she supposed it didn’t matter. She and Max had never been allies. They were like those troops during World War I who had taken off Christmas Day to play soccer, but now, with the spirit of the season over, it was back to war.
“Oh, believe me, Max,” she said. “It would take more than wiping syrup off your face to keep you from looking ridiculous.”
And with that she spun on her heel and made her way toward the interior of the restaurant. She’d ask the hostess to call a cab for her. As for Max . . .
Well, she wouldn’t ask for anything from him. Not for the rest of the week. Not for the rest of her life. Except maybe to leave her alone. Once and for all.
Max
watched Amanda until she disappeared into the restaurant’s dining room, willing her to look back, just once. But she didn’t. Not once.
watched Amanda until she disappeared into the restaurant’s dining room, willing her to look back, just once. But she didn’t. Not once.
Dammit
, he thought. Things had been going so well between them all morning. They’d been able to make it through an entire meal without sniping at each other. Even better, they’d managed to actually engage in meaningful conversation. Best of all, they’d found things to laugh about. Being away from the recollections and assumptions and expectations of their everyday lives, they’d been able to . . . to . . . to
communicate
. They’d never done that before.
, he thought. Things had been going so well between them all morning. They’d been able to make it through an entire meal without sniping at each other. Even better, they’d managed to actually engage in meaningful conversation. Best of all, they’d found things to laugh about. Being away from the recollections and assumptions and expectations of their everyday lives, they’d been able to . . . to . . . to
communicate
. They’d never done that before.
He wondered why not. And he wondered why he found it so important for them to do so now. For a long moment, he sat there trying to figure out just where and when and why he and Amanda had decided to dislike each other, until the sound of a clearing throat brought his attention back to the present. When he looked up, he saw a woman standing over him, looking at him expectantly, and it took him a few seconds to remember she was the one who had just wiped the syrup off his face. Why was she still here? Had he spilled something on his shirt too?
“Um, thank you?” he said, hoping that was the proper response.
Had she asked him a question that needed an answer? He honestly had no idea. He’d been so focused on watching Amanda—and the way the sunlight had filtered through her dress, leaving little to the imagination—that he hadn’t been aware of anything else. Though now that he was aware of the other woman, he realized her outfit left
nothing
to the imagination. It was all right there. At eye level. And there was a lot of it. Of them. Of her.
nothing
to the imagination. It was all right there. At eye level. And there was a lot of it. Of them. Of her.
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