Her Man Upstairs (14 page)

“Then I guess I don't have to tell you what you've been doing is probably actionable,” Cole said evenly.

“It was personal. I've apologized and explained to the lady.”

“He has, Cole, and I understand. Really, I do.” She patted James Merchison on the hand. “If I were you and I were looking for Beau, I'd cruise on up to Atlantic City. Or anywhere there's gambling.”

The three of them rejoined the party in time to fill paper plates with everything from stewed goose and dumplings to barbecue, to grilled tuna and crab cakes. Beverages ranged from soft drinks to beer to gallon jugs of white liquor of the no-questions-asked variety.

While Cole worked his way closer to the musicians, Marty cornered Faylene to compliment her on her new hairstyle, which was more Farrah Faucett than Dolly Parton.

“Law heppus, if this wind don't let up, I'm gonna get me one o' them WeedEater cuts. Whatcha think of that feller over there with the Mercedes for Miss Lily? She's some taller, but some men like that in a woman.”

 

It was long past midnight when they got home. Neither of them questioned the fact that Cole would be spending the night there; otherwise he'd have suggested that they drive separately. For the past few hours they had mingled, sometimes separately, sometimes together. Cole had wandered over to talk to the musicians, but even across the room she'd felt his gaze return to her again and again, his eyes glowing with a message she was almost afraid to interpret for fear she'd get it wrong.

Looking around her house now as she shed her coat, she shook her head. “It still comes as a shock when I see the chaos. Can you believe I used to be compulsively neat?”

“Yeah, I can believe it.”

His smile held sympathy and more understanding than she was ready to accept.

“You want a nightcap?”

“After that feast? I don't think so.”

“I don't, either.”

And then neither of them could think of anything to say. Marty reminded herself that she'd lived with the man—well, practically lived with him—for a week. They had shared meals and dog-walks and shopping; she had introduced him to her friends, argued with him and even fired him.

She had made love to him, for heaven's sake.

So why was she acting like an idiot? Why was she quaking inside? Was she afraid he was going to tell her goodnight and drive all the way back to the marina?

“Look, do you want to go to bed, or not?” she blurted. “With me, I mean. You can always sleep on the sofa. It's a mess in there, but I can give you a pillow and a blanket and—”

He hushed her with a finger over her lips. His eyes were laughing. At her, or with her?

Oh, Lord, you'd think she'd eventually learn, wouldn't you?

Upstairs, Cole helped her hang up the clothing she'd left scattered across the bed. Then he undressed her, carefully easing her turtleneck sweater over her head.

“Sorry I messed up your hair. It looked pretty, but I like it the way you usually wear it, too.” He was so close she
could feel the heat of his body through the navy flannel and whatever he wore under it.

When he stood her up again and unbuttoned the waistband of her slacks she noticed how unsteady his hands were. “You don't have to do this,” she whispered. Whispered because she couldn't seem to breathe properly.

“Yeah, I do. Measure twice, cut once. It's an old carpenter's saying.”

She clutched his shoulder and stepped out of her slacks. “You're not all that old,” she teased, but she knew what he meant. The evidence was…well, evident. Aroused all the way up to his belt buckle, he was taking his time with the preliminaries, doing his best not to rush.

His own clothes came off quickly, though. Khaki, flannel and cotton knit, tossed at a chair, half of it falling to the floor. Marty pulled out her box of condoms and took one—and then another one. And then a third. Just in case. Sooner or later they were going to have to talk.

Or not.

Color stained his angular cheeks. His hands trembled, but there was nothing at all hurried or unsure about his kisses. Slowly, he explored her mouth, his tongue dueling with hers, then thrusting in a seductive promise of things to come. He kissed her eyelids, her ears, suckling the lobes. The moment his lips found that sensitive place at the side of her throat, she sucked in her breath, goose bumps racing in waves down her flanks.

“I…can't…wait,” she managed to whisper when his tongue traced a pattern around her nipple. While her fists flailed the sheets and her head moved from side to side on the pillow, he proceeded to drive her wild, first with his hands, then with his lips and his tongue.

“I need you…now!” she whispered fiercely. If he would just come inside her and ease this intolerable ache he'd created, then she might survive. Otherwise, there were no guarantees.

“You don't know how much I've wanted this,” he said in a raspy voice, nipping her belly with soft ferocity. “I've waited all night—all day—all week.”

He aligned her underneath him. As if they'd done it a thousand times, her toes pushed against his, then her knees lifted to clasp his hips and she breathed in the clean musky scent of his body. She felt the tip of him move intimately against her.

He hesitated. “Tell me what you want,” he said, lifting his head so that he could watch her reaction.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. After years of thinking of herself as lukewarm in matters pertaining to sex, in a single night this man had turned her into a woman she didn't even recognize. A woman who was daring and desirable, a creature of her own fantasy with a fantasy lover all her own.

“I don't know,” she wailed helplessly. Unfortunately, her fantasy was circumscribed by her own lack of experience.

Kneeling over her, Cole took her hand in his and carried it to his chest. She felt the diamond pattern of crisp dark hair that arrowed down to his waist and below. Slowly, he moved her palm over his small hard male nipples, then guided it lower, to where he wanted her attention.

She gave it freely, lovingly, testing his powers of resistance and her own powers to arouse—first with feathery fingertip caresses, then with the judicious use of fingernails. Finally—irresistibly—with a lingering series of kisses that brought him to a state near catatonia.

“God in heaven, woman, what are you trying to do, cripple me for life?”

“How'm I doing so far?” She teased him with a smile.

“You need to ask?”

He moved away abruptly, and she remembered the small, important packets on the bedside table. A moment later, he turned to her again. This time, instead of positioning himself over her, he settled back against the headboard and lifted her astride his thighs. “All right?” he murmured. His hands cupped her breasts while his tongue made love to her nipples.

Moments later they were both breathing harshly, quivering on the edge of the precipice. He cupped her hips and lifted her again, this time positioning her perfectly. It was like setting a torch to dry grass. Together they set a pace that could only be described as fast, frantic and furious. All too quickly, she felt herself flying over the top, heard the series of soft, wild cries that issued from her throat.

And then she collapsed against his chest, her head on his shoulder. Eventually they toppled together onto the bed. Cool air gradually chilled the perspiration on both their bodies, not that either of them noticed.

At some point before morning, one of them—later, neither could remember doing it—managed to pull up the covers.

The first thing Marty saw when a shaft of spring-scented sunshine found its way into the room was the two unused condoms on the bedside table. Cole was watching her, his expression a little cocky, a little wary. “Waste not, want not?” he suggested.

“Um…measure twice, cut once?” she returned.

“Ouch. I'm not sure I like the sound of that.”

She grinned. “It's your saying.”

“Yeah, well, I can't think of one that fits the circumstances, so how about if I make one up for the occasion?”

“Does it have anything to do with food? Because I missed out on dessert last night, and I'm hungry.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his streaky-blond hair standing on end, dark bristles covering the lower half of his face. “Yeah, me, too. But first, tell me this—have you got any objection to being proposed to over bacon and eggs?”

Her heart stuttered, skipped a beat and began to pound. “That depends on what you're proposing,” she said cautiously.

“Because I can do it just as well over waffles, even the frozen kind, if you'd rather.”

She recognized the glint in his eyes now. “Does this have anything to do with your contract?”

He nodded. “Manner of speaking, I guess it does. See, what I'm after is an extension. Maybe fifty years or so, with an exclusivity clause.”

She pretended to think about it while she fought against the absurd urge to cry. She'd had moonlight and roses. She'd had candlelight and French cuisine. None of those had lasted. She had a feeling this was the real deal—finally.

“Bacon and eggs sounds, um, reasonable,” she ventured.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

They were still bare from the waist up, covered only by a yellow print sheet and a quilted spread from the waist down. “What are you waiting for? You want me to go first?”

Well, she did and she didn't. Talk of fifty-year contracts
was scary enough; she would prefer a bit of plain-speaking before she jumped to any conclusions. “I want to know if you've got the courage to say it in plain English.”

“You mean the L word? As in lust?”

She had to laugh, because they both knew which L word she'd meant. And then he said it—the right L word—and her throat thickened up again with tears. Oh, God, she hated it when her emotions took over this way. What had happened to the pragmatic Virgo who always followed the rules and tried to stay out of trouble?

“Cole, you might as well know that I never rush into things. I'm far too practical for that.”

He lifted one dark eyebrow. She rolled her eyes.

“Okay, maybe ‘practical' isn't the right word, but I do know better than to act on impulse.”

This time his other eyebrow lifted.

She gave up. “All right! But there's a lot about me you don't know. Such as I never—that is, I usually don't…rush into things. Honestly.”

“Gotcha. We take it easy, get to know each other—you tell me all your bad habits, I gloss over mine.” His smile was purely wicked.

She swatted him, and he laughed. “You want to hear it again?”

“Hear what again?”

“The L word?” he teased.

She shook her head, her heart too full for words. She knew the difference between loving and falling in love. One was permanent. The other was all too often an illusion.

She suffered from both.

But when she saw him reach across to the bedside table, she had to laugh, too.

“How hungry did you say you were?” he asked.

“Not all
that
hungry. Not for food, at least.”

His eyes said it all. “That's my woman. My Marty. My love.”