Not the Marrying Kind (Destiny Bay Romances - Forever Yours) (11 page)

She had to try twice before she could get a word out. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she protested at last.

“Don't you?” He leaned down and planted one firm kiss on her trembling mouth. “Don't you remember what happened in your office the other day?”

She tried to shake her head in the negative, but he laughed softly. “I remember it. In fact, I haven't been able to get it out of my head for days.” He dropped another kiss on her lips, branding them with a flame as potent as a shot of cognac. “I've never seen a woman turn from ice to fire in such a short time, Shelley. You surprised me. You opened a door I didn't expect. And now I mean to take advantage of that invitation.”

CHAPTER FIVE:
 

The Chocolate-Covered Strawberry Mistake
 

“Michael!” She meant to snap the name out as a reprimand, but somehow it came out like a sighing caress instead. “Oh, Michael.”

His face was nuzzling into the curve of her neck and she felt his breath on her skin, hot and tantalizing. “Invite me again, Shelley,” he murmured. “Only this time don't pull the door closed at the last minute.”

His large hands were sliding down her back, curving around the fullness of her hips, pulling her gently against his body so that she could feel just what he was talking about, and her senses swirled in confusion. “Michael. ...”

Why couldn't she get any further than his name? She felt like a fool, knowing on one level that he was seducing her before her very eyes, so to speak, and that she should tell him firmly that she wanted no part of him, and yet totally unable to get the words out, even to force her hands to try to push him away. It was as though every part of her body were conspiring against her. Was there no one left on her side? And just what was her side anyway?

“There'll be no secretary walking in on us this time, Shelley,” he breathed against the skin of her neck. “We'll be all alone, and well be able to finish what we start.”

He raised his head, gazing into her dark eyes, his hips still pressing hers, holding her still. “What do you say, lady shrink? You ready to mess around with my psyche a little more?”

“A little more?” she managed to force out, avoiding his eyes by looking at the dark wealth of hair that curled up into the opening of his shirt. Talk. That was it. If she could carry on a conversation, maybe she could forget just what was really happening. And if she forgot, she wouldn't have to make any decisions about it, would she?
 

“How did I 'mess around' with your psyche before?”

His chuckle warmed her even more than his body did and she looked up quickly, then found herself laughing back into his eyes. “I think you know the answer to that,” he said, his hands circling her waist. “But don't let that stop you.” His hands were moving slowly, inexorably higher, rubbing along her rib cage. “Experiment with me all you want.”

Why was she laughing? She had no idea what he was talking about, but it seemed so funny anyway. The pressure of his hips against hers was sending electricity through her system, and she didn't want to think about that. Laughing was much better.

But kissing was better still. That was the conclusion she came to as his mouth covered hers again, moving softly, smoothly, deliciously over her lips, then descending into the heat of her mouth, filling her with wonder at the complexities he aroused in her.
 

How could something feel at once so warm and secure and comforting, and still send her reeling with excitement and danger? It didn't make sense, and yet it was so completely irresistible, she wanted more, more.
 

His hands were cupping her breasts, shooting a shock wave of desire through her body, and she gasped, pulling back and trying to push away.

“Oh, no, you don't,” he informed her soothingly, thrusting his knee between her thighs to help hold her right where she was. “Just like the sushi, we'll take it a step at a time. Trust me.”

“I trust you,” she replied, but something was very wrong. It was the sushi that finally set it off for her. Suddenly, just the thought of food made pink spots float before her eyes. She leaned back against the door.
 

“I want to lie down,” she whispered. Too much wine, too much food. Then he'd said sushi, and the room was spinning.

Of course, he misunderstood. “Don't worry,” he said sensuously as he ran tiny kisses along the taut line of her neck, kisses that at any other time might have been her undoing. “So do I.”

She took a deep breath of air. “Right now,” she insisted, stiffening urgently.

Finally he began to get the picture. He drew back, puzzled. “Shall I carry you to the bed?” he asked, not sure yet whether to be alarmed or amused.

“No time,” she answered tragically, feeling very green. “I think this nice soft carpet will have to do.”

It did very well. As her knees gave way, Michael took over, helping her lie back. She snuggled gratefully into the thick pile. “That's better,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Much, much better.”

He was kneeling over her, pushing a pillow under her head, his face a mixture of amusement and concern. “Better than what?” he asked lightly. “Than kissing me?”
 

“Oh, no.” She looked up quickly, wanting to reassure him. “That was very nice too.”

“Thanks,” he answered wryly. “But do you mind telling me just what the problem is? Surely you didn't have enough wine to—”

“No.” She reached for his hand and held it in her own. She felt pretty silly lying on the floor this way, but anything was better than the bed. Somehow she couldn't face that. Not yet. And this was kind of friendly. Like lying on the grass, exchanging confidences on a warm summer evening. Luckily the carpet was as plush as they came, and very comfortable, considering.
 

“I'm so sorry, Michael. But this really is your fault anyway.”

He shook his head in bewilderment. “You're allergic to me?” he guessed. “If so, you're in big trouble.” He grimaced. “We're both in big trouble.”

“No, that's not it.” She smiled up at him. “It's the food.” She groaned at the thought of it. “You made me eat two dinners, you know. And my stomach is rebelling.”

“Is that all?” He gave a snort of mock disgust. “And here I thought you were tough.”

“I am tough,” she protested, for no apparent reason. Why should she be tough, after all? What did he think she was doing, applying for a partnership in his dangerous profession? “This has nothing to do with tough. I'd like to see how you looked after two full course dinners in a row.”

“I could handle it,” he said in his best macho voice.

“Well, I can't.” She moaned, closing her eyes again. “I feel like a very large, very unhappy, beached whale.”

“That's funny,” he replied, reaching out to brush the hair back away from her eyes. “You look like a very desirable woman. I guess my mind must be playing tricks on me.” He cupped her cheek and said more softly, “Unless you are.”
 

She looked at him again, her eyes wide. “I'm not making this up,” she assured him earnestly. “I can't move. Really.” She put a hand on her stomach, surprised to find it still relatively flat. The way she felt, it ought to be blown up like a balloon. “You should hear what's going on in here,” she told him. “Then you'd see for yourself.”

He grinned. “Why not?” And the next thing she knew, his head was on her stomach, ear down. “Good Lord,” he said.

“What's the matter?” She craned her head to see him, but he motioned her to be still. His face was intent, as though he were listening to something very interesting.

This was ridiculous. She wanted to laugh, but she was afraid she'd bounce his head right off onto the floor.
 

“What is it?” she asked again, beginning to really wonder.

“Amazing.” He grinned at her. “It sounds like a whole nation of busy little workers, all bustling about their little chemical tasks.” A look of astonishment crossed his handsome face. “Wait,” he said, motioning her to silence again.

This time she couldn't hold back the giggle. “Michael, get off!” she begged. “You're making me laugh, and I'm too stuffed to laugh.”

He raised his head, his eyes glowing with humor. “I wish you could hear this one,” he said. “Sounds like a basketball game going on in center court. Something's bouncing.”

“The chocolate-covered strawberries.” She nodded wisely. “I knew they were a mistake from the beginning.”

“You see, it wasn't my fault at all.” He flopped down next to her on the floor, looking pleased with himself. “It was the first meal you ate that ruined you. Not the second.”

“Let's not talk about food.” She moaned again. “How am I going to get back to my room?” She looked at him speculatively. “I wonder if they have a cot with wheels? Then you could roll me down the halls . . ,”

“You're not rolling anywhere,” he informed her firmly. “You're staying right here.”

So they were back to that again, Shelley thought. He wanted her to stay the night. Small butterflies of panic winged their way through the other feelings she was being swamped with.

Well, what did you expect, Shelley my dear
? she asked herself sarcastically.
What else did you come to this resort for? Didn't you hope, deep in your heart, that just this very thing would happen? That you would find Michael and that he would want you?

Funny how easy it had seemed in dreams, and how much more difficult it seemed in reality. But she didn't feel much like laughing about it.

Luckily there was something to hide behind. “You want me to stay, even if I'm like this?” Once he realized how seriously stuffed she really was, surely he wouldn't be able to get her out the door fast enough.

He shrugged. “Like this, or any other way. All of a sudden, I can't imagine the night without you.” His grin took away the seriousness of the words. “You're in my blood, lady. You might as well face it.”

What on earth was he talking about? “Maybe you'd better tell me just exactly what facing it involves,” she said, feeling a little shaky.

He took a moment to answer her question, and she swung around to look at him again. He was lying beside her, very casually propped up on one elbow. His free hand was playing with her hair, twisting it around his fingers in a random pattern.

“I'm afraid I can't answer that question,” he said at last, his voice strangely low and lacking any trace of the ironic humor that laced most of his statements. “I don't think I've ever had a woman in my blood before. We'll have to wait and see.”

She looked into his blue eyes, searching harder, hoping to see a glint of the joke he must be playing on her. What could he mean? He barely knew her. He couldn't possibly be—

Her mind shrank from continuing along that train of thought, and he helped by saying, “In the meantime well have to find a way to fill the time until you feel like your old self. I don't suppose you'd be up to charades?”

She shook her head, smiling at his doubtful look. Of course, he'd been joking. There was no other explanation. She felt a warm blanket of comforting relief settle over their scene.

“I'm afraid singing you love songs is out,” he said regretfully. “I can't carry a tune to save my life. One of my few flaws, I might point out.” He tugged softly at her hair. “I could rub you all over,” he suggested hopefully. “A good massage to get the circulation pumping. Wouldn't that make you feel better?”

She threw him a baleful glare, forcing back the smile that threatened to cover her features. “I doubt it.”

“Too bad.” He sighed his regret, then his face lit up. “I know,” he announced like the man who'd just invented plastic wrap. “What you need is a cathartic experience. Something to get this food business out of your system once and for all.”

Shelley raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The goal sounds good,” she admitted. “Pardon me if I'm a bit leery of the means.”

He shook his head, a triumphant smile lighting his eyes. “No need to be. This is just the thing.” He threw back his head proudly. “Food jokes.”

She closed her eyes. “Oh, no. ...”

“You'll love them. Here goes.” He cleared his throat. “Why did the young lettuce cross the road?”

All she could manage was a weak cry of protest. “Michael—”

“Because it was time for him to leaf home.”

Her groan echoed from wall to wall in the large bedroom.

Michael put on his best cornball-comedian voice. “Don't worry if you didn't like that one. I've got a hundred more where it came from.”

“No!”

His eyes were huge with mock pain. “Shelley, believe me, you've got to learn to laugh at food. Control it before it controls you. It's the only way.”

She was laughing, she realized, and that made her stomach bounce and that didn't feel good at all, so she rolled over, cradling her head in her folded arms. Her move put her closer to him, and when she looked up again, she found his face only inches from hers. His eyes were a deep, beguiling velvet-blue, the kind of blue that made her want to sink into it and lose herself, sliding down the surface and into the heart of its vibrant color. He stared down at her and she stared up at him, indulging herself, letting her mind go blank, only enjoying the blueness, and then something flickered there, pulling her back alert. She looked sharply, trying to follow the flicker, to find out just exactly what it was, and feeling like Alice chasing the White Rabbit.

“We could always tell ghost stories,” Michael said softly, his hand suddenly stroking her hair, as if to distract her from what she'd seen in his eyes. “Or I could tie a love knot from your beautiful hair.”

Her heart was beating so hard, Shelley knew he had to hear it. She wasn't sure what had set it off. It could be that her senses were noticing something she hadn't seen herself. Was it a warning? Or anticipation?
 

“Do you know how to tie a love knot?” she asked, more to keep the conversation flowing than to find an answer to her question.

“No.” His eyes were shaded from her now. He was examining her hair, taking it up in his fingers and spilling it out again like a pirate with a bag of golden coins. “But I'm willing to learn.” Suddenly he was smiling again, skimming above the deeper currents. “Are you?”