One Night Standards (4 page)

He laughed, and she felt the reverberations through his rib cage. “Sugar, I really like you, too.” He nuzzled the back of her neck, and she pressed against him.

She turned around, hearing him groan again as she inadvertently brushed against him. She faced him, stroking his cheek. Then she kissed him, tenderly, deeply…. A thank you, for being such a wonderful man at a time when she needed someone to lean on. It was a new sensation—having someone rescue her.

“What was that for?” he said, resting his forehead against hers.

“Mark McMann,” she said, in a teasing, singsong voice, “you're my hero.”

He laughed, so she kissed him again…and things quickly got more serious than she'd intended, as they pressed against each other. So close, so
damned
close…

She was the one who pulled away this time, gasping for air, gasping against the furious heat of her body. “Maybe the manager would bring up a box,” she said, half-joking.

He spun her around again, pulling her to him. “Go to sleep,” he said, and she could hear the words through the gritting of his teeth.

“I'm—”

“Don't say you're sorry. I swear to God, if I have to scour all of San Antonio, I'm going to find a condom and tomorrow night, this is all going to be just the world's longest bout of foreplay. But for right now, I'm holding you until you fall asleep, then I'm going back to my room to dream about all the things I'll do to you tomorrow night. Your perfume's going to haunt me, for starters.”

She smiled, letting the warmth of him comfort her. “It's our brand. The Essential Sensuals line.” She sighed. “I'm glad to know that this particular scent is as sexy as advertised.”

“No work talk,” he muttered, and she smiled.

“No work,” she said, yawning and burrowing slightly into the covers. She felt his arm tighten around her, and she felt the exhaustion and the emotional roller coaster finally start to slide.

“Sophie?”

“Hrmm?” she half enunciated, feeling the edges of sleep closing in on her.

“Nothing.” He kissed her shoulder. “Just go to sleep.”

M
ARK WOKE UP IN A HOTEL BED
, not surprisingly. It was early, though—he'd forgotten to shut the shades. He must've been more tired than he'd thought.

His hand moved across the pillow, and he heard a startled sigh.

He sat bolt upright.

He wasn't in his room. He was in
her
room. In
her
bed. With the rest of the conference probably filing into this very hotel at any moment.

“Uh-oh,” he muttered.

She sat up slowly, took one look at him, and then he could tell from the horrified expression on her face and the way her mouth was opening that she was about to scream. He quickly did the only thing he could think of…covered her mouth with his hand. Her shriek turned into a muffled squeak.

“Hi, I'm Mark McMann. Any second now, you're going to remember me from last night. We drove in together last night, laughing, were both tired, we didn't have a condom….” He smiled without humor as a look of recognition crossed over her face. The look of horror, he noted, redoubled. “Ah, here we go. You remember.”

He removed his hand slowly, and she gasped. “You're still here. It's morning, and you're still here.”

“In my defense, I was exhausted…Hey!”

She jumped out of bed and bolted past him, dashing to the center of the room, looking as if she were trying desperately to get her bearings. He noticed that she was only wearing panties, and she didn't seem to care in the slightest. “What time is it?”

“Uh…” His brain had shorted out temporarily, seeing that lithe body of hers wearing only a pair of silky-looking bikini-cuts. “Um…”

She looked around at her clothes, then pushed her blouse out of the way of the clock. “Eight o'clock! Crap!
Crap!
” She glanced back at him. “Focus, Tennessee. Grab your clothes and get back to your room! ASAP!”

He blinked. Of course, that had been his plan, before he'd frozen in the headlights, as it were. He'd seen naked women, although they were usually models. And they weren't usually shaped like Sophie. For a short girl, she certainly had…

“Mark!”
She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Not that it isn't flattering, but you've got to wake up, sweetie. Do you really want people to know we spent the night together?”

Those were the magic words. He jumped out of bed, thankful that he was still wearing boxers. He assiduously avoided looking at her and instead did as she said, focusing on grabbing his clothes and pulling them on, tripping back onto the bed as he tugged his pants on both legs at one time.

“Can't you hurry?” he heard her call from the bathroom. The shower was running…. Man, he needed to jump into the shower. He needed to unpack, for God's sake. He needed to get moving…. His boss Simone was probably in the hotel by now, and would probably want to call the staff meeting at 10:00 a.m. or something…. Jeez, he needed to look at his PDA, see if he'd gotten any e-mails; she was all about sending those sneaky e-mails to make sure people were plugged in all day.

He buttoned his shirt hastily, noticing that he seemed to be missing a button…and abruptly remembered how he'd lost it. He went slightly hard and quickly headed off any more thoughts in that direction.

It was just a temporary lapse of reason.
People were considered innocent for stuff like murder with just that kind of rationale. Besides, it wasn't as if it were ever going to happen again.

“I'm out of here, I'm really sorry…” he said to the open bathroom door, figuring she was in the shower. “I'll…er…”

He'd what? Call her later? They hadn't even had sex, for pity's sake. And now they weren't ever going to see each other again. That thought caused a little sting, but he'd get over it. So what else could he say?

“Have a good conference,” he finished lamely and headed for the door. He looked out the peephole and then opened the door, peering out. Nobody in the hallway. He dug around in his pocket, found his room key and then made a break for it. He got in the room quickly and noticed immediately that the hotel-room phone light was blinking. He had a message. He decided to jump in the shower and get dressed first, before dealing with it. Odds were good it was somebody he didn't want to talk to, anyway…or somebody it would stress him out to know he'd missed. He could just say that he'd slept in or something.

He thought back a minute, thinking of Sophie, naked on the other side of the wall.

Or something.

Finally, in a world's record of getting cleaned up, he collected the message.

“Mark? This is Simone. I think something might be wrong with your phone. I've decided to call an impromptu staff meeting at nine this morning, and I want you there a few minutes early…. I think we need to talk.” A pregnant pause. “Yes. We definitely need to talk.”

Mark winced, then grabbed his briefcase. He wasn't going to bring his laptop—Simone didn't approve of them in meetings. He was almost out the door when he suddenly found that his phone was missing. He searched for it frantically, cursing a blue streak when it didn't show up. He didn't even have stuff out of his bags, for pity's sake, where could he have…

He winced.

Sophie.

He took a deep breath, glanced at his watch. Eight-forty. He should leave in five minutes. He prayed that Sophie hadn't rushed off….

He looked down the hallway again, as furtive as a spy, then knocked softly on her door. Then knocked louder.

“Just a minute!”

She opened the door. She looked…well, wet, to be honest, her toffee-colored waves pulled back in a ponytail that emphasized the classic lines of her face. She was wearing glasses, cute wire-rims. She blinked at him as she put an earring in her ear.

“Hi,” he said, and without waiting for an invitation, he dashed into her room.

“Um, hi. I'm in a hurry….”

“I can't find my phone,” he explained, looking around. She'd done the same thing as he had—dug into her bags for clothes—but otherwise everything was as is. Except for the clothes she'd stripped off last night, which were still in a trail that led to the bed.

Don't think about it, don't think about it….

“Listen, about last night,” she said softly.

“No worries,” he interrupted. “Really. We were both tired, we weren't really thinking, it just seemed like a good idea at the time….”

“That's not it.”

He looked up, finally. She looked near tears.

He tried not to think about how hot she'd been. How very, very much he'd wanted her. How much he still wanted her, come to that. She was amazing, sweet and sexier than anybody he'd met in a long time.

“It's not that bad,” he said. “You didn't…”

Before he could say anything else, she flew at him, and he felt that hot, mobile mouth of hers against his. And whatever strange craziness had come over him last night was back again with a vengeance. It wasn't a fluke…wasn't because they were tired, wasn't because they were punch-drunk and lonely.

She still wanted him.

His hands clutched at the small of her back, dragging her up against him…. Then he pulled away. What was he doing? He had a meeting in minutes, and so did she, and what were
they
doing?

Besides, you still don't have a condom.

“I still want you,” she breathed. “I know the timing's lousy, and it's probably not anything either of us should do anything about, I mean we're professionals, and…” She stopped. “I'm babbling.”

“You hate that,” he couldn't help but point out, with a smile, thinking of last night.

“The thing is, I would still love to make love with you. I just thought you should know that.” She shrugged, the blush on her cheeks owing nothing to cosmetics.

He reached out and kissed her back, hard, gratifying in the sound of her low moan. “You don't even know how much I still want to make love to you,” he ground out finally. “But you're right. The timing, the…”

“It's crazy,” she said with a shrug. “In fact, it's stupid. But if I didn't tell you…well. I didn't want you to think that I regretted it, or that it was a mistake.”

He was torn. It was stupid, potentially career damaging. As one of the few men in a women-dominated profession, it was dangerous. And it was definitely unprofessional. It would get around. Hell, rumors of him sleeping with women, that were completely unfounded, still surfaced from time to time. And with his promotion coming up…

He sighed. “I'm sorry. You're right—we can't.”

She nodded, looking for a moment completely dejected. “I'll help you find your phone.”

He saw it suddenly, a silver object, half-hidden by the thrown-back comforter on the bed. “Here it is.” He grabbed it and knew he should be out the door, with his briefcase, finding Simone. But the problem was he didn't want to go.

“Have a good conference,” she said, echoing his earlier lame goodbye.

He wanted to kiss her…reassure her that neither of them had made a mistake. Or better, tell her to wait for him…that after her meeting and his, after whatever else they had to do today, he'd sneak over and they'd make love till morning, damn the conference, damn everything else.

But he wouldn't do that. And she wouldn't, either. And they both knew it.

He held out a hand. She stared at it for a moment, then shook it firmly.

“It was nice meeting you, Sophie Jones,” he said, and regret drowned every word.

Then he turned and headed out the door.

S
OPHIE GLANCED AT HER WATCH
, then glanced back at the empty stage. After all her fuss to make the morning meeting, she now discovered that the meeting itself had been canceled and replaced with a press conference. Sophie was a bundle of nervous energy, since Mrs. Marion had left a message for Sophie specifically to sit up front at the event.

This could be the announcement we've been waiting for.

She was surrounded by tons of people, all sitting at the various tables set up. Marion & Co. had appropriated the second-largest ballroom, and she would've wagered that everyone at the regional trade show had abandoned their various booths to hear what was being said. Well, okay, the big companies, anyway. All the trade reporters were milling around. She would be able to tell them apart by the hungry, searching look in their eyes, if not by their press badges. They didn't get paid much, poor bastards, but they sure did work hard for the money.

She realized she was glancing around to see Mark.
Not that you're at all eager to see him,
her mind ruthlessly taunted her. She'd thrown herself at him briefly this morning, when she'd gotten her wits about her. She'd been disconcerted by finding a man in her bed, after all this time—and the first thing on her mind was the Marion meeting.

If only that had been on your mind
before
you invited him to sleep over last night, you idiot.

It was strange. Normally, she was all business. But she'd taken one look at gorgeous, godlike Mark McMann, and most of her sharp-hewn common sense had taken a flying leap out the window.

She shook her head. It probably wouldn't hurt her reputation all that much, all things considered, to sleep with a competitor, but obviously it bothered him. Enough for him to rescind his really wonderful, beautiful, sexy offer from the night before.

The offer that she still would've loved to take him up on.

She closed her eyes, squinched them shut.
No, no, no. Just move on, will you?

She saw Lily Hunter, Mrs. Marion's second in command, crossing the stage, and sat up. The people who were making all that noise quieted, and they looked up expectantly.

She heard someone approach, turned…and saw Mark, looking out of breath. He smiled at her, and her irritation suddenly melted.

He really is beautiful,
she thought.
In a purely masculine way. Like a carved fallen angel.

She frowned, then pulled out the little notepad that she always carried in its little leather binder. She jotted down: “Fallen Angel. Maybe a new perfume? Or add to the new line of eye shadows?”

He sat down next to her, looking curiously at her note, then at her.

She simply smiled. They weren't supposed to know each other, but here they were. And it wasn't as if they were wearing matching T-shirts that said I Almost Slept With and arrows pointing to each other.

She smiled at the image, and he smiled back, then they both turned to the stage, where Abigail Marion strode, looking like a queen clad in her caramel-colored Yves Saint Laurent suit. She had a smile on her face, the one that seemed to say “I know something you don't know.”