Taste for Trouble (22 page)

James
moved aside. He considered her while she clicked open the panel doors and
unlatched the straps holding the trays in the racks. Studiously avoiding his
eyes, she slid out a large aluminum baking tray full of cakes. James slid out a
second and followed her into the house.

He
felt...itchy. Uncertain. Unsettled. And not just in light of the completely
unsatisfying argument he’d just lost. It had been eating at him for days,
actually. Ever since he’d seen her glaring at her bride and groom cakes with
the same intense concentration she’d given his kiss. The concentration he’d mistaken
for disapproval. For an unequivocal if unspoken no.

But
what if it hadn’t been no? That’s what was chewing at him. He wasn’t by nature
given to regret but he couldn’t stop wondering about that. What if what he’d taken
for
no
had actually been more
let me think
?

Because
the Bel he’d come to know would no more endure an unwanted kiss in silence than
she would run her precious tea cups through the dishwasher. And James had tried
to run those cups through the dishwasher once, so he knew of which he spoke.

And
she damn sure wasn’t the sort of girl who’d allow her body to lead her into
even the most harmless of detours. If there hadn’t been something real and
compelling in that kiss, she wouldn’t have hesitated to slap his face and
demand a written apology. But she hadn’t done any such thing.

Instead,
she’d surfaced, slow and sweet, those ridiculously long lashes lifting over
perplexed and curious eyes, those dark sharp brows drawn together in a wary
line.

And
what had he done? He’d given up. He’d seen
undecided
and interpreted it
as unmoved, unimpressed and uninterested. And when had
that
happened? Just
when had he forgotten that
maybe
wasn’t
no
but
try harder
?
Just when had he started to take it for granted? The applause, the success, the
women, the money?

He
didn’t know when it had started. But he knew exactly when it was going to end.

Right
now.

Bel
slid her tray of cakes into the upright freezer and tried not to notice the way
the very air between her and James still snapped and twitched with unspent
energy. She composed her face into neutral lines and turned to take the second
tray of cakes from him.

He
gave it to her, his brows furrowed in a completely uncharacteristic frown. Not
that she’d never seen him frown at her before—that, she’d seen, and plenty. No,
this was something different. This was something new. This was James Thinking.

She
slipped the second tray into the freezer with a tiny smile. She hadn’t thought
it was possible, but had she actually broken through? Had she actually said
something to him that made a dent in that perpetual laze of his? Something that
had kick-started what she suspected was a perfectly serviceable brain into
action? Or better yet, a decent dose of introspection?

She
clicked the freezer door shut, checked the seal and turned back to him. His
eyes were on her this time, and what she saw in them was enough to have her easing
toward the stainless steel door at her back.

“Hey,
Bel.” Not a question. Just the opening volley. She understood this the way a
field mouse understands a hawk in the sky.

“Hmmm?”
Words seemed to be beyond her.

“I
changed my mind.”

“About,
um, what?” She checked her watch. She didn’t know why. Was she planning to time
him?

His
pirate’s lips curved. “Kissing you. Your theory about women and lust? I think I
would
like to put it to the test after all. If the invitation still
stands.”

“Oh.”
Her pulse scrambled madly and she groped for an excuse. God, what had she been
thinking? Asking him to kiss her? Throwing it down like a gauntlet? “I, ah—”

A
verbal response turned out to be unnecessary, as in the next heartbeat, Bel
found herself being thoroughly kissed.

His
mouth was everything it looked like—utter perfection in the unlikeliest place. But
Bel had been here before. She was ready for it this time.

Last
time, he’d caught her by surprise and it had been one big sensory explosion. Like
a well-trained army marching on an unprepared, unfortified village. Same army
this time, Bel thought, dazed, as his mouth moved over hers, still sweet with
the cakes they’d baked. Excellent weaponry. But this time Bel had a little
firepower of her own. And a plan. It wasn’t like she’d asked him to kiss her
without a strategy in place.

She
just had to remember what it was.

She
lifted her hands—had they really been clenched in fists by her sides?—and
speared her fingers into that wild rumple of sunny hair. It was crisp and alive
against her skin, and a startling bolt of bone-deep satisfaction shot through
her.
Finally
, something inside her whispered fiercely.
Finally
.

She
arched into him without thought, into all that solid, compact heat, and a purr
rose up inside her, silent and unstoppable. She hadn’t known, she thought
wildly, hadn’t understood that itch just under her skin. The twist of nerves,
the twitch of discomfort. She hadn’t known what she wanted, what she needed.

She
knew now. Now, with his mouth moving over hers like glory, with her body
plastered up against the square strength of his, with her fingers twisted into
his shaggy hair. Now, with electricity leaping in her veins, with want sliding
hot into her belly, with the scent of him deep in her lungs.

It
was him. Touching him. Quenching that low and aching desire to simply feel him
under her hands.

She
tugged him closer, rose up on her toes and opened her mouth under his. He made
some kind of noise—surprise? Hunger? Gratitude?—and suddenly Bel’s back was
flat against the cool freezer door. He pressed into her, his body hard and hungry,
his mouth hot and avid, and everywhere he touched her she burned.

But
she gloried in it. God help her, she did. She basked in his blatant want and
whipped the flames higher. She slid a knee up his thigh, curved it around his
hip and urged him closer. Higher. Fiercer. She wanted
more
. Needed it. Needed
him
.

One big
hand slid down to cup her bottom, lifted her into him as he rocked against the
center of her want. Pleasure and heat shot through her, and she dropped her
head back to gasp. He dragged his lips along the exposed line of her throat in
a blaze of hot, open-mouthed kisses that sent shards of pleasure dancing over
her skin.

More.
She needed more. More heat, more skin, more contact. Just more. Her hands
streaked over him, tunneled up the back of his shirt until they found the broad
strength of his bare skin. God. The animal heat of him, strong and smooth under
her hands, had her head spinning, had desire leaping up mad and unruly inside
her. She wanted to strip him bare, wanted to feel that tight play of muscle
against her own skin. Under her lips, her tongue, her teeth.

She
squirmed against him, against the heavy, insistent pulse of the body that had
her anchored against the freezer. He pulled back just enough to reclaim her
mouth with his and the dark swirl of desire washed over her, dragged her down. He
jerked her up higher, until she was completely off the floor, her legs twined
around his hips, his hand under her bottom.

His other
hand slipped under her t-shirt, swept up the ladder of her ribs and closed hot
and possessive on her breast. A gasp rushed up in her throat, died there as he
cupped her in his palm, his fingers both gentle and tense. As if he were torn
between asking permission and giving warning.

One
finger dipped slowly into the lacy cup of her bra, brushed past her nipple. An
exquisite tremor shimmered into her center and she clapped a hand over his,
stilling his touch. It was so strange and new to her. She’d never felt anything
like it—this odd, lazy hunger that compelled her to both squirm and rush and
pant, but also to taste and linger and savor. Little shocks of pleasure still
rippled away from his finger, that simple and amazing touch, and her breathing
hitched as they moved away, bounced back and echoed. God. What else could he do
to her, she wondered? If he could do that with one finger?

He
pulled back far enough to look at her face. Far enough for her to see the
question there. The uncertainty. The crazy reflection of her own desire in his eyes
and just a hint of smug self-satisfaction at having caused it.

Something
sharp and broken twisted in Bel, cooling the fever in her blood, allowing shame
and fear the foothold it had been seeking. God, what was she
doing
?

Way
to teach him a lesson, Bel
, she
thought bitterly.
Way to keep your head and make your point. Way to protect
yourself
.

But
all wasn’t lost. Maybe he wasn’t deep, but James
was
kind. And generous.
She’d give him that. How else to explain this pause, this question, this
seeking of tacit approval before pressing his advantage?

And
it
was
his advantage. Much as Bel would love to deny that, honesty
compelled to her admit otherwise. He’d done exactly what he’d set out to do—spark
a fire inside her. A fire that had nothing to do with furthering her goals. A
dangerous fire that snapped and roared and threatened to devour everything she
held sacred.

But
Bel was no amateur when it came to Plan B. To protecting oneself at any cost. Because
God knew nobody else out there was lining up to do it for her.

Even
so, she hated herself for what she was about to do. But she’d spent the last
twelve years of her life pursuing one goal and one goal only—to be Kate Davis,
2.0. And she was close. She was so close. The only thing standing between her
and achieving that goal was James Blake and his
laissez-faire
attitude
toward...well, everything. Which would be his own business except that Bel’s
own career had somehow fallen under James’
everything
heading. And there
was only one way to get it out.

“Bel?”
Very definitely a question this time, heavily laced with want. His hand was still
warm and heavy on her breast, his arousal stark and unmistakable against her
belly. “Is this okay?”

She
peeped through her lashes at him, forced her lips to curve into a knowing
smile. “Depends.”

“On
what?”

“On
whether or not you’re planning to give me what I want.”

“Which
is?” His smile was powerfully carnal and had lust rippling through her belly.

For
the second time that day, the animal inside her surfaced. It slid through the
lust in her belly, the fear in her heart. It prowled into her head and
whispered
hide
. And for the second time that day, Bel did. She stripped
everything from her face, from her eyes, from her body. She pulled it all back
into a tiny, safe kernel deep inside her and left a husk in James’ arms.

“I
want my career back,” she said tonelessly. “And I need your help.”

His
entire body tensed as if she’d struck him. Then he eased her to the floor,
stepped back carefully. The desire vanished, leaving in its wake only a cool,
shuttered regard. “I see. So you’ll sleep with me if I perform like a trained
dog every time Kate Davis jingles her little bell?”

She was
conscious of a shameful disappointment, a vague loneliness as he stepped back,
but it was distant. Separate. She was untouched and untouchable. She was safe.

“Of
course.” She lied with perfect sincerity. It wasn’t a gift she was proud of,
but the ability to feel one thing and project another had often been all that
lay between her and utter doom. She wouldn’t apologize for doing it well.

“And
that doesn’t make you feel cheap?”

She
absorbed the lash of his anger objectively. Considered her answer. “Not really,
no. I’ve sweated blood for this job. I want it more than anything and I’m
willing to do whatever it takes to get it.”

He
stared at her.

“It
wouldn’t be a hardship,” she offered. “Sleeping with you. After what just went
on here, surely you know that.” At his continued silence, she forced a light
shrug. “At least I don’t want your money, James. There’s got to be some comfort
in that. But I do want something. And if you’d be honest, you’d admit that you
do, too. Your wants just happen to be a little less complex than mine. Now do
you want to deal or don’t you?”

Say
no
, she thought as the moment
stretched out. As he considered her, that unexpected and thoughtful light in
his eye.
Please God, say no
.

She
reached out with a hand that she prayed wouldn’t tremble and smoothed a wrinkle
in his t-shirt. A wrinkle her greedy hands had surely put there. She forced
herself to linger over the touch, to make it a temptation.

He
reached up, took her hand in his. The shock of his skin against hers sent a
pulse of awareness clear up to her shoulder and she closed her eyes against it.
She didn’t want to feel that anymore. Didn’t want to feel anything.