The Misconception (23 page)

“I’ve never been stupid enough to get married.”

“A fiancé, then?”

“I’ve never been engaged, either.”

“Then a boyfriend. Was it a boyfriend?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about all the men in her life who had disappointed her, starting with the father who wronged her entire family by cheating on her mother. But that would only lend credence to his ridiculous theory that her views had been shaped by personal events instead of biological evidence.

“Academia,” she said through clenched teeth. “It was academia that caused me to think this way.”

“Really?” Hardly any space separated them, but he moved forward anyway so that the length of his body was barely touching hers. The night was cool, but she was suddenly so overheated she had an almost irresistible urge to take off her jacket. “What does academia have to do with you and me? With the way we make each other feel?”

She couldn’t pretend she didn’t understand he was referring to the hot sizzle that connected them like pancakes to a griddle. “We’re both young and healthy,” she whispered. “It’s perfectly natural for us to be sexually attracted to each other.”

He tangled his hands in her hair, and she couldn’t move, could barely breath. His breath was hot on her face. “A few minutes ago, when you were giving me the silent treatment, I was so irritated I almost stopped the car and told you to get out and walk.”

“So why didn’t you?”

He cracked a smile. “Hell if I know.”

“So what’s your point?” she croaked.

“My point is that you’re making me crazy. If this were only about sexual attraction, don’t you think it would have burned out by now?”

“Not necessarily.” She forced herself to ignore the delicious shivers dancing over her skin. “Research shows that—”

“To hell with research,” he interrupted. “I’m not Calvin Coolidge’s rooster.”

“Excuse me?”

“The rooster,” he answered as he removed the pins from her hair. She was so intent on making sense of his words that she didn’t try to stop him. “The one that wants to copulate with every hen in the henhouse. That’s not me. I only want to copulate with one hen.”

She bit her lip to stop her mouth from dropping open. “Are you telling me you get turned on by animals?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he gazed down at her. “You’re the hen, Marietta. You’re the one who turns me on. Do you honestly believe I want every woman I meet as much as I want you?”

“Don’t you?”

He laughed, a low, seductive sound deep in his throat. “If every woman did to me what you do to me, I couldn’t get through the day. I doubt I could even walk.”

Something shifted inside Marietta and softened. Despite all academic evidence to the contrary, she wanted to believe that only she, and not a hundred other nubile young women, could elicit this response from him. She wanted to believe, which made her traitorous psyche every bit as dangerous as his staggering appeal.

“Really?” she asked.

He lowered his head and laughed again, his mouth so close to hers that she felt his breath on her lips, his laugh echoing inside her.

“Really,” he answered and dipped his mouth farther.

Even though she’d kissed him before, she still wasn’t prepared for the way he overwhelmed her senses. She saw his eyes darken, felt his mouth soften, tasted a hint of ginger ale on his lips, touched the pliant muscles of his spectacularly developed shoulders and breathed in the clean, male scent of him.

All the while, she felt as though she were falling into a sensuous abyss from which there was no escape. The kiss went on and on, scrambling her mind, heightening her senses. His hungry hands roamed over her body, caressed her breasts, cupped her bottom. She gasped in protest when he drew back, but he only smiled.

“I want to come inside, Marietta.” He met and held her eyes. “I want to spend the night in your bed making love to you.”

Love.

The single word snapped her out of the trance his kisses had caused. The word was a lie. Jax didn’t want to make love to her. He wanted to have sex with her, which was what Marietta wanted, too. But having sex with him, at this late date, wouldn’t serve any useful purpose. She was already pregnant, so procreation was out. It would only complicate things.

Somewhere from deep inside herself, she dredged up the will to resist him. “No.”

“Why not?” His hands dropped from her shoulders, and he looked honestly puzzled. “It’s not like we’ve never done it before.”

“Just because we did it once—”

“Five times,” he interrupted. “We did it five times.”

She started over. “Just because we’ve done it five times doesn’t mean we’re going to do it a sixth.”

“You can’t tell me you don’t want me.” He put his hand over her heart, and she knew he could feel it beating a rapid tattoo against his palm. “I can feel how much you want me.” His other hand cradled her head, tilting it up for his inspection. “I can even see it. Your pupils are dilated, and your skin is flushed. Didn’t you tell me those were signs of arousal?”

Marietta licked her lips, which she was sure had reddened in sexual response to him. “I never said I didn’t want you, but wanting you has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course it does. That’s the best reason to make love.”

“No. The best reason is to perpetuate the species, and we’ve already done that. I’m already pregnant.”

Jax cursed and let go of her. “You’re unbelievable, is what you are. Do you mean to tell me you think we can live next door without sleeping together?”

Her chest felt suspiciously cold. She had the idiotic thought that rebuffing him had robbed her of warmth until she looked down and saw that the buttons of her blouse were agape, letting in the cool breeze. She made a stab at rebuttoning, but her hands trembled so much that she gave up. She squeezed a response through her dry throat. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He narrowed his eyes. “This is because you don’t trust me, isn’t it?”

Marietta didn’t need to consider that one. “Of course I don’t. I’m not foolish enough to believe this moment means anything more to you than it would to an orangutan in heat.”

He took a step backward, looking as though she’d slapped him. His eyes drew together, his mouth drooped, his face paled. “Is that what you think of me? That I have no more control than an orangutan?”

His stricken expression cut so deep that Marietta wished she could take the words back, but she didn’t say anything. He stared at her for a moment before turning away. Within seconds, he’d opened the door of his townhouse and disappeared inside.

Marietta leaned against her door for a long time, staring out into the black night and wondering why the wounded look he’d given her weighed so heavily on her soul. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t come up with an answer.

TRACY’S FINGERS WERE so used to cutting hair that she didn’t need to have her mind switched on to do it correctly. She simply let her scissors do the thinking, giving them free rein to fly over Ryan’s head with expert snips.

The wall clock, which had a face that depicted a summer meadow, showed it was nearly one in the morning, but Tracy didn’t feel tired. She and Ryan had walked the few blocks to the house they’d once shared after the gang had dispersed.

Ryan would have driven her straight home, but she’d insisted they go inside so she could fix the disastrous haircut she’d given him at the beauty salon.

Here, in the country kitchen she’d decorated herself with calico curtains, homespun wallpaper and hanging pots and pans in shiny copper, she felt comfortable enough to accomplish anything.

Nearly ten months after she’d left it, the house still felt like home. Her girlfriends used to tease her after visits, calling her decor Country Bumpkin Casual. They hadn’t understood why somebody as thoroughly modern as Tracy filled her house with everything old-fashioned. Ryan had. He’d known, without her telling him, that the folksy furnishings, so unlike the modern decorations that had filled her parents’ house, spoke to Tracy of comfort and security.

“There,” she said when she’d taken a final snip. “I’m all through. Turn around so I can see how it looks.”

Ryan turned. His silky, black hair was more closely cropped than she’d ever seen it, so short on top that some of the pieces didn’t lay flat. For a moment, she felt a pang of remorse, because she’d always thought his longish hair was unbearably sexy.

She angled her head to one side, then to another and it dawned on her that the hair didn’t matter. It never had. Ryan Caminetti, with his flashing dark eyes and tawny skin, would be unbearably sexy even if he were as bald as a cue ball.

“Well?” His grin, as drool-inducing as the rest of him, made an appearance. He brought a hand to his hair, touched the short strands. “Feels short. How does it look?”

“Great. I’ll get you a mirror and you can see for yourself.”

“I don’t need a mirror,” Ryan said before she could leave the room. “You’ve cut my hair a hundred times, Trace. I’m sure it’s fine. It always is.”

“That’s not true. I made a mess of it the other day when you came into the shop. I still can’t believe you waited this long to get it fixed.”

“The only reason I got it cut again is because you insisted. Believe it or not, I usually don’t end a night of hanging out with a haircut.”

Tracy had to bite her tongue to keep from asking if his nights out usually ended with a female in his bed. Her gut twisted at the thought of Ryan making love to another woman in the bed they shared, in the house she decorated. Anna Morosco, who’d done everything to get Ryan to notice her tonight outside of stripping in front of him, would certainly be willing to fill the bill.

Despite what Tracy had seen at the hotel elevator, she had difficulty imagining Ryan with Anna or any other woman. Somehow she knew he wouldn’t bring another woman here. Not to this house, where they’d been so happy.

“You needed a haircut. A good one, this time,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want a mirror?”

“Tracy.” His eyes pinned her to the spot. “I trust you.”

For just a moment, Tracy thought he emphasized the last word in his declaration, but then he stood up and she figured she’d imagined it. Ryan wouldn’t allude to trust, would he? Especially when he’d so cruelly shattered hers.

He took a broom and a dust pan out of the narrow supply closet, and she automatically crossed the room to his side, silently offering her help. He handed her the broom and crouched down, angling the dust pan to catch the hair.

His eyes swept the length of leg The Dress left bare, and a warm shiver started at her toes and moved upward. It made her realize how much she had missed making love to him. Nobody else could turn her on with a glance.

Any second now, he was going to ask her to come upstairs with him. Considering their history, considering she was wearing The Dress, that would be the logical end to the evening. But would she go with him? Did she want to?

His gaze traveled the length of her body until his dark eyes met hers. Bedroom eyes. She’d always thought he had bedroom eyes, dusky and sleepy and sexy. Her stomach dropped. Yes. She definitely wanted to go upstairs with him.

“I never thought I’d say this. . .” He paused, and Tracy held her breath as she waited for him to ask her to make love with him. Yes. She was going to say yes. “. . . but I really like Marietta’s fiancé.”

The breath whooshed from Tracy, making her feel deflated. “What?”

“Jax, Marietta’s fiancé.” Ryan straightened and emptied the dust pan of hair in the trash. “I really like him. I never laughed so hard in my life as when he told that joke about Batman keeping his goldfish in the bat tub.”

“I heard you,” Tracy said, barely believing she was hearing him now. She’d thought he was about to ask her to make love, and he was talking about Batman. He couldn’t be trying to get her in the mood. She’d never found Batman, who was six feet tall and dressed in tights, particularly sexy.

“How did you say they met?” Ryan asked.

“Marietta advertised for a man to supply her with sperm so she could have a baby, and he showed up,” Tracy deadpanned. Ryan stared at her for a moment with an incredulous expression, then he laughed.