The Tycoon (16 page)

“Why?”

“Because it’s never been this good.”

His words had a solemnity to them, as if they might be true. But could she believe him? “Hah. Why do I think you say that to all the girls?”

“I never say things I don’t mean. Unless I’m joking.”

As distrustful as she was of men, Shannon suspected that at least that much was a fact. Not just in the bedroom, but in all parts of his life. “It was good for me, too.”

He caressed her cheek with his palm and kissed her. “I want to do it again.” He kissed her again and soon they were leisurely stroking and caressing and turning on the huge bed, their bare bodies rubbing together sensuously. Shannon forgot everything—the weather, the urgency to get home, the fibs she had told him. The world outside his bedroom, his bed, ceased to exist.

At one point, she pleasured him with her mouth, but he only allowed it for seconds. Instead, he was attentive to her every desire, her every need. His mouth thrilled her with succulent kisses, his wicked tongue licked and titillated, his deft fingers teased. When he had pushed her to the edge again, he knew it at once and buried himself inside her. His soft baritone voice coaxed with naughty words and erotic promises as he took her to yet another shattering orgasm. She had never known a more unselfish lover.

Afterward, he arranged her sated, languid, body against his, her head on his shoulder. She draped her arm across his chest, breathing in the sexy scent of heated male, enjoying the feel of his soft skin against her cheek and comfortably enveloped by thick covers on the cold night. She was so relaxed, she could easily drift to sleep, but she couldn’t let herself.

“Let’s talk,” he said.

“About what?”

He yawned. “Oh, I don’t know. You said something earlier about some TV show you liked.”

She frowned and placed a kiss on his furry chest. “You want to talk about the Discovery Channel?”

“That was a joke. It’s you I want to talk about.”

She longed to tell him about herself—her real name, where she lived, her phone number.

But she feared talk would reveal too much and destroy this dream. She gave a silly titter. “There isn’t much to say. I’m not inclined to blab on and on about a subject I find a little boring.”

He clasped her jaw and turned her face to his, “You’re not boring.” He kissed her thoroughly and sweetly, then resettled, holding her tightly against him. “Tomorrow. We talk tomorrow over breakfast. Deal?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, but said nothing.

“I like how you feel against me,” he said softly, his fingers making circles on her shoulder. “Like you fit.”

“Hmm. I think we already had this conversation.”

“We did, didn’t we? We fit that way, too. It’s just about perfect.” He yawned again.

“You’re sleepy?”

“Hmm….Got up early….Had a lot to do today.”

“Like what? Tell me what someone like you does on a wintery Saturday.”

“Checked a construction site…early this morning….Couldn’t get there yester—”

His speech had slurred, then stopped altogether. She waited for him to say more. Then she noticed that his breathing had become deep and even. “Drake?”

When he didn’t answer, she pushed herself up and looked into his face. He was asleep. His thick dark brown lashes lay against his cheek. His facial muscles had relaxed, but the vertical crease between his brows was still evident. Even with whisker shadow, he looked young and innocent.

Yet, there was nothing innocent about the way he had made love to her, nothing sissy about the way he looked, especially not his square jaw. He was a handsome man in a rugged, masculine way. She lightly stroked the arch of his brown brow with her fingertip. “Lord, you’re special,” she whispered. “So special.” He didn’t stir.

The clock on the bedside table showed. 2:36 a.m. She still had time to get into her own bed before daylight. She had to go home. For a few seconds, she pondered if she could find a way to grab this brass ring and hang on to it. But she could think of nothing except that the fairy tale evening had ended.

She eased from between the covers, picked up her dress from the floor beside the bed, then continued toward the bedroom door, shivering as she went. Earlier, inflamed with passion, she hadn’t noticed the chilliness of the bedroom.

She had to pass through the dining room to reach the kitchen where he had stripped off her clothing. Willie Nelson still sang and played from the entertainment center. She recognized “Georgia.” She had heard Willie sing it about a thousand times.

The two dishes of Crème Brûlée sat on the dining table where they had left them. Unable to resist, she stopped, picked up a spoon, dipped out a couple of bites and gloried with each one. Even cold, it was as delicious as she remembered.

The view through the window wall showed the weather granting no reprieve. Dense fog hugged the windows like a black drape, erasing even so much as a dim view of the city lights. All she could see were water droplets marring the glass. Lord, she wouldn’t be able to see her hand in front of her once she got outside. Well, at least ice wasn’t peppering the windows.

She found her stockings near the cooking island and her panties and shoes on the floor three feet away. On her way to the guest bathroom, she passed by the dining table again and scooped out one more bite of the dessert, then picked up her clutch from the table in the entry.

She debated if she should take a cab or walk to the parking lot where she had left her SUV. The walk would be a six-block hike in high heels on wet sidewalks, through cold fog and rain at

3:00 a.m., wearing an evening wrap. No, she had to call for a cab and she needed to do it now so it would be waiting for her at the curb as soon as she reached the bottom floor. Inside the bathroom, she pulled her cell phone from her purse and in a low voice, ordered a ride.

Next, she checked her ear lobes to be sure her grandmother’s diamond earrings were still in place. After that, she washed herself, then examined her dress for tears, found every seam intact. The garment was made of a fabric that didn’t wrinkle. She put the dress on and after carefully viewing her reflection, believed no one would be able to tell it had been lying on
the floor in a heap for two hours.

She applied a new layer of powder over the tender whisker burns around her mouth and on her chin, then fiddled with her hair until it looked presentable.

Taking no chances that her shoe heels would sound against the tile and wooden floors, she left the bathroom carrying them and placed them and her clutch by the entry closet.

When she had been in the kitchen gathering her clothing a few minutes earlier, she had noticed the coffee carafe half-full. She returned to the kitchen and quietly searched the cupboards, hoping to find a mug with a lid. She found a stainless steel one. She poured the mug full of coffee, loaded it with two heaping teaspoons of sugar, then switched off the coffeemaker.

For a moment, she considered going back to the bedroom to glimpse Drake one last time. She feared waking him, so she rejected the idea. The last thing she did was pad to the dining table and swallow a few more bites of the Crème Brûlée.

In the entry closet, she found her jacket. Other coats hung there. She was tempted to take one that would be warmer, but thought better of it. She was already taking—no, borrowing—one of his coffee mugs she hoped he wouldn’t miss. Rather than have him think her a thief, she would make do with her own jacket. She slipped into it, then inventoried everything—shoes, car keys, phone, purse, coffee mug—and opened the condo’s front door.

Easing into the silent hallway, she prayed not to meet anyone. Ahead of her and around the corner she would run into the glass doors with their security keypad.
Damn!
Would she be able to pass through the sliding door from the inside without keying in a number? Logic told her the door wouldn’t be locked from the inside. For a few seconds, going back into the condo and climbing back into bed with Drake called to her.

Forget it,
her common sense told her.

She slipped her feet into her shoes, drew a deep breath and pulled Drake’s front door closed. It locked behind her. She was committed.

Several dozen steps later, she approached the glass door separating her from the elevator. It glided open automatically and silently.
Yes!

Mere minutes after that, she stood in the elevator’s open doorway, looking at the uniformed man at his desk on the bottom floor. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and walked through the lobby with bravado.

As she neared the doorman’s desk, he rose from his chair and greeted her with a “good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said cheerily.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“No, thank you.”

She strode past his desk, toward the front door and boldly kept walking without looking back, praying that he didn’t wonder why she was leaving this exclusive place alone at 3:00 a.m. and decide to call Drake—or the cops. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the cab she had called parked outside waiting.

It delivered her to her SUV. Driving through dense fog and cold misting rain, she reached the Fort Worth city limits and the open road to Camden. She could barely make out the white line that divided the four-lane highway. She set her cruise control at forty miles an hour, gripped the steering wheel at ten and two and motored into the dense fog.

At exactly 4:30 a.m., she pulled into the detached garage at her grandmother’s house. She’d had an hour and a half of driving time to reflect on tonight’s events. She had made many mistakes with men in the past, but tonight?...She had enjoyed it too much to call it a mistake. Even so, she had to put it behind her as if had never happened.

****

The warble of Drake’s cell phone on the bedside table startled him from a deep sleep. Without opening his eyes, he fumbled for it. “Mmph,” he said into it.

“Son, did I wake you?”

Mom. Shit
. He blinked himself awake. “What’s up?”

Remembering he had gone to sleep with a companion, he glanced at the opposite side of the bed and saw it empty.

“I just had a long conversation with Donna,” his mother said. “You broke up with her?”

“I sure as hell did,” Drake answered absently. He listened for sounds in the bathroom, but heard none. He threw off the covers and sat up.

“Why did you do that, Drake? She’s very upset. She says she’ll do anything to make up with you.”

“Do we have to have this conversation now?”

“But, Son—”

“Mom. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He got to his feet and padded to the toilet. He was freezing his ass off. He kept the temperature in his bedroom below seventy.

“You should call her, Drake,” his mother said. “She says she knows she was too loud last night. She says she drank too much and doesn’t—”

“Mom. Cut it out.” Finished at the toilet, he found a robe in the closet, shrugged into it and returned to the bedroom. Annoyance just short of anger spiked within him. “It’s my business.”

“When one of your women friends calls me and asks me to speak for her, what am I supposed to do?” his mother asked.

He opened the shades on the window wall. Outside, the sky was still a dull gray, the weather still wet and messy. He walked up the hallway that led to the dining room, pausing to reset the thermostat.

From the dining room, he glimpsed the kitchen, saw Sharon’s clothing gone. The bag of food from Reata lay on the floor with a puddle under it. The coffee maker had been switched off. The two dishes of dessert still sat on the dining table, one partly eaten.