Winter Kisses (4 page)

I
t was officially a lost cause. He wanted this woman, badly. And she, well, she wasn't putting up much of a fight. In fact, her arms had twined around his neck and her thighs trapped his between them as he deepened the kiss. He could take her right here, in front of the dwindling fire with the snowstorm raging outside. But he wouldn't.

This would not be a quick romp or a sudden release of the day's frustrations. When he took Monica Lakefield he wanted to take his time, to explore every nuance of this intriguing woman. It was going to take all the strength he could muster, but he wasn't having it any other way.

So Alex lifted his head slowly, delaying the parting of their lips for as long as possible. Breathing erratically, they stayed in that exact position, both with eyes closed for seconds that seemed to go on forever.

“I won,” she said finally, her warm breath whispering over his face.

He wondered if she'd deal with this like she'd dealt with the last kiss—speak no evil, etc. Not sure how that thought made him feel, Alex opted for the cool comeback. “That's why I rewarded you,” he said, opening his eyes to stare down at her.

She was not amused.

“My reward's the bedroom, as I recall the terms of our agreement.” With that statement she used her palms to push at his shoulders, signaling him to get off her.

He thought about staying; clearly he outweighed her and could overpower her. But that wasn't his style, either. So instead, he shifted, rolling off her and watching as she quickly stood and rubbed her hands down her thighs. Thighs he'd felt flexing beneath him just seconds ago.

“I'll put your bags in the hallway,” she said then turned to leave.

He could have gotten up, stopped her, made her address this attraction between them, but decided against it. He grabbed the plastic mat, doing some kind of folding job before stuffing it into its box. For anything to happen between them, Monica would have to want it; she would have to be on the same page as he was in her wants and desires. No way was he going to force himself on any woman, especially not this one. So tonight he'd sleep on the couch and convince himself that it was as comfortable as that king-size bed in the other room.

 

Monica hated the night.

Hated all the shadowed memories it held and replayed for her at will.

Taking a deep breath, she burrowed deeper under the comforter and closed her eyes, tighter than they had been before. Maybe if her eyes were closed tight the memories couldn't find their way inside her head. It was childish and probably sounded way beyond crazy, but this was her nightly ritual. All day long—from the time she woke up, usually at five, until the time her workday normally ended, around eight or nine in the evening—she was just fine. Nothing and/or nobody could throw her off her game. But the minute she changed into her nightclothes and sank into bed, the problems began.

Her past wasn't an easy one to forget. On most days she figured it was best not to forget—that way she wouldn't be likely to make the same mistakes twice. On other days she wished for something to come along and wipe her memory clear—like an IT tech would a hard drive. But Monica had no such luck, never did. Sometimes she wondered if she'd just been born in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That seemed awfully selfish considering the privileged upbringing she'd experienced. Her mother, Noreen Lakefield, came from a long line of strong black women in South Carolina, while her father, Paul Lake-field, came from an industrious family who'd made their mark in the steel industry. Her mother was the nurturer, there was no doubt about that. Anything that had to do with the three Lakefield girls was Noreen's business and hers alone. Paul rarely made time for the daughters he'd been saddled with despite his desires for sons. It was from that seed that a disconnect between Paul Lakefield and his daughters had grown. With Deena, the youngest, her father just had no pa
tience at all. Then again, no one in the family really had a lot of patience for Deena's impulsive nature, though they'd all been shocked when she had invited them to her wedding last July. Monica was still getting used to the idea of her youngest sister now being a wife, a mother and published author.

The middle child, Karena, Paul tended to ignore completely. That sometimes happened with the middle child, and it had bothered Karena so much she'd taken it out on their mother. Now it seemed Karena and Noreen had reconciled while Karena and Paul came to their own terms of acceptance. It would seem that now it was Monica's turn, only she didn't want a turn. Her father was a taskmaster where she was concerned, always had been. As the oldest she was expected to be the strongest, the smartest, the best at everything she did. It was an unspoken doctrine that she subscribed to just the same. For years Monica struggled to make sure she did everything right in her father's eyes, everything acceptable. Her reward for those efforts was to never hear an angry word from Paul Lakefield about herself. That should have been enough, but not hearing an angry word equated to not hearing anything positive, either.

Sighing, Monica turned onto her other side, clutching the pillow between her arm and her head, pulling her knees up close to her chest. She felt like a child but noted the comfort and safety most children experienced was missing. Monica hadn't felt safe, ever. Comfortable? She didn't know the meaning of that word. To be comfortable to her somehow meant she was complacent, settling for things as they were, and she didn't want to do that. Not ever again.

She opened her eyes, tried staring at the ceiling be
cause obviously keeping them closed wasn't blocking the memories out. Her heart clenched and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from sighing again, or Lord forbid, whimpering. Show no weakness, another one of her mottos. If the enemy knew your weakness, he'd easily exploit it. Wasn't that what happened before?

Turning again, she realized it was useless. She wasn't going to get any rest tonight. At home she survived on about four hours' sleep each night. When she wasn't in her own bed, it was more like no hours' sleep. So, throwing back the covers, she sat up, pulling her knees up to rest her forehead on them. She was too damned old to be going through restless nights and harboring fears that couldn't possibly hurt her anymore.

If she were totally honest with herself she'd admit that her restlessness tonight wasn't entirely due to the haunting of her past. A very pleasant distraction was keeping her from sleeping, as well. And he was right down the hall, sleeping on the gorgeous but probably not-too-comfortable couch. But did he really expect for them to share a bed? They barely knew each other and she wouldn't even count the times they had met as getting to know one another. Then again, Monica didn't spend a lot of time trying to get to know anyone. It just wasn't worth it.

Kissing him was quickly becoming addictive. And Monica definitely did not do addictions. What she did do was own up to whatever issues she had. So she took a deep breath, lifted her head and stared toward the door. Alex Bennett was going to be an issue.

Finally tired of sitting in this strange bed, Monica stood, moving to one of the windows where she used her fingers to separate the blinds. They were room
darkening, and she needed some light. There wasn't much light outside, just the illumination coming from each cabin's front-door lantern. And through that illumination she saw the huge snowflakes that had splashed against her face earlier were still falling.

The mere thought of all that snow had her searching for her purse, digging through it to pull out her cell phone. That—her heart sank as she pushed the buttons—still did not work.

“Dammit!” she whispered and clenched her teeth. The minute she got back to New York she was going to the store to replace this stupid phone.

Maybe she'd buy one from Alex. Funny how her thoughts circled right back to him.

He seemed like a nice enough guy. A very shrewd businessman, which she'd already assessed from the way Sam talked about him. Besides, after their first meeting and the resulting connection between his family and the prince and princess of Pirata, which ultimately showed up at the gallery with a link to the stolen artwork, she'd researched his family and company.

Bennett Industries had made its mark in the telecommunications industry in the early nineties with their advancements in personal computers. While they were no Bill Gates, they did hold the patent to several programs and PC accessories that were used nationwide, including in the Pentagon, which was a huge boost in their stocks. For the past few years they'd concentrated a lot of effort in mobile devices and security communication systems. They had steadily growing stock and were featured in this month's
Infinity
magazine—a premiere publication owned by another branch of the Donovan
clan—showcasing African-Americans on the move. The picture of Alexander Bennett sitting on the edge of his desk dressed in a black suit, white shirt and red tie was still fresh in her memory. Even from the glossy magazine page he'd touched her in that subtle yet potent way he always did. If she were really coming clean about everything she'd have to say she'd been attracted to him from day one.

It wasn't something she was proud of, physically wanting a man she didn't even know, but there it was. And just because she had this physical desire didn't mean she had to act on it. If they didn't keep bumping into each other, she wouldn't have to act on it, because she never intended to call him. But now, here they were. In a cabin, trapped in a snowstorm, ideal circumstances if she were thinking purely physical.

But she wasn't.

Although Deena would say she should. The not-so-subtle hints from her sister that she needed to get laid did not always fall on deaf ears. And while Monica certainly remembered the days when sex was as important to her as eating, lately that just wasn't the case. Until she'd met Alex.

It wasn't just his looks. Even though the dark, exotic look he had from his African-American and Brazilian heritage was reason enough for any woman to want him. For her it could never be just about looks. Alex was on her level. She could tell by the way he'd come the moment Sam had called him—family loyalty. Monica had that emblazoned in her brain. Good business sense and dedication to his job was another mark in his favor where she was concerned. It was important to take a job seriously enough to dedicate most—if not
all—of your time to it. That, she told herself every day, was the true sign of success. The success of Bennett Industries was definitely a priority to Alex. He also didn't go out of his way to impress her; that was probably the biggest mark in his favor.

Just because she hadn't been in the mood for sex in a long while, didn't mean Monica had no clue about the men that were interested in her. She'd been approached more times than she could count, but they'd all tried too hard to impress either with their money or their status, neither of which she needed or wanted.

Tired of reminiscing and thinking she pulled on her robe and left the bedroom she'd played Twister so valiantly for. The other rooms of the cabin were dim, but she could still hear the low crackling of the fire in the living room. She did not turn in that direction; instead, she moved into the kitchen to find something to eat or drink that would help her sleep.

“Sleepwalking?”

She jumped, holding a hand to her now-thumping heart. Alex was standing in the doorway that led from the kitchen to what she now referred to as the den, where the television was located. Trying to act as if it was no big deal that he was there, watching her sneak into the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator.

“Getting something to drink if you don't mind.”

“I don't,” he said and sounded closer. Too close.

She surveyed every item in the refrigerator, not wanting any of them.

“See what you want?”

She looked up to see his face over the refrigerator door.

“Not yet. And you don't have to watch every move
I make. I'm perfectly capable of getting something to drink and going back to sleep.”

She stood and slammed the refrigerator door.

“You can't go back to sleep if you weren't asleep in the first place.”

How had he known? It didn't matter—the fact that he always acted as if he knew every damn thing that ran through her mind was quickly becoming the biggest mark in her “dislike” column for him.

“I'm going back to bed.”

With a gentle hand he grasped her elbow and she stopped. “It's okay to admit you can't sleep, Monica. It doesn't make you weak.”

Her back was to him so he couldn't possibly see the truth in her eyes, but he knew, no matter how, he just knew.

She sighed.

“It's no big deal.”

“Does it happen often? Or is it just because you're in a strange bed?”

“I think it's the bed.”

He was quiet. She knew he didn't believe her.

“Would you like some company?”

“No!” She spun around to face him as she spoke. “Look, I don't know what crazy ideas you may have going on in your head. Just because we shared a couple of kisses does not mean I'm ready to hop into bed with you. Maybe you take sex lightly, but I don't. And I'm not sleeping with a man I hardly know!”

He didn't speak, but she heard him moving and wondered if he was once again leaving her standing alone. But the light came on and she saw him as he walked toward her. He wore only black boxer briefs that clung to the tops of his thighs and…his other parts
like a second skin. His chest, as well as the rest of his sun-kissed body, was bare. Every inch of him was all male, hard contours, ridges and planes finely sculpted and well tuned. A feast for the eyes was the very least she could say to describe him. But Monica decided not speaking might be better. She tried to swallow instead, though even that was going to be a task.