4
DISAPPOINTMENT BURNED like acid in Cliff’s veins. He took one slow step onto the patio, then stopped again. Should he wake her? Or let her sleep?
Wake her up! Wake her up! You’ve been waiting for this for days. It’s time to get this affair going.
But his nobler half had a different argument. Yes, but she was so tired earlier. She even admitted she hasn’t been sleeping well. It’d be cruel to wake her now that she’s finally resting.
While the debate raged within him, he softly moved to the gas grill and turned it off. He eyed the salads waiting on the patio table. Maybe he should take them inside to the refrigerator? They could be brought out again later when...if...
“Your visitor gone?” Mallory’s voice, always slightly husky, now was more of a contented purr.
“You’re awake?” His knees almost buckled. He’d spent hours this past week imagining the sound of her voice when she first woke, but the reality was like the velvet rasp of a kitten’s tongue against his ear. Soothing. Tickling. And arousing, definitely arousing.
She smiled. “Awake and hungry,” she confirmed. “Where are you taking those salads?”
“Nowhere. Not if you’re ready to eat.” He plunked the plates back onto the table, moved her glass of sangria to her place setting, and gave her a hand up, almost in the same motion. “I’ll get the salmon.”
But though the meal went down smoothly and the conversation was amiable, Cliff couldn’t figure out how to make the transition from friendly chatter to ardent loving. It wasn’t a problem he’d often had, he admitted silently. Usually he had no difficulty on his dates with women. But Mallory was, well, different. Why, exactly, he couldn’t quite explain, even to himself. But she just was.
You don’t want to rush her. You don’t want her to think you’re only after her body. Well, maybe, he admitted silently. But it wasn’t as if he didn’t want her body—as soon as possible. It was just that...hell, he didn’t have any idea. Never mind that tingle of desire fizzing through his veins, never mind their nofrills agreement, he had too much respect for Mallory—and himself—to rush her into bed.
“D’you mind?”
Mallory’s question jerked him out of his mental floundering. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Is it okay if I do a bit of sunbathing while we’re out here? My patio is impossible.” She gestured at the huge eucalyptus tree that loomed over the end of the condo building. Its shadow darkened the patio of Mallory’s next-door unit, though it barely affected his.
“Sure. That’s fine.” What male in his right mind would ever tell a gorgeous woman not to wear a skimpy bathing suit in front of him? Not he, that was for sure.
“Thanks. I wore my suit in hopes you’d say that.” Before he could draw two breaths she’d slipped out of her shorts and jersey top to reveal an attractive but fairly conservative bikini. She adjusted the lounge chair flat, pulled a bottle of sunscreen from her bag, and tossed it to him. “Would you do my back?”
He forgot to draw a third breath. You’re not going to rush her. You’re not going to rush her. The mantra bongoed through his brain while he slowly uncapped the sunscreen. This scenario could have come straight from a 1960s beach movie. She could be Annette, everyone’s sweetheart. You could be...
Nuts. That’s what he could be. Certifiably, undeniably, crackers.
Sitting beside her on the lounge chair, he warmed some of the oil in his palm, then slowly smoothed it over skin as smooth as butter. The instant wriggle of contentment he felt under his hands sparked an answering swirl of arousal through him.
You’re not going to rush her. You’re not going to rush her.
Frowning, he tried to keep his mind strictly on the task at hand. He cupped his hands around those long, long legs and stroked the oil into her skin from ankles to hips. When his hands strayed into her inner thighs, he thought he heard a moan.
“Did I rub too hard?” His hands froze into position, nestled intimately between her upper thighs.
“No.” Her voice was slightly muffled. “I just got a kink in my neck.”
“Let me see.” He moved his hands away from the far-too-dangerous territory at the top of her legs. He worked on the muscles at her shoulder and nape. “Your muscles are so tense I could bounce quarters off them.”
She purred something that might have been an agreement.
He put real effort into working out her kinks, enjoying the slick blend of skin and coconut lotion. As he moved further down her back, he hesitated at the back closing of her bikini top. “Uh, do you mind?” Dolt! What happened to your cool, man?
But Mallory looked over her shoulder at him and gave him a slow, sleepy smile. “Go ahead.”
His fingers fumbled the closure—when did he lose every trace of finesse?—but eventually he got it open and spread the straps wide. Now he had free range of her body from head to toe, save only for the small swath of material over her hips. He shifted uncomfortably to accommodate his growing arousal. His kneading motions only reminded him of the silky steel of her muscles and the feminine lushness of her curves. When his hands moved around her to cup the side swell of her breasts and refused to move away, he’d had enough.
“Mallory. I—we—”
With the sinuous motion of a mermaid, she rolled over. Her arms twined around his neck, tugging him closer. “I wondered how long you’d hold out.”
“You planned this?” His mock outrage probably didn’t have much impact when his lips nuzzled her breast.
“Sure.” Her hands busily unbuttoned his shirt. “Well, sort of. You certainly seemed to be taking a long time to get anywhere.” She grinned. “You look kind of cute when you’re just a teensy bit embarrassed. Did you know that?”
Heat warmed the back of his neck. “I was not—am not—embarrassed. I just didn‘t—don’t—want to rush you into anything.”
With her fingers spearing through his hair and outlining the rims of his ears, he was sure she’d feel the steam sizzling off him and recognize his claim for the lie it was. But she just nodded. “It’s okay, you know. About being embarrassed. I was, too.”
“Sure you were. You were so embarrassed you told me to take off your bikini top.”
It might have been a flush that tinted her cheeks pink. Or maybe it was just a trick of the sun. But her sudden stillness in his arms wasn’t an illusion. “Do you want to know the truth?”
Did he? He had enough experience with women to know that truth-telling could get a man into a lot of trouble. Warily, he nodded. “I guess.”
She took a deep breath and her tongue left a shiny track across sun-kissed lips. The action almost derailed Cliff’s train of thought. “The truth is, while I was waiting for you to come back I started worrying about...us. And how hard it was going to be to just, well, do it. With no preliminaries or anything. And I thought that maybe you might feel the same way, so if I took things into my own hands—”
A sappy grin was spreading across his face and he couldn’t do a thing to stop it. His hands moved down to cover her breasts. “Or rather, if I took things into my hands?”
“Yes.” But the word was more gasped than articulated. “Anyway, you got the point.”
His fingers plucked a crowning nipple. “And the point being?”
Her own sudden sappy grin was almost as wide as his felt. Her hands dropped from his ears and busily explored his chest. “The point being that you lawyers talk everything to death. You’re all talk, no action.”
“No action, huh? I’ll show you ‘no action.”’ With a mock growl, he levered her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and toted her inside to the comfortable couch in the living room.
Within seconds, he’d stripped off her bikini bottom and his own clothes, pausing only long enough to pull a condom from his pants pocket before rolling on top of her.
She was giggling so hard and her back and legs were so slippery with sunscreen lotion that it was hard to hold on to her, but he managed to lever himself into position above her.
“What were you saying about no-action lawyers?” His implied threat was muffled by her sizzling kiss. This woman could kiss like no woman he’d ever met before. Why hadn’t he realized before that she was so incredible, fabulous, magnificent...
Words failed him as he simply reveled in the experience. Only when he grew dizzy did he break away from the kiss and nudge himself more intimately between her legs.
Her hips tilted up to accommodate his forward thrust. God, she felt wonderful! Hot and tight, like sinking into a pool of wet velvet, only softer. With a surge, he pushed into her as deep as he could manage. “God, Mallory, you’re—”
From the patio a strident electronic beep demanded attention. He froze.
“—being paged.” He raised his head to stare at her face. “Do you want to stop?”
“No!” She shifted her hips, and used her hands to pull him inside her even deeper. “Don’t stop!”
“But—”
“Don’t stop!”
But his mind never quite left that insistent chirping from the patio. As if in a bizarre race, he felt himself going faster and faster, trying to outrun that persistent call. When he finally spasmed, he realized that though he’d found his release, Mallory hadn’t.
He paused only a moment to catch his breath before rolling off her. “Mallory., I’m sorry.”
But she had already grabbed his shirt from the floor, wrapped it around herself, and headed for the patio. When she returned a moment later, she carried her clothes and that damned beeper. He could really learn to hate that tyrannical little device.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. It was hard to apologize for something he’d really enjoyed, though he wished she’d enjoyed it as much as he had. “I know it wasn’t as good for you—”
She waved his feeble excuses aside without waiting to hear them. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got to run. There’s a big story breaking downtown. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Absently, she pulled on her clothes, gave him a quick kiss, and headed for the door before he could do more than pull on his cutoffs. He trailed her, trying to sort out his jumbled feelings. But with another quick kiss and an apologetic smile, she was out the door before he could even begin to make sense of his roiling emotions.
He mooched around his condo, clearing away the remnants of their meal, and tried to make sense of his snarled emotions. He seldom spent time in introspection, but he finally collapsed with a can of beer on the couch—a couch that still exuded an intoxicating blend of coconut and Mallory—and tried to concentrate on the situation.
What the hell did he feel about what had happened, anyway? Relief she wasn’t mad at his failure to satisfy her? Yes. Disappointment? Sure. He’d always liked cuddling after sex. Maybe a little bit of resentment that she could dismiss him so easily?
No way! He understood her commitment to her job. He had the same commitment to his. They’d settled that from the first. He was just...concerned, yes, that must be it. He was worried that she was off to some dangerous assignment—maybe a drug bust or the SWAT team capture of some mad serial killer?—where no one would protect her. He blithely dismissed the technicians and crew that would no doubt be beside her every step of the way, and he just as easily put aside his ignorance of the kind of story she was covering. None of that mattered. He wanted her here, with him, not off doing something dangerous.
But she doesn’t want to be here with you. At least not right this moment.
Hmm. A good point. And why should she? So far, their attempts to start an affair with “great sex and no commitments” had achieved the “no commitments” part and even the “sex” part—but “great”? Well, for him, maybe, or at least “good.” But for her? Hardly.
Fair was fair. That had to change.
He brooded long into the fading afternoon, mapping out a plan designed to guarantee that the next time he got Mallory Reissen alone, she was going to end up more sexually satisfied than any woman in history.
He would guarantee it
MALLORY DROVE downtown to cover the governor’s impromptu visit to San Diego, lending only half her attention to the road. The rest was firmly centered on a certain condo in La Jolla where she’d left her new lover behind.
Lover. Somehow, the word didn’t quite describe her relationship with Cliff. Associate? Colleague? Date? Boyfriend? She grimaced and shifted lanes to pass a car. None of those fit, either.
Maybe after he thinks about this afternoon, he’ll be your ex-lover.
There was always that possibility. Darn it! They’d been friends ever since he’d moved into the condo next to hers. One less-than-perfect sexual encounter shouldn’t change that. Sure, he knew she hadn’t climaxed. Men didn’t like knowing that, in her experience. They wanted to be considered the best thing in the sack since penny candy. But this afternoon, with her mind fretting over the insistent pager, her embarrassment at making the first move, even the natural awkwardness of a first time together, she simply hadn’t been able to relax enough.
Suddenly a new question loomed. Did he realize that her nerves were to blame for their less-thanworld-shattering lovemaking? Cliff was a really nice guy—she knew that—after all, that’s why she’d proposed their affair in the first place. He was one of the good guys. He could be trusted, not just with her body, but her feelings, too. She trusted him not to expect too much, just as he trusted her not to read too much into his lovemaking.
Still, maybe he was beating up on himself for something that wasn’t his fault.
Would he understand that things would probably be a lot better next time?
Would there be a next time?
She turned onto the freeway exit ramp and pondered that question. Next time, she’d make sure things went well, she promised herself. She’d make up for today’s nervousness and too-quick departure. She’d be sweet, charming, and make sure he knew she didn’t blame him for anything.
Yes, that was it. She’d be sweet, charming, gracious—and she’d climax so obviously that he could be in no doubt of his prowess as a lover.
She guaranteed it.
BUT SHE HADN’T counted on “next time” happening on a day that combined all the delights of Friday the thirteenth, an IRS audit, and a really bad hair day.
“Hi, Mallory.” Cliff straightened as she approached where he leaned against his car in the condominium parking lot. He gave her a warm peck on the cheek. “I’m glad you decided you could come out and play tonight.”
“It’s been a tough day,” she said, reluctant to move. She’d arrived home twenty minutes ago, with just enough time to change clothes before meeting him. It was “hump-day”—Wednesday—after a half week that already seemed as long as a month. The aspirin she’d gulped hadn’t yet touched her throbbing head, a new perm and unusual humidity had her looking like the Bride of Frankenstein, and she’d had separate fights with both the news producer and the station makeup artist. Not to mention having an incipient case of PMS that promised to be a lulu.
Still, when Cliff had called earlier to say he was taking the entire evening off and couldn’t she come with him for a late dinner, she couldn’t find a way to say no. She wanted to be with him, lousy mood, lingering headache, cramping stomach and all. While exhausted disgruntlement scratched sex from her personal agenda for this particular evening, she knew she could count on Cliff for a sympathetic ear and a relaxing good time. Besides, when she’d delicately pointed out that she wasn’t in the mood for a sleepover, he’d insisted that didn’t matter. Still, she owed him the opportunity to back out of a date that could go nowhere.
“Are you sure you want to be around me?” she asked him. “I’m pretty grumpy when I’m tired. And this has been an incredibly hellish day. Maybe I should settle for a mug of Ovaltine and an early night.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” he said, opening the car door. “I intend to make up for last Sunday by whisking you away from all your troubles. In fact, I think I can promise you an evening you’ll never forget.”
Tempted, she wavered, then conceded with a little sigh. Maybe by the time he brought her home she’d be unwound enough to get some sleep. She surreptitiously flicked her pager to “off” as she stepped into the car. She needed an uninterrupted night, and this time, by George, she was going to get it. “You did say we were going somewhere not too dressy, didn’t you?” She gestured at her designer jeans and simple short-sleeved cotton-ramie sweater.
“You look perfect.”
“And I’ll never forget this evening?” She fastened the seat belt. “Sounds like a lot for you to live up to.”
“Don’t worry.” He closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. “I think I can impress you. I’ve been working hard and I’m in the mood to have a little fun. You game?”
Mallory nodded, leaned against the seat back and closed her eyes, not bothering to pay attention to where Cliff drove them. She wasn’t sure she cared where they went. She wasn’t all that hungry—the knot of tension that lodged just under her breastbone ensured she’d eat little, anyway.
The whole week had been a disaster, starting with Sunday’s unsatisfactory tryst and capped by her agent’s call that morning telling her the network honchos had put off her job interview for another two weeks. Lenny had even agreed with her morose assessment that it probably meant they had someone else in mind and might never even get around to talking to her. With her hopes of a huge career advancement fading, she retreated again into her dour gloom. She simply wasn’t in the mood for dinner at some upscale restaurant where she’d be expected to be “on” all evening.
She could envision the meal already. Cliff was trying to impress her, he’d said. That probably meant a trendy restaurant where the service staff had names like Tiffany or Darryl and the noise factor was loud enough to make sure no meaningful conversation could possibly take place. The menu would feature only the most fashionable ingredients—was this month’s favorite the chiles that gave her gas, the cilantro that left a nasty taste in her mouth, or the exotic fungus that reminded her of some alien lifeform? Whichever, everyone would be so busy posturing to impress those around them that no one would pay the slightest attention to anyone else.
She’d seen it all a hundred times. Resigned, Mallory mentally condemned herself to another inedible meal that cost five times as much as it should. She wondered if she had enough antacid in her medicine chest to make it through the inevitable night of heartburn.
Just once, she thought wistfully, just once I’d like to go somewhere...different.
HE TOOK HER TO a bowling alley.
When Cliff opened the door to the moderately busy lanes and escorted Mallory inside, he took a deep breath. Familiar odors of hot grease from the snack bar, sweaty rental shoes and chalk from the battered pool table in the far alcove assaulted his nostrils, bringing on a wave of bittersweet nostalgia. The hum of conversation, the clatter of pins falling, and the rumble of the pin-spotting machines strummed his ears like his favorite song from high school.
He’d spent many a pleasant hour hanging out here when he was about thirteen. While his mother flipped burgers in the snack bar, he’d become unofficial after school pinspotter for the owner, taking his pay in free games and meals instead of money.
His mother had hung on to that job for more than a year—one of her longest stints anywhere—and Cliff remembered the place with more fondness than most of the joints she’d slaved in. Besides, Bertie, the alley owner, had taken one look at Felicia Young’s half-wild kid and opened his heart to him. Cliff knew that without Bertie’s intervention he could well have ended up in some street gang instead of an expensive condo.
Hell, he’d even brought Rebecca Salinger, his first sweetheart in junior high, here on their first date. And snatched a kiss in the hard plastic seats of the next-to-last lane. The distant memory of that innocent embrace evoked a recollection of far more heated kisses with Mallory. This time, he vowed again silently, she’d find satisfaction from more than his kisses.
“Let’s get you some bowling shoes,” he said, guiding her to the desk. “What size do you wear?”
“Cliff, I don’t think—”
“Yo, Cliff! How ya been? Been a while, hasn’t it?” Bertie said. The butterball man’s gap-toothed grin warmed Cliff like a wood fire in winter.
“Hi, Bertie. Ready to go grunioning again?” On Cliff’s last visit Bertie had closed the lanes early, then he and Cliff had headed for the beaches of La Jolla to watch the grunions do their spawning dance in the moonlight.
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ve got better company.” Bertie gave Mallory an openly salacious wink. “What size shoe do you take, darlin’?”
“I’m not—”
Overriding her protests, Cliff said, “Give her a size seven, I think. And I’ll take elevens.”
“I’m not—”
Lowering his head so his mouth was right beside her ear, he whispered, “Sure you are. Remember? When I asked where you wanted to eat you told me to pick someplace I wanted to go. Well, this is it.”
She turned her head, tickling his chin with a few stray hairs and leaving her cheek only millimeters from his mouth. God, how he wanted to close that distance!
“You know I didn’t mean—”
“Bowling? It’ll do you good. Besides, it’s fun, good exercise, and I want to do it.” Deliberately, he closed the span between their flesh until barely a whisper separated them. “Don’t worry. I won’t laugh, no matter how bad you are. All you have to do is give me an adoring smile every time I make a strike.”
His ploy worked. He saw her competitive spirit surge in the glare she gave him. “I see,” she said ominously. Her lips parted in what probably looked like a smile to anyone watching, but which he knew bore more similarity to the snarling challenge of a lioness.
Hastily, he drew back his head. Just in case. “Good,” he said and handed her the shoes, then showed her where to choose a ball.
But it was no accident that he led the way to the battered next-to-last lane hardly anyone used these days. The one directly under the fluorescent tube that for twenty years or more had flickered stubbornly between full illumination and occasional sudden darkness. The lane with the crack in the seat that made only half of it usable, forcing a comfortable squeeze if two people sat in it at the same time.
It was the perfect spot to ensure an illusion of privacy with the woman he intended to seduce.
GIVE AN ADORING SMILE? Sure she would, Mallory thought. Right after hell froze over.
“Didn’t you mention food?” she said as soon as she’d dumped her purse on the appalling flamingopink seat. A few lanes away, balls rumbled down the hardwood floor and pins chattered in defeat. “My stomach’s so hollow I may start chewing on a bowling pin.”
“Never let it be said that I disappointed a lady. What do you want on your dog?”
“You’re buying me a whole hot dog? What a prince.”
“Well,” he rubbed his chin with stone-faced glee, “it’s either that or the chiles rellenos or bean burritos, and I can’t recommend them. They give me gas.”
Maybe she wasn’t the only person in America who couldn’t eat hot chiles. “All right. I’d like mustard, relish, onions, and cheese.”
“Onions?”
Sternly she frowned at his devilishly quirked eyebrow. “Lots of onions,” she repeated firmly.
“Okay. I guess I’ll have onions, too.” He sent a too-adorable-to-be-true grin her way. “They say it doesn’t matter if both participants eat them.”
Before she could do more than frown, he left for the snack bar.
He returned a few minutes later with a tray holding a huge pile of greasy french fries, two wrapped but equally grease-shiny hot dogs with appropriate fixings, and two large beers.
“You realize there’s enough cholesterol on that plate to clog the Alaskan pipeline?” Despite her words, she reached for her share of his booty.
“C’mon. How often do you get one of Bertie’s gourmet dogs? One meal won’t hurt. Indulge yourself.” His voice dropped to a tempting snake-in-thegarden murmur. “Sin a little.”
Surprisingly, the food was good—no, it was scrumptious. If only she could have ignored the heat he radiated as effortlessly as he breathed, she might even have admitted to enjoying the meal.
She picked up a french fry and had almost popped it into her mouth when Cliff’s hand stopped hers.
“Hold it a second.”
Automatically she froze, her lips forming an O around the end of the fry. Before she could ask what the problem was, he lowered his head and sent his tongue on a steam-heated lick across the corner of her mouth and chin. Instantly her thoughts scattered and toppled like all ten pins in a strike.
He sat back to admire his accomplishment. “There. That’s fine.”
Though he released her hand, Mallory almost choked before she could get the bite of french fry swallowed. “What was that for?” Not that she cared why, particularly. All she really wanted was to feel his tongue stroking her skin again—and again. Her lousy mood was getting more and more slippery with every moment. Pretty soon, she’d lose her grip on it altogether.
He cranked up her body temperature another notch or two by retracing his tongue’s path with a gentle finger. “You had a smear of mustard right here.”
“You ever heard of napkins, Young?”
“Napkins? Gee, now there’s a concept. I never thought of them.” His smile would definitely have tempted Eve to chop down the Tree of Knowledge. “Besides, they’re no fun.”
“Is that what we’re here for? Fun?” Even to herself her words sounded wistful.
“You bet. Didn’t I promise you a night you’d never forget?”
Mallory glanced around the slightly seedy bowling alley and suddenly saw the humor in the situation. Her lips curved upward in a rueful smile that broke through her grump, melting it and washing it away. She finished her beer with a long swallow. “I think you’ve succeeded. I can honestly say that none of my dates has ever—” the beer she swallowed too hastily made her hiccup “—treated me to a lively evening at a bowling alley.”
“That’s because they lacked imagination. I, on the other hand, have plenty of creativity. Not to mention inspiration.” Cliff finished his hot dog and took a final gulp of beer before looking at her expectantly. “You ready to let me trounce you bowling?”
“Look, Cliff, I really don’t want—”
“That’s what you said about your hot dog, and you liked it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“So let’s have some fun.”
“I told you...” Darn it all, why couldn’t she just enjoy these moments with him? Her problems at work and with the will-o’-the-wisp network career opportunity would still be there tomorrow. Even her headache had temporarily been beaten into submission by the aspirin and her stomach was practically purring in contentment after the deliciously unhealthy meal. Why not seize this evening and wring every bit of pleasure she could from it?
With a sigh, she stood and picked up her ball. “Okay. We’ll bowl.”
“Great!”
She headed for the proper position and gave him her most challenging look. “But I want you to know I intend to beat the socks off you—and I’m keeping score.”
Just as she stepped forward to roll a practice ball down the lane, she was thrown off stride by his low-voiced Bogie drawl. “Sweetheart, socks are the least of it. You can get anything you want off me—all you have to do is ask.”
When her ball glided ignominiously straight into the gutter, she glared at him. “That wasn’t fair! You broke my concentration.”
“All’s fair. Isn’t that what they say?”
Darn it. There was that devilish-choirboy grin again. If he ever figured out she’d forgive him anything for that smile, she’d be dead meat. So he thought all was fair, did he? Well, he didn’t know who he was daring with that comment. All was fair in love—and war. She barely restrained the impulse to do her best Groucho Marx imitation and assert, “Of course you know this means war.”
Instead, she deliberately waited until he was preparing to bowl his own practice round. In the middle of his first stride she said in a butter-wouldn’t-melt voice, “Don’t you think that’ll be a bit embarrassing with all these people around? I mean—strip bowling?”
He didn’t even bother to watch his ball skitter sideways into the gutter. He loomed over her with eyes glittering promises. “Strip bowling?”
“Wasn’t that what you were proposing?” she asked innocently. “Sure sounded like it to me.”
After a moment studying her he asked, “What happened to that life-is-real-life-is-earnest lady I walked in here with?”
She smiled. “I found Ernest—and strangled him.”
He tugged her out of her seat and into his arms as he roared with laughter. “You constantly surprise me.”
“Good. So no strip bowling, huh?”
“Oh, no.” Satisfaction dripped from his voice. “I’d never let a dare like that pass.”
She looked around the alley. While it wasn’t crowded—no one was closer than five lanes away—the place certainly wasn’t private enough for, well, stripping. “But all these people—we’ll get arrested!”
“No, we won’t. Not if we do it my way.”
“Your way?” Her mental alarms shrieked in warning. “What’s your way?” Was she really contemplating agreeing to...?
He whispered instructions into her ear, sending tropical shivers down her spine. “We’ll do it with our imaginations. With each ball, you get to describe what garment you’ll remove from me if you win that frame—and what will be revealed once you remove it.”
Her throat tightened into a thick clot of—nerves? No, you dummy, it’s excitement! “Describe?” she managed to utter.
“In detail. The sound of the garment rustling. How it feels in your hands. Everything you’d experience if you removed it from me yourself. I’m talking color. Texture. Scent. Taste.” His lips captured the lobe of her ear. “Especially taste.”
Her eyelids drifted downward as rivulets of sensation rushed from her earlobe to the core of her body. It was as if his lips had found her heartstrings and plucked them deliberately. Did she dare agree to his outrageous proposal? Yet did she have the willpower to refuse?
Gathering her strength of mind, she pulled her head—and vulnerable ears—away from his mouth. “What do I get if I win?”
“What do you want?”
You! You! You! Her senses screamed their response. But her mind answered for her with the thing she least wanted to win yet knew she most needed after her exhausting workweek. “An early night—alone?”
Disappointment dimmed his gaze, but he nodded acceptance of her request.
“And what will you get if you win?” she asked.
Darn it. That impish choirboy was back. “Why, Mallory,” he promised, “when I win, I get to go home and do it all over again—in person.”