“THERE’S ONLY ONE BED.” It was probably the stupidest thing she could have said, but the two of them were standing there inside the door of the suite on Friday night of the corporate retreat, both staring at the mammoth bed that dominated the room.
Seemed like someone should mention it.
“Looks like it.” He sent her a half guilty, half pleading look from under eyelashes that were far too long and lush for a man. “I could request two beds, but word would get around.”
“No. Don’t do that.”
He glanced down at the floor dubiously. “I suppose I could sleep on the floor.”
“It’s slate. You’d be miserable. No, the bed’s huge. You stay on your side, I’ll stay on mine. We’ll work it out.”
The room was gorgeous, the resort fairly new and built in a style she thought of as eco-chic. All natural materials, stone and wood, big natural rock fireplaces and natural linens for bedding and towels. Huge French doors led to the woodland retreat outside. There were trees and wildflowers out there and plenty of privacy.
“I am really sorry about this. I had no idea they’d put us in the bridal suite.”
She giggled. “It’s not the bridal suite,” she said, glancing over a brochure that was on the desk. “It’s the romance package.”
They’d left early in the day to avoid Friday night traffic and enjoyed a leisurely drive through rolling hills, past lakes and forests of trees that would be turning every color of fire come autumn, but for now were a deep, placid green.
“I used to come up here a lot to go hiking and camping,” David said. “There are some great trails, waterfalls and good views.” He glanced at her sideways. “And not too many snakes.”
She rolled her eyes.
“We should come up with a tent sometime,” he said, and then as though realizing that he was talking as though they had a future, added, “With a group or something. You know.”
Piers and his wife had been so excited when they arrived, they’d all but accompanied Chelsea and David into their room. “We thought you could combine the corporate retreat with a bit of fun time to yourselves,” Piers had informed them.
The double Jacuzzi bathtub in the middle of the suite, for instance, could no doubt be fun if you were in fact in love, and not faking it.
There was a basket of goodies on the table that included champagne, chocolates and massage oil and a few more intimate items. Oh, dear.
“I had no idea they’d do something like this. Honestly, I figured we’d get a standard hotel room with two queen beds.”
“It’s fine.” Hoisting her bag onto the edge of the enormous bed, she began unpacking her case into the wooden drawers. “I trust you.”
“What about Philippe?”
“Philippe?”
“Your French boyfriend. I overheard you talking to him on the phone.”
She glanced up at him. “I didn’t know you could speak French.”
“I can’t. But I picked out a few words.”
“I see. Well, you don’t need to worry. Philippe knows he can trust me.”
Philippe had studied with her and they’d bonded over béchamel sauce. Neither of them could stand the thick white sauce and tried to avoid using it in their own cooking. If David had picked up on passion during their conversation it was a passion for food, since Philippe was happily living with Raoul, a financial analyst from Nantes.
She thought about disabusing him of his mistake, but stopped herself. A little consideration was all it took to make her realize that Philippe was the perfect excuse to keep her distance from the all-too-attractive and far-too-accessible David.
She hadn’t had sex in months and the lack was getting to her, especially while living under the same roof of a man who reminded her she was a woman with a woman’s needs. Plus, with the stress and anxiety of opening a new business, some good recreational sex and a few laughs were exactly what she needed, but she wasn’t built that way. And with David, she didn’t think she could have a few laughs and walk away unscathed. She really needed to keep her distance.
He was staring at her while she neatly put her clothes and things away. “You unpack for a weekend?”
“Yes. I suppose you jumble everything together in your suitcase and wonder why your clothes end up creased.”
“No,” he said in a constricted voice. “I unpack for a weekend, too.”
She bit her lip. “Oh.”
She hung her dresses neatly in the closet; he hung his jacket and slacks beside them. How intimate they appeared, those clothes, cosily snuggled up like lovers.
They moved around each other fairly efficiently until she noticed he’d stopped and seemed to have turned to stone. She was unpacking her lingerie—she hadn’t even considered that he’d ever see it, and here she was with all her frilly, girly French silks and laces. Sexy lingerie was an indulgence she’d picked up in Paris. No matter how yucky her day with food, how utilitarian her apron, she always knew that underneath all that she was feminine and sexy.
It seemed he’d noticed. For a second she stood frozen, a black lacy bra and panties in her hand burning like a handful of live coals. He didn’t move, either; it was as though he couldn’t. Their gazes connected and she felt the scorch.
He took a step forward then halted. Swallowed.
He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got an hour until we have to join the crew for dinner.” He gestured behind him to the walking trails that meandered behind the lodge. “Think I’ll take a walk.”
Oh, this whole place was altogether too romantic. A long walk seemed like a good idea, because if he took one step closer, they’d be cracking open the massage oil and champagne.
“Okay. I think I’ll finish unpacking.”
He nodded. “See you later.”
IT WAS GOING TO BE A LONG weekend, David thought as he strolled among the pines and birch, enjoying the fresh air, the softness of the path beneath his feet and the fresh air. Fresh air. Right. If he kept repeating that thought, breathing in deep lungfuls of the stuff, he might keep his thoughts off the sexiest wisps of nothing that women considered as underwear.
All he could think about was that glorious body covered in dabs of silk that he was pretty sure were designed more to enhance than reveal.
This weekend was going to be torture. Pure torture. Between the stress of spending a sexless weekend in the sex palace and trying to impress the execs, he thought a three-day migraine might be easier to handle.
He wandered aimlessly, wanting to go back and make love to that woman so badly his teeth ached, knowing he couldn’t. He reached a summit where a view of gently rolling hills seemed to stretch to New Jersey.
He could do this. He could share a bed with a beautiful woman who wore sexy undies and not touch her. Fresh air, he reminded himself. Breathe. He kept up a fast pace until he barely had time to dress for dinner, then reentered their room through the French doors.
He was in time to see Chelsea poke her second earring in her ear, otherwise she was fully dressed, and every cell in his body yelled Wow. “You sure do have some nice clothes,” he said. She was wearing a simple black dress but it had a kind of attitude to it somehow. He didn’t understand women’s fashion, obviously, but he knew when a woman had style and Chelsea had it from the top of her sleek shiny hair to the soles of her black high-heeled shoes.
Of course, while he didn’t have X-ray vision, he did have a vivid imagination, and based on the lingerie he’d seen in her suitcase earlier, she was wearing some sinful confection underneath that dress.
She looked down at herself as though she might have forgotten what she was wearing. “Thanks. Clothes are my weakness. I think it’s because I’m cooking or preparing food all day, in a uniform and aprons. When I get a chance, I love to dress up.”
“Lucky me,” he said, and he realized how true that was. Also, she wasn’t one to keep a man waiting, another quality he admired. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”
The dinner was exactly what he would have predicted. A private room, good food and a partner a man could be proud of.
They’d barely walked in when Piers’s wife, Helen, gestured them over to a table. “Come and join us. I’ve got something to show you.”
She sounded so excited that his heart sank. Not more romance. He couldn’t take it.
When they reached her, Helen pulled out a brown envelope and opened it, spilling out an array of photographs of a wedding. “These are some of the pictures from my niece’s wedding. Not sure if you’ve booked a photographer yet, but if you haven’t, this company is excellent. He’s done a lot of the big society weddings, so he’s top-notch.”
“Wedding photographer…” He couldn’t even formulate a sentence.
The sight of that camera-perfect couple, the bride in her white gown and the groom tricked out in a monkey suit, made him feel like he couldn’t get enough air. They’d studied photographers, he and Suzanne. They’d planned to get married at her mother’s house, where the grounds were bigger than a park and there were sixteen bedrooms to accommodate overnight guests.
The elegant invitations had even been printed, and then Suzanne, who was as cool and organized about details as she was about running her family’s business, kept forgetting to put them in the mail.
Two weeks later, she told him she’d made a mistake and was going back to her former boyfriend.
A guy who hadn’t even been on the invite list.
Pick another wedding photographer? Not in this lifetime. David had no idea what to say.
Luckily, Chelsea picked up the dropped ball.
“These pictures are amazing,” she said, flipping through them. “Oh, I like the one here, by the fountain. And your niece is gorgeous. Where did she get that dress?”
And soon he found the women discussing wedding details. Amelia joined in and the women talked about everything from engraved glassware to bridal headgear as easily as if Chelsea and he were actively pursuing a union. He didn’t know what he’d do without her.
Afterward the evening was free; some headed to the bar, some to their rooms and some to other parts of the lodge. Knowing he didn’t want to expose Chelsea and himself to any more scrutiny than necessary, he challenged her to a game of Ping-Pong, which she laughingly accepted.
The games room wasn’t very busy and one of the two Ping-Pong tables was free. He slipped off his jacket, she stepped out of her shoes and they faced each other across the green table.
“I remember we used to play this game in my parents’ rec room,” he said, surprised at how clear the memory was of teenage Chelsea and him battling it out. His sister, even then, hadn’t seen the point in wasting time on games, so if no one else was around he dragged Hermione into the rec room where they enjoyed some spirited competition.
Of course, he usually won, but she always put up a good fight.
“I haven’t played in years,” she said, laughing as they volleyed to get into the swing of things.
“Then I guess I’m going to kick your butt,” he informed her.
“A gentleman would give me a head start.”
He grinned at her. “If you see any around, challenge them to a game.”
She shook her head at him. “You know, you really haven’t changed.”
“Oh, you have,” he said softly, glad that the bouncing plastic ball covered his comment. Watching her move and sway, jump forward and back as they began the game for real, he wondered when shapeless, studious, not at all stylish Hermione had turned into one of the sexiest, most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
He got so carried away watching her body move in that dress that she’d scored six points to his two. Clearly it was time to focus.
In the end, he won, but it was a squeaker.
“Best of three?” she asked and he said, “Sure.”
He suspected she was as anxious as he was to drag the evening out so they wouldn’t be stuck spending too much time in that huge bed pretending they didn’t want each other.
Or maybe that was just him.
AFTER HE WON THE first two games, she surprised both of them by winning the third. It had helped that a few of the other people from David’s company had wandered in to see the match, and after watching for a few minutes, Helen Van Horne had bet her husband five dollars that Chelsea would win the last game.
In spite of Chelsea’s horrified protests, Piers had taken the bet and suddenly you’d have thought they were laying bets on the Super Bowl. All the women got behind Chelsea, which she really appreciated since she was obviously the weaker player, and then Helen had insisted the guys “man up” and support David.
Maybe it was the support of a group of women she was starting to really like, or maybe it was simply the heat of competition, but Chelsea decided that David wasn’t going to win the third match, and concentrated all her energy on the little white ball.
She knew all of David’s weaknesses from playing against him so often in the past, and she exploited every one of them. He liked to stand back from the table and smash balls so they bounced too far for her to return them. But he wasn’t very good when she dropped the ball softly just inside the net, so that’s what she did whenever possible.
His backhand was also a little weak and he wasn’t as agile as she, all of which she exploited ruthlessly until they were both panting with effort.
Finally, to a chorus of feminine cheers, she won the game.
She felt like an Olympic gold medalist. David, a drop of sweat rolling down his hairline, leaned across and shook her hand, giving her his crooked grin. “Nicely played, Hermione. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Come on, don’t be a sore loser, kiss the girl!”
As their gazes connected, she saw the heat spark and felt the answering burst of passion within her. She leaned in, kissed his lips. She tasted sweat and felt the warmth of his mouth, the thickness of his hair as she cupped her hand around the back of his head. Suddenly, he pulled her in to his body and she was so startled she dropped her paddle so it clattered to the table.
Oh, he felt so right against her, so hot and gorgeous and hers. She felt as though he’d always been hers, he simply hadn’t known it.
Sadly, she thought, as she eased carefully away amid the laughter and catcalls, he still didn’t know it.
They turned the table over to the next challengers and decided to turn in.
Now was the moment she’d dreaded. How would she ever resist him if he picked up where that kiss left off?
The rules, she reminded herself.
She simply had to remember the rules.
Once in their room, however, David didn’t turn on the charm. Instead, he politely asked her if she’d like the bathroom first. She deferred to him with equal politeness, and after he disappeared into the bathroom, she clicked on the news.
David emerged a few minutes later wearing pajamas that were so obviously never worn she had to assume they were a gift he’d never before used or that he’d bought them specially.
They were navy cotton with tiny white stripes, slightly stiff where they’d never been washed and still bearing the crisp creases where they’d been folded.
He looked adorable.
She disappeared into the bathroom on the same task, brushed her teeth and slipped into her much more worn pajamas. Also cotton, but purple and covered with printed recipes written in French.
“Great pj’s,” David said as she flipped back the covers and eased herself into her side of the bed, leaving at least an acre between them.
“Thanks. Philippe bought them for me. He said I was so passionate about food that I should wear it to bed. It was kind of a joke present.”
“You must miss him.”
She thought about Philippe and how they’d laughed and helped each other stay sane through the rigorous training program. They called and e-mailed to give each other advice and support, but it wasn’t the same as talking in person. “I do. I miss him every day.”
David got into his side of the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. “Okay, then, good night. If I snore, just punch me.”
If he snored, she’d lie awake all night listening to him, but she didn’t say so, merely nodded. “I don’t think I snore, but if I do you’re welcome to punch me, too.”
“You don’t look like a snorer, but you can never tell. Okay if I turn out the light?”
“Yes.”
He plunged the room into relative darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she realized there was a sliver of light slipping between the curtains from the outside lights of the hotel.
She turned away so her back was to David and tried not to think about the man she’d reconnected with. She still had a terrible crush on him, and he still had no clue.