“Where’s Miranda?” Andrew walked into the morning room, where the Danville siblings had gathered for breakfast as long as they could remember, and went straight to the sidebar. “I need to talk to her about the design for tomorrow’s photo shoot.”
Ainsley glanced up from the society page of the newspaper to assess her twin with a critical eye. Dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, he was the more rugged of her brothers. Matthew was, technically, the more handsome and definitely the more sophisticated, but Andrew’s strawberry-blond hair and casual, outdoorsy style gave him an edgy sort of attraction. Of course, he was her twin and she might be—however slightly—biased in his favor. “Andrew?” she mused aloud. “Do you know Peyton O’Reilly?”
“I don’t know. Is she pretty?”
“Yes, and new in Newport. Her family bought the Wright mansion and completely tore it apart renovating it. At least, that’s what Lucinda told me…and she usually knows.”
“Blond or brunette?”
“Lucinda?”
“This Peyton person.”
“Oh. Brunette. A very striking brunette. I’ve been working with her at the pediatric center. She volunteers.”
Andrew filled his plate as if second helpings wouldn’t be allowed. “Why?”
“She’s very committed to helping others, says her parents were very lucky in their business ventures and she believes good fortune must be shared.”
“Gee, where have I heard that philosophy before?”
“Gee, I can’t imagine.” Ainsley watched him take a seat at the table and pondered the metabolism that allowed him to eat like a veritable machine and stay lean and muscular as an athlete. “Mom and Dad are going to love Peyton.”
“They love anyone who volunteers through the Foundation.”
“Yes, but she’s…special. They’re going to especially love her.”
Andrew glanced up with a frown. “This is beginning to sound ominous for someone. Please tell me you’re matchmaking for Matt and not for me.”
Ainsley mimicked his frown, exaggerated it, returned it, and told herself she would have to be more careful about what she said around here. Of course, soon—barely four weeks now left until the wedding—she’d be married and living with Ivan. Then her brothers wouldn’t constantly think she was trying to set them up with the right woman and an introduction of possibilities. Which maybe she was, and maybe she wasn’t. “I’m not matchmaking for you, that’s for sure. I’d never be able to find a woman who’d put up with you. How’s Hayley?”
“Who?”
“Hayley Sayers? She is still your photography assistant, isn’t she?”
He paused for the barest of moments. If she hadn’t been watching, she’d have missed it. “Hayley,” he repeated, as if trying to place her, “yes, she’s still with me.”
“Really.” Ainsley knew this was a long shot, but she went for it, anyway. “How’s that going?”
Andrew’s gaze cut to Ainsley with suspicion as he reached for the pepper. “We ignore each other as much as possible. It seems to work better for both of us that way.”
“Hmm,” Ainsley murmured.
He pointed his fork at her for emphasis. “Don’t even think about it, Ainsley. Never in a million years will I have more than a professional interest in Hayley Sayers. So just turn your little fairy godmother wand away from me and focus on Matt. He needs a woman to take care of him, especially since Miranda seems to have gone AWOL.”
“She’s busy,” Ainsley said diplomatically, leaving the subject of Hayley for another day.
“I see that cute little glint in your eye, Baby. You’re trying to set her up, too, aren’t you?”
“Trying to set who up?” Matt walked into the room in time to overhear the tail end of the conversation.
“No one.” Ainsley hoped to divert the question with another question. “You know Peyton O’Reilly, don’t you, Matt?”
“Yes, and if she’s your next target for matrimony, more power to you. Although I will feel exceedingly sorry for the guy who winds up with her.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and came to the table. Matt always did meals, and most everything else, in steps. He didn’t like to rush. Ainsley admired that, wished she could be less impulsive, more deliberate. But Ivan said she was perfect the way she was, so maybe it was Matt who needed to be a little impulsive.
“Miss O’Reilly,” Matt continued, “has been a pain in my side since the first day she showed up at the Foundation and signed up for the volunteer program.”
“She’s perfectly lovely, Matt,” Ainsley protested. “I’ve been working with her all summer and I like her very much. You’d like her, too, if you’d take the time to talk to her.”
“I talk about her more than I want to already. She seems to have a way of annoying the other volunteers with her little projects.”
“She’s eager, that’s all.”
Andrew paused in his manly efforts to polish off the first round of breakfast and gave his twin a calculating look. “Mom and Dad would like her.”
Ainsley lifted her chin, not giving anything away. She hoped. “Peyton’s doing a great job in organizing the Black and White Ball, Matt. I think it’s going to be one of the best we’ve ever had.”
“And it’s too late to replace her.” Matt took a sip of his coffee and reached for the front page of the paper. “Which is the only reason I haven’t passed along the complaints to her. I’m afraid she’ll get her feelings hurt and quit. Then I’d have to find someone else to organize the fund-raiser. Or talk Miranda into doing it.”
“Don’t even think about asking her.”
Matt flicked the paper into a comfortable reading position. “Miranda loves challenges. She likes nothing better than to step into a project someone else has abandoned. That’s her idea of fun. Where is she, by the way?”
“As it happens, that was the question on the table when you came in. This is the third morning this week she’s missed breakfast.” Andrew pushed back his chair and made a second trip to the sideboard, casting a sly glance over his shoulder. “Baby was just about to expound on the possibilities. Weren’t you, Ains?”
Honestly, some days—every day, really—she was so looking forward to her wedding. “Our sister is out having a life of her own. Finally,” she said.
Andrew laughed.
Matt smiled. “Where is she really?” he asked.
“She’s gone to the Cape for a couple of days,” Ainsley replied, thinking her brothers took her sister too much for granted and deserved to be startled out of their complacency. “With Nate Shepard.”
Matthew put down the newspaper. Andrew brought his plate—full, again—back to the table. They both looked at Ainsley expectantly.
She waited them out.
“Has she ever taken a man to the beach house before?” Matt posed this question to Andrew.
“Not that I know of,” came the answer. “And he did spend the night here, with his kids, last weekend.” Andrew looked again at Ainsley. “Did they take his kids?”
Her brothers were so unimaginative. They saw Miranda as a sister, a helpful overseer, the organizer of everyday details in their lives. And were they in for a rude awakening if—when—this match worked out. Which was looking more and more possible to Ainsley’s practiced eye. “I believe Nate’s children are in school and he does have a nanny for them, so no, I imagine Nate and Miranda are alone. And it isn’t as if he spent the night here with her. There was a fire, you know.”
“A little more than that, apparently.” Matt frowned. “Did you have anything to do with this, Ainsley?”
“With what?”
“The trip to the beach house.”
“No,” she said defensively. Although that part, at least, was true. Miranda hadn’t consulted her. Not as a matchmaker, which was the way Matt saw it. Not as a sister, which was the way Ainsley wished she might have been consulted. Miranda had simply walked into Ainsley’s bedroom the night before and told her she’d be leaving early the next morning and would be away overnight. Possibly longer. She’d seemed rather tense about it, too, but Ainsley had known better than to comment on that. And, as she’d already had a phone call from Cate Shepard, giving her the lowdown from that end, she’d already figured out something was up. Nate, of course, had simply told his children he was going to buy the furniture for the coffeehouse. But from Miranda’s jumpy mood ever since the fire, it wasn’t hard to read a different agenda into this sudden buying trip.
And Ainsley was a matchmaker. Her mind ran along a romantic track on a daily basis. “They’re going to buy some furniture for his coffeehouse,” she said as if there couldn’t possibly be any other reason for the trip to the Cape. Which could be true. Even a full-fledged matchmaker wouldn’t have been able to predict the course of the relationship. As Ilsa was fond of saying, once the possibilities had been set in motion, the only thing left to do was step back and observe what happened. “It’s business.”
And, hopefully, pleasure as well.
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?” Andrew’s appetite returned. “I thought for a minute Miranda was hooking up with the old guy.”
“He’s not that old.”
“He’s older than Matt.”
“And he has children.” Matt raised his coffee cup and returned his attention to the newspaper. “Miranda doesn’t want to have children of her own, much less someone else’s.”
“Who said?” Ainsley asked, wondering where Matt had gotten that idea. Just because he’d always claimed not to want marriage or a family didn’t mean Miranda felt that way. “Has she ever said that?”
“Yes,” Matt replied.
“Only all the time.” Realizing he’d forgotten to refill his glass, Andrew reached across and swiped Ainsley’s orange juice. “But if she’s just helping him get the coffeehouse set up, then that’s all right. Bad timing for you, though, Baby.”
Ainsley got up, walked to the door between the morning room and the kitchen, and asked their houseboy—a new trainee, only recently arrived at Danfair—to bring out some more orange juice. “Why bad timing for me?” she asked when she was seated again. “Miranda being gone for a couple of days doesn’t affect me.”
“The wedding,” Andrew explained. “I thought she’d be systematically ironing out the details for your wedding instead of taking on a new project. You know how involved she gets in whatever she’s doing and, contrary to her belief that she can do twenty things at once, all of them perfectly, she does have her limitations.”
“Oh, that,” Ainsley said with a laugh. “She’s already given me lists of last-minute details I need to take care of, and it’s only a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?”
MIRANDA KNEW how to plan a wedding. She knew how to design a garden that would take a viewer’s breath away. She knew how to pull separate elements into a whole. She had an eye for color, a flare for design. She was great at prioritizing, organizing and setting agendas. Give her a notepad and a pencil and she could plot out a plan for doing almost anything.
But she didn’t have a clue how to plan a seduction.
It had taken her just twenty-four hours after that kiss in the hallway, after Nate had sent her to bed alone, to reach the conclusion that seduction was her best option. Denying the attraction seemed pointless. Every time he came near her, she melted into a rather obvious puddle of willingness. Avoiding him would be childish, requiring evasive tactics she had neither the energy nor patience to carry out. Telling him openly and honestly that she wasn’t interested in a relationship with him would only be a lie…and one he’d undoubtedly call her on.
She hadn’t felt this out of control for a long time. A very long time. And never with a man.
Except maybe once.
Nate’s brother, Nick, had held a mysteriously magnetic attraction for her. Of course, she’d been a teenager and he’d been gorgeous, even then. And charming. And able to sound so convincing, Miranda had long since forgiven herself for falling for his lines. It had been no surprise to her he’d become a successful actor.
After Nicky, though, she’d always maintained a level head, never losing control, never falling further into love than she wanted. Which was probably why her relationships with men, for the most part, had been relatively harmless. A few months of dating, some laughs, some meaningful moments, but ultimately nothing she was ready to move heaven and earth to keep. Even when she’d found a man she thought she could love enough to marry, she hadn’t surrendered the piece of herself that needed to be in charge. And when their engagement ended, she was wounded, but not truly grief-stricken. Maybe she had felt she couldn’t commit to a family of her own when she was still the centerpiece of the family she had. Maybe she’d just been afraid to take the risk that, when push came to shove, her sister and brothers could—and would—do quite nicely without her. Whatever the foundation of her decision, she’d always felt serene confidence in knowing she had the power to decide how far things went, when and where they stopped.
And that’s how it would have to be with Nate.
Even if he did have a strangely debilitating effect on her resolve.
A strangely familiar effect.
Nicky Shepard had been her first tryst with love. With lust, more aptly. A rush of teenage hormones mixed with poor judgment on her part, raw sexual appeal on his. Not that their great love affair had ever progressed beyond a few—okay, a lot of—hot, exploratory kisses and a good deal of frustration. She’d spent most of her time corralling his roving hands, while he’d spent his testing to see what else he could get away with. They’d been teens and without much sense of the trouble they were courting, but somehow Miranda had managed to pull back from the promise of passion and the lack of control it exercised over her. She hadn’t liked that restless, reckless feeling and she’d never let things get so heated since.
Until now…when with a few practiced kisses—and not a single instance of roving hands—Nate made her remember the exhilaration of that first, breathtaking experience. He made her think letting go was desirable, that surrendering control would bring pleasure, that acquiescence offered sweet freedom from responsibility. She recognized that temptation, the soft enticement of it, and felt its seductive power even now. Except she was older, smarter, no longer a curious, clueless teen. She had learned that in this game of attraction, someone had to take charge.
And, if there was one thing Miranda knew, it was how to be in charge.
So she would use the attraction to put an end to the speculation on her part that this “thing” with Nate was any more dangerous than the fleeting desire she’d once felt for his brother. No more, no less. So if a relationship was going to develop—and she had admitted the appeal of that possibility to herself within the contemplation of those twenty-four hours—then the only question, in her mind, was who defined the terms. And as allowing Nate to decide when, where and how far things went seemed unpredictable and could prove hazardous, she meant to avert disaster by taking charge of their affair.
Affair.
The very thought of it had her trembling. Which had never happened to her before and was not conducive to forming a plan. She needed a plan. An outline for seduction. A time. A place. The right atmosphere. A list.
She needed a list.
1. Place
a) Private
b) Romantic
c) Within driving distance of home
2. Day/Time
a) Overnight?
(Yes, definitely. Expecting less smacks of no courage!)
3. Amenities
b) Lingerie (sexy or simply nice?)
a. Do not want to appear overeager
b. Shopping?
c) Food
a. Convenient (Too much preparation suggests nervousness)
b. Crackers/cheese (?)
c. Nate might prefer clams
d) Wine (Cabernet or a nice Riesling)
a. Corkscrew (in case we’re away from the house)
b. Wineglasses (same reason)
e) Music
a. Take CDs—not Bee Gees
b. Classical, perhaps
f) Flowers
a. Ask Teresa (cottage housekeeper) to arrange
4. Necessities (!!)
a) Protection
b) Protection
c) Protection
THE LIST SEEMED woefully inadequate, however, when Nate—all six foot something of him—was scrunched beside her in the snug interior of her little Mercedes. The idea was hers, so it was only fair that she should drive. At least, that’s what she’d told him when she suggested this buying trip. He hadn’t seemed to mind, had simply seemed happy that she had agreed to help him find some suitable furnishings for the coffeehouse. If he noticed her distracted attempts at normal conversation, he didn’t let on. They’d talked, of course—she wasn’t completely stifled by nerves!—about the coffeehouse and possible contemporary stylings they might consider, places he’d lived, places she’d visited, his mother, her parents, his children, her brothers, Ainsley. Nate was easy to talk to, interesting and interested, intelligent and thoughtful, as eager to know her opinions as to express his own. But the really amazing thing to Miranda was that he seemed just as comfortable, just as easy, whether it was conversation or silence that ebbed and flowed between them. Nate was, simply, good company.
They spent the morning in Boston, looking at some of the more modernistic pieces she thought might work in the coffeehouse, ordered three S-shaped sofas—one in red, one in lavender, one an odd green-gold color—five mosaic tables with chairs, a dozen overstuffed chairs in various stripes and patterns, and a black-and-white-tiled oblong bar. Nate thought of adding ornamental track lighting, and they spent an hour debating the right size and shape. They ate a late lunch and headed for Cape Cod, where they arrived to find the art gallery she preferred already closed for the day. Sticking to her plan despite a surfeit of doubts, Miranda asked if Nate would mind stopping at the family beach house before going back to Newport. He’d given her an odd, questioning look at that point, one she didn’t allow herself to analyze, but she’d gone on, ignoring the question in his eyes, airily chatting about checking on the house, about the times…few though they had been…when her family had used the house and spent a day or two at the Cape.
“Andy loves it here.” Miranda unlocked the door and threw it open, inviting Nate inside. “He has ever since he was a little guy. I don’t know why, exactly. It doesn’t have any of the kid appeal of Danfair, and while the view here is nice, we do have a pretty spectacular one at home.” She closed the door, allowing the intimacy of the cottage to surround them, hoping the seclusion would begin to ease her tension. “But Andrew loves it and comes here quite a lot on his own. More than the rest of us of put together. I’m not sure if it’s the scenic photo ops around Cape Cod Bay or the solitude of the house itself that appeals most to him.”
Nate didn’t comment, just looked around the open living, dining and kitchen area with obvious interest.
“Mom inherited this house from her grandfather,” Miranda continued. “I think that’s probably the only reason we still have it. My mother isn’t sentimental about a lot of things. And, of course, Andrew would have a fit if they tried to sell it. This will probably be his one day. He’s the obvious one to have it. The only one of us, really, who genuinely loves being here.”
“I’m surprised you don’t like it, Miranda,” Nate said, giving her an odd look. Sort of like the earlier odd look, but different, too. “This seems like the perfect place to relax and escape from your responsibilities for a while.”
Her laugh sounded nervous even to her own ears. “I’m not into escape,” she responded blithely. “I’m too practical for the beach house and I almost never relax.”
The curve of his smile chided her softly. “All the more reason to grab a few stolen hours by the sea when the opportunity arises. Relaxation is a state of mind, you know. One that is well worth learning.”
“Did they teach you that in the air force?”
“No, Angie taught me that.”
“Was she good at it?”
“Relaxing?” He shook his head. “No, she was terrible at it. Never still, never satisfied unless she was up and doing something. But when she got sick, time became the enemy, began running out faster than we could catch it, and she had to learn to be quiet, to rest. Just sitting with her taught me the intrinsic value of living in the moment.” His gaze caught hers, held it. “Close your eyes, Miranda,” he said. “Listen. Feel the quiet.”
Obediently, her eyes closed. She listened. The sound of the water lapping against the piers outside. The creak of wood grown old around her. The thud-thud beating of her heart. She felt. The cool air off the bay seeping past the windows and into the house. The familiar yearning for unity and connection…all of her family around her, mother, father, sister, brothers, the grandfather she barely remembered, the grandmother she had never known. She opened her eyes…and Nate was there, waiting.
“Good?” he asked.
“Nice,” she answered. “But as for living in the moment, I think I trust the noisy moments more than I do the peaceful ones.”
His smile slipped past her boundaries, into her heart. “So do I,” he admitted. “Most of the time. And that I learned from my kids.”
A shiver of anticipation slipped down her spine. She wanted this…wanted him more than she had let herself believe. Which seemed suddenly a scary thing.
“This is nice.” He ran his hand across the slatted back of a chair, a chair that was older than them both. “Maybe we should have designed the coffee house with this cozy, beachy feel instead of going for the art deco look.”
“You can call and cancel the furniture orders,” she said. “But I warn you, beach-house chic will require more painting.”
“No purple walls?”
“A softer shade, anyway.”
“A romantic lavender instead of the passionate grape we now have, you mean.”
Her gaze followed his long fingers as he stroked the burled wood and a knot of apprehension budded in her throat. She didn’t have the courage to do this. What if the attraction was all in her head? What if he was surprised and unreceptive to her ideas of seduction? What if all her planning offended him?
This was not a good idea. This was too calculating, too planned, too…risky. What had she been thinking? Believing she could be in charge of something as unpredictable as another person’s feelings. This was wrong. She’d been wrong. Not everything could…or should…be done with a list.
“Everything looks great,” she said brightly, not having moved from the door. “We can go now. I can tell Andrew I checked and everything was fine. Just fine. Of course, we have someone who takes care of the house. But he wanted me to check while I was close. So now I have.” She wouldn’t look at Nate. Couldn’t, as she reached behind her, grasped the doorknob, thought she might just escape unscathed. “Are you ready?”
The pause was pregnant, the room flooded with a soft, strange tension. “Should we…take the flowers?” he asked slowly.
Flowers. Fresh flowers. Put there, at her request, by Teresa, the woman who looked after the cottage.
“Seems a shame to let something so beautiful die unappreciated and alone,” he added.
She lifted her chin, fought to maintain a nonchalant smile, but her gaze touched his, turned cowardly and skittered to the bouquet. From the corner of her eye, she saw him make a slight sweep of one hand.
“It seems to me,” he continued in a considering tone, “the reason that corkscrew and those two wineglasses were left out on the counter is because there’s a bottle of wine around here somewhere. And I have this crazy idea that if I snapped my fingers, the lights would dim and the music would start playing.”
Miranda sighed, reluctantly met his eyes straight-on, noted the trace of humor in their whiskey-colored depths. Caught. And only inches from an exit, too.
“I don’t know about you, Miranda, but I think your brother may be using the family cottage as a…a love nest.”
Sometimes—not often, but definitely now—she wished she didn’t pay such close attention to detail. “The flowers do tend to indicate a certain premeditation, don’t they?”
His nod was solemn as he walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, found the wine. “Mmm,” he said over his shoulder. “A Riesling. Nice.”
It was better than nice. Exquisite. Extra dry. Exotic. She knew because she’d chosen the vintage herself, had it sent ahead. “Oh,” she said. “Hmm.”
“There’s cheese in here, too. Chilled shrimp. Something chocolate. This is a scene set for seduction, no doubt about it.” He closed the refrigerator door, raised his eyebrows at her, moved around the breakfast bar and down the hall…where she knew he’d see the bed, freshly made, turned down, ready for action.
Humiliation rose like a flag in her cheeks. Guilty, it waved. Guilty of unfettered planning. Guilty of thinking she could manipulate something as tempestuous as lust. Guilty of overthinking what naturally could have happened so simply. How had she believed, even for a second, this would work?
Nate returned. “You shouldn’t go in there,” he said, indicating the bedroom down the hall. “Not alone, anyway. I’m afraid it confirms our suspicions.”
“It does?”
“The sheets are satin. Red satin.”
That had not been on the list. She would be talking to Teresa about that particular detail for sure. She cleared her throat, found it easy to look appalled. “Andrew has always had abysmal taste in bed linens.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nate said, coming closer. “I think they show his artistic bent…and a willingness to live on the edge.”
“I hardly think sheets can offer any deep insight.”
He stopped in front of her. He didn’t touch her, but then, he didn’t really need to. She was trembling already at the thought that he might. “I disagree,” he said. “I think sheets can be very revealing.”
She made a futile attempt to hold her ground. “I had nothing to do with those sheets, Nate.”
He lifted his eyebrows in a question, but his eyes offered a warm, sure encouragement.
No guts, no glory, she thought with a sigh. “I might have asked Teresa to change the bed linens,” she admitted. “But I swear I didn’t know about the satin sheets.”
“What about the wine? The cheese? The chocolate?”
“It’s possible Andrew keeps the refrigerator stocked, the glasses out and ready.”
He nodded. “I imagine he could have a standing order for fresh flowers, too. Just in case.”
The blush fanned out across her cheeks in a rosy warmth. “I…I might have ordered those, myself.”
“I hope you did, Miranda. I sincerely hope that you did.” He reached up, tenderly stroked her cheek with roughly textured knuckles. “Because I’ve never slept on satin sheets before and I’ve always thought I’d like it.”
“I don’t know why,” she said, practicality reasserting itself. “Satin is very cool to the touch. And too slick for comfortable sleep.”
“I wasn’t, entirely, thinking about sleeping.”
“Oh.” The tension snapped to attention, wove like a soft scent between them. “Well, in that case, I might have arranged for the wine and the food, as well. Would you like some?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied, desire appearing first within the golden flecks of his eyes, before it touched his lips and drew his smile into a solemn, settled line. “Later.” His hands slid around her waist, drew her unresisting body against him. “And, just so you know, Miranda. I’d have been more than flattered if all you’d done was remember to bring the key.”
His nearness made it impossible to think. The moment surrounded her, as elusive as the sound of the surf outside, as sweet as a baby’s sigh. “I’ve carried the key in my purse all week,” she confessed, feeling he deserved to know.
The look he gave her melted the starch in her knees, brought her hands slipping possessively up his chest, raised her lips to meet his kiss, had her breathless with yearning. A restless urgency tangled with years of carefully honed control and came out the victor. Deep inside her, nerves tightened, flowered with hope. Her body craved the intimacy of his touch, her skin flushed with expectation. Eagerness pulsed through her veins, filled her with a simmering anticipation. It had been a long time since she’d been in a situation like this, a long time since she’d been with a man she truly desired. She thought—was fairly certain—that it had been a long time for Nate, as well, but he seemed to feel no urge to rush.
And yet…and yet, she could hear the shaky rush of his breathing, feel the rapid pounding of his heart beneath her palm, knew he was not unaffected by this heady excitement, that his control came at a cost. The knowledge sent a thrill racing along her nerve paths and she opened her mouth, allowing her tongue to seek pleasure within his. With a low moan, he countered her move, opening up a new and seductive vista in their mounting ardor. The embrace that had been tenderly controlled, gently leading, became firm, purposeful, demanding. His arms tightened around her, his lips bruised hers with his hunger and he gleaned the promise of passion from her mouth.
His hand moved to her waist then, negotiating with the hem of her sweater for entrance and proceeding unerringly, without hesitation or doubt, to cup the fullness of her breast in his palm. It was clear instantly he had experience in pleasuring, was practiced in the art of seduction, and understood the value and beauty of foreplay. His touch left her aching, needy. His kisses pledged sensual delights yet to come. His confidence assured her she was in very capable hands.
Miranda had thought making love with Nate would be satisfying, lovely, perhaps, but nothing out of the ordinary. He was, after all, a lot older than she and, somehow, in her planning, that had seemed a plus. She would be the seductress, he would be her willing slave. Or some similar scenario. Not for a second had she expected this…this rash, reckless feeling that she could not only surrender to the experience, but find pure delight in doing so. She, who never let herself feel out of control, felt suddenly, perfectly free to follow the roller-coaster ride of tension and release, the fast-slow escalation of desire, to leave the how of it in his obviously expert hands.
That wasn’t like her. Not at all. But maybe there was some truth, after all, in the idea that the right man at the right time could change a woman’s mind. About a lot of things.
He broke the kiss, abruptly, pulled back to look down at her with eyes darkened by longing. “Miranda,” he said.
Just that. Her name. A husky question and answer, woven together. She knew the question, he knew the answer. This was simply a moment to savor the knowing, to anticipate, to wonder.
“Nathaniel,” she whispered. Just that and nothing more.
He took her hand, enclosed it in the large warmth of his palm and led her toward the hallway. But only a few steps into the journey to the red satin sheets, he stopped, turned to give her a kiss that couldn’t wait. Another step, and it was she who stopped him, wrapping her arms around his neck, drawing his head down to hers, prolonging the suspense, feeding the fire. When he pinned her to the wall, she knew it was justly deserved…and excessively satisfying. Hunger made ravenous by the anticipation. Desire slaked like a long thirst, only to return the instant his lips left hers. Passion increased a thousand times over with every sensual pause.
Neither his sweater nor hers made it as far as the bedroom door, having disappeared somewhere in the hall, sacrifices to his—and her—insatiable need to touch. Flesh to hands. Hands to flesh. Lips caressing. Sighs intermingled. Behind them the light spilled into the hall. Before them, moonlight danced through an unshaded window. Between them, eagerness thrummed an overture they both knew and yet had never heard before.
They reached the bed eventually, losing shoes, socks, everything that hindered the desire to touch without limitations, to discover and explore each other. There was magic, then, within the small bedroom, as he guided her down onto the satin sheets. Cool, yes, beneath her…which felt lovely to her fevered skin. Slick, too, and sinfully inviting as Nate slid down beside her.
Miranda lost track of time after that, measured the moments in kisses, in the low throaty sounds of pleasure. His. And hers. She had never been a nonparticipant and met his every challenge with one of her own. She stroked him, nibbled him, caressed him and yet surrendered control again and again to the raw need his practiced touch so easily aroused. He was far and away the best lover she’d ever imagined, much less had, and he teased and titillated, soothed and satisfied, until she was weak with wanting and ready. So ready.
Then, and only then, did he fit his strength into the softness of her and begin a strangely new seduction. Their bodies found a pleasurable rhythm, which moved too quickly toward a climax. Nate slowed the movement, seduced her again with kisses, settled anew into harmonious agreement. All too soon, Miranda reached a crashing, breathtaking, glorious climax.
Breathing hard, yet hardly breathing, she gloried in the sweetness of kisses moist with their lovemaking, touches grown lazy in purpose, loving in repose. The afterglow cradled them, kept their bodies entwined, satisfied. For the moment.
“Mmm.” He sighed as he propped his head on his hand, gazed lovingly down at her. “Thank God you plan ahead.”
“I made a list,” she confessed.
“You’re a wanton woman, Miranda Danville. Devious, wildly sexy and determined to have your way with me.” He kissed her, and her response was to slide her palm across his chest, tangling her fingers in the hair that curled there, teasing him with fingertips that were both wanton and determined. He captured her hand before it could move lower and she could have her way with him again. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have discovered your secret vices and I will be encouraging you to use them against me…very shortly.”
She smiled, lazily, longingly. “Who knew,” she whispered.
“Who knew what?” he asked.
That she could give herself over so completely to a man. That he would be such a passionate lover. That the two of them would be so good together. But she voiced none of those thoughts, just offered him the parting of her lips in another invitation. “Who knew,” she whispered, “that red satin sheets would be such an aphrodisiac.”