Nobody Does It Better

A bug. That’s what he felt like under her stare. A big, fuzzy bug pinned to acid-free paper and baking under a bare lightbulb.

“Cue cards?” she repeated.

Devin fished in his jacket pocket, finally pulling out a handful of note cards. He held one out like a peace offering.

She took it gingerly, as if it might bite.

“‘My job? It’s wild and dangerous, but not as dangerous as my passion for you.’ Were you planning on using that line tonight?”

If Jerry were around, Devin might just have to kill him for including that card among the bunch. Since Jerry was safe and sound in Brooklyn, Devin chose another tact.

“Maybe. I like to keep my options open.”

Her mouth twitched. “You do? Why?”

“Because I like to get what I want. And I’m willing to work for it.”

Her eyes softened. “What do you want?”

“A lot of things.” Her. To see raw, sexual heat reflected in her eyes. To know that right then, right there, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

“For example, I’ve been wanting to do this all night.” He heard her breath catch as he moved toward her. Eyes closed, she leaned toward him, soft and sweet and sexy. Desire radiated from her, and he knew she wanted his kiss.

Wanted him. Devin O’Malley, Montgomery Alexander, it didn’t matter. She wanted the man standing next to her. No matter what name she might give him, tonight Devin was that man.

Molten desire boiled in his veins. His body craved the feel of her mouth under his, her fingers gliding over his skin, her breasts pressed hard against his naked chest.

Devin groaned, quelling the urge to take her mouth, to explore with his hands the secrets she had hiding under that sexy little dress. He wanted to let her excitement build slowly, even if it killed him. To wait until her head was just as sure as her body of how much she needed him close to her. Inside her.

His palms cupped her cheeks, pulling her closer. She trembled as his fingers glided across her skin, skimming over the top of her ears, then tangling deep in her loose curls.

She tilted her head back, her lips parted, eager and moist. Waiting. Waiting for him.

“Fabulous,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Fabul—”

She opened her eyes, still lazy and soft with desire. “Fabulous?” she asked. “My hair? That’s what you’ve been wanting to do all night? Play with my hair?”

“It’s hypnotic. Hair like that could have felled an entire army. Helen of Troy and all that.” His voice was husky with lust, and it took every ounce of his strength to keep from touching his mouth to hers, to keep from giving her what she wanted. What he wanted, too.

“I’m…well, thank you, but…”

She frowned, and he knew she was trying to figure out his angle. “You really just wanted to touch my hair?”

The disappointment in her voice humbled him.

“Actually, there was something else.”

She smiled, almost shyly, and his heart raced. “Yes?”

“I’d still like to buy you a drink.”

She hesitated, her small tongue flicking over her lips. He held his breath. Was she, like him, wondering if maybe skipping a drink and going straight to her room might be the better plan? Or maybe she was trying to talk herself out of even the drink?

“All right,” Paris agreed at last. “But just one drink.”

He exhaled, relieved, and held his hand out to her.

“You have my word,” he assured.

But after the drink…? Well, he’d make no promises about that.

HE KEPT HIS WORD, too, Paris thought. An hour later she was still sitting across from him in a secluded booth near the back of the hotel’s deserted bar, one unfinished drink between them. Meant to serve twelve, the drink, called a “House on Fire,” combined vodka, rum, banana liqueur, coconut and other fruit flavors into a concoction the menu said was a favorite at parties. Mystery Man and Paris hadn’t made a dent.

He also hadn’t made a pass. And despite the heated way he kept looking at her, she was starting to think that all he really wanted was the drink and a little small talk.

Well, what did you expect? He’s your fantasy, but that doesn’t mean you’re his.

Paris sighed. She was beginning to feel like a tennis match was going on in her head. Yes, she wanted to sleep with Alexander. No, she didn’t want to sleep with Mystery Man. Yes, no, yes, no.

The “no’s,” of course, were a lie. She did want to sleep with one of him, more than she’d ever wanted any man. But that would be a mistake. She needed to keep reminding herself. He wasn’t Alexander, and sleeping with him would be a huge, giant, mind-blowing mistake.

Too bad. He’d barely even touched her and already her body mourned his absence.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

You’re not touching me. That’s what’s wrong. But she didn’t say it. Instead, she shook her head. “No, not at all.”

Whatever game he was playing, she’d hold her own. She plucked a slice of orange out of the huge bowl that housed their mammoth drink. “I want to know about you. I mean, how on earth did you manage to end up here tonight?”

Alexander reached across the table to stroke her cheek, the caress electric and inviting. Without thinking, she pressed her face into his palm, soaking up the warmth before he pulled away. He didn’t let the contact between them break, however. As soon as one hand left her face, the other took her fingers.

“You already know everything. Didn’t you invent me?”

“I’m beginning to think I did.” Paris’s thoughts became fuzzy as she lost herself in his caress. Fingers intertwined as he traced the outline of her hand. His skin, slightly calloused, melded with hers that was lotioned and pampered. He dragged his fingernails lightly across her palm. The effect was torture, almost a tickle, and completely erotic in its casualness.

She blinked, then remembered to breathe. “Maybe I conjured you up in my head and you just fell from the sky like manna.”

“So why did you make me up?”

Why indeed? How could she explain? She’d needed an author for her books, true. But that wasn’t the whole story. She’d been lonely, plain and simple. And the sunsets in Texas, orange and purple and vibrant, were too perfect to share with just anyone. How many times had she sat, alone, above the river sipping coffee and waiting for the sun to set? She’d never met a man worthy of sharing her sunsets.

So she’d made him up.

She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to explain about twilight, then shut it again. That wasn’t a secret she wanted to share.

“Paris?”