Her Man Upstairs (12 page)

S
o then Cole had to explain how he'd called the marina and left orders to secure the
Time Out,
and how he'd stuck around because he'd been worried about her, and how as long as he was here, he'd figured he might as well accomplish something.

“Accomplish something! You've done all this—?” She waved her hands around the room, where the only alien pieces were the bookshelves. “My God, in—what, two hours?”

“More like four. I'd have had the rest of them done and moved into the living room, ready for you to start stocking with books, if you'd been any later.” The truth was, he'd been about ready to go out and beat the bushes looking for her. Muddy Landing wasn't all that big. He figured he could cover it in less than an hour as long as he didn't mind breaking a few speed laws.

And as long as she'd stayed in town.

She could have been anywhere. She could've taken a notion to drive up to Chesapeake with her nutty redheaded friend. To say Marty was maddening didn't begin to describe how she frustrated him, but it was a start.

She refused to look at him. Marty was in no mood to be fussed at. Leaning back, elbows braced on the table, she toe-heeled off her wet shoes. Then, groaning, she bent over and pulled off her socks. Her feet were bluish white, her toes red.

“You walked the dog, didn't you.”

Whether or not he meant it as an accusation, that's the way she took it.

“So? I agreed to two walks a day. The times weren't specified.” She ran her fingers through her hair and frowned down at the wet ends. “That dumb dog thinks rules don't count on rainy days. Either that or he's already forgotten everything you taught him.” Propping one foot on her knee, she tried to thaw it out with massage.

“I didn't teach Mutt, I taught you!”

Dropping her foot to the floor, she glared at him. “Okay, so
I'm
the one who forgot. Or maybe I didn't sleep in the right motel!” When he continued to stare at her as if she'd lost her mind—there were no guarantees on that score—she said glumly, “That TV ad—you know. You don't need any fancy degrees as long as you stay in the right motel? Hotel? Whatever.”

And then she sneezed twice in quick succession.

He scooped her up in his arms before she could do more than squawk in protest. Balancing her on an upraised knee, he managed to switch on the coffeemaker with one hand, and then he headed upstairs. “You're the one who started this
mess,” he growled. “Three guesses who'll get blamed if you don't meet your deadline. You want to catch pneumonia?”

“You don't catch pneumonia from wet feet, you catch it from—”

“From bugs! I know that, dammit! Maybe I didn't sleep in the right hotel, but at least I know that a hot bath, dry warm clothes, and something hot to drink won't hurt you, and it might even help. You got any whiskey?”

If it hadn't sounded so good—if he hadn't felt so good—Marty might have put up more of a fight, but she was so tired and so cold. She'd picked up a neighbor whose car wouldn't start and taken her to the library and then made two more stops. What are neighbors for?

“Under the toaster. I mean, under the counter where the toaster sits. It's in a jar, not a bottle.”

Upstairs in the bathroom, he set her on her feet with orders to strip. Then he closed the valve and turned on the water, adjusting it until he was evidently satisfied it was hot enough to kill any cold germs.

“You need any help?” he demanded when she just stood there like a lamppost with the bulb burned out.

Steam rose from the tub, quickly clouding the mirror in the chilly room. When she pulled the sweater off and dropped it on the floor, he picked it up and draped it over his arm.

A tidy man? Would wonders never cease?

“What about stuff women always put in the water? You use anything like that?”

She glanced at the jar of bath salts. She used it not for the scent—well, partially for that, but mostly because it cut down on rings in the tub. Following her glance, he reached for the jar and before she could stop him, dumped half the contents into the steaming water.

“Too much,” she protested. “That's way, way too much!”

“Too late,” he mimicked. “Way, way too late. You should've told me.”

“You should have given me time! By the way, did I tell you you're fired?” Her teeth were chattering, and not just from cold. Heat pumps were no match for this kind of weather, but whoever heard of a bathroom fireplace?

He shook his head. “Get in the tub, Marty. I'll bring you something to put on.”

“Didn't you hear me? You're fired.”

“Right. I'll pack up my tools and leave just as soon as I finish your new kitchen.”

“Just stop being so damn reasonable, will you?”

“Just finish getting undressed and hit the tub, will you?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath, willing herself not to bawl. Again. Caution: streaky-haired men with sexy bodies can be hazardous to your health. The FDA or somebody ought to stamp his side with a purple warning to that effect.

“You need help?”

“Thank you, you've done quite enough,” she said stiffly.

“Then hop to it.”

“As soon as you leave,” she said. Her jeans were wet from the thighs down. She had goose bumps on her goose bumps, but she refused to strip naked with him standing there leering at her.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't leering, but he was still here, and she had no intention of—

With a sigh that reeked of strained patience, he shut off the water just as it reached the overflow drain. “Marty, I'm trying to help you here, but you're not making it easy.”

“Then leave. Go somewhere else, I don't care where, just leave before I'm forced to throw you out.”

He opened his mouth to speak and obviously thought better of it. Shaking his head, he left, taking her sweater with him, leaving behind the faint scent of fresh-cut lumber and a cedar-citrus aftershave that cut through her vanilla-scented, grocery-store-brand bath salts.

Once the door closed behind him, she wasted no time in stepping out of her clothes and testing the water with one foot. It was perfect.

Well, damn. Along with everything else, he knew how to draw a lady's bath.

She eased herself under the deliciously hot water up to her neck and released a sigh of perfect contentment. All right, maybe not perfect, but close enough. She'd just have to remember to be extra careful getting out, because the tub would be slick as black ice.

Dunking her hair, she felt along the ledge for her shampoo. Normally she shampooed under the shower, but today she just didn't care. She was torn between wanting to get out and confront him in a slam-bang showdown and wanting to hide out here where it was deliciously warm.

By the time she had rinsed away the suds and opened her eyes again, Cole was seated on the stool where she sat to clip her toenails. He held out a hand towel.

“You ready to dry your face?”

She snatched it, blotted her stinging eyes and glared at him. “I told you, you're fired. Go home. Go anywhere, I don't care where, just get out of my house.”

“Did I tell you I worked as a lifeguard a couple of summers back when I was in school?”

“Fine. Throw me a life ring and then get out.” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaving the rest of her body
vulnerable. The water was slightly cloudy, but it was hardly opaque. “Cole, what are you trying to do? I take back your firing, if that's what you want.”

He shook his head. Seated on an ivory enameled stool with his knees spread apart and his big feet planted on her pink and white crocheted rug, he should have looked ludicrous. Instead, he looked…

The bath water that had started to cool off seemed suddenly too hot to bear.

He said, “Are you finished? I'll help you out so you don't slip. I should've read the instructions on that bath stuff before I dumped it in.”

“You're not going to leave, are you.” If she sounded resigned, it was because she knew what was going to happen next. Knew it as well as she knew she was in trouble way over her head. Life rings weren't going to help.

She wet the hand towel and draped it over her breasts. With one hand she shielded her groin from view, with the other hand she reached for his. If she slipped and fell, maybe she'd simply lie there and drown. At least the wake would be interesting, with people setting casseroles and cupcakes on bookshelves and looking for a chair where they could sit and talk about how poor Marty Owens had finally flipped her ever-loving lid.

He'd turned his head when she stood, but the moment both her feet were safely out of the tub he enveloped her in a bath towel. As the water gurgled down the drain, he dropped another towel over her hair and gave it a rub or two.

“You use a drier?” he asked.

She clutched the bath towel around her, shivering, but not from cold. She was warm to the bone. Warm and needy and standing too close to temptation.

And if that wasn't a song title, it should be.

He gave her hair another rub and then started blotting her arms, his face so close she could see the black pupils in those tarnished brass eyes. Pupils that seemed to expand even as she watched. She stopped breathing. So did he. Slowly, she lifted her arms around his neck. When the towel slipped from her shoulders, neither of them noticed.

Under his dark flannel shirt he wore a tee that looked startlingly white against the tanned skin of his throat. She kissed the hollow where a pulse was beating in time with her own racing heart.

“Well, are you going to kiss me, or not?” she asked. Ever the realist, she recognized the inevitable and lifted her face to his.

He was. He did.

Oh, my mercy, how he did.

While his tongue invaded her mouth, his hands slowly slid down her sides, fingertips teasing the sides of her breasts. Then his hands closed over her hipbones and he moved her back and forth, tantalizing her with the hard ridge that thrust against her belly.

When she nibbled the tip of his tongue and then sucked on it, his fingers bit almost painfully into her waist. By the time she broke away from the kiss—only because she had to breathe—his face was flushed, his eyes black with excitement.

She knew the signs, oh, yes. She'd read all about it. She'd just never before seen it, at least not to this extent. After two husbands, that was probably something of a record. Sasha had tried to tell her there was a whole world out there, just waiting to be explored.

“Bed?” he panted.

“Please. I have a box of—”

“Good,” he said. “A big box?”

They made it to the bedroom, and she was thankful for all those early years when she'd made her bed to perfection each morning. He carried her past the jumble of furniture, peeled back the neat covers and lowered her to the mattress. And then, while she watched, he stripped off his clothes in what had to be record time.

“I'll go slow,” he said, his voice thick, almost grim.

“Don't.”

She held up her arms, but instead of taking her invitation, he knelt beside her, his breathing audible even over the slithery sound of sleet pelting the windows.

His gaze was as hot as molten steel as it led the way, followed by his hands, and then his lips. He kissed her eyelid, her ears and her nose. His lips moved down her throat, lingering on that spot that drove her wild.

How could he know?

When he reached her breasts, he cupped them, squeezing them gently, then used his thumbs, his teeth and his tongue on the nipples to drive her totally wild.

Only at that point, she didn't yet know what wild was. Not until he came up on his knees again and she caught a glimpse of…

Oh, my. The word
magnificent
came to mind. So did all those pop-ups on her computer, and the magazine articles she'd scoffed at, believing them to be fiction, if not outright fantasy.

When he buried his face in her quivering belly and then moved south, all hope of rational thought disappeared. In blind supplication she lifted her hips and whimpered,
“Please…” She wanted him inside her while she was still conscious. Already she was feeling rainbows—

Not seeing them, but
feeling
them!

She tugged at his ears, and then his hair, and then her fingers raked over his slick shoulders, dragging him up to where she wanted him. “Please,” she begged.

“Give me a minute,” he said hoarsely.

Never had a minute seemed so endless, while he ripped open a packet and covered himself. She would have loved to do it for him—only she was no expert and this was no time to further her education.

He kissed her again, tasting of mint, coffee and musk. On his knees and one elbow, he guided himself in place, thrust once and was still.

Hurry, hurry, she wanted to scream when a year passed and he didn't move again. And then he did move, tracing the hills and valleys of her body, burying his face between her breasts, stroking her with his tongue. Utterly boneless, she melted as he suckled her nipples.

Somehow, their positions reversed, and he guided her eager hands down his taut body, lingering where he wanted her attention.

And then it was her turn…again. All too soon she caught her breath—caught it again—forgetting each time to exhale. He thrust faster, harder—she cried out.

He whispered her name, his voice sounding as if he were in pain.

Long moments later she felt a drift of cool air on her back when he rolled over onto his side, taking her with him. His eyes were closed. His skin was slick with sweat, and he was breathing as if he'd just run a three-minute mile.

As echoes of her first truly magnificent orgasm slowly faded, Marty took the opportunity to stare wonderingly at his face—at the laugh lines and the squint lines, and those deliciously long, dark lashes.

This is the face of the man I love,
she thought, stunned by the realization.