Looking for You (7 page)

Gwendolyn didn't fit the mold he
expected her to be in, and he didn't like it. Staring at her, he said,
"You're not who you seem."

She stilled for the briefest moment.
It was such a minute change that he wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been
so engrossed in watching her. "Who am I?" she asked finally.

"I don't know, but I'm going to
figure you out."

Her nose wrinkled with irritation.
"I don't understand why you're doing this. You can't possibly be so bored
in your work that you have to find pet projects."

The trace of French was in her voice
again. He studied her, trying to find it in her, but she didn't look French.
She looked like a fairy—a wood sprite. She certainly acted like one,
believing in pixie dust and magical places. "Where are you from?"

She heaved a sigh. "What does it
matter? You don't like me."

He nodded. "I didn't think so
either."

"What does that mean? You've
changed your mind?" Frowning, she set her feet on the floor, sitting up as
though ready to bolt. "You can't possibly be that desperate."

"Desperate?" He stepped forward
and pulled her up and against him. He knew the moment she felt the start of his
erection, pushing against her belly, by the way her eyes widened. "Right
now, desperate seems like the perfect description for how I'm feeling."

She swallowed audibly. "This
doesn't make sense. We hate each other."

"I know." He brushed a curl
from her face, tipping her head back and running his hand down her neck. He
felt the wild beating of her pulse under his fingertips.

"This is mad," she
whispered, answering his question by pressing her hips to his.

"Absolutely insane." He
lowered his head and lightly bit the cord of her neck, right below her pulse
point.

She moaned softly, her legs going
weak. "Then why are we doing it?"

"Because we can't help
ourselves." He lifted his head and kissed her.

Their lips touched and Gwen forgot
everything. Who she was. Where she'd come from. That Rick annoyed her. That she
was flirting with danger by inviting him into her home.

Danger was delicious.

He walked her backwards a step so the
backs of her legs hit the couch. Catching her as she tipped backwards, he eased
her down and followed on top.

She gasped at the feel of him,
surrounding her, warmer than her favorite cashmere blanket but not nearly as
soft. One leg pressed between hers, touching her where she hadn't been touched
by another human being in longer than she cared to admit.

It jolted her—with excitement
and
alarm.

She grabbed him by the hair and
tugged. "What are you doing?"

"If you can't tell, I need to
work on my technique." He lowered his head again.

She pulled him back. "You've
been following me for days."

"Yes." He reached his hand
between them, up her abdomen to cover her breast. "But I'm here now."

It was exciting, the slow way he
rolled his hand over her. She couldn't help arching up even as she put a hand
over his to stop him. "Are you seducing me just to weasel your way in and
uncover my secrets?"

"I'm going to uncover your
secrets regardless." He nuzzled her neck. "I'm seducing you because I
can't help myself."

She arched her neck. "So what's
happening here is a lack of control?"

"No. My control is excellent.
What's happening here is desire." He rubbed her nipple as his knee pressed
her right
there
. "It's want.
It's necessity."

Starbursts erupted behind her
eyelids, and she gasped at the electric feel that shot through her body. She
wrapped her legs around him, savoring the way he felt against her. "We
need boundaries."

"Fine, no whips." He tugged
at her shirt to nibble her collarbone.

Who knew that bony thing was an
erogenous zone? "Not that kind of boundaries."

"Whips are okay then?"

She pulled his head back again,
frowning into his eyes. "You sound much too hopeful about whips."

"You're the one who brought them
up."

"I did not."

Sighing, he sat back, straddling her
leg. "You're not going to focus until we settle this, are you?"

"No."

"Okay, tell me your
boundaries."

She opened her mouth to list them,
but she had no idea what to list.

He grinned. "Do you need help,
Princess?"

"That's the first thing. No
calling me princess."

"I didn't know you were so into
rules."

"I'm not." In fact, she
hated rules. She'd grown up bound by them. She delighted in the fact that she
didn't have to live by any anymore. "But this is different. I don't trust
you, and if we're going to do this we need to establish some sort of parameters
so I know what to expect."

"You can expect bone-melting
pleasure."

"Really?"

"Really." He looked at her
steadily. "Would it help if I promised I won't snoop while we're together?
In or outside your home."

"Is it physically possible for
you to turn it off?" she asked doubtfully.

"I think you can sufficiently
distract me from professional matters." He traced a line down her neck.

She shivered, the tips of her breasts
taut in anticipation. "And just to be clear, you expect to be around here
more than just this evening?"

"I have a feeling this one
evening isn't going to be enough to work you out of my system."

"So we'll just have sex until
we've gotten over it?"

"Yes."

"And you're going to stop
investigating my background while we're involved."

"I'll shift my investigations to
your body," he said, his gaze running hungrily over her. Then he met her
eyes again. "But no lying to me."

"I don't lie." She saw the
disbelief in his expression, but she shrugged it off. She didn't lie—she
just didn't disclose all the truth. "And this arrangement is temporary,
lasting until we stop seeing each other?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "That seems like a
fair agreement."

He studied her. "You don't seem
upset by the temporary nature of this."

"It always works that way."
She shrugged. "I get bored eventually. It's good to know that you're the
same way. It saves on the drama when it's over."

His gaze narrowed, but he didn't say
anything for a long time. Finally he asked, "So we've come to terms?"

Needing to ground herself, she lifted
her chin. "I feel I should just reiterate that you irritate me."

"Good, because you irritate me
too." He lowered his mouth to hers and gave her a kiss that went a long
way toward melting her bones, just like he promised.

She was breathless and aching when he
eventually came up for air. "This couch is very comfortable."

"Thank you," she replied
politely, rubbing herself against him.

"It'd probably be more comfortable
if we were wearing fewer clothes."

"Okay." She folded her arms
behind her head and nodded. "Go ahead."

Rick arched an eyebrow. But then he
sat up and stripped off his leather jacket, tossing it aside. His shirt
followed, leaving his chest bare.

She licked her lips. He was defined,
lean and sinewy. She wanted to run her hands along the muscles, but she kept
her hands where they were, lowering her gaze to the thin arrow of hair that led
to the waistband of his jeans.

He put a hand on his belt and slowly
pulled it from the loops, letting it drop to the floor. He unzipped them, and
where they gaped open she could see dark underwear and the hard ridge of his
erection pushing against the fabric.

She licked her lips. "Are you
stopping?"

"Pausing." He sat back on
his heels, giving her space. "It's your turn."

She sat up eagerly. She shrugged out
of her sweater, threw it aside, and wrestled out of the shirt she had on underneath.
Leaving her camisole on, she moved on to her socks.

By the way he'd looked at her in her
swimsuit, he liked her body, so she let him get his fill of her in that lacy
camisole. Then she reached for the hem and pulled it over her head.

"You're not wearing a bra,"
he said, sounding strangled.

"You're so astute. Your
detective classes have really paid off."

"No classes. I learned from my
dad."

She looked at him, curious.
"Your father is a private investigator too?"

"And his father before that. It
runs in the family."

"Interesting." Greed ran in
her family. And selfishness. Fortunately, she'd managed to escape without
either trait.

He tugged on the waistband of her
pants. "Take these off too."

She wiggled out of her pants, adding
it to the pile of their clothes. She heard him swallow audibly. Hiding a
satisfied smile, she leaned back and let him look his fill.

"You don't wear underwear at
all?" he finally said, still not touching her.

The desire burning in his eyes
excited her. This waiting was part of the game he wanted to play, and she was
fine with that. It felt thrilling, and she wanted to revel in it. "Not
usually. Now that Olivia and I are friends, I do sometimes. She's always giving
us lingerie from her store."

"Please." He closed his
eyes. "I'm already on sensory overload. I don't think I'll make it if I
start picturing that."

She grinned. "I have this
fabulous red lace—"

Covering her, he stole the words from
her mouth with his lips.

The slide of his body against hers
was luscious. She moaned as he surrounded her and filled all her senses.
Wanting more, she touched him all over, feeling his muscles tensed, poised to
pounce. She hooked her legs over his and held him as close as he could be with
his pants still on.

He uttered a muffled curse against
her lips, reaching down to fumble with his jeans. She slid her hand into the
back, over his firm butt, as he finally pulled whatever he was looking for out
of his pocket.

A condom. Seeing it made her want to
rip his remaining clothes off—
now
.
"Hurry," she urged him.

Groaning, he got up, shoved the rest
of his clothes off, put on the condom. He was back on her, sliding in her, a
second later.

She hadn't had sex in a long time,
and he was large. The stretch would have been painful if he hadn't been so
patient. He eased in a little, drawing out, and then teased her with a little
more, over and over, until she was mewling with need. She was beyond turned on,
and then he slipped his hand between their bodies and pressed his thumb right
where she needed it.

Too much.

Not enough.

She relaxed and tensed at the same
time, and he thrust all the way into her.

Crying out, she grabbed him and held
on.

"More?" he asked in a low
rasp.

"You have to ask?" She
wrapped her legs around his waist and pushed up against him.

"If we aren't careful, we'll
fall," he warned.

"Then fall." She tilted
over so they toppled off the couch.

He twisted so she landed on top of
him, then rolled to be back on top. "This is better. More room."

He made use of the space, spreading
out over her, rolling around with her.

A sweaty tangle of limbs, she lost
all sense of where she ended and he started. The intensity rose, climbing
higher with each caress—each hot kiss—until she thought she was
going to burst.

And then she did. She cried out, head
spinning, seeing stars, hearing him moan and stiffen a moment later.

Une grande passion
, her grandmother would have called it. Eyes closed, Gwen tried to catch
her breath. She didn't expect a great passion ever, much less one with Rick.
She smiled. She liked it. A lot.

"That's a happy smile," he
murmured, easing to one side.

"Don't let it go to your
head."

"I'm in no danger of that with
you." He traced her lips with his finger. "Besides, I'm fairly
pleased too."

She opened her eyes.
"Fairly?"

"Maybe more than fairly."
He kissed her. "I just didn't want it to go to your head either."

"That's not acceptable,
Desmond," Elizabeth said into the receiver, slamming her mug on the
counter so hard that Camille was surprised it didn't shatter. "Give me a
different answer."

Camille sipped her tea, trying to tap
into the calmness the teabag wrapper had promised. She should be used to this.
Her mornings had been the same all her life: having oatmeal at the kitchen
table while her mother yelled at people on the phone to force them into
interviews.

At least she had dinner with Dylan to
look forward to. He'd had to fly to New York to meet with his agent and editor,
but they were having dinner when he got back.

It was just a friendly dinner, she
told herself, not want to blow it out of proportion.

But she couldn't help it—she
grinned every time she thought of it.

"If you want this in the
New York Times
, you'll have to pick a
date already," her mother yelled. "Do you think I just slap my work
together? It takes time to craft an outstanding interview."

Camille's grin faded in the wake of
her mother's unpleasantness. She didn't get it. Weren't you supposed to attract
flies with honey? But this confrontational style worked for her mother. Even
weirder, everyone spoke highly of her.

Of course, that may have been because
they were kissing up to her. Elizabeth Bernard was a journalistic wunderkind.

If someone had told her that at
twenty-eight Camille would still be living at home under her mother's thumb,
listening to Elizabeth's abuse, she'd have jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge.
She hated being there, for more reasons than she could name. She stirred her
oatmeal. It'd congealed into an unappetizing grayish-brown mass.