No More Mr. Nice Guy (11 page)

“No,” Alan insisted. “I know better, and I think you do, too. Maybe I’d lived alone too long, and maybe anyone who lives alone gets set in his ways, used to habits, lazy about thinking of other people’s feelings. Those are the excuses, Caro, but the fact is that I was a die-hard fuddy-duddy in the making.”

“Alan!” He heard the protest, and also caught the first hint of an unwilling smile on her lips. “You foolish man,” she scolded, “you were never—”

“Oh, yes I was.
Not
a man who could keep your interest for the next ninety years and, just maybe, not someone I much wanted to be for the next ninety years, either.” His tone softened. “If I went too far, you have to understand that I was starting from scratch. A blank piece of paper. Because I’d never wanted a woman half as much as I wanted you.”

“Oh, Alan.” She sank against his chest, felt his arms wrap around her as if she were coming home. “I had no idea how you felt. And I never loved you for the razzle-dazzle. I loved you for you. How could you think otherwise?”

His lips pressed into her hair. “What I think,” he said honestly, “is that you needed the roses. That you were entitled to the roses. You wanted to
feel
loved, Caro, not just
be
loved. And
I
needed to feel that I could offer you something special. Not necessarily bizarre foods for dinner or canoe rides at midnight, but something you felt only when you were with me. The freedom to reach for your fantasies and make them real. Maybe just the freedom to be vulnerable. And honest. The freedom to express…” He ran out of words.

Carroll wanted to say that she’d been haunted by the same fears, that for a long time she’d worried that she didn’t have anything special enough to offer him, that he was the one who had given her confidence in herself as a woman… In time she
would
tell him in elaborate detail, but perhaps not at the moment. Now it seemed the best of times to make sure, that
he
felt loved, too, exactly as he’d made her feel loved.

“Freedom to be vulnerable,” she murmured, and leaned back, studying the love in his eyes, breathing it, savoring it, feeling her heart well with it. “You know what you did to me, don’t you, Alan?” she questioned gently. “You stole every inhibition I had, made me tell you every secret, made very sure I knew I was a passionate woman. You
forced
me to feel special, love…and I’m afraid you’ll have to pay the price now.”

“The pr—”

“No more talking,” she scolded. “You’re in a lot of trouble with me. You beguiled an awful lot of secrets out of me with your seductive tricks.” She cast him a suddenly critical glance. “You look exhausted. Actually, you look like hell.”

“What?”

The poor man looked dazed. She pressed a forefinger lightly against his chest, which shouldn’t have been enough to force him down, but he went down, spine flat against the couch cushions.

“In the beginning,” she said firmly, “maybe we
didn’t
have the right kind of relationship. Maybe it took some changes to make it right. And maybe it still isn’t exactly right, Alan, because it takes two to really change. You can’t take credit for taking all the risks.” She smiled down at him lovingly. “You really look terrible.”

“I really—am beginning to—feel fine.”

She shook her head. “You don’t feel fine. You feel weak. And vulnerable.”

“Do I?”

“Or you will,” she said smoothly. Her fingers were busy for a moment, unbuttoning his shirt. She handled his belt like a pro and unhooked his slacks as though she’d had fairly recent practice. “Even now, you feel so weak,” she said thoughtfully, “that I think you’d better just put your hands over your head where you won’t be tempted to use them, Alan.”

“Caro—”

“Look, I’m too busy for any more talking. I’ve got this hero in my life, you see. Or a man who’s been thinking that he has to be a romantic hero…when he’s been one, all along. Which leaves me with one terrific problem, I can tell you. Because your average, sensible, normal-type woman might not be enough for a hero. Luckily, Alan,
luckily
for you, I’m a very special woman. Or so someone has made me believe.”

She stood up and reached behind her for the zipper at the back of her dress. In seconds, the gown shimmered to the floor. Beneath it, she was wearing a pale pink garter belt and stockings, matching a pink lace bra that laid no claims to practicality. Alan was responsible for such frivolous purchases, of course. She leaned over to tug off his slacks and shorts and socks.

“It could just be that I needed those roses, mind you,” she said absently. “Maybe I
did
need to know I was more than a comfortable habit with you. Could it possibly be that you needed to know the same thing, though, love? That you weren’t the only one who had to do a little changing?”

She popped the snap on her bra, slipped out of it. Her hands went to the garter belt and then paused. She just looked at him, mischief flashing in her eyes. And love, and wanting, and need. “Ever been made love to by a woman in a garter belt and stockings, Alan?”

His tongue was oddly thick, making speech difficult as he looked at her. “No.”

“Good.” She started at his toes, using the lash of her tongue, the tickle of her teeth, the pressure of her lips to seduce him. Really, it was past time she did a little wooing of her own. If she didn’t know how, it was past time she learned.

When she finished with his toes, she moved up to his ankles, and shortly thereafter slid her length against him, rubbing her stocking-clad legs against his while she nipped and kissed circles on his chest.

She moved slowly, with infinite caution and care. Actually, she approached seducing him with a dogged, patient, methodical and unquestionably feminine instinct. She wanted the man vulnerable. She wanted him to exult in feeling vulnerable; she wanted him free to express that vulnerability with her, to feel sure that there was nothing he needed to hide from her ever again.

As a man, he’d made her feel the full scope of womanhood. As a woman, she had every intention of making him feel powerfully male…rich in manhood, the best of heroes, the sexiest of lovers.

And it was working. Without question, it was working. It wasn’t just the increased tightening of his muscles that told her that, or the sheen of moisture rapidly coating his skin. It was in his eyes, those gentle blue eyes of his. So much love.

“You’re failing to keep your hands under control,” she remarked. “They’re supposed to stay over your head.”

“I can’t help it. They won’t.”

She shrugged. If her hands wouldn’t behave themselves, she could hardly blame his for being in the same mood. A woman in love had to be flexible.

So did a man. Alan was open to torture and was well aware his lady was having fun. But he’d never imagined that the rub of her stockings would send him over the edge of a deliciously high mountain. She wanted him out of control. That was exactly what she got. “I couldn’t possibly love you more, Caro,” he whispered, and coaxed her legs around him. The breath rushed from his lungs when he felt himself joined to her.

Both were suddenly, breathlessly anticipating the rhythm to come. That rhythm would happen, but the closeness for this moment was ecstasy, too. “I love you back,” Carroll murmured softly, and then, “When are we getting married, Alan?”

“Yesterday.”

“Not soon enough.”

He was in perfect agreement with her on that.

Jennifer sold her first book in 1980, and since then she has sold more than eighty books in the contemporary romance genre. Her first professional writing award came from RWA—a Silver Medallion in l984—followed by more than twenty nominations and awards, including being honored in RWA’s Hall of Fame and presented with the RWA Nora Roberts Lifetime Achievement Award. Jennifer has been on numerous bestseller lists, has written for Harlequin Books, Avon, Berkley and Dell, and has sold over the world in more than twenty languages. She has written under a number of pseudonyms, most recognizably Jennifer Greene, but also Jeanne Grant and Jessica Massey.

She was born in Michigan, started writing in high school, and graduated from Michigan State University with a degree in English and psychology. The university honored her with their “Lantern Night Award,” a tradition developed to honor fifty outstanding women graduates each year. Exploring issues and concerns for women today is what first motivated her to write, and she has long been an enthusiastic and active supporter of women’s fiction, which she believes is an “unbeatable way to reach out and support other women.” Jennifer lives in the country around Benton Harbor, Michigan, with her husband, Lar.

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