On the Steamy Side (4 page)

And then there was that kiss. Not only the way it curled her toes, but the delicacy of it, as if he’d read her hesitancy over getting down and dirty in such a public place and had responded with the sweetest kiss imaginable.

He was almost certainly a Romeo type, but what man who looked like him wouldn’t be? And in the end, it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about finding the love of her life, Lilah reminded herself. It was about stretching and risking, stepping out of the shell she’d imprisoned herself in for so long and finding a new way to be in the world.

Taking her courage in both hands, Lilah nodded.

The smile that spread over his handsome face was filled with dark, seductive triumph.

Oh, Lordy. What had she gotten herself into? Lilah shivered, but even she couldn’t have said whether it was trepidation or straight-up anticipation.

“Wait,” she cried, suddenly realizing how empty her hands were. “I left my pocketbook on the bar!”

“Want me to get it for you?” he offered, but Lilah shook her head.

“No! No, it’s fine. I’ll just run quick and grab it. You stay put.” Without pausing to see if he followed her instructions, Lilah whirled and pushed back into the crowd surrounding the bar, her cheeks stinging with heat.

Second thoughts immediately filled her mind. He could be anyone, do anything . . .

Oh, my stars and stripes, what am I doing?

She finally managed to thrust her way to the scarred wooden bar, but her purse was nowhere to be seen. Before her heart could plummet through the floor, however, the bartender, a smallish man with straight brown hair to his shoulders and a smile in his eyes, leaned over the bar.

He held one hand out, the strap of Lilah’s pocketbook dangling from one finger.

“You found it,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“Not a problem,” he drawled, but when she moved to take her bag, he lifted it out of reach.

“If I give this back to you,” he said, eyes intent on her face, “are you gonna leave with that fel a over there?”

Lilah bit her lip, then forced herself to stop. She wasn’t Lolly anymore, she didn’t have to be so embarrassed and worried about what people thought all the time.

“I’m thinking about it,” she told him. “Why, do you know some reason why I shouldn’t?” The bartender cocked his head. “No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t believe I do. We go back a ways, me and him. He’s a good guy, deep down, even if he doesn’t always act like it. I was actually thinking about warning you to be nice to him. He’s had a rough couple of months; he could stand something nice for a change.”

Lilah paused, struck by the sincerity in the man’s face.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not a psycho or something. Your friend is safe.”

“Then you kids have a fine old time,” he replied, lowering his arm so she could snag her purse.

“Hey, um . . . do you know Grant Holloway? The guy I came in with?”

“We’re acquainted.”

“Could you let him know I left? And that I’m okay?”

The bartender nodded, and Lilah gave him a little wave of thanks.

Slipping back into the press of people, Lilah couldn’t help craning her neck to see if her mystery man still stood waiting for her by the door.

And if her heart fluttered with joy when she saw that he was, if she couldn’t restrain her answering grin when he smiled down at her . . . well. Even without the bartender vouching for him, the sense of rightness that settled over her shoulders like a warm quilt would’ve been enough to propel her out of the bar at this man’s side.

The air outside Chapel was crisp and refreshing after the stale bar full of moving bodies. Lilah followed her . . . shoot, what should she call him? Lover? Ugh, that didn’t sound right . . . to a sleek black car.

A short, compactly muscled man moved from his position leaning against the hood to open the back passenger door.

“This is Paolo, my driver.”

Was this normal? Did everyone in New York have a driver?

Resolving not to gawk and stare at every little thing like a tourist, Lilah gave the impassive, black-clad Paolo a regal nod and climbed into the spacious backseat. The leather was smooth and warm against her skin. She was immediately concerned about the nasty stain her damp shirt was probably leaving.

Lilah twisted on the seat in an effort to spare the leather and look graceful at the same time, which was met with an odd look from her handsome new friend when he slid in beside her.

Conversation was stilted as the car pulled out into traffic. Lilah wasn’t sure what the protocol was for making small talk with one’s soon-to-be sexual partners.

Somehow, she didn’t think Emily Post had an entry covering that little dilemma.

He asked where she was staying—an apartment in Chelsea—and she asked where he lived—on Park Avenue. That shut Lilah up for a second; even with her spotty understanding of Manhattan geography, she knew that was a pretty swanky neighborhood.

Every snippet of information only added to his mysterious allure and the surreal feel of the entire situation.

When the car pulled smoothly up to a gorgeous white-marble corner building, with windows two stories tall and a gold-trimmed awning out front, Lilah wasn’t even surprised.

Sure, she thought. Where else would Prince Charming live?

This modern-day castle was staffed with quietly polite doormen and a concierge—there was even a guy who offered to run the elevator for them, but her companion declined. They stepped into the large, sumptuous box and the doors whispered shut.

Lilah blinked at her reflection in the antique brass of the doors. It was polished to such a high gloss, she could see the whites of her own wide eyes.

She glanced at the man beside her, and he seemed to take that as an invitation. He stepped in closer and trailed his fingertips down the bare skin of her arm below her puffed shirtsleeve, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake.

A bell-like chime made Lilah jump, and then the elevator door shooshed open to reveal a single white-paneled door, which her companion unlocked and opened.

He ushered Lilah into a spread straight out of Architectural Digest. It looked like some avant-garde director’s interpretation of Hamlet’s castle, all Danish modern and slick.

A low-slung black leather couch faced one of those outsized flatscreen televisions all men seemed to want more than life. The coffee table in front of it was low, too, a glass and chrome contraption that appeared to be using some sort of gravity-defying magic to stay standing. Everything in the room was sleek, clean, spotless, and utterly unwelcoming.

She was kind of glad she didn’t have to live here; she’d be afraid to sit on that flat-cushioned couch, and if she so much as looked at the white paper-globe lamp in the corner, she was certain it’d topple right on over.

Before Lilah could work herself into a tizzy over the multitude of ways her natural klutziness could be a bad, bad thing, the apartment’s owner saved her from thinking by touching her hand and turning her brain into pudding.

“Where were we?” he asked with a sly smile.

Not to be outdone, Lilah took a bold step forward and plastered herself to his front. “Right about here, I think.”

His chest expanded against hers like he was drawing a deep breath and Lilah reveled in the sudden, heady sense of power.

The gorgeous man ran his hands up her arms and around to cup the wings of her shoulder blades. He made an “ick” face and stepped back at once—not exactly the reaction Lilah was hoping for. Then she remembered her unfortunate accident with his friend’s drink.

Laughing, she said, “Hey, didn’t you promise me a shower?”

When Devon bought the penthouse four years ago, he knew it was going to take a crapload of work to make it the showroom residence a rising star needed.

To create the master bathroom, he had to knock out a wall to expand the space into the large, gracious room they now entered. His curly-haired companion took one look at the gold-flecked green tiles forming an abstract mosaic that filled the back wall of his glassed-in shower and whistled through her teeth.

Devon smiled and jammed his hands in his front pockets to keep from pointing features out to her like an excited realtor.

But the rest of the bathroom wasn’t too shabby, either, if he did say so himself. He watched her run a hand over the frosted glass of the counter holding the freestanding oval Waterworks sink.

The floor and walls were tiled in large squares of warm, naturally tumbled stone; the lighting was soft and yellow.

“Well, golly,” she said. “If I had a bathroom like this, I’d never want to leave it.” Satisfaction filled Devon. He rocked on his heels. “It was the first thing I redid when I bought this place.”

He’d had very definite ideas about what he wanted the master bath to look like; he was a plumber’s kid, after all. And yeah, it may have occurred to him that coming up with the most decadent, luxurious bathroom possible could be interpreted as a “fuck you” to the old man.

“You designed this?” The woman’s voice dragged Devon out of his musing. She gestured to the mosaic tiles in the shower stall. “It’s beautiful.”

For some reason, her frank admiration suddenly made Devon want to squirm. “It’s nothing. Just a doodle I had in my head.”

“I know a little bit about design,” she told him, “and I’d say you have a knack for it. If I had to guess . . .” She tilted her head to one side and considered him. “Yes. I think you must be an artist. No! You own an art gallery—being in charge would suit you, I bet.”

“Very astute,” Devon laughed. “Being in charge suits me completely, balls to bones.”

“Graphic,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And don’t think I didn’t notice; you didn’t deny the gallery thing. I pegged you right! I know it.”

Enjoying himself immensely, Devon sketched a courtly bow. “What can I say? Give the lady a cigar.”

“I have a knack for sizing people up,” she said. “When you’ve conducted as many auditions as I have, it’s a necessary skill.”

“You’re in theater,” Devon said.

“Used to be,” she said. “Until very recently.”

“You said you conducted the auditions. I take it you’re not an actress, then.”

“Gracious, no. I directed and taught.”

“What kinds of plays?” Devon was mildly amazed at himself, making light conversation with this incredibly enticing woman in the intimate, sexually charged atmosphere of his personal bathroom. But he was actually kind of digging it. And it was more than the novelty of conversing with someone who wasn’t after anything from him.

It was her.

“Shakespeare is the obvious one,” she said. “But he’s only obvious because he wears so well. Many of his plays are shockingly relevant to our modern world. I’ve also done Brecht, Ibsen, Chekhov . . . we mostly stuck to the classics.”

“Reinterpretations of the classics can be transcendent,” Devon replied, thinking of the signature dish on the menu at his flagship restaurant, Appetite. It was steak frites, the quintessential bistro dish, re-imagined as a layered torte of sliced, seared filet, parsley butter and seasonal vegetables fried in duck fat. It was one of the dishes mentioned in the New York Times review that got him his four stars; it was on the menu to stay.

Realizing he’d been standing there silently for a moment too long, Devon said, “Well, I’ll let you get to it, then. I’m going to go find something clean for you to change into.” She hesitated as if she had something to say, but then smiled and thanked him again.

Devon left the bathroom quickly, before images of her stripping down and getting wet made it impossible.

He waited as long as he could, but it had been a few years since Devon had been forced to wait for anything he truly wanted, and he was out of practice.

So when he tapped on the bathroom door and she called “Come in,” Devon wasn’t surprised to be sucked into a humid fog. The shower was still running, everything in the bathroom steamed up and misted over. He knew he was probably supposed to turn his head away or squeeze his eyes shut or something, but he’d never been very good at doing what he was supposed to do. He zeroed in on the glass shower door as if his eyes were high-beam xenon headlights that could penetrate steam.

No such luck.

“I’ve got a shirt here you can put on,” Devon said. “When you’re done.”

“I’ll never be done,” she moaned. “Seriously. You’re going to have to cook my meals and serve them to me in here, because I am never leaving this shower.”

Devon laughed despite the frisson of nerves accompanying her blithe demand that he cook. “Can’t blame you. That shower is one of my favorite places in the entire world. And I’ve been all over.”

“I’ve never been anywhere but Spotswood County, Virginia, and New York City,” she said. “But I don’t need to travel the world to know there’s not much out there that could compare with this.” It was almost unbearable to stand in the moist heat of the bathroom knowing she was barely five feet away from him, completely bare and wet as a seal. The tension was terrible. Devon savored it for another minute, then said, “Okay, I’ll be in the living room when you’re done.”

“Wait,” she said when his hand was on the slippery doorknob. “I can think of one thing that would make this shower even better.”

From the tremor in her voice, Devon thought he could guess what that one thing was, but he wanted her to say it. “What’s that?”

He could almost hear her swallow. His pulse jumped.

“If you were in here with me.”

The pleasurable tension Devon had been enjoying instantly morphed into a need so voracious it made his hands shake. Getting his clothes off took longer than he wanted, and then there was the delay of locating a couple of condoms in his medicine cabinet. It felt like an eternity, but it was mere seconds before he was opening the shower door and sliding in behind her. He tucked the condoms into one of the recessed openings in the tiled wall, easily accessible.

That done, Devon allowed his brain to short out under the pinprick sting of hot water on his shoulders and the melting heat of the skin of her back against his chest.

She squeaked when he touched her, as if, despite her invitation, she was startled to find herself sharing space with him.