Rub It In (5 page)

Maybe she was reacting so strongly because he was inside her home. She realized that in all the time she’d worked at Escape, Simon had never once come to her bungalow. That was it. It had to be.

“Dinner? Any hope of sharing? I’m starving and it’s a little hard to cook without water.”

Jeez, he wanted a lot from her tonight. But he wasn’t going to get it.

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

The loud sound of a zipper going down ripped through her tiny bungalow. Marcy’s eyes seemed to bulge for a minute before finding their place back inside her head. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door. The man was either mental or incredibly self-confident. Or possibly both.

“Need I remind you that since you quit this morning this bungalow technically no longer belongs to you?”

“Need I remind you that I tried to leave and you wouldn’t let me?”

He stuck his head back around the doorway one more time. The problem was now Marcy didn’t have to wonder if he was completely naked. She knew. Her mind started doing somersaults and playing tricks. It conjured up images of what he might look like fully exposed.

Unable to take it anymore, Marcy turned her back on the doorway, heading for the kitchen to cover her retreat.

“How about we consider dinner tonight payment for however long you stay?”

“Exactly how long will that be?”

“Until you come to your senses and realize you don’t want to quit.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I brought you wine. The least you can do is feed me.”

And, oh, she was going to need that wine because even as her brain said no, her mouth opened and said, “Oh, all right.”

The damn man laughed as he ducked back inside the bathroom. This time he closed the door behind him. Thank God.

Although the sound of water rushing through the pipes didn’t exactly help her control her wayward thoughts. Instead, it made them worse. The vision of him naked, surrounded by steam, with rivulets of water dripping down his body made her throat feel dry, scratchy and irritated.

Screwing her eyes shut, Marcy concentrated on something else. She pulled some strips of chicken from the freezer, then grabbed bell peppers, onions and squash. Chopping the veggies gave her something else to focus on—and luckily she managed not to nick a finger.

The meat sizzled in the hot skillet. She threw in a splash of soy sauce, Worcestershire and teriyaki marinade along with the veggies. The spicy scent that filled her little kitchen was pleasant and warm and Marcy found a smile curling her lips despite the fact that Simon was only a few feet away.

Cooking was a luxury she didn’t often indulge in, but enjoyed. She usually thought it silly to spend the time herself when a five-star restaurant was only a few steps away from her front door. The chef was excellent, and who wouldn’t appreciate gourmet meals every night?

But there was something reassuring and relaxing about making her own meal, simple as it was.

While everything cooked, she popped the cork on the bottle Simon had brought and poured a glass of wine. As an afterthought, she pulled down another glass and poured him one, as well. Maybe it would mellow them both out enough that they’d end the night without wanting to kill each other.

She threw together a simple salad of greens, tomatoes and cucumbers.

And then waited.

And waited.

And wondered what the heck was taking him so long. His hair might be longer than some guys, but it wasn’t as if it was down to his waist and needed extra conditioning. So it was a little shaggy against his collar… .

He didn’t have a razor or toothbrush. Hell, she realized, he hadn’t even brought a change of clothes.

She stirred the chicken for lack of anything better to do. And found herself staring at the closed door…imagining.

5

S
IMON
WOULD
NEVER
TAKE
warm water for granted again. The muscles running from the back of his neck down to the base of his spine ached from too much hunching over the keyboard. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d become until the pounding warmth had released the knots.

He probably spent a good five minutes just standing idle beneath the spray, his mind going in pleasant, unproductive circles that he couldn’t ignore.

Reaching down for the shampoo bottle sitting on a small ledge, he squirted a purple glob of the stuff into the palm of his hand. Without thought, he dumped it over the crown of his head and started rubbing.

Only to be knocked sideways when Marcy’s scent overwhelmed him. It was lavender and vanilla, somehow feminine, sweet and powerful all at the same time. Not because of the actual scents but because for the past two years they’d always reminded him of her.

His body responded, his cock leaping to attention with a speed that shocked him. Need, deep and pulsing, whipped through his body and he closed his eyes tight trying to ignore it.

This had been a bad idea.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. He was here, held hostage in Marcy’s bathroom by a raging erection and a desire to possess her that had blindsided him. Well, okay, maybe not blindsided, but surprised him at the very least.

Gritting his teeth, Simon looked around for a bar of soap and realized there wasn’t one. Squinting at the row of bottles, he picked out one that promised silky-smooth skin and popped the lid, bringing it experimentally to his nose. Lavender. Again.

He hadn’t thought to grab a washcloth. What kind of person didn’t have a bar of soap in the shower? The only thing that remotely resembled something useful was a big puffy thing hanging from a hook over the showerhead. He’d seen them before, in other women’s bathrooms, but never stopped long enough to care what they were for. Nine times out of ten, he’d been otherwise occupied and neither party involved had been worried about getting clean. They’d been concentrating on being very, very dirty.

Simon slammed his jaws together as a vision of Marcy, her tight little body wrapped around his waist and her back pressed against the wall of the shower, burst through his mind.

Okay, no puffy thing. Instead, he squeezed the soap out into his hand and began lathering it across his skin. He was going to smell like a pansy when this was over. But maybe that would keep him from acting on the throbbing hard-on jutting out from his hips.

He studiously ignored that entire area on the idea that pretending it wasn’t there was the best course of action. Although that seemed pointless since the lather slipped down his body anyway to part around his erection and slide over his tight balls.

With a hiss through his teeth, Simon gave up. Rinsing the soap from his body, he slammed the faucet off and jumped from the confining walls of the shower. Unfortunately, even the towel he grabbed from beneath the sink smelled like lavender.

Did the woman own stock in the stuff?

Simon reached for the clothes he’d thrown haphazardly into a pile on the stool sitting in the corner of the room. The fly on his shorts pressed painfully against the ridge of his uncooperative cock. He reached down and tried to adjust for a more comfortable fit, but there wasn’t one. The ache was endless.

With a snarl, he pulled his shirt back over his shoulders, leaving the tail untucked and dangling to hide the bulge. And started thinking unpleasant thoughts.

Starving children in Africa.

Stinging bees.

The workmen outside who hadn’t managed to fix the water.

He waited for the erection to go away.

And waited some more.

Finally he realized it wasn’t going anywhere and that if he didn’t get out of this bathroom Marcy was going to think he’d drowned. And come in after him. His eyes strayed over to the shower and the drops of water that peeled slowly down the pane of glass. Despite all his efforts, the vision of her in there with him returned with a vengeance.

Which would not be good.

Snatching the knob, Simon ripped open the door and walked back out into Marcy’s living area. He was greeted by a tantalizing smell. Thank god it wasn’t lavender.

“Jeez, how much primping can one man do?”

Simon stared at her for several seconds, his brain spinning uselessly on her words. Until he realized what she was talking about. Perhaps her low opinion of him—and apparently his vanity—could work in his favor here.

“It takes a lot of effort to maintain this level of perfection.”

“Please.” Marcy’s lips twitched down on one corner. “Half the time you look like you dragged the first thing out of the closet that you came to. You’ve needed a haircut for months. Pretty soon no one will be able to see those beautiful blue eyes behind the shaggy blond hair.”

“You think my eyes are beautiful,” he teased, flashing her a wide grin.

She groaned and looked at the ceiling as if hoping for help. Her eyes sparkled, just like the water outside their little island when the sun hit it just right. Her jaw tightened, flexing in a way that made him ache to give her another workout for that mouth.

“Your ego is a constant amazement to me, do you know that?”

“My ego? That isn’t usually what women compliment me on.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Sure sounded like one to me. Didn’t you just say I amazed you?”

With a huff, Marcy turned and grabbed a glass of wine from the counter. The contents sloshed over the side. She reached out, snatched one of his hands, pulled it close to her body and slapped the glass against his palm.

“Drink,” she ordered. “At least that’ll keep your mouth occupied for a while.”

His eyes unerringly strayed to her mouth. Those full lips, more often than not pulled into a tight line of frustration or concentration, were now parted. He could see the delicate pink inside her mouth and wanted to dive in and taste it for himself. He leaned closer, although he couldn’t remember consciously deciding to do it.

Marcy’s eyes widened. The pulse at the base of her throat began to throb and he could feel the answering echo as it shot straight to his groin. That tantalizing tongue darted out to scrape across her open lips. Simon’s eyes narrowed, focusing totally on the prize that he wanted—her mouth.

With an almost inaudible gasp, Marcy turned away, breaking the connection that had caught them both.

Simon studied her as she quickly dished food from the pan on the stove onto two beautiful plates. They were thick, heavy and, on closer inspection, Simon realized probably handmade. Indigo and burgundy swirled across the surface in an abstract pattern. They were definitely not island issue, but something she’d brought with her to Île du Coeur.

And he realized it was the first touch of something personal he’d seen. Her office had no photographs, no knickknacks, no little baskets or cartoony staplers. Everything was silver, stark and professional.

Her hands were steady now, but he was almost certain they hadn’t been when she’d first turned around. He’d been seducing women since puberty, so he knew the signs of interest well enough. Hell, he had the perfect tutorial outside his front door. Every night at the resort some man—or woman—was making the moves hoping to end up in someone else’s bed.

Although he really didn’t need the lessons.

Marcy wanted him. Physically at least. Of that he was damn sure. She might not like it, but that didn’t change the facts.

She brushed past him and a blast of lavender hit him square in the face.

His body responded.

Marcy studiously ignored him as she ate her dinner. Simon, on the other hand, studiously watched her. And the more he watched the more agitated she became.

A tiny smile tugged at the edge of his lips as he slipped a piece of chicken into his mouth. She really was a good cook. He had no idea why that surprised him, but it did.

“This is excellent,” He said finally, breaking the tense silence that had settled between them.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s simple and good. I didn’t realize you could cook.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Simon,” she said, looking up into his eyes for the first time since she’d sat down across from him.

He quirked a single eyebrow. “Like what? Enlighten me.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

Simon set his fork on his plate and leaned across the table. He stared into her azure eyes—they were so bright and clear. Such an unusual shade that he was sure she’d learned long ago to use to her advantage. She wanted to look away. He could see it in the way the corners of her eyes compressed. But she wouldn’t. Instead, she lowered her chin and silently challenged him in that frustrating way of hers.

But he was no coward and actually enjoyed the provocation. “Why not? What are you afraid of? It isn’t like I’m asking you to strip naked in front of me. Just tell me where you learned to cook.”

Her skin flushed a soft pink the minute the word
strip
left his mouth. But her eyes flashed and her lips thinned and he knew she’d rise to the bait.

“I taught myself. I lived most of my life in premier hotels with just my father. And while he was a wonderful man and a great father, he was a terrible cook. He’d always say that not taking advantage of the gourmet meals available to us was tantamount to committing a sin.”

“Not very religious, your father, then, hmm?” he asked.

Marcy reached up and ran her hands through her hair, ruffling her bangs. The soft blond strands settled back around her face in a disheveled mess that did nothing to dampen the buzz of attraction fighting through his blood. His fingers curled against his palm, the only way to keep him from reaching out to brush the wisps away from her cheeks.

She was uncomfortable. Simon wondered if it was sharing part of her background and life that made her so, or if it was specifically sharing those details with him that flustered her.

“So why did you learn to cook? I thought you’d spent most of your adult life living in a hotel, as well.”

“I did.” Marcy’s lips twisted into a self-deprecating semblance of a smile. “This place—” she looked around, but her gaze returned to him and Simon felt a tiny thrill blossom in the center of his chest when she did “—was the first time I’d ever had access to a kitchen, actually.”

“Wait,” he said. “Are you saying you taught yourself to cook while you’ve been living here?”

When had she done that? And for heaven’s sake, why? “What’s wrong with our restaurant? And why haven’t you fixed it?”

“Nothing,” she asserted. “There’s nothing wrong with the restaurant. We get rave reviews and our chef has an excellent reputation.”

Simon’s eyebrows beetled. He didn’t understand. “Then what in the world made you take up cooking?”

She looked away again. “I don’t know. I was bored, I guess. There really isn’t a lot to do after I leave the office. I’m not much for TV or movies. I guess I was used to a big city with lots of museums and theaters and social events.” Her eyes wandered back and she shrugged. “It filled the time. And I discovered I was good at it. Sort of surprised me.”

A smile, gentle and unlike anything he’d ever seen on her face before, curved her lips. “Dad always said my mom was an excellent cook.”

There was a vulnerability there that made the center of his stomach twist uncomfortably. While he liked this softer side to Marcy, he wasn’t used to it and didn’t know what to do with it.
Vulnerable
was the last word he’d ever use to describe the tiny bulldog that normally ran his resort.
Capable, fearless, dominating, frustrating, enticing
…these were all words he would have used.

Searching for familiar ground, Simon grabbed on to something she’d said. “What do you mean there isn’t any entertainment on the island? We have plenty!”

“Sure, if I was interested in a weekend fling with some stranger. And that’s assuming said stranger wasn’t just looking for T and A.” Marcy looked down at her own body and frowned. “It isn’t like I fit the stereotypical mold for that sort of thing.”

“Putting aside your derogatory view of our guests, any man who doesn’t jump at the chance to sleep with you is an idiot. You’re beautiful.”

Marcy blinked, appearing nonplussed. It was a new look for her, one he liked for some reason. Maybe it made her more human than he was used to her being. She was Marcy. Efficient, unflappable Marcy. But he’d made her stumble.

“I…you…” She sputtered before finding her footing. “Thank you. I think.”

They stared at each other for several seconds. Simon realized that at some point in their conversation they’d moved closer to each other, both leaning over the table that separated them. Whether from the heat of their argument or the awareness pulsing relentlessly beneath his skin, it really didn’t matter. The result was the same.

He wanted her.

And for the first time since she’d stepped foot on his island, he couldn’t remember why that was a bad idea.

Oh yeah, she worked for him.

Or, rather, she had.