The Billionaire's Bridal Bid (6 page)

“You’re awake,” he said, rubbing his fingers over his own eyes, as if he, too, had been about to fall asleep.

Then his gaze fell on her. He seemed to be drinking in the sight of her. Warmth washed over her. Along with a solid dash of nerves. A glance at her watch told her it had been over seven hours since she’d gotten ready for this date. Her makeup was probably long gone, her hair most likely a mess. Despite that—and despite the fact that Matt had dated some of the most beautiful women in the world—when he looked at her like that, she felt
beautiful. Like the overworked owner of a small-town diner must be exactly what he wanted most.

She tugged her shawl around her shoulders and shifted her feet to the floor, saying the first thing that popped into her head. “The book I was reading. I was going to borrow it. I don’t suppose you—”

He shook his head. “I’ll buy you your own copy.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She scooted across the seat, trying to put as much room between them as possible, but it was hard when her senses still felt muddled from sleep and her mind was still full of the dreams she’d had of him. Dreams of being held in his arms. Of having his hand stroke her skin. Of hearing his voice murmur soothing words.

To distract herself she asked, “The problem with the wind turbine. Did you get it fixed?”

“Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, rubbing away the signs of exhaustion. “You have to know that if it hadn’t been important—”

“Yeah. Dylan said there’s some kind of big presentation in D.C.?”

According to Dylan, Matt had been working on it right up until he’d left to get ready for their date. They’d only had a few hours left of work to do when he’d left the rest of the team at FMJ. Which explained why he hadn’t simply turned off his phone when he started getting calls. He must have known something had gone wrong. And yet he’d sat there, stubbornly refusing to interrupt their date.

Matt nodded. “Federal grant money, but the brass is expecting a working prototype in D.C. this week. And we had one this morning when I left work, but then some idiot spilled their drink on it and fried the motherboard.
Twenty million dollars of federal funding at stake and some idiot spills Red Bull.”

She laughed. “I hope it wasn’t Dylan. He seemed pretty sure he was going to get fired.”

“Actually, replacing the motherboard should have been simple, but the mistake revealed a design flaw we hadn’t seen before. That’s the problem we were up all night solving.”

“So the Red Bull was a good thing?”

“Sometimes the worst mistakes end up solving more problems than they create.” Again he gave her one of those looks that could have melted the chocolate torte she’d had for dessert. He moved across the seat, closing the distance between them.

He reached out and brushed his fingers across her brow, nudging her hair out of the way. “Thanks for letting me handle it.”

She swallowed. His touch was exactly how she’d dreamed it would be. His voice just as smooth and low. His breath just as warm.

“No problem,” she murmured, her words coming out on a trembling gasp.

The heated glance he sent her stirred something deep inside, something that had been buried for years and that she thought was lost forever. Or maybe she’d hoped it had been lost forever. Either way, it was back. The faint churning in her stomach, the heat in her veins. The reckless need to shove aside thoughts of responsibility and the future. To simply seize what she wanted.

Because what she wanted was so close.

He leaned toward her, just as the limo navigated a sharp turn. The motion of the car rocked her off balance, and suddenly she was pressed against his chest, her palms flattened against his shirt. His heartbeat was
strong and solid beneath her hand. His chest warm and muscled. He was no longer thin, as he’d been in his early twenties. Now he was all lean muscle. All strength and masculinity.

Her gaze fixed on the swath of skin at the vee in his shirt. The place where the long column of his neck met his collarbones, the hollow of his throat. Even though the interior of the limo was dimly lit, she could almost see his pulse. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Then she looked up and met his eyes and felt the curious sensation of falling into her own past, into the memories she kept locked away, neatly pressed into the hope chest of her heart, where she never looked at them.

She’d worked so hard to forget the emotions he made her feel. The yearning. The hope. The love. She’d focused so much energy on that, she’d forgotten to bury the memories of their passion.

Now, she realized what a mistake that was. Because those memories came flooding back and she had no defense against them.

And then his mouth was on hers, devouring her. She craved his neediness. The full-throttle surge of his passion. Hot and dark. Tinged with all the buried emotions they’d kept hidden. It rose up inside of her, blocking out thought and logic. Blocking out all sense of reason.

When his mouth was on hers, all she could do was hold on tight as sensation poured through her. He tasted so familiar. Like all the hope and possibility of her youth. Like the freedom of finally being in charge of her own life. Like the infinite stretch of future happiness.

But it wasn’t just the taste of him. The feel of his hair as it slipped through her fingertips. Of the hard
corded muscles of his back as she nudged his jacket off his shoulders. Of his rough fingertips as he slipped a hand under the hem of her vest. His hands had always been large and now they felt massive, possessive, as he cupped her breasts, thumbing her nipples until her neck arched and she groaned low in her throat.

She knew then, this wouldn’t be enough. A clumsy passionate kiss and a grope stolen in the back of the limo wouldn’t satisfy her. She needed all of him. The passion pulsing through her was too great, and she trembled, already close to spinning out of control.

He was pressing into her, edging her back against the seat. In a second he’d be looming over her. In a minute—maybe five or ten—he’d have her half-naked. She’d tip over the edge. Lose control completely. Lose herself completely. Just like she had the last time.

She couldn’t bear to give him everything of herself. But she couldn’t bear to stop him, either. Tonight was a once-in-a-lifetime event. A moment out of time.

And it had been so long—so long—since she’d taken anyone to her bed. Longer than she wanted to think about.

She couldn’t have him forever. Couldn’t bear to let him go. It was twelve years ago all over again. Her life’s misery in microcosm. So she did again what she had done then. She took control. Dealt with it on her own terms.

Planting both hands on his shoulders, she pushed hard, propelling him back. He broke away from her. His breath coming in rapid gusts, he fell back against the seat. Plowing a hand through his hair, he started to apologize. “I’m—”

But she didn’t let him finish. She nodded toward the
glass barrier separating them from the driver. “That glass is mirrored or soundproof or whatever, right?”

Matt frowned, looking baffled. “Yeah.”

She’d thought so. All evening long, she hadn’t seen or heard so much as a peep from the driver. Before she could let herself think about what she was about to do, or what consequences it might have, or—even worse—what it might mean about her feelings for Matt, she kicked off her heels and shimmied out of her pants.

Matt didn’t have time to do more than smile appreciatively as she climbed onto his lap, straddling the erection pressing hard against the zipper of his pants. His hands came to rest on her naked hips, just above the top of her panties. His fingertips were slightly rough against her skin. His thumbs traced circles around her hip bones, making her shiver with anticipation. She slowly lowered herself down, until the length of him pressed directly against her center. She rocked her hips back and forth, increasing the pressure. The sensation was exquisite.

Heat and moisture swirled through her as she brought her mouth back to his. He joined in enthusiastically, all apology lost. Which was exactly the way she wanted it. The way she wanted him.

Things would always be too complicated between them. Words only made it worse. This was the only way to communicate the want she felt. The need that consumed her.

And he understood perfectly. Touched her in exactly the right way. His mouth was just as hungry as hers. His hands just as desperate. His fingers shook as he unbuttoned the front of her vest and slipped it off her shoulders. He fumbled for a second with her bra and then it, too, fell away. His hands cupped her breasts,
his thumbs scraping against her nipples. She pulled her mouth from his, arching her back, her breasts thrusting eagerly toward his mouth.

He smiled again, that slow lazy grin of his, one part charming rogue, one part naughty kid. Like a little boy about to dip his hand into the cookie jar who knew that what he wanted might not be good for him, but he wanted it too much to care.

He moved one hand to splay it against her back. Firm and possessive, he urged her closer to him. His mouth sought the tip of one breast. He laved her nipple with careful attention before moving to her other breast. His other hand slipped down to her thigh. His thumb nudged her panties out of the way and sought the very center of her. He found the moisture pooling there and then moved back to the sensitive nub between her legs. His touch was gentle but persistent, slowly stroking her in rhythm with his mouth on her breast. She was long past fighting the sensations he stirred. Every nerve ending in her body tightened as her climax rocked through her.

Her body had barely recovered when she reached for the top button of his pants. She didn’t give herself a chance to second-guess herself. She couldn’t think. Didn’t dare to. Any regrets she would have, she would save for tomorrow. She allowed herself only enough foresight to be relieved when he produced a condom from his wallet. She couldn’t get it onto him fast enough. Her breath caught as she sank down onto him. The pressure of him inside of her—the feel of him deep in her core—was exquisite. But it was the expression on his face that made her chest tighten.

She could almost believe that she was everything he ever wanted. That she was his deepest fantasy come to life.

She wanted him to look at her like that forever. She couldn’t bear knowing she’d never see that expression again. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the pure yearning that she didn’t want to feel, choking back the tears she didn’t want to cry. Unable to bear the feeling, she channeled all her emotions into this moment. She rode him harder, blocking out everything but the feel of him buried deep inside her.

As he climaxed, he ground out her name with such emotion that she almost wished she’d done things differently. She almost imagined the life they could have had. If only there weren’t so many secrets between them. And so many things that had gone unsaid.

C
laire didn’t know what to eat for breakfast. Most mornings, the answer was easy. Roll out of bed and mindlessly make her way to Cutie Pies to make other people their breakfast. She worked seven days a week. And though she didn’t always work eight-hour days, she was always there for breakfast, Cutie Pies’s busiest time. Over the course of the morning, she always ate something. At a restaurant, finding food was easy, even though she rarely prepared a meal for herself.

Now, for the first time in twelve years, she didn’t have to be at the restaurant first thing in the morning. In fact, she wasn’t even in Palo Verde.

Her internal alarm clock hadn’t allowed her to sleep past five. Her internal emotional alarm hadn’t allowed her to fall back asleep after waking in Matt’s bed. In his arms.

Last night, she’d been so sure that by
deciding
to have
sex with him, she’d be taking control of the situation. As if the logical act of choosing could eliminate the emotions of her heart. As if it could protect her.

In the dim light of morning, she recognized that reasoning for the lame excuse it was. Lying in Matt’s bed, his naked body pressed against her back, his arm resting heavily across her ribs, his hand cupping her breast, she’d felt a welling of contentment so strong it made the backs of her eyes burn.

In that moment, she’d faced the truth. Sleeping with him had gained her nothing.
Choosing
to do so had been an illusion.

She was as vulnerable to him as ever.

A single night of passion made no difference one way or the other. This would end. He would inevitably remember that she was a Caldiera and he was a Ballard. That their families were eternally at odds. That she was just grasping white trash to his wealth and privilege. And when he did he would walk away from her and return to his real life. She’d be crushed when he did. Her only hope now was to try to maintain some shred of dignity.

So she’d slipped out from under his arm, scrounged for some clothes and snuck downstairs to forage for breakfast. She’d pulled on the jeans and shirt she’d packed in her overnight bag, but the morning was colder than she was used to, so she grabbed a Stanford sweatshirt she’d found draped over the back of a chair.

Arms wrapped around her waist she considered the contents of his refrigerator. Five bottles of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, half a stick of butter, an empty jar of dill relish and a half gallon of milk, which—she popped the cap and sniffed—had gone bad.

She scanned the countertops. Matt lived in a 1940s
foursquare located about two miles from FMJ’s headquarters. Last night, the limo driver had taken them most of the way back to San Francisco to the hotel where Matt had booked her a room. But after they had made love, she didn’t want to experience the sterility of a hotel room. She wanted to see his home.

From the outside, the house had a quaint charm that blended perfectly with the other homes in the neighborhood. On the inside, it had been renovated to a pristine modern sleekness. All the surfaces were either a creamy white or a warm cocoa-brown. The gourmet kitchen was done in the same style with sleek modern cabinetry, brown/black granite and gleaming industrial-quality appliances. She’d bet her thirty-year-old griddle his Aga range had never been used.

However, some helpful decorator had furnished his kitchen with large glass canisters filled with flour, sugar and coffee. A survey of the pantry yielded a few more staples. With the meager supplies and her mind still spinning, she did what she did best when facing a problem. She baked.

Matt woke to the highly unusual sensation of being perfectly content. And to the smell of something baking, which was even more unusual, since as far as he knew, the only time his kitchen had been used was three years ago when Ford had recruited him to host the FMJ holiday party and the caterers had used the ovens.

He pulled on jeans, but went bare-chested because his favorite Stanford sweatshirt had gone missing. As he made his way downstairs, the unmistakable smell of coffee and fresh-baked biscuits grew stronger. He paused at the arched doorway to the kitchen, propped his shoulder against the jamb and watched Claire puttering
around by the sink as she washed dishes. She hummed as she worked. Don McLean’s “American Pie,” unless he was mistaken.

For a minute, he just stood there, content to watch the mesmerizing sway of her hips as she scrubbed and rinsed. The waistband of the red sweatshirt hit her right at hip level. How could a woman so completely covered still look so damn good?

Then she paused, tilted her head slightly and sniffed the air. No timer had gone off, but she seemed to sense the biscuits were done and went to the oven. She wrapped a towel around her hand and pulled out a pan he hadn’t even known he owned.

When she turned to place the pan on the island opposite the oven, she saw him. She stilled instantly, her eyes wary.

Scratching his chest, he commented, “I would have sworn I didn’t have enough food to satisfy a cockroach. How did you manage to make biscuits?”

“I’m good at making something out of nothing,” she said as she busied herself removing the biscuits into a towel-lined bowl she’d set on the counter.

He poured himself a mug of coffee and gulped down a hot mouthful, ignoring whatever implication might have been hanging in the air between them. Claire was good at a lot of things. In particular, she was good at overthinking.

He wasn’t about to let her do that now. The fact that she’d been up long enough to bake biscuits from scratch in his bare-bones kitchen meant she had a head start on him.

So he rounded the island, took both her hands in his to stop her from fussing with the dish towel and turned her to face him. He cut off any protest she might have
made by kissing her soundly until he felt her melt, all liquid warmth and homey goodness, against him.

He backed her up, step by step, until her hips bumped against his, trapping her between him and the counter. Pulling back, he kept one hand planted on her hip so she was firmly anchored to him. Then he reached into the bowl and withdrew one of the biscuits. The flaky crust yielded to the pressure of his teeth. His eyes drifted closed. A little salty, with the hint of butter, so light it nearly dissolved on his tongue. Perfect. Almost as perfect as she was.

“I suddenly understand why men used to keep women chained in the kitchen.”

She gave a shove to his shoulder. “Sexist pig!” But her tone was playful. That wariness was gone.

He chuckled, not releasing his hold on her hip. “You may be right, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a turn-on that you’re as good in the kitchen as you are in bed.” It was a heady combination, having the woman he’d just slept with make him breakfast. As he chewed, another wave of bliss swept over him. “Most of the women I’ve dated wouldn’t lift a baking pan unless it was filled with diamonds.”

She pulled back from him slightly, a frown marring her face. “Then you and Suzy…” The question hung between them for a second before she finally wiggled free and held up her hands. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Turning her back on him, she headed back for the sink, but he snagged her arm and reeled her back in. Her mouth formed an O in surprise and he popped a bit of biscuit in.

“No. Suzy and I never…” He paused, mimicking her
unasked question. “Never dated. Never anything.” He added just to be clear. “She’s just a friend.”

“Oh.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“It’s…” She seemed to mulling over her word choice. “Unexpected.”

That he could believe. “What would you like to do today? I did happen to date the assistant director of the Monterey Aquarium. I can give her a call and—”

“I have to go back Palo Verde today.” She pulled away from him again and this time he let her go. She grabbed a biscuit and retreated to the stretch of counter near the sink. “I was planning to leave just after breakfast.”

He glanced at the clock on the oven. “It’s barely seven. And it’s Sunday. Take the day off.”

She just shook her head. “I own a restaurant. There are no days off. Olga agreed to open for me this morning, but they’ll need me there soon. Before lunch if I can make it.”

Her determination was written clearly on her face, from the set of her jaw to the tension around her mouth. This wasn’t a battle he’d win.

He tossed the last bite of biscuit in his mouth and dusted his hands off on his jeans. “Okay. I’ll call Melissa and have her get the plane ready. We can be at the airstrip in an hour. Which will put us back in Palo Verde well before noon.”

“Us?”

He didn’t like that edge of suspicion in her voice, so he spoke firmly. “Yes. Us.”

She gave her head a little shake as she set her biscuit aside, largely uneaten. “You don’t need to fly back with me.”

“Yes, I do. Think of it as walking you to the door.”

“That’s not—”

“What’s this really about?” Was she somehow embarrassed by what had happened between them? She hadn’t seemed to feel that way last night, but who knew what was going on in her mind now.

For a long moment she was silent. She broke off a bite of biscuit, but instead of eating it, she squashed it between her fingers. “Last night was great. But I think we’ll both be better off if we acknowledge it for what it was.”

“And what was it?” That was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Women and that pesky urge they had to define relationships.

As far as he was concerned, last night had been great. And he wasn’t willing to give her up just yet.

She continued rolling the bit of biscuit between her fingers like a worry bead. “To be honest, I don’t know what last night was. An aberration. A mistake, maybe.” Her lips curved into a slight smile, but it was one she didn’t share with him. “It was damn fun, that’s for sure. But I don’t think I can put a label on it.”

“And that scares you,” he concluded.

Her gaze darted to his in surprise. “No. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“This thing between us. It doesn’t have a future. Whatever it is, it’s over.”

At the words
it’s over,
Matt swallowed hard, choking down the last bit of suddenly dry biscuit.

Last night the passion between them had sparked hot enough to singe hair. The memory of her touch was seared into his skin. He’d never felt so out of control or so close to heaven with any other woman. So this thing between them, it wasn’t even close to over.

She didn’t believe it, either. He could see that in the set of her jaw, like it was all she could do to force the words out.

“Fine,” he said simply.

“You agree?”

“This isn’t over, but if you need to tell yourself that it is, I’ll let you do that.”

She frowned. “You haven’t always been this autocratic.”

“You must be remembering wrong.”

“I’m not.” She pushed away from the counter. “Surely you can see that this relationship has no future. There’s no point in continuing on if—”

He closed the distance between them in a few quick steps. One additional step had her hips trapped against the countertop and her body pressed to his. He lowered his mouth to hers. She tasted of tangy biscuits and smoky coffee. He shouldn’t have wanted her again already, not after the night they’d had. Yet he did. The mere sight of her in his sweatshirt had made him hard and the taste of her on his lips made him strain against his jeans.

He felt her resistance melt under his touch. Felt her protests die before they even formed in her mind. Her hands fluttered to his shoulders and her fingers pressed needfully into his skin. Her hips bumped against his. He could have her again. Here in the kitchen, up against the counter. He could strip her naked and make love to her right now.

As much as he wanted to do just that, he forced himself to pull back. When her eyes fluttered open, he met her gaze steadily.

“
This
is reason enough to continue.”

With deliberate care, she extracted herself from his
embrace. “It’s just too complicated. We’d never make it work. There are too many obstacles between us.”

“Right now, the only obstacle I see between us is my old Stanford sweatshirt and I can have that off of you in about three seconds.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” she chided, as if unsure whether to be annoyed with him or charmed by his tactics to get her into bed.

“I’m not being obtuse,” he said slowly. “I just don’t see any reason not to take you back to bed and keep you there.”

“Okay, we live in different towns for starters.”

“Kitty and Ford have houses in Palo Alto and New York City. They make it work. We’re a twenty-five-minute flight away from each other. That’s barely a commute.”

“Okay, then there’s your family.”

He set his jaw at a stubborn angle. “What about them?”

“They hate me and think I’m trash. For starters.”

“Well, I’m not so fond of them, either.”

“Then
my
family.”

“What?” He held up his palms in a gesture of confusion. “Now your sister doesn’t like me?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” She retreated around the island in the center of the kitchen. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Look, I’m not the one being an idiot.” He planted his hands on the counter and leaned toward her. There it was again. This implication that there was some big obstacle between them that they couldn’t work around. “There may be things between us, but you’re making them all sound worse than they are. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Unless you’re dying of cancer and haven’t told me,
I don’t think there’s anything we can’t eventually work out. I think this is just you trying to run away again.”

“What if I am?” She asked the question, half belligerently, half defensively.

He studied her for a moment before a slow smile crept across his face. “Then I’m going to have to chase you.”

Claire just looked at Matt, wanting to roll her eyes at his arrogance. “I don’t think you were half this annoying when we dated in college.”

“Of course not. I was too in love with you.”

“Were you?” she demanded. He’d backed her into a corner and she resented it. “
Were
you in love with me?”