Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request) (54 page)

She could feel herself sliding. Alcohol had done nothing to diminish his attraction. That bad-boy charm combined with his lean, dark sexiness was enough to tempt a saint, let alone Cate Summerfield. It had been a long time since a desirable man had eaten her up with his eyes.

But there were questions she needed settled. Like where she was to sleep. She’d only seen the one bed, earlier. In the current mood it seemed doubtful he’d have organised anything for her. She needed to know what he had in mind.

The cello wound its poignant song to an end. In the sudden stillness she could hear her own nervy heartbeat.

‘Er … Tom. Where do you want me to sleep?’ Try as she might, there was no concealing the husky awareness in her voice.

He hesitated, the gleam in his eyes piercingly sensual. The silence deepened and grew electric.

Desire rustled in the breeze from the balcony, whispered in her hair, burned in the gaze flickering from her bare arms to her legs, her mouth, her throat and breasts. Her heart skittered
into double time. Was this the game she’d come to play? Tempting though it was, how wise would it be to get in deep with Tom Russell? He was no callow boy. Would she be able to manage a quick and easy exit?

He walked across to her and gripped her arms. The seriousness of his lean, strong face startled her. Sincerity rang like steel in his voice, harshened the lines from cheek to jaw, reminding her of the pitfalls of playing with fire.

‘Why did you come back? You know you could have ruined me.’ He searched her face and his voice deepened. ‘Are you really what you seem?’

His intensity trapped her breath and stirred her feminine being at the most primitive level. Her reasons for returning swam confusedly in her mind. She’d kept her part of the bargain. That was why she’d come back, wasn’t it?

‘You know why,’ she faltered. ‘I promised. And you said on the phone …’

‘What did I say?’ He cupped her face, brushed her mouth sexily with his lips. ‘Did I tell you I want you?’

He pushed her, unresisting, against the wall, holding her there while he trailed an exploratory finger from her cheek, down her throat to trace her collar bone. His hand slipped under the satin at her cleavage, his light touch sending shivers of pleasure through her as he traced the swell into her bra. He cupped her breast in his warm palm while her blood thundered in her ears.

Against the room’s muted glow his harsh outline was set in relief from cheekbone to sculpted jaw. Though the available light was low, she could see the flex of sinews in his strong neck, see his eyelids grow heavy with sensuality as he caressed her willing breasts with his smooth, lean fingers.

The power radiating from him dragged at her breathing. Heavy heat unfurled deep in her insides and swelled her nipples, igniting her erotic places with a fierce yearning ache.

He was beautiful, she thought, quivering as spears of flame
shot through her flesh wherever he touched. Beautiful and dangerous.

He slipped a hand under the hair at her nape. ‘That kiss today,’ he murmured, his voice dark and sultry. ‘I’m not sure it was the best we can do.’

She contemplated his mouth. ‘I knew I could have done better,’ she breathed, ‘but I didn’t want to take a slutty advantage of you.’

He brought his lips down on hers, and it was no tepid kiss. It was a searing demand, his lips confident and assured after the kisses earlier in the day. Her senses surged to the feel and scent and taste of him, familiar to her now. The added tincture of whisky escalated the element of risk, accelerated her excitement.

He tasted each of her lips with such thrilling sensual artistry, her bones turned to liquid and she had to cling to his wide shoulders to support herself. An instant before her brain dissolved in the mists of passion, the thought flashed through her mind … What if she couldn’t control this?

But, aroused, she gave herself up to the sizzling delights. Impressively, the whisky hadn’t dulled his skills. While he seduced her mouth with his lips and tongue with exquisite care, his urgent hands plundered her body with inspired ruthlessness. He made wicked forays under her dress to explore her hips and thighs and stroke her bottom, invoking delicious trails of flame, heightening her fever for more.

Wherever he touched her, fire raged. In her lips, in the tissues inside her mouth, in her tender, swollen breasts. It licked along her veins, and inflamed wild cravings between her legs.

He broke from her lips to deliver hot greedy kisses down her throat to her breasts. Painfully aroused, her nipples strained for his touch. As though in instinctive understanding, he sucked the yearning peaks one after the other through the fabrics of her dress and bra.

His touch was so subtle and erotic, it was like paraffin to
the flame. Desire blazed in her blood, arousing such a desperate hunger she felt a rush of moisture in her pants.

In a frenzy for deeper, more intimate contact, she writhed in his strong arms, exulting in the hard length of his erection prodding her belly, lusting to feel the hot rod stroking her where it counted. To dare him on she pushed up his shirt, exploring in the dark with avid hands his smooth, satin skin, the gorgeous contours of his pectorals and hard, flat abdominal muscles.

The strong rhythm of his heart beat against her ear, moving in its great invincible power, while at the same time so human and vulnerable. Somehow the thought of that intensified her passion for him. With thirsty lips she tasted his hot, salty skin and felt his chest hairs graze her cheek. Unbearably tantalised, knowing she was raising the stakes, she licked one of his nipples.

A satisfying shudder rippled through his big frame. Groaning her name, he sank to his knees, his arms around her hips, and pressed his mouth hungrily into her dress at the juncture of her thighs.

The shock sent a deep gasp of excitement through her, and she sagged, trembling, against the wall, barely able to support herself, while, through the thin layers of her clothing, he invaded the secrets of her mound with his sexy mouth.

It was thrilling, it was titillating, it felt rapturously good. She panted for the delicious pleasure to go on and on, to get deeper, closer, wilder, and when he lifted her dress over his head and licked seductively across the flimsy fabric of her pants, she hardly recognised the hoarse animal sound that came from her own throat. She leaned back against the wall, her legs parted for him, willing the forbidden ecstasy to continue, quivering when his cunning tongue tip strayed inside the fabric and flicked across her most intimate place.

She was interrupted from her swooning pleasure by a gradual and increasing awareness of hammering. At almost the same time, Tom Russell drew abruptly apart from her, causing her to overbalance and sprawl gracelessly on top of him.

She heard him yelp with pain, and curse. He shifted position to prevent her knee from crushing his most vulnerable asset and her elbow from piercing his neck. After a stunned second, she scrambled up, feeling herself go scarlet with embarrassment. He followed suit more slowly, groaning at first, then breaking into a laugh.

Hot and discomfited as she was, that laugh stung like fury. Did the man have a sensitive bone in his body?

It impinged on her foggy brain that the hammering was someone knocking at the front door. She made a panicked attempt to smooth her hair and dress and cool her face with her fingers, ignoring Tom as he turned away from her to make adjustments to his clothes.

It reminded her only too rawly of the aftermath of the fateful kiss at the yacht club. This time, though, her mortification was made worse by the awkward and painful discomfort of unresolved lust. And would he blame her, this time?

She felt him glance her way again and avoided his eyes.

‘That’ll be dinner,’ he said, his voice like a gravel pit. At least he’d stopped laughing. He stood for a few pregnant seconds pushing back his hair, then after some strained moments in which neither of them uttered a word, made for the door.

She heard the murmur of voices, and, casting about for a bolt hole, shrank through the nearest doorway and into the blessed shadows of his bedroom.

The shadows were short-lived. Tom must have finally noticed the gloom and flicked a switch, because lights snapped on all over the apartment. Standing just inside the open bedroom door, she was caught, petrified, in the spotlight as a crowd of kitchen staff passed by and all turned to stare at her.

On the one hand she should have been pleased. If a procession of chefs and waiters, the first wheeling a table set for two, countless others bearing stainless-steel chafing dishes, all supervised by a grandiose butler with a supercilious expression,
had
to enter a scene of unbridled lust, it was probably better if they didn’t find the place suspiciously dark.

On the other hand, a woman who had just been kissed to within an inch of her life naturally felt cautious about advertising the fact. Hoping the passing parade hadn’t had enough time to properly register her, she summoned the strength to push the door to, and tottered to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

At first she had to blink, dazzled by the light. A blaze of white and gold marble bounced from miles of faceted mirrors, until her eyes accustomed and she saw the mirrors had been cunningly placed to give never-ending reflections. She noted a shower cubicle large enough to host a reception, a deep luxurious spa bath with gold tap-fittings, and an elegant toilet and bidet in sparkling fluted porcelain, the like of which had never graced the boarding house. But it was her appearance she was most concerned about.

She looked a mess.

Her bodice was slightly askew, her hair ruined. Worse was her face. Her eyes looked languorous and overbright, her mouth as swollen as a Hollywood starlet’s. There were red blotches on her throat and chest, damning evidence of Tom’s enthusiasm.

How could she have participated in something so shocking?

She closed her eyes. Shocking but fantastic.

Just remembering the intensity of the onslaught threatened to melt her insides, and she had to breathe deeply until the storm passed.

She cast about for something she could use for repairs. Surprisingly, feminine toiletries had been placed on the wide vanity, including high quality shampoo and conditioner she would never have afforded for herself, fragrant gels and body washes, bath salts in lavender and honeysuckle, stored in pretty bottles.

She washed, then dried herself on one of several fluffy
white towels folded on a rack. Without the benefit of makeup, she had to resort to patting some talc onto her throat, and smoothed liberal quantities of moisturiser onto her mouth. She ran an experimental finger over her lips. There wasn’t much more she could do without some proper lipsalve. Satisfied, though, that she looked at least semi-human, she opened the door, hoping the kitchen crew would have left by now, and ventured back into Tom’s bedroom.

It was the first time she’d really had a chance to appreciate it. Its furnishings were sparse and somehow masculine, with pure lines and uncompromising edges. The polished floorboards were bare, apart from a glistening silken rug some fine oriental hand had woven with the Tree of Life. Nightingales, hummingbirds and peacocks fluttered through its gorgeous branches.

Heavy silk curtains half obscured the view. On another wall a small exquisite watercolour showed the harbour from almost the same vantage point over a hundred years earlier. She moved closer to peer at its lower right hand corner and saw it was a Streeton. And it was real. Of course it was.

And there was the bed. For a second she allowed herself to take in its full voluptuous extent, with its quilt turned down, the lamplight warming its pillows. The sexual prospects of that seductive bed swam before her eyes, and her insides warmed and coiled in a confused mingling of sensations.

It was then she noticed her overnight bag, reposing on a bench created for that purpose. Tom must have placed it there as soon as she’d arrived. She frowned, realising that that had been before they’d even kissed. With dismay it occurred to her that he’d just taken it for granted she would sleep with him. Certainly a woman expected invitations, but this—

Discomfort gnawed at her. It was one thing to be attracted to someone, even to engage in a little flirtation, quite another for that attraction to translate into sex. Nothing could have shown more clearly what he thought of her. What had she done to convince him of her easy compliance?

Although, it wasn’t as if she cared what he thought of her, was it?

Except … Something panged in her chest. It was no use telling herself she didn’t care what he thought. Ridiculous, but she did. And if she challenged him about it now, after engaging in that sizzling hot clinch, she’d have no credibility. The only thing left to her to retrieve her pride was to make sure he understood she wouldn’t sleep with him under any circumstances. There would be no more kissing, no more … Dismay at her wanton behaviour crept through her and she covered her cheeks with her hands.

Face it. She’d only known him a day. Could she have lost all touch with reality? She’d
known
he’d had too much to drink, the circumstances weren’t exactly romantic, only a few hours earlier he’d been treating her with dislike. He knew nothing whatsoever about her, or her life. He didn’t have the slightest interest in her as a person. She would have to … Damn, if she was to live with herself she’d have to deal with it. Straighten it out with him. Tell him plainly where she stood. Otherwise … well, perhaps she’d have to consider leaving.

Hopeful that the staff had gone, she opened the bedroom door a crack. Clattering sounds came from the kitchen, and savoury aromas that sent her weak at the knees. Her poor stomach rumbled. If she had to leave, surely she could wait until after dinner?

Steeling herself for public exposure, she drew a deep breath and walked out into the sitting room. Voices came from the kitchen, and she noticed that the balcony was now a blaze of light. A waiter was out there hovering over the table.

Tom materialised from the kitchen holding two glasses of champagne, and her stern resolutions fell, panting, to their knees. His smile was so darkly wicked and sinful, as if there was some bad conspiracy between them. And there was. Her weak, treacherous body knew it only too well. He pressed a
glass into her hand, appraising her with a veiled, solemn look. ‘Are you—all right?’