Devil in a Dark Blue Suit. Robyn Grady
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Eden draped in a thick oversized courtesy robe, a white towel turbaned on her head, Leaning-Tower-of-Pisa style. What he could see of her bare legs revealed tanned silky-smooth skin. Each perfect toenail was painted a provocative red. Her heart-shaped face was scrubbed clean of make-up and as his gaze licked her lips—pink and full—he swore he tasted the raw honey he’d sampled earlier in the rain.
Wild and wickedly sweet.
Bare feet sinking into the plush white carpet, she presented her own laundry bag.
‘Here’s mine.’ She waited for his response, then slanted her head, catching the toppling turban. ‘Devlin, are you going to get the door?’
He couldn’t tear his gaze from her mouth. And more than the mere sight of her sparked his imagination. The way she smelled didn’t help one bit—fresh…natural.
Good enough to eat.
Devlin flexed his free hand and, suppressing a groan, swung open the door.
They needed to get their clothes back—fast.
A lanky bell-hop took both bags. ‘When do you want these back, sir?’
‘Yesterday,’ Devlin growled under an overload of frustration, ‘and hurry up.’
The boy’s eyes popped. ‘I’m, er, not sure that…’
‘He means as soon as humanly possible,’ Eden explained amenably.
The boy’s mouth twitched on a nervous smile. ‘Within the hour, okay, ma’am?’
She reached to close the door. ‘That’ll be fine.’
Alone again, they eyed each other as white-hot energy buzzed and skipped between them. Compressing her lips into a determined line, Eden wrapped the bulky robe more firmly over her breasts. As if that weren’t enough, she yanked on her robe’s sash.
‘Pull that sash any tighter,’ he said, forcing himself to stroll away, ‘and you’ll cut off your circulation.’
She made an indignant sound. ‘At least I’m not parading around, showing off my bare chest.’
Folding his arms—accentuating that chest—he rotated back. ‘My body bothers you?’
Best he could remember her favourite game had been trailing the tip of her tongue down his centre, reaching the toe-curling point where she’d run a slow circle around his navel. Then she’d climb again, drawing a wet line around each of his nipples while raking her nails down his shoulders and sides. Driven out of his mind, he would finally roll and pin her beneath him. Then it was his turn to play.
Perhaps Eden had read his eyes—had guessed his smouldering thoughts—because her cheeks pinked up more and she shrank away.
‘You could stride around buck naked,’ she declared, pulling that sash again, ‘and it wouldn’t make a scrap of difference to me.’
He coughed a dry laugh. ‘You’re so certain.’
She strolled towards the enormous semi-circular lounge. ‘I won’t dignify that with a response.’
‘Then maybe we should put your assertion to the test.’
She swung back, fear and dreaded desire shining in her eyes. ‘I warned you, Devlin. Don’t try to rattle me.’
One side of his mouth curved up. ‘Rattle wasn’t the word that sprang to mind.’
After sauntering past her, he swallowed a self-admonishing groan and clamped his eyes shut.
She was doing it again. Getting under his skin. Making him want her without even trying. But, no matter how strong the tug, sex—and anything remotely connected to the act—was off the table. They’d failed once. Neither of them needed to repeat history. Diamond rings and Devlin Stone were a no-go zone. Unfortunately they were stuck here together, alone, until Nate and his girlfriend arrived.
Halfway back to the bedroom, Devlin’s gait faltered.
Important news…big news…
What if this announcement wasn’t marriage or a baby, but rather an engagement? There’d be wedding rehearsals, the ceremony, speeches and playing happy families. Which meant he and Eden would need to shelve their sparring gloves for an extended period, even if the truce was all show.
This short stint of forced proximity might only be the beginning.
Rubbing the ache at his temple, he angled back.
‘Eden, I have a proposition.’
She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, arms ravelled tightly before her, glaring out at Sydney’s spectacular cityscape, the sleek arched line of the Harbour Bridge to the left.
‘If it involves playing strip poker until the kids arrive,’ she said to the view, ‘count me out.’
‘Strip poker hadn’t crossed my mind.’ Although now she’d mentioned it…
He smothered the idea and cleared his throat. ‘I want to put something to you, something that’ll be in the best interests of your sister and my brother.’
Her wary gaze slid over. ‘Go on.’
‘Whatever’s coming, we need to be supportive.’
After a thoughtful moment, she sighed and dragged the towel turban from her head. ‘Agreed.’
‘We won’t seem too supportive if we can’t speak to each other without reaching for the closest poison-tipped spear.’
Her teeth worried her plump lower lip before she absently finger-combed her wet hair and draped the towel over a chair. ‘I guess not.’
‘Let’s at least try to get along for Sabrina and Nate’s sake. Surely it’s not that difficult. We’re mature adults.’
‘Well, I am.’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry. You’re right. This won’t do.’ She sent a brave smile. ‘I’m more than happy to put our differences aside and play nice for their sake.’
Exhaling, he put out his hand. ‘Deal?’
She stepped forward. ‘Deal.’
He took her hand. The sizzle, crackling up the cords of his arm, was the same high-voltage zap he’d enjoyed earlier when his mouth had claimed hers. When the charge reached his shoulder, crackle turned to burn, racing through his system and hitting him hard where his blood already blazed and beat.
Her eyes flashed, her breath audibly hitched. Their fingers were as good as fused, but if he didn’t let go soon they’d both be in big trouble.
If he didn’t know there’d be lasting repercussions—if he didn’t know he’d regret it—he’d make love to Eden in a heartbeat. But, even if by some miracle she agreed to succumb and satisfy this rabid sexual urge, becoming involved again wasn’t worth the drama.
Was it?
An unconscious primal impulse tightened his grip before he pried his fingers from hers. He needed to put them somewhere; his hands went to his pockets.
He shot a glance south.
Right. He wasn’t wearing trousers. More to the point, neither he nor Eden were wearing clothes. One towel, one robe, stood between him and a woman whose thrall, near or far, refused to cut him free.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he tossed a look around.
Man, he needed a drink.
Striding to the granite wet bar, he swung down a couple of wine glasses hanging from their overhead rack. ‘Want a drink?’
His throat felt drier than the Simpson.
She replied, ‘I really don’t think that’s such a good—’
His gaze shot to hers and she sucked back the