P.S. I'm Pregnant: Hot-Shot Tycoon, Indecent Proposal. Heidi Rice
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her way.
All the stresses and strains of the last few days, the torments of the night, lifted as he bounded up the wide sweeping staircase to his bedroom suite. It felt good to be alive and back to his usual self. Anticipation lightened his steps, making him feel like a kid let loose from school on the first day of summer.
An hour later, Connor had indulged in a scalding hot shower, pulled on his favourite worn jeans and Boston Celtics T-shirt and stuffed down the last two brownies and a cup of steaming black coffee.
He peeked into the spare room and frowned. Angel Face hadn’t moved. He padded into the room and squatted in front of her. Thick lashes rested on her pale cheeks and her breath scythed out in the gentlest of snores.
He caught a curl of hair that had fallen over her face, breathed in the spicy scent and then tucked it behind her ear. He skimmed his thumb over her cheek, felt the soft downy skin as smooth as a child’s and fought the urge to kiss her awake. Still she didn’t budge.
He cocked his head. Damn, but that position had to be uncomfortable, she’d have a crick in her neck when she came round and probably wouldn’t thank him for it. She’d be better off sleeping in his bed. The sheets were fresh and she could lie down flat. It was the least he could do after all she’d done for him.
Never a man to second guess himself, Connor threaded one hand under her bum and the other beneath her shoulders and hefted her into his arms. She murmured something, then cuddled into his chest, her flyaway hair tickling the underside of his chin. Her scent drifted up and he breathed it in. She smelled delicious. So delicious he had a hard time controlling the rush of blood to his groin as he walked from the room.
She was surprisingly light, even in his weakened state it took him less than a minute to carry her up to his bedroom. As he placed her gently in the middle of the deluxe king-size bed it struck him how tiny she was. Probably no more than five feet two or three. Funny he hadn’t noticed that the night before—no doubt the indignant scowl on her face had made her seem taller. He grinned again, his hands braced on his hips. He certainly hadn’t managed to intimidate her much—and he’d been in a bad enough mood to give her a very tough time.
She stirred, squinting in her sleep. He strolled to the large floor-to-ceiling windows, where sunlight flooded the room, to close the curtains.
‘Where am I?’
He turned at the soft murmur, to find his guest propped up on her elbows. She gazed at him out of those large mossy eyes, looking confused and wary—and good enough to eat.
‘You were out cold,’ he said as he finished closing the curtains. ‘I figured you’d be better in bed.’
Her eyes popped wide. ‘Mr Brody! What are you doing up?’
He sat on the edge of the bed, and smiled, touched by her concern. ‘I’m right as rain, thanks to you.’ He traced his thumb over the pulse in her throat, resting his fingers on her collarbone, and felt her shiver of response. ‘And seeing as you’ve seen me naked, Daisy Dean, I think you best be calling me Connor, don’t you?’
Colour flooded her cheeks, giving her pale skin a pretty pink glow. He chuckled, desire stirring again, but a lot more forcefully this time. No, she wasn’t immune to him at all.
What the hell? Why not let breakfast wait until after that thank-you kiss?
Daisy blinked, the last of the sleepy fog clearing from her brain. Goodness, those eyes, that face were even more devastating spotlighted by the shaft of daylight beaming through the curtains.
And his comment had brought back dangerous memories: of how delicious he’d looked naked—and just how thoroughly she’d assessed all his assets.
She pulled back, sat up. Did he know about that? Maybe he hadn’t been as delirious as she’d thought.
‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better,’ she said. She breathed in the scent of freshly washed male and was hit by another alarming jolt of memory. ‘Sorry to pass out like that but it was a long night.’
‘It was,’ he said, the confidential curve of his lips doing very strange things to Daisy’s heart rate.
‘Right, well…’ she edged back ‘… I should shoot off. You obviously don’t need me here any more and I—’
He leaned over and grasped her upper arm, halting her retreat in mid-scramble.
‘You’ll not be running off,’ he said, ‘before I’ve a chance to thank you.’ The mesmerising blue gaze dipped to her lips as the Irish in his voice became more pronounced. ‘Properly.’
Heat flooded between her thighs. But instead of saying the polite denial her mind was screaming at him—something else entirely popped out of her mouth. ‘How do you intend to do that?’
His eyes flared and he cradled her cheeks in his palms. His hands felt rough but unbearably erotic as he threaded his fingers through her hair, pushed the heavy mass back from her face. ‘How about we start here?’ he murmured, still smiling that devastating smile, his breath feathering her cheeks.
Then he slanted his lips across hers. The warm, wet heat was so shocking, and so unexpected, Daisy gasped. His tongue probed, firm and possessive, and her mind disengaged completely as the reckless thrill, the spike of adrenaline shimmered through her bloodstream.
He tasted of coffee and chocolate and danger. Forgetting everything but the feel of his lips on hers, Daisy sank shaking fingers into the silky black curls at his nape and drew him in as a drowning woman draws breath.
He didn’t need any more encouragement. The kiss went from coaxing to demanding as he hauled her against him, his palm sweeping down her back. The weight of his long, strong body pressed her into the mattress as he pushed her down. She gave a staggered moan. This was madness, supreme folly and she couldn’t summon the will to care.
As his lips stoked her into a frenzy she heard the hiss of her zipper. He reared back, breaking the kiss. Their eyes locked, his stormy with passion, the gleam of desire so intense she felt as if she’d been branded.
‘You’re beautiful, Daisy Dean,’ he said, his thumbs stroking her nipples through the fabric as his eyes met hers. ‘I want you naked.’ The gruff statement was both question and demand.
She drew in ragged breaths, her arousal painful, as he tugged down the bodice of her dress, unsnapped the hook of her bra and bared her breasts.
She should have been shocked; she should have pushed him away. This was all wrong and she knew it. She’d been telling herself all night, she didn’t even like this man—that he was not her kind of guy. But the time spent tending him, caressing fever-drenched flesh, hearing the broken cries of his nightmares, had formed a strong bond of intimacy that she couldn’t seem to shake.
She’d looked into his soul last night, was looking into it now. They’d connected on some primal level and this was the only way to break the spell.
She wanted him naked too. She wanted him inside her.
His legs straddled hers and she looked down to see the ridge of his erection pressed against faded denim. Her fate was sealed as all her common sense dissolved to leave nothing but raw need clawing at her gut.
She shifted, but couldn’t budge, pinned to the bed under him.
‘You’ll have to get off me if you want me naked,’ she said.
‘Good point.’ His grin dazzled her. ‘I’ll race you,’ he said, bounding off the bed.
She lurched into a sitting position, and watched mesmerised as he whipped his T-shirt over his head and his six-pack rippled. She looked away, determined not to be distracted from the task at hand by the muscular chest she’d spent most of the night memorising by touch. Anticipation surged through her. She was going to win this race.
She grappled with her shoelaces, cursing her choice of footwear. If only she’d stuck with the sandals. Finally she freed her feet, toed off the