The Bridal Suite. Sandra Marton
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She hadn’t expected. That was just the point. McKenna had hauled her into his arms and sent her straight into shock. And that, plain and simple, was what he’d counted on.
Dana exploded into action, twisting free of McKenna’s grasp, balling her hand into a fist and whamming it into his middle. It was like pounding her knuckles against a rock but it was worth it. Oh, yes, it certainly was, just to see the look of astonishment spread across that too-handsome-for-its-own-good face.
“Hey,” he said, sounding indignant.
Dana’s blood pressure soared.
“Hey? Hey?” She jabbed her forefinger into his chest. It was steely, too, like his middle, so she jabbed again, a lot harder. “Is that all you have to say for yourself, you—you beetle-browed Neanderthal?”
“Now, wait just a—”
“How dare you, McKenna? How dare you kiss me?”
She paused for breath and Griffin opened his mouth, determined to get a word in while he could...and then he shut it again. She was waiting for an answer. She deserved an answer. Unfortunately, he didn’t have one.
Why had he kissed her? It was an excellent question. She’d stood there, glowering at him, drawing a line in the dust, so to speak, women on one side, men on the other. So what? You didn’t kiss a woman because she didn’t like men. You didn’t look at the sexual chip on her shoulder and see it as a dare.
On the other hand, that was damn well what it was. And facing down dares had been the story of his life, starting with the day he’d inherited his father’s fortune along with a note handed over by John McKenna’s embarrassed attorney, a note that had contained a line he’d never forget.
Here’s my fortune, Griffin, his father had written. I worked a lifetime to build it. How long will you take to waste it?
That challenge, even though it had been given by a man who’d never had time for his wife or son, had driven a knife into Griffin’s heart. But he’d risen to it, perhaps beyond it, and built an empire he was proud of, one that might even have impressed his father.
But what kind of dare was there in hauling an unwilling woman into your arms?
None. Absolutely none whatsoever. So, why had he done it?
Griffin frowned. Damned if he could come up with a reason. A lesson, he’d said, but what lesson? Not even he believed in all that old crap he’d spouted about a woman’s place being in the kitchen and in the bedroom.
Okay, so he didn’t like the kind of female who saw men as the enemy. Who eagerly awaited the day they could reproduce by cloning and let the opposite sex kill themselves off, trying to gather a harem.
That didn’t mean he belonged to the “knock ‘em in the head, toss ’em over your shoulder, drag ’em off to the cave” crowd, either—and yet, how else could you describe what he’d just done?
“Your silence is eloquent, McKenna.”
Griffin focused on Dana’s face, still flushed with anger.
“I take it to mean that even you are aware that the days are long gone when a man could get away with coming on to a woman as if they were both decked out in animal skins!”
Griffin’s frown deepened. She was right, that was the damnedest part. It was what had kept him from really kissing her, the sudden realization, once he’d had her in his arms, that there was absolutely no rational explanation for what he was doing, that the “Me man, you woman” thing had never held any appeal for him.
By God, much as he hated to admit it, he owed her an apology.
He cleared his throat.
“Miss Anderson—”
“Ms.,” she said, her tone frigid enough to freeze water. “Or are you memory-impaired, as well as hormonally imbalanced?”
A muscle ticked in Griffin’s jaw. “Ms. Anderson,” he said, telling himself to stay calm, “I suppose I—I mean, I guess, maybe—”
He couldn’t say it. Why should he apologize, when she was glowering at him as if he were something that had just crawled out from under a rock?
Because it’s the right thing to do, McKenna, that’s why.
Hell, he thought, and he thrust his hand into his hair, shoving the dark locks back from his forehead, and told himself to try again.
“Listen,” he said. “Listen, Ms. Anderson—”
“No,” Her eyes, those green, green eyes that could be so filled with heat one second and so icy cold the next, fixed on his. “No,” she repeated, punctuating each word with a poke to his sternum. “you listen, Mr. McKenna!”
Griffin caught hold of Dana’s wrist. “Ms. Anderson, if you’d just calm down—”
“Unhand me, Mr. McKenna!”
Unhand me? Griffin stifled a chuckle. It didn’t take a genius to know that laughter would only make her more furious, but hell, unhand me...
“I said...”
“I heard you,” He let go of her wrist, screwed his face into an expression he hoped would communicate apology, and started over. “Ms. Anderson, I’d like to tell you—”
“I’m not the least bit interested in anything you have to say, McKenna—but you might be interested in what I have to tell you,” She smiled, put her hands on her hips, and tilted back her head so that their eyes met. “In fact, I’m certain of it. It’s going to wipe that—that stupid grin right off your face!”
“Ms. Anderson. I can assure you, I am not grinning. I am not even smiling. If you’d just keep quiet for a minute and let me talk—”
Her index finger made another dent in the front of his shirt.
“Your lawyers will have to do the talking, because I, Mr. McKenna, am going to see to it that every woman in New York knows exactly what kind of man you are!”
Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “Stop poking at me.”
“Did you hear what I said? I’m going to sue the pants off you!”
His hand clamped down on hers. “Did you hear what I said, Anderson? I am not a human pincushion!”
“Let go of me!”
“When you calm down, I’ll let go.”
“I am calm. Completely calm. Calm enough to assure you that the Griffin McKenna who—who swashes his way through life is in deep trouble.”
“Swashes?” Griffin couldn’t help it. This time, he did laugh. “What in hell does that mean?”
“Go ahead. Laugh. Laugh all the way to court because you’ll never laugh again, after I get done suing you for sexual harassment.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I look as if I’m joking?”
Griffin considered. What she looked was furious. Indignant. Righteous...and out and out gorgeous. He could feel her pulse leaping just under the soft skin at her wrist. Her eyes were the color of the Atlantic off Cape Cod, just before a storm. Her cheeks were the tender color of new roses. And, somehow or other, her hair had come undone.
Somehow or other? His body tightened. Why was he being so modest? He knew how her hair had come undone. He had done it, plunging his hands into it when he’d kissed her.
But he hadn’t kissed her. Not really. The thought had been there, even the intention, but before he’d had time to get started, the knowledge of exactly what he was doing had broken through his anger and he’d clamped down on the kiss so that it had been nothing more than a touch of his mouth against hers.
If he’d