One Winter's Night. Lori Borrill
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quick to walk away.
“That’s impossible,” she said.
He took a sip of his drink and spoke over the glass. “On the contrary, I’ve got a hotel room downtown. Unless you’d be more comfortable at your place—though that would make it hard for you to pull another great escape again.”
“There will be no repeat,” she insisted under her breath.
“Why not? According to Stryker you’re not married.”
She gasped. “You asked Mr. Stryker if I was married?”
“I needed to know if I had a fighting chance. You still owe me an explanation for cutting out on me, by the way. I get that you’re upset by me showing up like this tonight, but if you’d left me something more than ‘thanks for the good time,’ I might have just picked up the phone and called.”
Finally, those flames in her eyes gave way to something a little more promising. It looked a lot like guilt, something he wasn’t above exploiting if it got him the girl.
“You’re right,” she said. “I owe you an apology for that.”
“I’ve got a number of ways you can repay me.”
“Stop!” Her mouth quirked as though she were forcing back a grin, and it was then he knew he had her. He’d expected he might receive a brisk chill showing up the way he had tonight. He’d feared he would hit solid ice along with the harsh reality that the special spark that had ignited between them had been entirely one-sided. But despite her attempt at affront, it was obvious the woman was pleased to see him, leaving him relieved and more determined than ever to see where this might go.
He bent in and whispered close to her ear. “That’s not what you were saying Monday night.”
MONICA TRIED TO STAND firm, holding on to her anger for support, but darn if Kit wasn’t getting to her using that sexy drawl and sparkling smile to chip away at her resolve. He’d slipped under her usual defenses with ease back at the airport, charming her out of her clothes before she could ask “your room or mine?” And now, with a hundred reasons to keep him at arm’s length, she was once again biting back flutters and wondering if maybe she could indulge just one more time.
“I can’t believe you discussed my personal life with my employer,” she said, working hard to remind herself why this man was a walking hazard.
How could she ever maintain Mr. Stryker’s respect if her love life became public knowledge—with a client, no less!
Stryker & Associates was a reputable and desirable firm to work for, but it was entirely old-school. Monica was the first woman to be appointed to the board of directors and still the only one holding a chair. She’d shattered a glass ceiling most considered impenetrable, and she’d done it by being better than the rest and remaining staunchly professional on the job. The female junior executives here looked up to her as inspiration for what they could achieve. She’d accomplished what others hadn’t, but along with that accomplishment went a responsibility she couldn’t take lightly.
And cavorting with a long-time client topped the list of dim-witted behavior.
“I only casually mentioned to John that I thought you were pretty and asked if you were spoken for,” Kit explained. “How wonderful you feel naked is my business alone.”
She felt an ulcer forming in her stomach. The man was so furiously composed, so absent of propriety, that it made her want to spit nails. Yet quite pathetically, it was that same dry sense of humor and boyish disregard for protocol that made him so ridiculously attractive.
As much as she hated to admit it, she’d liked that he was upbeat, reckless and fun—pretty much everything she wasn’t. And just like she had Monday night in the lounge, she was having trouble keeping her distance. Even now, with her fingers itching to strangle him senseless, she was alternately pleased to see him. Like some helpless romantic, she was actually thrilled that he’d come chasing after her, even though she hadn’t liked his methods.
“Relax,” he assured her. “John has no idea we’ve even met. In fact, if you’d like I’ll tell him I made a pass and you struck me down like lightning.” He rubbed his chin. “Though that means we can’t invite him to the wedding.”
She let out an exasperated breath, not just from his inability to take this seriously but by the fact that his silly jokes actually charmed her. He was definitely not the type of man she ever thought she’d fall for—not that she was admitting such a notion now. Only that if she was to get serious about someone, she’d always assumed it would be with someone more…serious.
Despite it all, she couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering along the lines of that strong stubbled jaw, over those talented lips, down that broad, muscled chest and beyond, gathering memories of their blissful night every step of the way. He’d been good. Really good. And now he was back, all sexy and confident and asking to do it again. How did she stand a chance against that?
“Dance with me,” he muttered through a gaze just as steamy as her thoughts.
Only then did she hear the music from the stage—“Blue Christmas,” a slow smoky version meant for snuggling close. She opened her mouth and tried to say no but her lips wouldn’t form the words. Her body was too busy screaming yes. And in the wake of her indecision, he took her hand and led her to the dance floor.
He held her gently at her waist, heat resonating from his palms and tingling down to her toes. He kept at a respectable distance, giving the appearance of a polite dance among associates to the common bystander. But there was nothing polite about the hunger in his gaze or the way it made her feel. That was Grade A carnal and primal, and as they rocked to the music, a giddy dizziness came over her.
“Spend the night with me,” he uttered quietly. “Come with me tonight and let me wake up with you in the morning.”
Immediately, desire waged war with her senses. This was wrong in so many ways. The man was a client, and though there was no corporate policy against dating clients, it broke every personal rule she had.
“I’ve got a number of things we didn’t get to Monday night.” Then he bent close and whispered a sampling, spreading heat through her veins.
Stop it, Monica, she insisted through the fog. You’ve got a thousand reasons why going home with Kit Baldwin would be a horrible idea. Though off the top of her head, she couldn’t recall a single one. His woodsy aftershave kept flooding her senses with the memory of his body in hers, how deliciously wonderful he’d felt and how much she’d ached to have him again. She’d been so easily seduced by his rugged good looks and fun, casual style. It was as if he’d found a switch he could turn on with a flick of his finger. She’d thought she was a stronger woman, presumed she’d end up the one in control of her relationships, yet here she was a second time, entranced by his simple touch and helpless against his wicked offerings.
From the corner of her eye she spotted John Stryker stepping back into the room, and his attention on her and Kit should have been a sign that she needed to gather her senses and walk away. But with Kit’s gorgeous brown eyes pointed in her direction—and promising undiluted pleasure—her good intentions crumbled under the weight of lust and greed.
“Okay,” she heard herself utter. “Let’s get out of here.”
3
“WHERE’S YOUR BEDROOM?”
Kit stepped through the entry and into the living room of Monica’s high-rise apartment and scanned the layout as he went. The furnishings were exactly as he’d expected—sleek, orderly, with touches of Asia and Europe that looked authentic but not decorative. Oversize windows offered a view of the Chicago skyline that would be nice to relax to someday, but right now he had a more urgent need—namely getting naked with a stunning brunette as quickly as possible.
“You wouldn’t care for a drink first? ‘My, what a fine night this is? Nice place you’ve got