His Not-So-Blushing Bride. Fiona Brand
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ripple that when his forefinger tipped up her chin, she almost squealed in surprise. His thumb brushed her lips, catching on the lower one, and her breath stuttered when he tilted his head toward hers.
“Darlin’,” he said, halting way too close. His whiskey-smooth voice flowed over her. “If you find our union as pleasurable as I intend, I’ll consider that a success. Dinner will be ready in forty-five minutes.”
A hot flush stole over her cheeks and flooded the places he’d touched. He went back to cooking.
As she watched him chop and sauté and whatever, she had to instruct her stomach to unknot. He’d been messing around, like always. That’s all. For Lucas, flirting was a reflex so ingrained he probably didn’t realize he was doing it, especially when directing it at his fake wife in whom he had no real interest.
She bristled over his insincerity until Fergie squawked. A fitting distraction from obsessing about the feel of Lucas’s thumb on her mouth. She retrieved her laptop from the bedroom and researched what parrots ate while Lucas finished preparing the people food.
“The guy at the pet store said to feed her papaya. They like fruit,” Lucas said and refilled her wineglass. “There’s one in the refrigerator if you want to cut it up.”
She sighed. He’d even bought a papaya. Did the man ever sleep? “Thanks, I will.”
Silence fell as she chopped alongside her husband, and it wasn’t so bad. She shouldn’t be hard on him because he dripped sexiness and made her ache when he looked at her, as if he knew the taste of her and it was delicious. Might as well be ticked over his blue eyes.
The simple celebratory dinner turned into a lavish poolside spread. Lucas led her outside, where a covered flagstone patio edged the elegant infinity pool and palm trees rustled overhead in the slight breeze. Dust coated the closed grill in the top-of-the-line outdoor kitchen, but the landscaping appeared freshly maintained, absent of weeds and overgrown limbs.
Lucas set the iron bistro table with green Fiestaware and served as she took a seat.
“What kind of chicken is this?” she asked and popped a bite into her mouth. A mix of spices and a hint of lime burst onto her tongue.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, I made it up. The kitchen is one of the places where I let my creativity roll.”
Gee. She just bet she could guess the other place where he rolled out the creativity.
“Oh. I see.” She nodded sagely. “Part of your date-night repertoire. Do women take one bite and fall into a swoon?”
“I’ve never made it for anyone else.” His eyes glowed in the dusky light as he stared at her, daring her to draw significance from the statement.
When he stuck a forkful of couscous in his mouth and withdrew it, she pretended like she hadn’t been watching his lips.
This was frighteningly close to a conversation over a good bottle of wine, the idea he’d thrown out as the way to get to know each other. But they still weren’t dating. Perhaps he should be reminded. “Really? What do you normally make when you have a hot date you want to impress?”
He stopped eating. As he sat back in his chair, he cupped his wineglass and dangled it between two fingers, contemplating her with a reckless smile. “I’ve never cooked for anyone, either.”
She dropped her fork. Now he was being ridiculous. “What, exactly, am I supposed to take from that?”
“Well, you could deduce that I cooked you dinner because I wanted to.”
“Why? What’s with the parrot and dinner and this—” she waved at the gas torches flaming in a circle around the patio and pool “—romantic setting? Are you trying to get lucky or something?”
“Depends.” His half-lidded gaze crawled up inside her and speared her tummy. “How close am I?”
Why couldn’t he answer the question instead of talking in his endless, flirty Lucas-circles?
Oh, no.
His interest in her was real. As real as the hunger in his expression after kissing her. As real as the evidence of his arousal while dancing last night. Clues she’d dismissed as … what? She didn’t even know; she’d just ignored them all so she didn’t have to deal with them. Now she did.
Firmly, she said, “We can’t have that kind of relationship.” The kind where she gave him a chunk of her heart and he took it with him when he left. The kind where she’d surrender her hard-won self-reliance, which would happen over her dead body. “We have an agreement.”
“Agreements can be altered.” That dangling wineglass between his fingers raked up her nerves and back down again. He couldn’t even be serious about holding stemware.
“This one can’t. What if I got pregnant?”
Dios. With fingers trembling so hard she could scarcely grip the glass, she drained the remainder of her wine and scouted around for the bottle. There’d be no children in her future. Life was too uncertain to bring another generation into it.
“Well, now that’s just insulting. What about me suggests I might be so careless?”
“Arrogance is your preferred method of birth control?”
They were discussing sex. She and Lucas were talking about having sex. Sitting by the pool, eating dinner and talking about sex with her fake-in-name-only-going-away-soon husband.
“I’m not worried, darlin’. It’s never happened before.”
She stood so fast the backs of her knees screeched the chair backward until it tipped over. “Well, that’s a relief. Please stand back as I become putty in your hands.”
He followed her to his feet without fanfare, no more bothered than if they were discussing what color to paint the bathroom.
In one step, he was an inch away, and then he reached out and placed a fingertip on her temple. Lazily, he slid the fingertip down her face, traced the line of her throat and rested it at the base of her collarbone with a tap. “What’s going on in there? You’re not afraid of getting pregnant.”
“Stop touching me.” She cocked a brow and refused to move away from the inferno roiling between Lucas’s body and hers. He was the one who should back down, not her. Last night, she’d run from this confrontation and look where that had gotten her. “Nothing is going on other than the fact that I’m not attracted to you.”
Liar. The hot press of his fingertips against her skin set off an explosion way down low. But wanting someone and being willing to surrender to the feeling were poles apart.
“I don’t believe you,” he murmured.
He wasn’t backing down. His hands eased through her hair, and unmistakable heat edged into his eye.
“What, you think you’re going to prove something by kissing me?”
“Yep,” he said and dipped his head before she could protest.
For a sixteenth of a second, she considered all possible options, and then his lips covered hers and she went with dissolving into his arms. It was all she could do when Lucas kissed her, his mouth hot and the taste of his tongue sudden and shocking.
His fingers trailed sparklers through her hair and down her spine, molding her against the potent hardness of his body. Clicking them together like nesting spoons, foretelling how sweetly they would fit without clothes.
He angled his head and took her deeper, yanking a long, hard pull from her abdomen. A burst of need uncoiled from a hidden place inside to burn in all the right places. It was real, and it was good. He was good.
So good, she could feel her resistance melting away under the onslaught of his wicked mouth. But she couldn’t give in, and, Dios, it made her want to weep.
If