Minute by Minute. Jo Leigh
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could she resist? He couldn’t even stay on the ground, he was so pleased. She walked right up to him, looked into eyes that were dark blue, not brown, and touched his cheek with her fingertips. “It’s hard to believe it’s real.”
“Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s still New Year’s Eve and we’re still drunk.”
“That would explain so much,” Meg said, leaning in. And then her lips met his. Softly. Learning. Slightly parted.
His breath snuck inside, and it was sweet and a little minty. She felt his hand slip to her waist, but there was no pressure, just contact.
She moved closer, parting her lips. He followed her lead, not forcing anything. Until she licked his bottom lip. Then he pulled her tight against him, from breast to thigh, and the kiss went from sweet to hot in one blazing second.
Meg froze. Just…froze.
Alex, to his credit, backed off immediately. Even more to his credit, he didn’t seem the least freaked that she’d freaked. He smiled, tilted his head to the right, but he only said, “Why don’t you get unpacked? Check out the room, and don’t forget to look at the guest services book. Remember,” he added pointedly, “anything you want, anytime you want it.”
“Thanks, Alex,” she said. She went to her big suitcase and hauled it up to the bed. “Where will you be?”
He gestured upstairs. “Figured I’d put on some trunks. Get ready for some fun on the beach. Come back down when you’re done.”
She watched him walk up the wooden staircase, her gaze moving down from his shoulders to his waist, to his long legs. As soon as he disappeared, she sat down with a whuff.
The kiss had gobsmacked her in a major way. A normal person would have been pleased. Would have wanted more. Would have shouted yippee from the roof. But no. Not her.
It hadn’t been that long, had it? She’d gone out just last…
Spring.
God, she was such an incredible loser. Instead of finding herself a nice, hunky guy to share her bed, what did she do? Slept with a three-legged Labrador retriever and a blind cat. Yeah. That was healthy.
The good news was she still had time to get her act together. Alex didn’t seem upset, or even that surprised, which worked in her favor. The bad news was, what the hell was her problem?
She stood and unzipped her suitcase, amused at how much she’d packed. She could have fit the necessary clothing in her overnight case. She wouldn’t be needing her jeans, or much of anything but her bathing suits and sundresses.
It made putting things away a lot easier. All her makeup, which she didn’t even think she’d use, was in one case. Her hairbrush and dryer, another. And then there was the large, economy box of condoms she’d picked up in a haze of optimism.
Time. That’s all she needed. Time to feel as if the man in the bungalow was the same man she liked so much. That she knew so well.
That knew her.
Holy crap, she’d told him so much about herself.
She felt her cheeks fill with heat. They hadn’t actually had cyber sex. Not really. But the man definitely had a starring role in a lot of her fantasies.
Which they’d discussed. In detail.
Not him, per se, but the fantasies? Oh, yeah.
She knew he liked things intense. That he preferred women who gave as good as they got. That he was a very oral kind of guy. And that he had a thing for white panties.
He knew that her tastes weren’t exactly vanilla.
She looked at the box of condoms. She should have wished for courage at that fountain.
ALEX SPLASHED MORE WATER on his face, then leaned on his arms while he dripped into the sink.
He was in trouble. The kind that reminded him of what it had been like to be seventeen. It had sucked. He’d had no control over his dick, he’d been tongue-tied and stupid, and he’d stuttered when he was around women. Make that any woman. Except his mother and his aunt Esther. Theoretically, he’d outgrown that stage of development.
He raised his gaze to the beveled mirror. He wasn’t a kid anymore, not by a long shot. He was a professional. Maybe that should be ex-professional, but still. He’d won prizes. So why was he feeling like…Like he was seventeen again?
He was pretty damn sure he hadn’t been a jerk with her. Yeah, he’d kissed her, but she started it.
Oh, yeah. Mature. That was him all over.
They had five days. Five days to talk, to let her feel comfortable with him, to get to know each other. But damn, he wanted her.
She knew things about him that he’d never told anyone. Not even Ellen. And he’d been in love with Ellen. At least, he used to think so.
Now, he wasn’t sure. About Ellen, about his work, about his whole goddamn life. What he was sure about was this. Bringing Meg here. Getting away from everything that screwed with both their heads.
And he’d do whatever it took to make sure that it went perfectly. Even if that meant he’d have to suffer.
He laughed at himself. Loudly. Suffer? Please. He was in paradise with a gorgeous woman who got his jokes. Even if they never…
Ah, bullshit. She wanted him. She just didn’t know it yet.
“What’s so funny?” she asked softly.
He turned, and there she was. He hadn’t even heard her come upstairs. She’d pulled her glorious mane back into a loose ponytail, which made her look, however improbably, more beautiful. She had this flimsy little scarf thing on that couldn’t hide the itsy-bitsy bikini underneath.
Seventeen was generous. He was all the way back at the first day of puberty. “What?”
“You were laughing. I heard you down the stairs.”
“Remembering an old joke,” he said, lame as that was.
“I’d like to hear it,” she persisted.
“You’re too young, and we need to go to the beach,” he said, not knowing what else to say.
“A moral imperative?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Then I suggest you get out of those jeans,” she teased.
Alex blinked. Then kicked the bathroom door shut.
MEG LOOKED AROUND the loft, searching for clues. She ran her hand down her thigh as she wandered to his bed. Actually, the bedside table. There was a book there, facedown, and she had to pick it up, see what he was reading. Up Country by Nelson DeMille. She liked DeMille, but she hadn’t known Alex did.
What she did know was his taste in music. Jazz. Obscure jazz, on vinyl, to be precise. It was how they’d met.
Next to the book was a portable CD player, and when she flipped it open, she smiled. Art Tatum. She had this exact LP, and they’d listened to it together, him in D.C., her in L.A., while they’d typed to each other.
Her father had been a collector. He’d loved the big bands. There were rare days, days when he was actually home, that she’d walk into the living room to find the music blaring on their ancient hi-fi, and her parents doing the Lindy Hop, with wide, bright smiles on their faces.
She’d first learned to dance by standing on her father’s shoes as he’d moved her around the room. Jazz had been her childhood soundtrack, and hearing certain songs, even now, brought her right back to the moments, large and small, of growing up with her slightly nutty folks.
After her father died, leaving her his practice, she’d gone back to that old love. She’d searched for others who shared the passion. That’s where she’d first run into