The Tycoon's Desire. Anna DePalo
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“For two. I needed some ingredients.”
Her admission floored him. That was it? That was the important errand she’d told the police she’d had to run? He’d have been happy munching on cardboard if it had kept her inside!
The only good thing that had come out of the shooting was that the police would now be stationed outside the townhouse whenever Allison was home. They were taking the threats against her even more seriously.
Still, Allison’s admission brought home an unpleasant truth: they’d both gotten more focused on exploring the new-found physical chemistry between them than on keeping her safe.
Instead of thinking of him as a bodyguard whose orders should be followed to a T, Allison had been thinking of him as a lover who wouldn’t necessarily get furious with her for disregarding what he’d said. She’d gone out and risked her life because she’d been planning to surprise him with a romantic dinner, for God’s sake!
For his part, as much as he’d tried to convince himself otherwise, sleeping with her had changed everything. He wasn’t the cool-headed expert he needed to be in dangerous situations. Instead, he was running on emotion because the thought of anything happening to her tied him up in knots.
Aloud, he said, “That’s it? You ran out to the store so you could cook dinner?” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Where was your judgment?”
She folded her arms. “Obviously, in the wrong place,” she said sarcastically, “if I was thinking of cooking dinner for you. Clearly I was wasting my time.”
Anger battled with relief inside him. “You’re still the rash, headstrong princess, aren’t you? When are you going to learn to think before you act?”
“Well, I’m thinking now,” she said coldly, dropping her arms. “And what I’m thinking is that taking our relationship to a new level was a mistake.” She flashed him a look of disdain. “I should have known.”
She should have known? Heck, he should have known. He should have known better than to get involved with her.
He and Allison came from different worlds and he was a fool to have forgotten that for even a minute. She was the sheltered daughter of a wealthy family and he’d always be the guy who climbed out of rough-and-tumble, blue-collar South Boston.
Even after Harvard, even after more than ten years building a multimillion-dollar business, he was still rough around the edges. His South Boston accent trickled in when he wasn’t careful. And, frankly, he didn’t blend with the country-club set and never would.
Still, the fact that she’d brought up their different backgrounds in an argument riled him. “You can try chalking me up as a mistake,” he said silkily, “but we’re dynamite in bed together.”
“Go to—”
“I’m betting,” he said, cutting her off, “that the pretty boys over at the country club haven’t done nearly as good a job of satisfying you, have they, petunia? Otherwise you wouldn’t still be looking for a roll in the sack with a guy who’s seen the seedier side of life.”
Her face had gone pale with anger. “That’s right, Rafferty, and I’m glad you realized it, because that’s all you were. A nice little frolic,” she said, her voice haughty with disdain, “but certainly not someone I’d contemplate having a real relationship with.”
He grabbed her arm as she stalked by him, whirling her to face him, but she shrugged off his hand.
“Give it up!” she said, her eyes flashing.
Ignoring her request, he followed her down the corridor toward the back of the house. They weren’t done, not by a long shot. That she’d even try to dismiss him as nothing more than a quick fling had him seething.
Entering the kitchen, she went over to the sink.
“Dammit, we’re not done.”
“Oh, we’re done all right,” she said without turning around, starting to rinse a glass. “Done, over, finished.”
He laughed derisively. “If you believe that, petunia, then leprechauns live at the end of the rainbow.”
“What I believe, Rafferty,” she said, turning around, “is that you need to cool off!”
A spray of cold water hit him square in the face before he could react. “What the—!” Raising his arms to shield his face, he stalked toward her.
They wrestled with the hose from the sink, water dousing them both, until he was able to yank the nozzle out of her hand.
He was about to let her know exactly what he thought but then his gaze dropped a notch, connecting with the front of her white shirt, which was plastered to her, her nipples clearly visible through the clingy fabric of her wet bra and shirt.
His blood heated.
She raised her arms to shield herself.
“Don’t,” he muttered.
She went still. “Damn you, Rafferty,” she whispered. “I don’t want this.”
He raised his gaze, meeting her eyes. “Whether we want it or not seems almost beside the point,” he said in a bemused voice. “It’s there between us and always has been.”
She tossed her head, wet strands of hair sending droplets onto them both. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Liar,” he chided softly, moving before her.
They were practically toe-to-toe now. He let his eyes drop down to her mouth, which parted on a soft breath.
“That’s right, darling,” he taunted. “Let me see how you feel.”
Her eyes sparked fire. “Go to—”
His head swooped down then and he swallowed the end of her sentence in a kiss that was searing and desperate—as searing and desperate and hot as his need for her.
He was still running on the remnants of the adrenaline that had started earlier in the parking lot, except that now the reality of their near brush with death, mixed with relief, was channeling that energy into a need for sexual release. Even understanding what was provoking him, however, was not enough for his intellect to overcome his baser instincts.
She moaned in his arms, meeting him kiss for desperate kiss, her hands tangling in his hair, anchoring him.
He lifted her up onto the kitchen counter, sand-wiching himself between her legs as her skirt rode high on her thighs.
The need to affirm life, to stamp her as his, was overwhelming.
Hot mouth met hot mouth in desperate, soul-stirring kisses. He hungered to be inside her, to give vent to his frustration by seeking the release he knew awaited him there.
He lifted his head and yanked her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt, popping the buttons on the front of the garment in his haste to rid her of it.
When he’d peeled the shirt off of her, he bent his head to close his mouth over the peak of one breast through the fabric of her bra.
She made a sound that came out as half laugh, half gasp. “Connor!”
He shifted his mouth to her other breast, his hand at her back to urge her forward toward his mouth.
He felt her fingers threading through his hair, her breath coming rapidly. “Please,” she gasped.
Her need inflamed him.
Raising his head, he let her tug him back to her as she pulled at the bottom of his shirt to loosen it from his jeans.
Their movements were jerky and desperate as they both attempted to rid him of his wet shirt.
As the shirt dropped to the floor, he realized they weren’t going to be able to wait much longer. “Hang on,” he said roughly, unsnapping his jeans