Avril Tremayne – Getting Naughty (страница 7)

“What? Yes. No. I mean—What? I liked it, okay? I do like it.”

“So you like me?”

“I, er... What?”

“You say the rattle is very me, and you like it, which has to mean you like me. Don’t look so freaked out! It’s not a crime to like me. Lots of people do.”

“Yes, all right, I like you. Now can we move on?”

“Okay, okay!” she said. “Sorry to discompose you.”

“I’m not discomposed.”

Except that he was, she could tell.

“I like you, too,” she said, just to push it.

“Frankie, for the love of—”

“Fine, fine, keep your shirt on...or not. Sorry! Okay, I’ll get on with it. The thing is, the fact the rattle is vintage reminded Matt he still had the ring, which is art deco, of course, and we—we did a deal and...” She stopped there, reaching for words. “Hmm. This is harder than I thought it’d be.”

He multitasked by giving her a what-the-fuck? look while shaking his head and throwing his hands in the air, and she had to fight hard to resist raising her hand to her hot cheek again. Blushing was so obvious—no wonder she never did it! But she had to continue, blush or not, because she could almost see her window of opportunity closing and she knew once it closed it wasn’t going to open again. It was now or never.

“In for a penny, right?” she said, and scraped her chair back from the table as though the extra foot she’d put between them would help her breathe. “The ring... I told you, I didn’t want it.”

He looked pointedly at her finger.

“Yes, I know, I’ve ended up with it anyway,” she said, and removed the ring, put it back in the pouch and tugged the zipper closed. “But what if I were to tell you the only reason I let Matt send it was because he promised me you’d bring it?”

“I’d say he and Romy could have told me over scones and tea anytime this past week instead of making me think there was some dark betrayal going on with all the cloak-and-dagger crap he went through at the airport.”

“You’re really not getting it, are you?” She covered her face with her hands. “Am I not making it obvious or does he just not want to know?” she said into them.

“If I’m the ‘he’ you’re talking about,” Teague said dryly, “I can assure you ‘he’ would love to know what’s going on!”

She took in a deep breath, then removed her hands. “A dark betrayal—that’s exactly what was going on. Nothing to do with him and me, nothing to do with you and Romy. To do with you and me.”

“Yes, with me as your unwitting fiancé, I got that.”

“Not that.” She licked her lips. She’d always prided herself on her straightforwardness but God, this was difficult. “The thing is, I’ve thought about you... I mean, you’re so... It’s just that—” She broke off with an inarticulate exclamation of disgust. “Okay, I’m just going to say it.”

“Well, thank God for that!”

“It wasn’t the ring Matt was sending me. He was sending me...you.”

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

And then he frowned like he really did not get it!

“Teague!” she cried. “Seriously!”

He looked behind him, as though he thought she must be talking to someone else even though she’d just addressed him by his damn name.

“Teague!” Trying again. “I’m talking about you having a fling while you’re here.”

“I don’t have flings.”

“Oh, I know that, Teague! I tried hard enough to get you to have a fling with me the whole time I was in DC! But now... Well, now you’re here, and I never thought you would be, so I’m making one more attempt. And you can say no, but I hope you don’t, because I think I can help you not be miserable, or at least give you a respite from it while—while you’re here. In Sydney. So. That’s all.”

Silence. Stillness.

A rush of heartbeats later, with her words hanging in the air, he shook his head. “No,” he said.

“Well!” She blushed again, brought both hands up to her face. “This is embarrassing.”

“No, I mean—” He made a sound—like a cross between a sigh and a huff. “You said something about meeting your friends, so I thought you must mean I should have fling with one of... But—” Slight head shake. “Do you mean a fling with you? No. You can’t mean that.”

“That’s funny, Teague, because I’m pretty sure what I’m doing right at this moment, sitting here at some godawful hour of the morning when I’m far from at my best, is offering myself to you straight up, since you’ve never been able to take a fucking hint.”

He looked over his shoulder again. God, did he really have no idea how insanely hot he was? He was frowning as he brought his eyes back to her. “But... I don’t... Huh?”

“I see I need to spell it out, so here goes—I want you, Teague Ingram Spencer Hamilton. I want every perfect inch of you, and I have since the moment I saw you. Which would make you the man Kyle was jealous of and therefore the perfect fake fiancé. But I can see we need to take baby steps here, so I propose that I come over there and kiss you. If you like that, we can talk about going further. If you don’t...? Well, I guess we’re no worse off, are we, since it’s just a kiss between consenting adults?”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” she asked, cautious now, because that seemed way too easy a capitulation after the agony she’d just been through.

“Why not, right?” he said, and bit at his top lip. “That’s the catchphrase? Why not?”

Why not? Not exactly enthusiastic consent, but her somersaulting heart urged her to go for it anyway, so she was already bracing to get up out of the chair... But, no. No, dammit. Because it was him, she needed it spelled out. “You mean I can kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the whiskey talking?”

He shook his head. “Yes,” he said.

“Oh.”

He nodded then. “I mean no.”

“Er...”

“I mean it’s not the whiskey. I mean yes, I want you to kiss me.”

Done. Frankie got to her feet, no more dancing around, no more fencing. She was going to kiss him until his toes curled and his hair caught on fire. And if it came to nothing, she’d be glad she’d been given the chance to know what it was like to be with a man like him, a man who did nothing without care and thought and respect and decency, even if it only lasted for a kiss.

Slowly, she came around to stand beside him, every move cautious, like she was stalking skittish prey. “So...” she said, gesturing to his lap. “May I?”

He nodded, opening his arms to unfetter the access, and she lowered herself carefully onto his lap. His arms closed then, coming around her. She drew a shaky breath because it felt so good to be held by him. She looked into his eyes and lost herself for a moment in the bright, clear blue of them. A blue so pure she could almost believe he belonged nowhere else, only here, under a cloudless Sydney sky.

How long did they stare at each other? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know she’d laid her palm against his cheek until she felt a twitch beneath it—just a tiny tic.

She lowered her eyes to his mouth and found that its perfection was marred by a small white scar at the outer right edge of his top lip. Scars. Everyone had them, but she, of all people, knew you sometimes had to look close, or deep, or even all the way through a person, to see them. He’d bitten at that mark, when he’d agreed to let her kiss him, and that already told her something: that being not quite perfect bothered him. And because of that, the almost undetectable scar made him more perfect to her, more perfect for her.

The rest of him was immaculate. Chiseled jaw, straight nose, symmetrical features. His hair was expertly cut, thick and neat, dark blond streaked with wheat. His eyebrows and lashes were a burnished deep gold. He was delicious summer to her—the beach colors of him, the heady promise of warmth and sun-touched skin and luminous light. So dazzlingly handsome, she was slow to become aware of other things about his body that had nothing to do with bright days, but everything of urgent nights. The leashed power in his arms, the rock-hard strength of his tensed thighs beneath her bottom, the implacable erection against her hip...

She’d never been more conscious of her near-nakedness—which was saying something since she danced in her underwear for an audience four nights a week—and the thought of him touching her skin made her more excited than she could ever remember being. She had to do this right. Had to. She didn’t care what it was that had wedged open a chink in his armor—rebound, jealousy, pique, a need to prove something or to be someone else—but she knew this moment was vital. “Ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” he breathed out, and she slowly, slowly brought her face close and rested her mouth on his. She closed her eyes, waiting through the first thrill, savoring the moment—not just the feel of his firm lips but the way his arms tightened around her. She tried to catalog all the sensations swirling inside her, wanting the memory to be embedded deep. The air still with the heavy warmth that foretold a slide from pleasantness to heat within the next few hours. The faint green scent of her plant border mingling with the tang of salt in the air and his understated vetiver aftershave—earthy, grassy, smoky. The occasional squawk of a seagull and faint whooshing of waves hitting the sand at nearby Bondi Beach. His heart, beating fast like hers. His cock, straining in his jeans, the presence of it getting her from damp to wet with astonishing ease.