Julie Leto – Exposed (страница 7)

“Could you dim the lights? I had no idea I’d installed three-hundred-watt bulbs in my living room.”

Ariana grinned. Filthy-stinking-rich or not, Max was in bad shape and needed her help. They’d walked nearly three blocks to his house and, with each step, the playfulness he’d enticed her with on the cable car had begrudgingly faded away. Right now he was in no condition to tell her where the light switch was, never mind detailing how and where he was going to seduce her. Maybe things were working out for the best. She would dim the lights, make sure he was comfortable and get the heck out of Dodge before she made a huge mistake.

But first she had to find the light switch. She searched fruitlessly, soon realizing that when they’d first come in, Max hadn’t flipped any switches. He’d opened the door, they’d walked in and, snap, the lights had flared to life.

Oh, great. A house that was smarter than she was.

She backed up in the foyer and reluctantly laid her ratty leather backpack in the corner closest to the door and propped her hat on top, running her fingers through her windblown hair while she scanned the wall for a control panel that simply had to exist.

“Ariana? Are you still here?”

His voice was a mere whisper, but the sound still stopped her, warmed her—frightened the hell out of her. There was no mistaking the sound of hope mingling with the possibility of utter disappointment if she didn’t answer, if she’d abandoned him in his glittering marble palace.

She found the switches behind a thick drape and slid the controls until the recessed lights shone like subtle moonlight rather than like the outfield at Candlestick Park.

“I’m here. Is that better?”

He’d removed his arm from across his eyes, then slid his elbows along his sides and propped himself up. “Now I can’t see you.”

She remained in the foyer, her boots firmly planted.

“What’s to see?”

The only thing coming in clear to her was the fact that she couldn’t seduce Max Forrester. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. And she couldn’t let him seduce her. Could she? She must have lost her ever-lovin’ mind. She obviously didn’t belong here—with him—even temporarily. She was just a middle-class Greek chick trying to make a name for herself in the big city. He lived in a world she didn’t understand and, therefore, couldn’t control.

This was all a very big mistake.

“I said I’d get you home safe and sound. I should—”

“Don’t leave.”

For a man muddled by an unknown substance, he could issue a command with all the authority of a mogul, yet all the vulnerability of a man lost in a foreign land. She couldn’t leave him—not, at least, until she was certain he’d be okay.

Somewhere between leaving the restaurant and sprinting to catch the last cable car, the desire that had deserted her when she thought he was merely drunk had crept back under her skin. The mystery substance made him dizzy, yes, but it also loosened his tongue and his inhibitions. The way he teased her on the ride, touched her, innocently and yet with utter skill, fired her senses and fed her fantasies.

If she forgot about the million-dollar town house, the imported sculptures, the computer-controlled light switches and focused only on the man, the possibility of making love to him didn’t seem so impossible. Just…simple. Elemental. A fact of life in the wild, sexy city they called home.

Still, she held back, even while her mind said, This is it. Her chance of all chances to step onto the snowy carpet, shed her own jacket and make her fantasies come true. Heck, Max was already in a semireclined position. He’d already detailed several delightful means to “get to know each other better”. How hard could a seduction be at this point?

But even if he wasn’t drunk, he was, technically, “under the influence.” If and when she and Max explored their mutual attraction, she wanted no regrets—from either of them.

“You don’t know me, Max.”

His grin lit his face, contrasting against the shadows all around him. “I’d like to remedy that.”

His smile wavered at the same time as his balance. He slid his arms down, plopping back onto the cushions of the long couch and letting out a deep-throated groan. “Just my luck. I have the most beautiful woman in San Francisco standing in my doorway and I’m too dizzy to seduce her.”

She laughed at the wry turn in his voice—until his words actually sunk in. Those drugs sure were powerful. The most beautiful woman in San Francisco?

She crossed her arms over her chest. Doubt and hope clashed in a war that resulted in her usual sarcasm. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

He turned his head on the leather cushion. “Ariana, come closer. I’m in no condition to attack you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” she insisted, straightening her backbone, crossing her arms tighter and nearly stamping her foot on the tile. She wasn’t afraid of anything, or anyone. Except, perhaps, of herself…with Max.

He shook his head and chuckled. The sound, like warm molasses, sweetened her indignation into humor, despite her preference to remain offended and aloof. Safe.

“I’ve seen you toss men twice my size out of your bar when they’ve gotten obnoxious. I didn’t think you’d be afraid of me, particularly not when I’m seeing two of you.”

She tugged on her lower lip with her teeth and released her arms to her sides. Just as Charlie had told her, just as she suspected from her own observations and brief interactions, Max was a man she could trust. Trouble was, she didn’t trust herself.

She hadn’t factored in his natural charm and instinctive warmth when she flipped through the pages of that magazine and imagined Max making love to her in all those exotic locales in the city. What if, after a night of hot sex, she wanted more? What if sating this particular hunger only whet her appetite? Would she be able to walk away? Would she have the chance? The courage?

“Can you see the Golden Gate from here?” she asked, pointing at the bank of clear-glass windows in Max’s dining room facing the bay, delaying her decision if only a moment more.

Glancing over her shoulder at her backpack, she thought about the magazine. She hadn’t read the whole article, but she remembered one of the romantic settings was an incredibly posh hotel suite overlooking the bay. The view of the Golden Gate glittered to the northwest, the Bay Bridge gleamed somewhere farther southeast, and the lighthouse at Alcatraz flashed at the center. The couple made love against a wall of windows with an unhampered view of the city.

“The best view is from the third floor, my balcony. I would show you…”

She lifted her foot to step on the carpet, then sat instead and unzipped and removed her boots.

“You’re not in any condition to climb stairs. Maybe I should make you some coffee.” She lined up her shoes by the door. “Point me in the direction of the kitchen and I’ll brew a pot.”

“I think I’ve had enough of your libations,” he answered.

“I could just leave—” she teased.

He hoisted an arm in the air from where he lay stretched full length on the sofa and pointed to her right. “Through the archway and up the stairs. I’m not sure where the coffeemaker is.”

She stepped onto the carpet, sinking nearly an inch, the plush softness of the flooring cushioning her stockinged feet as she walked. “I know my way around a kitchen.”

“What about bedrooms?”

She stopped beneath the archway. Damn, but anything the man said sounded like a come-on, with that deep, raspy voice of his. She was suddenly glad they hadn’t exchanged more than a few dozen words over the past two years or she’d have ended up in his bed a long time ago.

Nevertheless, so long as he was asking about bedrooms, she might as well find out exactly what he had in mind. She stepped slowly to the edge of the couch. Leaning forward, she braced her hands on the armrest on either side of his bare feet.

“What do you want to know about bedrooms?”

A lock of her hair fell forward, brushing over his toes. His lips opened as if to answer, but no words came out.

“Max?”

“Sweats. I could use a pair of sweats.”

She nodded and smiled, then headed back toward the kitchen. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Again, the room lit up the moment she entered, and like the living room, the light gleamed off polished white surfaces. She searched first for the coffee and a pot to brew it in. Then she’d think about his bedroom.

His bedroom. Dangerous territory.

She had no idea if his request for sweatpants had been what he’d originally intended to ask for, but she didn’t doubt that he’d chosen a safer topic by requesting the change of clothes. He had no way of knowing that her knowledge of bedrooms was essentially limited to the art of sleeping in one. Her sexual experiences from her marriage—more specifically, the first few weeks of her marriage—seemed a lifetime ago rather than just a few years. She vaguely remembered the sex between her and her husband to be wild in the beginning, but even then she hadn’t had much of a reference from which to draw comparisons.

She’d married as a virgin, sheltered by a family and community who clung to strict codes of feminine conduct—codes she’d wanted to rebel against for a very long time, but hadn’t had the courage until her nineteenth birthday. She’d packed her bags and bought her plane ticket without telling a soul. Only after she was securely on her way to live with Uncle Stefano in San Francisco did she call her parents from her layover in Atlanta. She hadn’t wanted a big scene. She just wanted to experience life on her own, with her own rules.