Believe in Me: A Rosewood Novel (34 page)

J
ORDAN DECIDED
on “Buff” for the wall. Not a big surprise. To choose another color would have been impossible when she kept thinking of Owen’s glistening muscles.

Noting down the color, and selecting for the curtains a Highland Court linen in a botanical print that would look lovely against the off-white, she moved on to the next room, careful to stay far from the master bedroom. Owen had come upstairs. As she flipped through her block of color chips, she really tried not to think about him stripping off his jeans and stepping under a hot shower.

He’d lowered the volume on the music so even if she hadn’t been hyperattuned to every squeak and creak in the house, it would have been difficult to miss the sound of his bedroom door opening or his steps coming down the hall to where she was working.

Everything inside Jordan tensed in anticipation. She stared at the colors spread out like a fan in her hands. They blurred into a pale sea before her. Then Owen spoke, and the rich tenor of his voice was so like the man himself—precise, bold, and dark. Infinitely compelling.

“It’s past quitting time. Come on downstairs, Jordan, and I’ll take a stab at returning some of your hospitality by feeding you.”

She could play it safe.

She could be the perennially careful Jordan, the Miss Cautious she’d always been, and stay here, dutifully looking at variations on neutral. Or she could go downstairs with
this man who appealed to her, who stirred and aroused her more than anyone had in a very long time. She could do something that definitely left the safety zone, something that was very unlike Jordan Radcliffe.

The cracks in the façade she’d created had already appeared. Perhaps it was time to break the protective shell once and for all and discover what the woman behind the mask was like.

Besides, she was famished. Whatever happened tonight, having a handsome man feed her would mark a definite improvement in her too-restricted life.

Owen was already busy in the kitchen, slicing a baguette into thick pieces and placing them on a paper plate. A slightly oozing Brie, shiny black olives, a thick Genoa salami, little cherry tomatoes, and what looked like a plum tart were set out on the counter.

Freshly showered and dressed in chinos that emphasized the strong lines of his body and a crisp white oxford that enhanced the tan he’d acquired, Owen, too, looked mouth-wateringly good.

She made herself concentrate on the food. “I see you’ve discovered Anderson’s foods.” The gourmet shop stocked imported cheeses, fresh and dried sausages, and other delicacies that didn’t necessarily make the inventory at Safeway.

“Yes, I thought we could have a picnic.”

A surprised smile lifted her mouth. “How lovely,” she said, charmed by the notion. Practical, too, since Owen had only a few pieces of furniture in the house—a couple of chairs downstairs and a mattress that she’d studiously avoided looking at every time she entered the master bedroom—but no table.

Pulling a bottle of gin from the freezer, he set it next to a bottle of vermouth. “Can I offer you a martini?”

Another chance to deviate from the boring norm, she thought. A martini was about as far from her usual wine or
celebratory champagne as she could get. Liquid steel, wasn’t that what martinis were called? She could use a bit to bolster her courage.

It was one thing to give herself a pep talk upstairs about grabbing a chance to do something a little wild and reckless tonight, quite another to maintain that confidence when standing only a few feet away from the man she wanted to get reckless with. “Sure. Why not?”

“Coming up.” Owen smiled and her breath caught. Although it always had the power to cause her pulse to quicken, she now detected an added something in his smile that was like pure octane to her system: sexual promise. A smile like that was a hundred times more potent than any martini.

It didn’t take long to realize that she was being seduced by a master. It took her even less time to decide that she might as well enjoy every minute of it.

They’d laid their picnic on a drop cloth on the living room floor, eating with their fingers and drinking their crisp martinis from the plastic martini glasses Owen had come upon in the sale bin at the liquor store. Simple as could be, the meal was delicious.

Jordan already knew that Owen was a gifted conversationalist. Given his parents and his upbringing, he’d probably learned how to entertain and amuse at an early age. What was different was having all that attention focused exclusively on her. He knew what subjects would pique her interest, so he told her of the various restoration projects he’d worked on. He knew, too, how to draw her out by asking her what pieces she envisioned for the rooms at Hawk Hill. From there they talked easily about the horses at Rosewood and the Radcliffe family history. No mention was made of the children, however, but strangely enough that was all right. Though they were always on her mind, tonight she wanted simply to be Jordan.

If his conversation put her at ease, his body language
caused tremors of awareness to course through her. A brush of his arm, a graze of his fingers, thrilled and made her insides dance with excitement. And she loved how he watched her, his dark eyes lit with masculine appreciation, the gold chips in his irises warm and glowing. Even the way he held his head while he listened to her—angled just slightly so that were he to lean forward from where he sat, their mouths would meet seamlessly—made her lips tingle with awareness, made her long for the commanding weight of his lips settling over hers.

The main course finished, he insisted she sit while he cleared the paper plates and fetched the tart. With it he brought the martini shaker. “A little more?” he asked.

“Just a bit, please. You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?” Although she wasn’t in the least concerned about that. Owen wasn’t the type of man who needed to get a woman drunk to entice her into bed.

His mouth curved in a grin. “What would be the point in getting you drunk?”

“So you could have your wicked way with me.” Wow. She’d actually said something kind of flirty. Way to go, Jordan.

“Well, I definitely want that,” he said, nodding easily.

She laughed, liking that he was open and good-humored about his intentions. There was so much about him that she liked.

Spiced with wine and lemon and just enough sugar to enhance the taste of the plums, the tart was scrumptious. And when she scooped a drop of the thickened plum juice with the tip of her finger and brought it to her mouth, and she saw how Owen stilled, as if every atom of his being was focused on her finger being drawn into her mouth—well, that was pretty delicious, too.

How lovely that one small gesture could make the gold in his eyes flare brilliant and bright. And change the atmosphere, too, turn the air between them as hot as his gaze.

“So, Jordan, about all those lovers of yours. Why weren’t you out on a date tonight?”

“This is as close as I’ve come to a date since my divorce.”

“And what about sex?” The question was as hushed as the falling light in the room, as richly suggestive as the shadows around them.

Suddenly she was glad of her martini. Raising the glass to her lips, she let the cool liquid slide down her throat, smooth and strong, heating everything inside.

“No candidates there, either,” she replied, taking another sip, this time letting it pool inside her mouth before swallowing. No wonder they called this stuff liquid steel. She was divulging to Owen something she would never before have voiced under threat of torture.

Thanks to the cocktail, she could even find humor in the situation.

Certainly Owen’s dumbfounded expression was comical, and infinitely gratifying.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

She gave him a level look. “Would I kid about something like this? Twelve, no, thirteen months without sex isn’t exactly something one jokes about.”

Thirteen months?
Owen tried to shut his mouth, but shock had paralyzed his muscles. It boggled the mind. This he truly hadn’t considered: a woman as beautiful and desirable as Jordan
not
having sex.

An unexpected unease pierced him. Did he want to be the first lover postdivorce? To do so would seriously violate his “no heavy emotional baggage” code. Blow it to smithereens. Then he thought of the chance to taste her again, to learn the soft curves of her body as she moved against him, and the surge of desire he felt drowned any apprehension. Hell, yes. He damn well wanted to be the man to make her moan and gasp with pleasure.

“Going without sex for so long is a tragedy.” His voice was a husky rumble that made her shift slightly on the drop cloth.

“Luckily I think I’ll survive.”

The smile Owen gave her made Jordan instantly doubt the truth of her statement. She wanted him. So very much.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance. I’m available and, as you may have had occasion to note, I’m interested. Perhaps you’d like to use me as a way of getting back in the game, so to speak.”

How kind of Owen to assume that she’d ever had anything close to resembling a game. Use him? Like a feather being trailed along the length of her spine, the idea sent shivers of delight dancing through her.

“We’re talking sex.” A pitcher full of martinis couldn’t have strengthened the breathy quiver of her voice.

“Most definitely. Between two consenting adults. No strings attached. No expectations other than truly fine sex between two adults who are attracted to each other.”

Just how tipsy was she, to be even considering his proposition? Not terribly, just loosened up enough for her to recognize she was sick of playing it safe. A memory flashed in her mind of the day she’d driven into Warburg, when she’d thought longingly of doing something that would wipe the pitying condescension off the faces of so many people in town.

A steamy affair with Owen would go a goodly way toward achieving that wish. That it would be steamy, she had no doubt. He hadn’t even touched her, and she was already achy and hot and damp with need.

“This is very generous of you.”

His smile was a slow flash of white in the shadowed room. “I’m a generous kind of guy. Always willing to help friends. Of course, this is not entirely selfless. I’m pretty sure I’ll derive a few benefits from the situation, too.”

“So that’s what we’d be, friends with benefits?”

He gave an easy shrug that had her thinking of the muscles in his broad shoulders and how they’d feel beneath her fingers.

“You could put it that way,” he said.

What heady pleasure to contemplate all the lovely benefits a man like Owen could offer. “Friends with benefits. It has a nice ring to it.”

“It does,” he agreed.

On any other night she’d have been appalled by how easily this conversation came to him. They could have been discussing the mahogany pawfeet dining table that she’d found at her favorite antique site and that she thought would go beautifully in the dining room, but tonight Owen’s brand of sensual charm was irresistible.

“Of course, I suppose I could call you my boy toy.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “You shock me, Jordan,” he said, not sounding shocked at all. “But if you prefer that term, I’m game.”

“No.” She smiled. “Friends with benefits is fine.” More than fine, she added silently, struggling to breathe normally with the sexual tension so thick in the air.

“So this is a yes?”

“Yes.” That one soft word and already he was in motion, reaching for her.

Her raised hand stayed him.

“No, wait. I need to know something. How serious is the spring cold?”

“The spring cold?” Owen frowned in confusion. Then understanding the reference, his brow cleared. “Ahh. Her name is Fiona Rorty. She’s a corporate lawyer. Very pretty and extremely ambitious. We’ve dated for a few months and enjoyed a number of evenings together. But it’s not serious between us. And I don’t intend for it ever to be. I’ll call her tomorrow if you’d like.”

He would, too, if Jordan wished it, Owen thought.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Really.”

“Because I would find it extremely distasteful to be the other woman.”

“I understand. Fiona’s shared my bed but I’m not in anything close to a permanent relationship with her—or any woman. I like my freedom very much, Jordan.”

He fell silent, waiting.

His frankness convinced Jordan more than any clever attempt at persuasion could have. After all, she’d already pegged Owen as someone determined to remain unattached. He’d be careful to avoid the entanglements and expectations of a serious emotional commitment. Whether she could do the same, treat whatever happened between them as a simple fling, she wasn’t sure. But no longer could she resist the need to discover what being with this clever and sexy man would be like.

She signaled her decision with a little nod.

The rise and fall of that proud chin filled Owen with a fierce joy that was in direct proportion to the need that had been building inside him since he first held Jordan in his arms. These weeks had seemed a lifetime since that first taste of her.

Owen recognized, too, that this primal exultation came from understanding what it meant for a woman like Jordan to give herself to him, but he wasn’t about to waste precious seconds analyzing his emotions.

He far preferred to get her naked.

He smiled and drew her to him so that their bodies were aligned on the drop cloth, this lightest of contact more than enough for his body to go taut with need.

“So, perhaps you’d like to lift that ban on kissing?”

“Maybe so,” she whispered, gazing up at him as his smiling mouth descended.

The touch of their lips was volatile, pent-up need exploding, driving them with reckless abandon. Mouths wide, they drank each other in, pausing only to gasp as they tugged frenetically at each other’s clothes, sending them sailing on the rippled sea of canvas cloth.

Then suddenly Owen was surging to his feet and bringing
her with him, lifting her until she was cradled against his naked chest. “The floor’s too hard for you. I don’t want you uncomfortable,” he explained, already moving toward the stairs.