He's the One (13 page)

“We don’t have to go anywhere for me to enjoy being with you,” she admitted.

He smiled, that Cary Grant charm on display again. “I am delighted to hear that.”

“But you still want to go?” she guessed.

“Yes. I want to see if your expression is the same looking at one of your favorite
painter’s masterpieces as it is when you look out over the ocean from the front window
of your shop. I want to enjoy your company in the car and at the exhibit. I’m hoping
you will give your whole day to me.”

He’d watched her watching the ocean from her bookshop? Wow. “Um . . . I can’t think
of anything I would enjoy more.”

He smiled, and then looked down at her body encased in the towel and his eyes burned
with something besides a desire to go to the museum.

She blushed for no reason she could discern. “I guess I’d better get dressed.”

He took a deep breath and turned away as if she, Tabitha Payton, was so irresistible,
to look at her one second longer would be to take her. “That would be a good idea,
yes.”

Calder breathed a sigh of relief when Tabby left the room to get dressed. He’d bedded
women with a lot more sophistication, definitely women with more confidence in their
innate sexual appeal, but not one of them had made him feel like a panting, hormone-driven
teenager—not even when he’d been one.

He didn’t know what was so different about the sexy little bookworm, but he was bloody
well going to figure it out.

Chapter Four

T
he El Greco exhibition was everything Tabby had hoped it would be. Unlike other companions
she’d dragged along to art museums, Calder seemed perfectly content to let her sit
and contemplate whenever a painting struck her in a special way. He didn’t hurry her,
didn’t talk incessantly, and yet she felt his presence as deeply as she felt the spirit
of the artist reaching out to her.

She’d never been so aware of another person while indulging her love of art. Usually,
even chatterboxes like her sister could melt into the background like ghosts that
made noise, but couldn’t impinge on her consciousness.

Not Calder. He remained a solid, tantalizing presence throughout their tour of the
museum.

It was only as he led her from the building, though, that she realized he had his
arm curved proprietarily around her waist and had done every time they walked anywhere.

“Would you like to stop for an early dinner before we head back?”

“I can’t believe you let me stay in the museum so long.”

“I enjoyed watching you as much as I thought I would.”

She tilted her head sideways to see his face. “You’re a strange man, Calder.”

“No. Merely an intrigued one.”

She shook her head, but didn’t demur when he pulled her body closer to his. “Dinner
sounds great.”

“Good. There’s a gallery showing we can attend afterward if you are not tired of looking
at paintings.”

“I never get tired of it, but I’m surprised you’re not climbing the walls at the prospect
of more stopping and staring.” Which was what her mom had labeled her tendency to
become engrossed in a visual image. It didn’t only happen at museums; she reacted
the same way to a creative window display when she was out shopping.

“The artist has a hint of the master in his style, but his work is definitely no copycat.”

“You mean El Greco’s?”

“Yes.”

She sighed in bliss at the thought. Maybe she would be able to buy one of the paintings.
The walls of her home were still bare for the most part because of her pickiness regarding
the type of artwork she wanted to hang.

But after a dinner where it was all she could do not to leap across the table and
plant her lips in close contact with Calder’s—did the man have a clue how irresistible
he was?—she discovered the artist Calder thought she would like was already selling
way out of her price range.

She sighed over several gorgeous paintings, but one stopped her and held her in its
thrall for so long, Calder finally asked if she was all right. Similar to El Greco’s
Laocoon
, the painting was not easy to interpret, but it stirred so much latent emotion and
pricked at her view of her own sexuality to such an extent that she reached out to
touch it.

Only Calder’s gentle hold on her wrist stopped her from the major faux pas. She smiled
at him with gratitude, even as her heart was caught by the image of him beside the
painting. Both were doing serious damage to her ability to control her physical impulses.

“If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to kiss you.”

The hushed voices of other visitors to the gallery faded to a whisper against her
consciousness. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure I could stop at a kiss.”

“Oh . . .”

He quickly led her from the gallery. When they reached his car, he put her inside,
his face set, his body vibrating a message of sexual hunger even she couldn’t mistake.
He drove with quick, jerky movements until they reached an overlook and then he parked
the car.

He turned to her. “Come here, Tabby.”

“You couldn’t wait until we got home?” she teased, her own voice betraying how much
she wanted this.

“If I had, I would end up making love to you and I’m not ready for that step yet.”

She stared at him in shock. “You aren’t ready? I thought it was the woman who was
supposed to want to wait.” And her body was clamoring for what she knew his would
provide.

Pleasure. Acceptance. A sense of closeness she craved. Even if it was temporary, it
would be good.

“Once you take me into your body, Tabby, you’ll be mine.” He sounded so serious, as
if his sexy charm was just a front for the deep and somewhat primitive man under the
surface. “You have to be absolutely sure I’m what you want before we take that step.”

“You’re so serious. You make it sound like making love would be a permanent, irrevocable
decision for long-term commitment.” Which was how she had always seen it—until now,
when she’d decided to take what she could get and live with the consequences later.

He was saying those consequences were different than the ones her heart told her were
waiting on the other side of sharing her body with him.

“That is precisely what I mean.”

The idea that he shared her solemn, but atypical, view of intimacy made her dizzy.
It also confused her. “You’re not a virgin.”

He frowned, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. “No. I am not.”

“So, you couldn’t have always felt that way.”

“I have never before felt this way.”

“You mean, this isn’t a general principle?” That made a lot more sense in some ways
and was totally beyond her comprehension in others.

“No . . . it is a Tabitha Payton principle.”

What in the world was she supposed to say to that? He couldn’t be serious and yet
his tone of voice said he was—deadly so.

But he didn’t expect her to say anything. Didn’t so much as give her the chance.

He kissed her instead, and from the first contact, she knew just how easy it would
be to make love with this man.

He tasted like he had the night before, but now she recognized the flavor. He tasted
like he belonged to her. She didn’t care how ludicrous the thought was, she couldn’t
dismiss it. They connected on a level not governed by what made sense. It was too
elemental for that.

When he dropped her off later that night, her lips were still tingling from his kisses
and her body was throbbing from unsatisfied needs. From the pained expression on his
face, she guessed he was experiencing the same thing.

She didn’t ask him inside, though.

He’d made it clear he wanted to wait and she liked what that said about his feelings
for her.

 

 

After the first night of torture, Calder was careful not to allow the passion between
him and Tabby to flare out of control. He kept the kissing light and their time alone
together minimal, which was why he hadn’t taken her to his home yet. Even his well-honed
self-control wasn’t up to the temptation.

The only time they’d come close to making love again was when he’d presented her with
the gift of the painting that had so enamored her from the gallery. She’d gotten all
teary-eyed and kissed him. They were half naked and panting before he’d been able
to rein in his libido.

She’d gotten testy about it, but he could see she liked knowing she had such a strong
impact on him.

The unwitting temptress was going to be his soon, or he was going to go stark staring
mad.

She seemed to love everything they did together, but when he invited her to the opera,
her eyes lit up like stars on a perfectly clear night. When he arrived to pick her
up, it was all he could do to take her out to the car and not ravish her right there.
She’d donned a silk dress the color of coral flame that accentuated her voluptuous
curves. Her green eyes sparkled in contrast and she’d left her hair down in an alluring
curtain around her shoulders.

He was painfully hard the entire drive into Los Angeles. By the time intermission
came, his erection was past painful. It was a pulsing ache that demanded satisfaction.
He’d listened to her sighs, watched her sensual reaction to the performance, and been
tormented by her scent, which revealed an arousal he wasn’t sure she was even conscious
of.

He led her into the pavilion’s reception area, the teeming mass of fellow attendees
doing nothing to curb the primal need roaring through him.

Without considering whether she wanted to go or not, he led her upstairs and into
a small hall that was blessedly quiet. He stopped at the first door to his left. He
tried the handle. It was locked. Using techniques he’d learned early in his career,
he picked the lock and pushed the door open. It was a meeting room.

He tugged her inside, took a quick look around, but saw no signs it would be, or had
been, occupied tonight. He shut the door and locked it again.

Other than the illumination from the streetlights outside, filtering in through the
almost closed blinds, it was dark. It was private. And that was all he needed.

“What are you doing? What’s the matter?” she demanded, her voice soft in the darkness
around them.

He didn’t answer, but took her lips with an animalistic growl that should have shocked
him. This was not his normal technique, but she brought out things in him no other
woman ever had.

She kissed him back, her mouth eager and pliant against his, her breathing erratic.

Cupping her sumptuously curved bottom through the slick fabric of her dress, he lifted
her against him until he no longer had to bend his head to kiss her. She liked that,
and wrapped her arms around his head as if wanting to hold onto him for dear life.
Did she think there was any chance he would pull away?

Not bloody likely.

He nipped at her lower lip. She whimpered and opened her mouth, inviting him inside.
He accepted, sweeping her mouth with his tongue and savoring the flavor that was hers
alone. Candy sweet and addictive.

Her small feet brushed against him, trying to find purchase. She made a frustrated
sound when they couldn’t and almost kneed him in the groin, but her lips never stopped
devouring his.

When her knee came perilously close to his sex again, he broke his mouth away. “Wrap
your legs around me.”

She was trying to resume the kiss, oblivious to his demand.

He avoided her seeking lips and spoke directly into her ear, as he was already pulling
the skirt of her dress up. “Your legs, love . . . put them around me.”

“Oh . . . okay.” She obeyed, moaning with sexy abandon when her panty-covered mound
rubbed against his abdomen.

He exulted in her unrestrained passion and kneaded the round cheeks filling his hands
with fingers that actually trembled. It had been so long since sex had been this important
or this uncomplicated . . . perhaps it never had been. But she didn’t want anything
from him, wasn’t trying to manipulate him in any way, and he wasn’t using her attraction
against her, either.

They were just a man and a woman making love because they wanted each other and that
felt incredibly good.

He kissed her again, and to his delight she started moving her pelvis, pressing the
hot apex of her thighs against his torso. He sucked on her tongue and she increased
the bucking movements of her lower body. He growled, primal desire coursing through
him in a hot rush.

She matched him perfectly.

He could smell her arousal, could taste her passion, and he could no more stop himself
from sliding his hands under the silk covering her ass than he could stop kissing
the glorious creature in his arms. Her skin was softer than the silk that covered
it.

“You’re perfect,” he bit off against her lips.

She moaned something inarticulate in response.

When his fingertip delved between her cheeks, she went still again. He adjusted his
hold on her so that he could reach farther and then slid one questing finger down
to the heated moisture of her core.

She was slick and swollen—everything a woman should be in her lover’s arms—and he
shuddered convulsively with the need to be inside her.

She whimpered again, the sound so hot and sexy, his dick bobbed against the tightened
muscles of his abdomen. Pushing against his finger, she forced him to penetrate her
to the first knuckle . . . and then the second. Wet, silken tissues clamped his finger
like a vice, and he ate at her lips, caressing her even more deeply with his finger.

She made a high-pitched, desperate sound and he knew she was close. He wanted her
to go over.

Her legs were locked around him so tightly, breathing was a challenge, but he wouldn’t
ask her to relax her hold for anything. He needed her unbridled passion. He would
settle for nothing less than the pure honesty of her response, so different than the
world he had left behind.

He moved his hand so his finger slipped out of her silken heat and searched out her
swollen clitoris. He swirled and rubbed, then pressed . . . then swirled . . . then
pressed again.

And she came, arching her body, convulsing in pleasure.

He muffled her cry of completion with his mouth, swallowing it as appreciatively as
the finest wine or most decadent dessert known to man.

Unable to stop, needing as much as she would willingly give, he played her straining
body. After only seconds, she convulsed again, throwing her head back, her throat
locked on a silent scream and her legs going so tight they threatened to crack his
ribs.

Then the tension in her body snapped and her head fell forward onto his shoulder,
her torso resting against his. Sighing breaths shuddered in and out of her body as
he cradled her close.

He kissed her temple, licking the salty sweat there, the silver path of tears from
her eyes. “You are amazing, Tabby.”

“You’re the amazing one, Calder.”

He didn’t argue. He was still hard as a rock and it was taking everything he had not
to throw her down on the tabletop and thrust inside her silky, swollen heat.