How To Host a Seduction (4 page)

“So who's my partner?” she asked Lennon, who slowed her SUV in front of the entrance. “Did you put a bug in your great-aunt's ear to give me Susanna? Nothing against Tracy but she doesn't travel light. I won't stand a chance if I have to room with her. And you know how weird I am about sharing my space.”

“I know, but Auntie Q had already made the arrangements. She promised you'd be comfortable, though.” Lennon paused with her hand above the door handle. “You okay?”

Okay? No, she wouldn't go straight to okay. Not when
the first few days of her vacation had gone bust because all she could think about was
him.
The man had a power over her that was nothing short of scary. Whether involved with him or not, he consumed her thoughts, influenced her actions, sneaked right past the barriers she worked so hard to maintain in her life.

But all was not lost yet. She still had almost a week of vacation to let the fantasy of murder and mayhem clear her head so she could return to reality with some brilliant idea about how to put all thoughts of
him
firmly behind her.

“I've just spent the last three days listening to you preach about how I don't make enough time to have fun,” Ellen said. “May I enjoy the rest of my vacation, please? Without any mention of work, or
him.
”

“You got it.” Lennon shoved her door wide and climbed out. “No more reality, as long as you promise to turn off your stinking cell phone. You can survive a few days without it. We'll do fantasy this weekend and— Oh, how timely. Here comes the queen of make-believe herself. You can ask her who you're rooming with.”

Miss Q strode across the gallery toward them, looking as if she'd stepped off the pages of a historic costume book in an oversize plaid dress with leg-o'-mutton puffed sleeves.

“Welcome to Félicie Allée, my dears.” She captured each by an arm when they reached the top of the steps and maneuvered them around toward the door. “I'm so pleased you're a part of our opening event.”

After kissing Lennon on the cheek, she clasped Ellen's hands in a paper-thin grasp. “Thank you for accepting my invitation. I wanted Southern Charm Mysteries' grand opening to be a special event among friends.”

“Everything coming together?” Lennon asked.

“All the clues have been placed. The red herrings planted,” Miss Q said. “The cast is in character, and you're all going to have a grand time playing the detectives to solve the mystery.”

“I'm sure we will, Auntie.”

“Of course,” Ellen said, distracted by their entrance into the grand hall.

The octagonal rotunda extended three stories of sheer visual majesty with curving staircases and intricately carved balustrades. Evidence of the plantation's new ownership could be seen in woodwork that had been refinished to a gleaming luster and plank flooring so highly polished that light from the cut-crystal chandelier sparkled off it.

“It's even more beautiful than I remember,” she said, recalling her first visit after Lennon and Josh's wedding.

Miss Q beamed. “Just wait until you see everything we've done with the place.”

“We?”

“Quite a few of us have been involved in pulling together Southern Charm Mysteries.”

“Is Josh here yet?” Lennon asked.

Miss Q nodded. “I've installed him in the sky suite. I thought he'd be more comfortable with a floor all to himself, even if you did have to hoof it up three flights.”

“Who am I rooming with, Miss Q?” Ellen asked.

“Your roommate is a surprise, dear, but I will tell you this—you're staying in the garden suite, the loveliest of all our accommodations. And you won't have to hike up any stairs because it's right here on the ground floor. So come along.”

A surprise? The thought of a Miss Q surprise was enough to make the bravest soul quake in her sandals. She exchanged a curious glance with Lennon, but was cut off
from further questions when Miss Q motioned them through the hall.

“You're the last to arrive and everyone is getting into their costumes. We'll meet for cocktails on the lower gallery at seven, before heading into the parlor for the introduction. Dinner will be served afterward and you'll have a chance to meet the other guests and begin your investigations. I believe I've given you time to unpack, meet your partners and get settled. Oh, and your wardrobes have been filled with the appropriate costumes and everything you'll need to get into character.”

Without pausing to inhale, Miss Q drew a chain from her bodice and peered down at the gold timepiece attached. “Now I've got to run. The cast is assembling in the library so I can make last-minute addresses. Lennon, up to the third floor. Ellen, you head down the west wing.” She pointed to a nearby hallway. “The suites have nameplates so you'll know which is yours. Ta-ta, dears.”

Lennon rolled her eyes. “I'll catch up with you later.”

Before Ellen had a chance to reply, Miss Q shooed them off. “Go. I want you to see your suites.” Then, with a swish of her huge plaid skirts, she hurried off in the opposite direction.

Easily locating the garden suite, Ellen knocked tentatively, reluctant to meet whoever was inside. Lennon had explained that this grand opening training session hosted Josh's company, Eastman Investigations, where two of his investigators were in serious need of teamwork training. Knowing Miss Q, Ellen might very well wind up rooming with a total stranger.

After receiving no response, she tried the handle, and found the room unlocked and her luggage already in the entry.

“Hello, anyone home?”

No answer.

From the doorway, she could see a sitting room with two sets of French doors opening onto a garden. Through the windowpanes, wisteria bloomed, lush against the backdrop of an ivy-covered wall that enclosed the garden to a courtyard.

The sitting room was simply furnished with several antique pieces in a deep gold upholstery, a sofa, a small dining table, a desk and a set of artfully arranged chairs in front of the fireplace. A spacious area that made her feel a little better about sharing her space.

The suite passed muster. Would the surprise roommate? “Hello?”

Still no answer.

Smooth strains of a familiar jazz piece emitted from within the bedroom, and while Ellen silently complimented her new roommate's musical tastes, she recognized the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. Great. Should she call out to let her roommate know she wasn't alone? Or close the door?

Ellen hated awkward situations almost as much as she hated surprises. She'd just decided on the closed door, when a pair of Top-Siders beside the bed caught her eye.

Top-Siders?

What woman wore Top-Siders? The thought stopped Ellen cold. The last time she'd accepted Miss Q's hospitality after Lennon's wedding, she'd been set up….

Heading into the bedroom, she took in the toiletries on the dresser and the garment bag hanging from the closet door in one glance. She stopped in front of the shoes.

My, what big feet you have, my dear.

Ellen knelt to inspect them, staring at the well-worn shoes as if they might actually launch into dialogue to explain who they belonged to. But in keeping with the
theme of solving mysteries, Ellen had already divined two telling clues.

One, that slightly gamey aroma suggested their owner wore them frequently without socks, and two, her new roommate was a man.

Why on earth would Miss Q ensconce her in a one-bed suite with a…

An awful,
awful
thought struck her when she remembered Mr. Muscle-Butt from the convention. Surely Lennon wouldn't have colluded with Miss Q when she'd known Ellen wasn't interested.

I want you to have fun while you're visiting.

Staring at those shoes, Ellen wished they could talk, because she needed to know if she'd been set up
again.

The shower spray shut off, and a quick glance revealed the bathroom door wide open. Whoever was in there—and she desperately hoped it wasn't who she thought it was—would step out of the shower—
naked
—and see her.

Ellen had this wild urge to drop the shoes and race out of Félicie Allée, not stopping until she hit the highway. But she just knelt there, shoes in hand,
panicked,
like a squirrel staring down a two-ton SUV.

The shower door skidded across the track and a hand—definitely male—reached out to grab a towel from a nearby rack.

Then her roommate stepped from the shower.

One gorgeously muscular leg appeared at a time, silky dark hairs shimmering with water, dripping onto the mat. He unwittingly flashed her glimpses of flexing thighs, toned abs and strong biceps as he wrapped the towel around his waist to cover a very nice butt.

He shook his jet-black hair—not waist-length hair that
needed more cream rinse than her own, but neatly short hair—sent more droplets flying and turned toward her….

Ellen's breath and her heartbeat collided.

It wasn't Mr. Muscle-Butt.

It was
him.

The Garden Suite

E
LLEN HADN'T SEEN HIM
in three months, yet her soul drank in the sight of this tall, athletic man as though she'd thirsted for this glimpse. His broad shoulders, the silky hairs nestled in that strong chest, the rippled lines of his stomach.

Though he enjoyed sports—he was an avid ice hockey player—Christopher Sinclair spent an equal amount of time indoors and outdoors. His skin flushed healthily, neither pale nor tanned, a combination that made him look so incredible in a tux that he'd have been an easy contender for Vittorio's cover model prize.

If she actually believed heroes existed anywhere except in her authors' stories, Ellen might just be convinced Christopher was one. At least looking at him didn't break the rules, which was a good thing since his polished good looks and striking coloring—black, black hair and blue, blue eyes—still tied her in knots. His piercing gaze had an amazing ability to sear through her.

His gaze seared through her right now.

She let her eyes flutter closed in self-defense and forced herself to breathe, to stand, to whisper. “Oh, please. Don't tell me you're my roommate.”

The very idea was appalling, ludicrous;
exactly
the type of surprise Miss Q might spring on her. But Lennon?

She couldn't reason this through, couldn't get past the fact that
he
was standing just a few feet away—practically naked—clear across the country from where she'd left him.

What was he doing here?

Someone needed to explain they were over. Finished. She forced herself to face him, found him staring at…
her hair.

Suddenly she remembered the feel of his hands skimming along her scalp as clearly as if he'd just touched her. She remembered how he'd threaded his fingers through the long strands when they'd kissed, how he'd fanned it out over the pillows, over their naked skin on the night they'd made love. How he'd suddenly flipped her on top of him when she'd least expected it, cocooning them inside the drape of her hair, shutting out all stimuli, he'd said, to create a place where only the two of them existed.

In a last-ditch attempt to exorcise this man from her system and obey the rules she'd never break again, Ellen had cut her hair, refashioned her appearance as a cathartic exercise to transform herself into a new woman who wasn't hung up on Christopher Sinclair. It had been working.

Until she stared into those too-blue eyes…

All she could do was stand there, unable to breathe, waiting for him to say something.
Anything.

And hoping, damn it. Hoping he liked what he saw.

All she could see was surprise. She knew she should say something,
do
something to take control of the moment, to stop this horrible vulnerability that was bridging the distance she'd worked so hard to put between this man and her emotions.

This man was against all the rules.

She should send him packing. Couldn't. And Christo
pher remained silent, moving toward her. Then he reached out….

Ellen watched as he threaded his fingers into her hair, just like he'd done so long ago, tipped her face toward his.

He took in her hair, his eyes caressing her with a look of such tenderness, as if he'd waited forever to see her.

And just like that, the months melted away, along with any will to resist him.

His mouth came down on hers, hard.

Ellen had the fleeting thought that even he seemed surprised by the intensity between them, the sudden rush of longing that swelled in their first exchange of shared breaths. But that was before his grip tightened. He tilted her head and held her firmly, revealing without words just how much he approved of her hair, how much he approved of
her.
In the process making a total lie out of her belief that any haircut would exorcise him from her system.

Without asking permission, without so much as a question about whether she wanted his kiss, he flaunted every rule of civilized behavior by plunging his tongue into her mouth as if he had the right to kiss her.

Experience told her she should shove him back. Experience told her that being with him would end in disaster. Experience told her to slap his face.

She kissed him, instead.

Reason scattered. How could she remember the rules when her tension liquefied into a heat that flooded her like a wave, warmed her blood and made her pulse with awareness and awakening.

Ellen recognized this sensation, grew amazed that she'd survived so long without it, that she'd convinced herself this dizzying rush she only knew with Christopher hadn't been real.

It was all too real.

How could she have forgotten this intensity, the almost violent swell of need that made thinking impossible, that made the careful deliberation she prided herself on diffuse like snowflakes in a blizzard? What was it about this man that dragged her down to an elemental,
primitive
level, where instincts ruled common sense?

He wasn't
the one.
No matter how much she'd wanted him to be. He was a wild guy who meant trouble. No question. And she'd taken the reckless road before. Reckless roads usually led to mistakes that left her feeling as if she'd disappointed everyone again, most of all herself.

But when his hands were on her, Ellen's entire world pared down to what felt good and what didn't. Christopher's hands anchoring her face close, his approval, and the longing he didn't even try to hide, all felt too good.

She slipped her arms around his waist.

Her actions weren't a concession. They simply were. A necessity. A fact. The chemistry between them was too potent to ignore. No point in even trying, although Christopher had always found this easier to acknowledge than she had. Perhaps because he'd simply been looking for a woman who challenged him. He hadn't been looking for
the one.

At this moment, Ellen wasn't, either.

Dragging her fingers along his damp skin, she explored the contours, recalled the sleek strength of trim muscles, the way his waist veed into the broad lines of his back. She remembered this man. The feel of him. The scent of him. The taste of him.

Her tongue sought his and she answered his demand with a demand of her own.
Kiss me. Touch me. Want me.
Not an admission of how much she'd missed him, not a surrendering to his boldness, but simply a kiss that explored their desire.

His hands trailed from her hair, following the lines of her face, his touch gentle and searching, as though he was refreshing his memory or perhaps proving to himself she was real. She was very real. And she savored the feel of his fingertips against her skin, the hot minty taste of his mouth, her body's explosive reaction to him, his explosive reaction to her.

Christopher had always reveled in the chemistry between them, had held his hunger up as proof of how great they were together. She'd been the one overwhelmed by her need. Trying not to break the rules and sleep with him before enough time had passed had been a balancing act of anticipation and longing, where she could too easily lose all control in his arms.

She'd been sure this sort of passion meant he was
the one.

He wasn't. But when his hands rounded the curve of her neck, tipped her chin just enough to deepen their kiss, Ellen forgot the past, forgot the rules. She knew only excitement when he crowded her back against the sturdy post of the tester bed, sealed their bodies together. Inch upon inch of hard, damp muscle crushed her, awakening all sorts of hunger.

Her hands raked his shoulders and trailed down his back, recalling the smooth flexing of muscle when he'd thrust on top of her, beneath her, from behind her.

Her sex began to clench with hot little aches.

And when he drove his thigh between hers, hard muscle into yielding skin, Ellen knew, oh, she knew exactly what Christopher wanted. He wasn't going to stop with a kiss. He wasn't going to waste their first meeting in so long—not when he was almost naked. Apparently time hadn't lessened their chemistry.

Lifting her, he anchored her along his hard thigh. Her
filmy skirt was only a whisper of protection separating skin from skin, nothing against the need making her sigh against his lips.

He caught the sound with his kiss and she felt his mouth curve upward, tasted his smile. He had the upper hand and he knew it, as he always had. Three months hadn't changed that.

Sanity cried out, a mental scream reminding her that she'd left this man for a good reason. The right reason. But reason didn't exist when he touched her. Nor did rules. Apparently time hadn't changed that, either.

But she wasn't the only one who lost her mind when they were together. Ellen may have sighed. She may have melted against him. She may have spread her legs to ride his thigh, the pressure kneading just the spot to feed that pleasure inside.

But Christopher's breaths were as ragged as hers.

His fingers dug deep as they dragged the curve of her shoulders, her silk tank top only inviting him to caress the length of bared arms, to slip below and reacquaint himself with her breasts. He did. A gentle weighing of her fullness that was at once appreciative and reverent.

And so needy. He was as caught up in this moment as she, clearly unable to resist the pull of their bodies or burying a hard-as-steel erection against her stomach.

His hot shaft was an insistent, demanding pressure, greedy for her attention, straining against the flimsy barrier that barely separated them, promised such ecstasy….

A promise Ellen couldn't ignore. Not when his hands traveled through sheer silk with such skill. Not when her breasts filled with an eager heaviness that made her swell into his palms, made her so sensitive she gasped when he flicked his thumbs across the tips.

Not when she hadn't had sex in so long, when she'd
never
had sex like she'd had with him.

But wasn't she already two steps ahead in the game since she knew he wasn't
the one?
Wouldn't knowing that protect her when she had to leave him all over again?

Damn Miss Q.

Damn her own disobedient body for this desperate ache that wouldn't consider denial, even though everything about him wrought havoc on her emotions.

And Christopher knew—damn
him
—pressing his advantage by trailing his mouth along her jaw, down her neck, nibbling, sucking, tasting her skin as though he planned to savor every inch of her at his leisure.

Tingles chased behind his kisses, the steady flicking of his thumbs over her nipples making her tension coil tighter.

He bent low, nipped her shoulder with exactly the right pressure to make her tremble. The sight of his dark head poised over her brought her emotions so close to the surface, made her recall with almost painful clarity how much she'd enjoyed having her world blocked out by the breadth of his wide shoulders, his dark head, his laughing kisses.

Slipping her hands beneath his towel, she dislodged it, and he assisted by shifting his hips to bare himself to her.

Skimming her hands along his skin, Ellen explored, cupping the tight curves of his butt, drawing him closer, his hot erection branding her through the sheer silk of her skirt.

He shivered, a vibration that ran from head to toe, and his teeth flashed white as he nibbled her nipple through her blouse.

She gasped.

He lifted his gaze, those blue eyes meeting hers with his
mouth parted over her breast, over the faintest trace of wetness on silk.

All she saw in his darkly handsome face was desire.

Christopher wanted her.

No matter that he'd let her go with only a few token phone calls and no fight. No matter that they'd lived in the same city and he'd never shown up at her office, or her apartment, never suggested a compromise that could satisfy his impulses and her needs. No matter that he hadn't followed the rules.

Christopher wanted her, and right now she wanted him.

So what if Miss Q had manipulated her—and most likely him—into this situation? They were together, the weekend's training session provided the perfect cover to protect her from the media's attention. Here they could play in privacy and safety.

There was a bed. And they weren't expected in the parlor until seven.

All hurt faded beneath the strength of their attraction. Nothing mattered beyond how explosive they were together. Every inch of her skin tingled, made her want to peel away her clothes and melt against him.

Letting her eyes flutter shut, Ellen pressed a kiss to the top of his silken head.

It was all the permission he needed.

Drawing the hem of her blouse up and over, Christopher peeled away her bra before his arms came around her, pulling her close. She melted into the strong circle of his embrace, breasts crushing his chest, bare skin against bare skin.

Then his mouth found hers again, his kiss urgent, as if he had something to prove. To her. Maybe even to himself.

Driving his fingers into her hair, Christopher cupped her head and braced her entire body upright, his free hand
sliding down her hip, dragging her skirt up around her waist.

She'd worn only a thong, the temperature making even the thought of panty hose unbearable. But the sultry bayou heat was nothing compared to the fire raging inside her as Christopher sank his free hand between her thighs. He brushed aside the skimpy panties. His fingertips curled into the folds of her skin, separating, testing, finding her moist, ready for him.

With one bold stroke he slipped a finger inside.

Ellen's world narrowed to that fiery thrust. Her sex greedily tried to hold him steady, but Christopher controlled the moment, pressed his palm against her core of nerve endings, stroked her tenderly, knowingly, just the right pressure to coax her hips into motion.

Running her hands up his back, Ellen pulled him close and deepened their kiss. She rode his hand, each roll of her hips feeding the friction, coiling her tension tight.