Just Like a Man (17 page)

He eyed her narrowly. "That's because I don't think Alex's application asked for my place of employment," he replied.

"Yes, it did," Hannah told him pointedly. "And you left it blank."

"Did I? Must have been an oversight." And then, before she could say more, he added, "Would you like to dance?"

And then, before she could say no—or even yes, for that matter—he was taking her into his arms and leading her out onto the floor, which presented several problems. First, he had to pull her close. Second, he was placing one of his hands in hers, and splaying the other open against the small of her back, an action that sent a thrill of something flaming and furious fox-trotting right down her spine—which, it went without saying, became problem number three. Fourth, it was incredibly nice to be held by him that way. Fifth, there was the problem of how good he smelled, and how warm his palm was against hers, and how his dark eyes seemed to grow even darker as he fixed his gaze on hers. Okay, so maybe that was three things, making them fifth, sixth, and seventh. Eighth, there was the problem of how, when Michael held her the way he did, she realized that she never, ever wanted him to let go. And last, but certainly not least, there was the problem of Hannah having no idea how to dance.

"Ouch," Michael said as soon as he realized that.

"I'm sorry," she hastily apologized, trying to untangle herself from him. But he straightened and continued to hold her, obviously thinking she'd stumbled a bit, or perhaps missed a step. "I've never been much of a dancer," she added.

"Ouch," he said when he realized that, too.

He did halt then, his eyes still focused on hers, but his expression was one of resignation. He inhaled deeply and released the breath on a slow sigh of surrender. He obviously recognized that it would be wise for him to quit while he was ahead—and still had two functioning feet—than to try and teach Hannah the fox-trot. She steeled herself for his withdrawal, braced herself for no longer having the opportunity to enjoy the feel of his warm hand cupped in hers while the other opened so tenderly over her back, and did her best not to become suicidal about it. But the strangest thing happened.

He didn't withdraw.

On the contrary, he opened his hand wider at the small of her back and urged her closer, until her entire body was flush against his. And then the something flaming and furious inside Hannah became explosive and extreme. And although he did release her hand, it was only so that he could move his to her back to join the other, only higher this time, between her shoulder blades. She remembered being in high school, standing in the shadows of the gymnasium, watching the other kids dance, draping themselves over each other in that swaying sort of movement that couples did instead of dancing, as if they were trying to couple with their clothes on. The position should have been indecorous, she thought. Instead, it felt…

Well. It felt very nice. Very nice indeed.

Now she knew why the other kids had danced this way. And she wished she'd known some of them—or even one of them—well enough to do it then. Because if she had danced this way then, she might not feel so out of her element now. Then she made herself admit that it wasn't the dance that caused heat to shudder through her. It wasn't even the way Michael was holding her. It was Michael himself doing that. Because had she been standing this way with Adrian or any other man in the room at that moment, no way would she have wanted to pull him close enough to crawl inside him.

But she wanted very much to pull Michael that close.

Tentatively, she looped one arm around his neck and cupped her other hand over the center of his chest. His heartbeat buffeted her fingertips, racing like her own, and when she tilted her head back to look at him, she realized he was no more calm or collected about what was happening than she was. And she took some comfort in that…

… until she remembered just how hazardous—not to mention pointless—an attraction between the two of them would be. What really troubled her, though, was that this seemed to have gone way beyond an attraction. And she didn't even want to think about where it might ultimately lead.

Just what was happening? she wondered. When had they crossed the line? She told herself it must have been when Michael showed up at her house on her birthday. That night, something between them had shifted, had knocked itself off kilter and brought the two of them closer together—both emotionally and physically. But they had crossed a line tonight, too, just now, when Michael pulled her close. And something told her it wouldn't be easy to go back to the other side of that line now. Not just because of their actions. But because of the way she felt.

She gave herself a moment to get accustomed to the feel of his body so close to hers, to the imperious height of him and the potent strength of him and the sheer magnitude of his presence. Then she decided it wouldn't hurt to give herself another moment to do that. And then another. And another. And another. And then she realized he felt so good, she wanted to give herself a million more moments to simply get accustomed to the feel of him, as many moments as were left in the evening. In the year. In the century. He was so different from her—hard in the places she was soft, angular in the places she was curved, solid in the places she was slight.

The heat of his hands seeped through the velvet of her dress, mingling with her own heat at the base of her spine and between her shoulder blades. Where his chest made contact with hers was more heat, a turbulent heat that seemed to spread to her every extremity. And he smelled good, too, but not of some bottled fragrance or the great outdoors. He smelled scrubbed and vibrant and very, very male.

Michael Sawyer, CPA, she thought again. Michael Sawyer,
Can't Prove Authentic.

"Just who are you, Michael Sawyer?" she asked softly. The question was out of her mouth before she even realized she wanted to ask it. But she had no desire to retrieve it, wanted very much to hear how he would reply.

He didn't reply, though, not at first. He only continued to gaze down at her face as if he considered it something worth gazing at, and swayed their bodies slowly to the music—much more slowly, in fact, than the music itself. Finally, very softly, he said, "I'm Alex Sawyer's father."

"Oh, you're more than that," she said with much certainty.

Leisurely, he began to turn their bodies, and danced them in a new direction. But Hannah scarcely noticed, because she was too captivated by the way his hand moved on her back, a bit higher, nearing the tantalizing place where her dress ended and her skin began.

"Am I?" he asked, his voice quiet, fluid, pouring over her in a ripe, rimy rill.

She nodded. "And I want to know what else."

Again, he hesitated before replying, but she wasn't sure why, since all he said when he finally spoke was, "I'm an accountant."

"And what else are you?" she asked with a grin, warming now to the exchange.

He grinned back. "I'm a Sagittarius," he told her.

"And what else?"

He thought for a minute, but kept dancing. Then, "A handball player," he said.

"And what else?"

"A Louis Armstrong fan."

"And what else?"

"Type O positive."

She smiled again. "And what else?"

"An art lover."

"And what else?"

This time, before he answered her, he pulled her even closer, something she would have sworn was impossible, something that very nearly stopped her breath. In a very low, very rough voice, he told her, "I'm a man who'd like to take you home tonight."

The playfulness Hannah had been feeling fled, to be replaced by a reaction unlike anything she had ever felt before. A hunger mixed with deprivation, a need mixed with desire. Heat shot through her belly, fire swept through her body. Just the thought of going home with Michael, and what would happen if she did…

"You can't take me home," she said softly. "I came with Adrian."

Not that she felt any obligation or commitment to Adrian. On the contrary, she wanted very, very much to go home with Michael. Which was precisely why she answered him the way she did. Feeling as she did just then, all anxious and edgy and hot, she couldn't be responsible for what would happen once they got home.

"Are you going home with him?" Michael asked, his voice belying nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling.

She should tell him yes, she thought, even though she would be lying when she did. She should make him think there was something going on between her and Adrian, even though there was no chance of anything like that ever happening. It would make things easier if Michael thought she was involved with someone else. Easier for her, at any rate. Because maybe if he stopped taking an interest in her, she would stand a better chance of fighting her own interest in him.

In spite of her little chat with herself, though, "No," she said. "I won't be going home with him. Not tonight."

Michael eyed her with much deliberation, as if he were silently willing her to elaborate.

"Not ever," she obliged. "There's nothing between Adrian and me." She waited for him to say there was nothing between him and the majorette, either, but nothing was forthcoming. So, narrowing her eyes at him, she said, "How about you, Michael? Who will you be going home with tonight?"

He smiled at that, a shrewd, confident sort of smile that told her if he couldn't go home with her, then he'd go home with whatever warm body—or, perhaps, bod
ee
—made itself available.

And then he surprised her by saying, "I'm going home with you."

She started to shake her head in denial, but he spun her around so quickly that she began to grow a little lightheaded. Or maybe it was Michael himself who made her feel that way. But she didn't have time to think any more about it, because just as she began to regain her equilibrium, she realized there had been a method to his dancing, and that he had managed to sway her into a secluded little alcove hidden by overgrown potted palms and darkened by its distance from the rest of the dance floor.

And then, without warning, he kissed her. Kissed her with a passion and a longing unlike anything Hannah had ever felt before. There was nothing tentative in the kiss, nothing apologetic, nothing uncertain. Michael kissed her as if he'd spent his entire life rehearsing it. His mouth descended over hers, captured it, clung to it, and something inside Hannah sprang to life the moment his lips touched hers. When she gasped in surprise, he took advantage of her reaction to taste her more deeply, his tongue inciting her mouth to commit mayhem. She responded in kind, tangling her tongue with his, each of them warring for possession of the kiss, neither yielding, simply because the battle was too enjoyable. The hand that had crept to the top of her dress in back moved higher, curving over her bare nape, his fingertips dipping into the hair she had so painstakingly arranged.

She didn't care. On the contrary, she wanted him to free the mass and drive his fingers into it, the way she wanted to twine her fingers in his hair. And when Michael went no further, only pressed his hand more possessively against her neck, she surrendered to her own desire and threaded her fingers through his silky locks. He groaned in response to her foray, and deepened the kiss even more, until Hannah grew breathless and unsteady. She tore her mouth from his long enough to inhale a gulp of air, then he was upon her again, as if he were trying to consume her. The hand at her neck dipped lower again, skimmed over her bare back and shoulders before joining its mate at her waist again. But his other hand went exploring, creeping downward at first, over the fine curve of her derriere, making her gasp once more.

And again he claimed her mouth before she could say a word, kissing her greedily, needfully, the way she was kissing him. His fingers pressed into the tender flesh of her bottom, tracing the lower curve before moving to her hip, then up along her rib cage and in between their bodies. And then she felt his hand beneath her breast, cradling it in the wide L of his thumb and forefinger, pushing at it until her flesh erupted from the top of her gown. His mouth left hers to drag a line of openmouthed kisses along the column of her throat, into the divot at its base, and then lower still, to taste the ivory skin above her dress. Her fingers tightened in his hair as he nipped her lightly, and when she cried out softly in response, he darted his tongue over the tender spot to soothe it. And all the while he cupped her breast confidently in his hand, palming her delicate flesh beneath the black velvet, the fabric creating a delicious friction with every subtle movement he made.

"Michael," she managed to gasp as he stole another taste of her flesh. "Michael, we… we have to… to stop," she stammered. "Please," she added. "We're in a… a public place." But the reminder didn't faze him. "Please," she tried again. "If we get caught… if
I
get caught…" But her voice halted, and she gasped again, when he flicked his thumb adroitly over her taut nipple.

Her words did seem to finally register, though, because Michael paused, his head still bent, his breathing ragged and rapid. After a moment, he straightened, then dropped both hands to her waist, holding her that way while he collected himself. Hannah moved her own hands to his chest, curling her fingers lightly against the fabric of his jacket, not sure what to say or do. When his eyes finally met hers, they were dark and tempestuous. As if he felt as rash and unsatisfied as she.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't intend for that to happen. Not here. Not yet."

Meaning he
had
intended for it to happen under other circumstances, Hannah realized. But she couldn't think about the significance of that right now. "You're not the only one at fault," she said. "I didn't exactly discourage you."

She had hoped he would smile at that, but he didn't, only fixed his gaze even more intently on her face. "Come home with me tonight," he said roughly.

She shook her head and uttered one word of explanation: "Alex."

"He'll be in bed by the time we get there," Michael said.