Memories of Us (9 page)

Make them come to you.

She released her hold on him. “Didn’t you say something about dinner?”

“Um, yeah, but—”

“No buts. I’m hungry.” She swam to the side of the pool and leveraged herself out. She lifted a towel from the stack on a glass-topped table and turned, watching as he followed her lead. His biceps bunched when he pushed out of the water, and once he stood on the apron, rivulets raced from his chest to his rippled abdomen. Dark hair clung to toned calves beneath his olive board shorts. Oh, yum. Yes, she was definitely hungry.

Smiling at him, she rubbed at the ends of her damp hair. “So, McMillian, what’s cooking?”

Jessica backed away from the computer screen and the brief message refusing her latest demand. Her pulse thudded a sick tattoo in her ears and she fumbled for the business card atop the desk with numb fingers. The ivory rectangle tumbled to the floor, fluttered under the desk. A curse on her lips, she slid from the chair, her distended belly an awkward hindrance as she reached for the card.

The baby punched at her ribs and stole her breath. Hatred washed through her. Why had she ever agreed to the stupid pregnancy idea in the first place? No money was worth this. She should have gotten away early on. Now she’d ruined everything.

He would kill her.

“Stop it.” She leaned back on her haunches, the card clutched in her hand, and pressed her fingers to her burning eyes. “Just stop it and get it together. He’s not going to kill you because you aren’t going to be here.”

She pulled the cordless phone from its charger and turned the card to read the number scrawled on the back. With shaking fingers, she punched in the numbers and listened to one, two, three rings.

“Come on, Tom, answer the fucking phone,” she whispered, fear tightening her throat. On the fourth ring, the voice mail picked up, his smooth courtroom voice directing her to leave a message.

“Shit.” Message, hell. She tossed the phone against the wall. Fury joined the dread burning through her. Damn it, she was depending on him and he couldn’t answer his phone?

Why was she sitting around here anyway? Pressing her hands against the chair seat for balance, she pushed to her feet. Her head swam, vision blurring for a moment.

She’d give Thomas Everett McMillian III a message all right. She’d present him with her pregnant belly, on his fucking doorstep. She wasn’t dying for this baby.

Or anyone else, for that matter.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?”

A chill ran over Tom’s skin, but he shrugged it off and leaned back in his chair, his gaze on Celia. She’d pulled her damp hair into a knot and tossed on her shorts, but eschewed her camisole and sandals. He’d followed her lead, tugged on a polo shirt with his trunks and stayed barefoot.

He glanced up the steps toward the house, the distant ringing of a phone wafting to them. Another frisson tried to work over him, but he shook his head. “Voice mail will get it.”

Celia tilted her head, a quizzical smile curving her lips. “What if it’s important?”

“Not as important as this.” A breeze whispered in from the lake, making the candle between them waver and dance. The dinner salad Lora had put together before she left had satisfied one hunger; the one Celia had inspired with her little striptease still burned. He didn’t find himself in any hurry to hustle her up the stairs and lay her across his bed, though. Instead, he was content to sit here, listen to her laugh, watch the expressions chase across her face.

The soul-deep pleasure bugged the hell out of him.

He liked the way she looked at him too, her crystalline gaze flickering over him. She was hungry for him and she watched him as if trying to figure out where to start. The mere thought resulted in a shudder of sensation down his spine.

She popped a piece of tomato, dripping with Lora’s homemade vinaigrette, in her mouth. Her lashes fluttered down and she sighed. “That’s fantastic.”

He eyed the sublime satisfaction on her face. Maybe he wouldn’t wait to take her upstairs. One of the chaise lounges would work—he could peel the damp bikini away, slide his mouth and tongue along her skin, teasing and tasting until
he
made her sigh and moan like that.

Her eyes flew open and her fork clattered to the plate.

“Oh.” A slight flush washed her cheeks with color and she fumbled with her napkin. “Sorry.”

He shook his head and extended a hand for her plate. “Are you finished?”

She rose, her movements easy and graceful. “Let me help you clean up.”

He tried waving her back to her seat. “Not necessary. I’m just sliding them in the dishwasher.”

“Maybe I want a tour of your house.” With a smile, she trailed a finger along his arm as she passed. The simple caress left a quiver in its path. A grin quirked at his mouth. Who’d have known a tease lurked beneath her cool professionalism?

And who’d have guessed he would enjoy every second of it?

He jogged up the steps after her. In the kitchen, she helped him scrape and rinse the plates. She ran a palm over the marble countertop, an appreciative smile lighting her face. “Cis would die for this kitchen. She’s a gourmet nut.”

He lifted the open bottle of wine in silent offer and she nodded. Pouring two glasses, he glanced at her. “Do you cook?”

She laughed, accepting the glass he proffered. “I can, but why should I when Cis will?”

“Good point.” He swirled his wine, watching her sip. The moisture made her lush mouth glisten and renewed desire punched him in the gut. He wanted to kiss her again, wanted to taste her sweetness mingled with the tart wine. “How about that tour?”

She slipped an arm about his waist, surprising him. The rounded firmness of her breast pressed against his ribs, heat sparking along his skin from the point of contact. “Let me guess…ending in the bedroom.”

He brushed his thumb over her lips. “Maybe.”

Smiling again, she lifted her glass. “Lead the way, Counselor.”

A showing of the downstairs took only a few minutes. He loved watching her move through his home, soaked in the way she took every opportunity to touch him—brushing against him in doorways, sliding her fingers over his arm, feathering them over his spine. By the time they reached the stairs, she had every molecule in his body alive and buzzing.

Upstairs, she paused in the doorway to his office and laughed. “I don’t believe it.”

“What?” His face and neck warmed, and he folded his arms, leaning a shoulder against the wall behind her. Here it came—she was going to give him a hard time. He could see it in the devilish tilt of her mouth, the teasing glow in her eyes.

“You have clutter,” she teased.

He eyed the boxes of legal journals and stacks of sheet protectors holding his baseball-card collection. He was going to put them in binders, some day. “It’s just stuff I haven’t found a place for yet.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “How long have you been living here?”

“Four years.”

“It’s clutter.”

“You were a Boy Scout?” She gazed at the photo of his Eagle Scout ceremony, hanging in a grouping of college and high school pictures by the door. The startled surprise in her voice caught him unaware.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because Boy Scouts are supposed to be…fair and honest and all that jazz.” She bit her lip, devilment glinting in her eyes. “You have gray areas, McMillian.”

He didn’t move, watching as she peered into the third bedroom, which held only his treadmill and home gym.

Back on the landing, she grinned. “Told you we’d end up in the bedroom.”

Anticipation settled heavily in his groin. “I suppose you want to see mine?”

Her smile widened. “I can’t wait.”

He pointed at the slightly open door. “Be my guest.”

She pushed the door open and walked inside. He stepped to the doorway. She stood in the middle of his room, arms folded across her midriff, gaze darting about. She tilted her head toward the bed, the comforter folded back, the pillows mounded at the headboard. “Nice sheets.”

A laugh rumbled in his throat. “Egyptian cotton.”

She walked to the bed, tracing a finger along a pillow. His skin vibrated, as if she touched him instead. “They feel great. Fantastic color, too.”

“I’ll tell my decorator you approve.”

She eased that finger up her thigh to the waistband of her shorts, popped the button free. His mouth dried, his pulse kicking a notch higher. This was really happening. Celia St. John, undressing before him. A male fantasy come to life.

She slid the zipper down, let the shorts fall to the floor, stepped out of them. Standing before him in only the brief black bikini, she brushed her hair back, a naughty smile on her face. “I suppose if I were coy or shy, I wouldn’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this.”

He lounged against the doorjamb. “I don’t think either word’s in your vocabulary.”

“I’ve wanted you for a long time, McMillian.” Her hands moved up to untie the string top. She caught it with one hand before it fell away. “Thought about you. Dreamed about you. Fantasized about you.”

What man didn’t want to hear that from a woman? She let the scrap of fabric fall to the floor. He sucked in a breath, riveted to the beautiful roundness of her breasts, cinnamon nipples tight and puckered. He dragged his gaze up to hers. “Were you thinking of me when you bought the toys?”

“What do you think?” Her sultry laugh tickled his ears, resonated through him, ended in a rush of sensory stimulation.

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Her hands slid to the bikini bottoms, fingers tucking inside the waistband. “Were you thinking of me when you found them?”

“Most definitely.”

She inched the waistband down, wiggling her slim hips a little. “Too bad I didn’t bring them tonight.”

He rubbed a finger over his lips, every cell tensed with anticipation. The images of her pleasuring herself in his bed, while he rubbed oil into her skin, flared in his head. Arousal settled in a heavy weight below his belt. “Would you have put on a show for me, Cee?”

“Would that turn you on, McMillian?” The bottoms moved lower, giving him a glimpse of blonde curls between her thighs. A tiny tattoo lurked above those curls, a design in blue and black he couldn’t quite make out. “Does watching do it for you?”

“You’re doing it for me right now, sweetheart.”

The black fabric slithered to the floor and she straightened, meeting his eyes boldly. He let his gaze trail over her—the graceful line of her shoulders, high breasts, the gentle curve of her waist and hips, the lean muscles of her thighs and calves, pretty toes tipped in gleaming pink polish.

She made no move to cover herself, but stood still under his visual exploration. “Like what you see?”

“As I said, you’re incredible.” His voice emerged a hoarse rasp. He lifted his gaze to hers. “Beautiful.”

Tossing her hair behind her shoulders, she turned her back on him and sauntered the few steps to his bed. He watched the play of muscle in her buttocks and thighs as she climbed onto the mattress and lay back on the pile of pillows in a centerfold pose. She patted the bed beside her and slanted a flirtatious look at him from beneath her lashes. “So, McMillian, what’s your wildest fantasy?”

Her hands shook, nerves jumping wildly throughout her entire being.

Jessica jammed her arms into her light jacket. Her ballet flats skidded on the foyer’s polished tile and she grabbed for the wall to steady herself. Her keys clattered at her feet and she sucked in a long breath. She needed to calm down. Panicking would get her nowhere. For all she knew, he didn’t even know yet, hadn’t seen what she’d done.

Everything was going to be just fine. She’d see Tom, tell him about the baby, give him her version of events.

Considering who and what she was handing him on a goddamn silver platter, she damn well expected him to be generous with an offer of immunity too.

She lowered to an awkward squat to grab her keys. She took another long breath, calming the apprehension twisting her gut. Trying to laugh off her worries, she smoothed her hair and swung the door open.

Oh God. The oxygen whooshed from her lungs in a muffled moan.

He stood on her doorstep, a malevolent smile curling his hard mouth. “Hello, Jessie.”

She took a step back. The keys bit into her palm and bile pushed into her throat. “You—”

“Going somewhere?” He stepped inside, and when she caught sight of the two men behind him, her stomach revolted.

She spun. Her shoes slid on the floor again and a sinewy hand grabbed her arm, shoved her into the wall. The skin split on her cheekbone. Pain shot through her face. Her hand instinctively went to her belly, but he held her too forcefully, keeping her from covering the unborn child.

He pushed her harder against the wall, his mouth close to her ear. Warm breath washed over her neck, a twisted echo of other times she’d been this close to him. She struggled for air, the baby kicking in protest of the tight compression of her womb. He chuckled and nausea churned in her gut.

“Did you really think I’d let you screw me over, Jessie?” He coiled her arm up behind her back, darts of agony shooting along her nerves. She whimpered, his hips pressed against her buttocks, the solid wall of his chest preventing her from moving, from fighting, from escaping. He pushed her arm higher. She felt a tearing at her shoulder, and pain flooded her. He shoved harder. “Did you?”

“P-please,” she said, her voice a harsh whisper. Panic sizzled in her, dots dancing at the edges of her vision. Her lungs clawed for oxygen. “The baby—”

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head about the baby, Jessie,” he murmured, dragging his tongue down her neck in a mockery of former caresses. “What do you think we came for?”