Midnight At Tiffany's (4 page)

S
HE WAS IN
Times Square with what felt like a million tourists and the hottest guy on the planet. She needed to remember every moment of how this felt so she could use it in a book, but right now she was enjoying the reality. She couldn’t believe that an evening that had begun so badly could have turned out so well. If nothing else, she would come away with a new adventure for Lara.

And Alex was so easy to talk to. Usually she felt uncomfortable with strangers, but something about him encouraged her to part with secrets. Maybe it was because he’d expressed distaste over the champagne accident. His response was both unexpected and impressive. It was a shame he couldn’t have put in a good word with Cynthia.

The crowd thickened, and she was pushed closer to him. “Oops. Sorry.”

“It’s crowded.”

“It always is.” Times Square was a blur of noise and color, flashing lights and giant electronic billboards. New York at its showiest, most boastful best.

“What do you do when you walk?”

“I watch people. I observe.” Understanding people, what made them behave the way they did, was essential to her.

“And that’s interesting?”

“Of course. I’m a writer. I need inspiration for my characters. People are endlessly fascinating, don’t you think? What
makes one person behave the way they do when someone else would do something entirely different?” She was jostled again and this time she stumbled slightly.

He steadied her, his grip firm on her arm. “Go on.”

She wondered how something as simple as his hand on her arm could make her breathless. “Nature versus nurture. It’s a question I’ve often considered.”

The crowd was so dense that for a moment it was impossible to move. And then someone shoved her hard and she landed against Alex.

Instead of pushing her away, he curved his arm round her. She was pressed against the hard, muscular length of him, and all thoughts of nature versus nurture and any other rational argument vanished from her head.

Embarrassed, she tried to ease away, but there was no room to move. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” He gave a throaty laugh. “I had no idea a visit to Times Square could be so intimate.”

She was probably supposed to laugh, too, but no sound would leave her mouth and she stood for a moment, disorientated, aware of nothing but him. Who would have thought she could feel this way? This, Matilda thought with a shiver of excitement, was real sexual attraction, and she’d never experienced anything as powerful.

She tried to find the words to describe the sensation, but in the end she could do nothing but feel. Her eyes were close to his throat and she saw bronzed skin and a hint of dark hair at the open neck of his shirt. She wanted to press her mouth to that skin and taste it. She wanted to—

“Lara?” His mouth was close to her ear and she closed her eyes as she felt the warmth of his breath brush against her cheek.

She was pressed hard against him, so close she could feel the hard planes of his body and the dip and curve of male muscle. Close enough to know that he felt the same way she did. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal and the throbbing pressure of his body sent a delicious thrill through her. They were in a crowd, but it was as if there was just the two of them. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed; feel the warmth of his breath brushing her hair and her skin. Lara would have leaned forward and pressed her mouth to that tantalizing male flesh exposed by the gap in his shirt. She would have explored him with her tongue …

And then she remembered that tonight she
was
Lara, which meant she could do all those things—

“Lara?” His voice was deep and sexy, intensifying her already erotic daydreams.

“Mmm?” Dizzy with desire, she looked up at him and met his gaze.

For a moment he said nothing, and then he gave a wry smile.

“There are too many people. Let’s get out of here.”

This time there was a roughness to his tone, and its origin was unmistakable.

He wanted her.

She wanted him.

A man she’d just met.

A man who didn’t even know who she was.

Clamped against his side, they made it to the edge of Times Square and started to walk down Fifth Avenue. Still he held her, his arm looped firmly around her in a possessive gesture that suggested intimacy to anyone who might have been watching.

“So which is it,” he asked, “nature or nurture? What makes a person who they are?”

It was hard to concentrate with the pressure of his arm round her shoulders and the feel of his fingers on her upper arm. “I think a lot of it is nature, but upbringing plays a part. Life experiences can shape you, don’t you think? Motivation.” It was something she thought about all the time when crafting her characters and bringing them to life. “Who was the biggest influence in your life growing up?”

“My father.” He didn’t hesitate and something in his tone made her glance at him.

“You’re close?”

He frowned. “That depends on your definition of
close.
We spent a lot of time together. Still do. He was taking me to the office with him from the age of eight.”

“That’s young.”

“He wanted me to learn the business. Carry on the family tradition.”

She felt a pang of envy. She’d never known her father.

“So you’re the oldest son.”

He turned to look at her. “How do you know that?”

“An educated guess. The weight of expectation was on you. You’re the one who conformed. Carried the pressure. I expect you have a younger brother or sister who is a rebel.”

A humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I have a brother. And he followed his own path. Not sure if that makes him a rebel, but he certainly didn’t waste any time telling my father he wasn’t interested in the family business.”

“And that’s a source of conflict between you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you a psychologist?”

“I told you. I’m interested in people. From the look on your face, I’d say I’m right.”

“We haven’t spoken in almost five years.”

It shocked her. She’d always wanted a sibling and if she’d had one she was pretty sure that nothing would have come between them.

“Why? You had a fight?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

“You mean you don’t like talking about it.”

“That, too.”

“But I’ve already told you my innermost secret, so now you must tell me yours.”

“It’s not exactly a secret. More of a tangled mess, most of it my fault. I was stubborn, and a touch arrogant. I thought I knew best. By the time I realized I didn’t, time had passed and I didn’t know how to fix it.”

There was something endearing about his honest admission. “But you could reach out now.”

“It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late.”

“Maybe not in fiction, but in real life there are some obstacles that can’t be overcome so easily.”

“Like pride, you mean?”

“Ouch.” His mouth tilted at the corners. “That was harsh, Lara.”

“Not harsh. Honest. There are no obstacles that can’t be overcome when you care about someone, especially if you miss him.”

“I never said I missed him.”

“It’s in your voice.”

He turned to look at her, the expression in his blue eyes impossible to read. “Maybe I do. Growing up, we were close.
We used to go sailing together. We restored an old boat. In fact, we did pretty much everything together.” The faint smile on his face told her that those had been happy times.

“Who do you sail with now?”

“I don’t.” The smile faded from his voice and his face and he lengthened his stride. She wondered if he was running from his past or her. It was the first time in her life she’d been grateful for her long legs.

As they drew farther from Times Square, the crowd thinned a little.

“You’re the first man I’ve met whose legs are longer than mine.”

He glanced at her legs. “Your legs are a work of art.”

“Good art or bad art?”

“Definitely good art.” His tone had softened again. “You walk this way often?”

“Yes. I like looking in store windows.” Particularly stores she’d never be able to afford. “This is one of my favorites.”

She paused outside the glittering windows of Tiffany’s and he raised his eyebrows.

“You like jewelry?”

“Yes,” she murmured, “but that isn’t why I stop here. It’s a romantic place.”

“It’s a store.”

“It’s a store that sells dreams. I often come here late at night. There’s something sparkly and perfect about it.” She shook her head and gestured with her head toward a couple standing to the left of them, hand in hand. “See that woman’s face?” she whispered. “She looks ecstatic.”

“Of course she’s ecstatic. He’s about to open his wallet and spend a fortune on her.”

The couple wandered off hand in hand and Matilda sighed.

“That isn’t why she was ecstatic. She’s happy because she’s with him. It was in her eyes and in her smile. He makes her happy and they were choosing something that would tell the world they love each other. I’ve always thought working here must be fun. You see people at their best.”

“And at their most terrified. I thought he looked pale. People working here probably need advanced emergency response skills.”

It made her laugh. “You’re not a romantic.”

“I’m a realist. A pragmatist. So far all I know about you is that you spend a lot of time observing other people’s lives, have a secret life as a writer and another job that you won’t share. You’re a secretive person?”

“Not secretive.” She paused, realizing that was going to sound ridiculous given everything she’d told him. “I’m not always that great in big crowds of people. I’m more of a one-on-one person.”

“One-on-one?”

The atmosphere cracked with sexual tension, intense and deliciously unfamiliar. She paused, uncertain what to do with it.

Lara would have known.

Lara would have delivered that smile that knocked men off their feet, flirted expertly and shown him just how good she was, one-on-one. Lara would have made the first move.

Matilda’s moves were always clumsy, never smooth. She injured herself on doors and the edges of beds. She’d walked into walls and banged her head on low beams. So far a broken heart was about the only injury she’d been spared.

But this wasn’t love, was it? This was fun. And there was nothing wrong with having fun.

So why did it feel as if she were standing on the top of a very high cliff, about to plunge into deep water?

She wasn’t a brave person. She’d never been a brave person.

She lived a small life in this big city, a tiny flickering candle eclipsed by bigger, brighter lights.

They walked past the Plaza, to the edge of Central Park.

The first spots of rain started to fall, scenting the air and dampening her emergency dress for the second time in one night.

If she was going to make a move, it had to be now. Right now.

But she wasn’t. She couldn’t.

She wasn’t Lara; she was Matilda.

“So, here we are.” She kept her voice light, trying to mask her disappointment and frustration with herself. “Central Park. Your final destination. Where do you live?”

“I’m staying in an apartment a couple of blocks from here.”

It was impossible not to be impressed. “Well, if you can afford to rent around here, then whatever it is you do with your life, you must be doing it very well.”

The rain was falling more heavily now, huge cooling drops that landed on the trees with a hollow patter, drenching leaves and saturating paths.

“Where do you live?”

She thought of her cramped apartment and then took a deep breath. “I live in New York City, and that’s all that matters to me. I’d rather live in a small room here than a big apartment anywhere else in the world.” Not that she’d be
able to afford a big apartment anywhere, but the principle was true. She tipped her head back, looking at the buildings rising above the shadows that were Central Park. The rain trickled through her hair and she smiled. “There is something magical about this city. I always have the sense that something unexpected could happen.”

“Unexpected?” His voice was soft and he drew her against him with purpose. “You mean like this?”

And without giving her a chance to ask what “this” was, he took her face in his hands, lowered his head and kissed her.

T
HERE WAS NOTHING
but the feel of the rain and the taste of her mouth.

He was lost in the moment. Lost in
her.

He wanted to do far more than kiss her, and the impulse surprised him.

She was a mass of contradictions. Brief moments of sexual promise interspersed with fragile innocence and an uncertainty that he found intriguing. She’d confided her dreams quite openly but had refused to talk about her job.

He should have put her in a cab and sent her safely home. Instead, he was coaxing her mouth open with his, exploring her with hot, deep kisses that sent tremors of response running through her body.

Cupping her cheek, he felt the softness of her skin against his hand and tasted the addictive sweetness of her mouth. He felt a thrill of hunger, a rush of lust. Drowning in desire, he hauled her against him. He wanted her even closer. He wanted her to fill every empty space inside him and he wanted to fill the emptiness he sensed in her.

“Come with me.”

Her hands were in his hair, her lips seeking his. “Come with you where?”

“To my apartment. Neither of us drank champagne tonight. It’s time to fix that. I have a bottle in my fridge.”

She eased away slightly, her eyes wide. “You’re inviting me back with you to drink champagne?”

“And other things.”

“Are you always this impulsive?”

“I’m always this decisive.”

He waited for her to refuse.

It was crazy. He knew it was crazy. He’d met her a few hours earlier and he was always cautious in his relationships. Most of them originated from convenience. He needed a date; there were a large number of willing, available females willing to fill the slot. He treated women the same way he treated his business decisions; weighed up pros and cons. He was thoughtful and measured. If risk wasn’t exactly removed, it was carefully considered. Life had taught him not to trust easily, but this was different, and not just because of the novelty of not being recognized. There was something unusually compelling about the attraction, as if they’d connected on a million different levels at once.

Even so, he wouldn’t blame her for refusing. It would be reckless for her to go with a man she didn’t know. It would be—

“How far is your apartment?”

Her gaze locked on his and he saw the nervous tension and excitement in her eyes.

And he saw something else. Something that made him take her hand and lead her away from the park. The rain started to fall more heavily and they ran the two blocks to his apartment, while cabs splashed through the puddles, streets shimmered and pedestrians fumbled for umbrellas.

They fell through the door of his building, dripping water onto the marble floor and laughter into the ridiculously constrained atmosphere of his apartment building. Fortunately,
the doorman was engaged in deep conversation with someone and didn’t greet him by name as he led her to the elevator.

The moment the doors closed, they were kissing again.

He licked into her mouth thinking that nothing, no one, had ever tasted as good as she did.

She moaned and pressed closer to him. “I don’t do this.”

“I don’t do this, either.”

But they were both doing it now, matching each other kiss for kiss, touch for touch. They were hungry, desperate, driven by something neither of them paused to question.

Her dress was wet and plastered to her skin, revealing every curve of her body. They all but fell out of the elevator into his apartment, and he tugged the dress up to her waist, sliding his hands over bare skin. Her bag crashed to the ground, and he dragged the stretchy dress over her head, revealing the perfect length of her.

He allowed himself a moment to admire, and then he scooped her up in his arms, the hunger in him so intense he couldn’t think straight.

Her shoes fell with a clatter, but he stepped over them, aiming for the bedroom.

It proved too far, so he compromised and made it to the sofa.

Her hands pushed at his clothes until he was naked, too, with just enough coherent thought left to reach for his wallet.

He fumbled with the foil packet, clumsy as he felt her legs, those long, incredible legs, wrap around his waist and urge him close.

He cursed softly. “Wait a moment, just a moment, shit, Lara—”

She stilled, her eyes huge as she looked up at him.

He sensed that he’d said something, but he had no idea what and his brain couldn’t focus while her breasts were brushing against the hairs on his chest and her legs were wrapped around him, drawing him closer to her soft heat.

With a groan he entered her, trying to be gentle, to take his time, to be careful, but heat overwhelmed everything and he heard her soft moan, her words of encouragement as her hands slid to his shoulders. The kiss they shared grew more erotic, deeper, and he dragged his mouth from hers and dropped his head to her shoulder, trying to breathe, trying to slow things down, but the sweet, honeyed taste of her stayed with him like a drug he was never going to be able to clear from his system.

He felt her arch against him, heard her soft voice urging him on, begging him in soft, whispering breaths not to stop what he was doing as he slid his hands over her, exploring the lush delicacy of her slender curves, absorbing the incredible feel of being inside her. She smelled like summer, like flowers in full bloom, and the heady fragrance combined with her smooth, soft skin nearly drove him crazy.

Pleasure thickened and spread and he drove into her, deeper this time, swallowing the sounds she made, tasting the heat of desire on her lips. It burned both of them, raw and real, and she urged him on, wrapped those legs round him and arched into him, while all the time she whispered how much she wanted him. He felt the ripples of her body tightening along his shaft, her body triggering his own release. He thrust deep and dropped his head onto her shoulder, consumed by his own shuddering pleasure. His last coherent thought was that he had no idea a woman could do this; take a man apart completely, and leave him feeling undone.

MATILDA LAY ON
the sofa, her head on his chest.

She never would have thought she could feel this comfortable naked, but over the past few hours Alex had slowly and deliberately familiarized himself with her body, exploring in deliciously intimate detail until no part remained undiscovered.

Shyness was something he hadn’t allowed, and once she’d realized that he seemed to like the length of her legs, she’d ceased to feel self-conscious.

Instead, she’d felt perfect.

He’d made her feel perfect.

All the way through their intense sexual marathon he’d told her how gorgeous she was, how beautiful, how he’d never met a woman who turned him on the way she did until, instead of feeling embarrassed about the length of her legs, she’d wanted to wrap them around him and never let him go.

“I owe you an apology.” His voice was husky, and she lifted her chin to look at him, thinking that he was the most incredibly good-looking man she’d ever laid eyes on.

“Why do you owe me an apology?”

If she could have put him on the cover of her book, she would have hit the bestseller charts from day one.

“I brought you here for champagne. I’m afraid I got a little sidetracked.”

It made her smile. “Just a little.”

“It’s important to drink during physical exercise.” He kissed her gently and then eased away from her. “Don’t move. I’ll be back.” He stood up and she watched, admiring the flat planes of his abdomen and the strong muscle of his thighs.

“You should walk around naked always.”

He turned, his smile so devastatingly sexy that she almost reached out and grabbed him again. “Right back at you, Lara.”

Lara.

The reminder that this wasn’t real was like showering in ice-cold water.

Thank goodness he hadn’t used that name in the heat of passion. She might have said “who?” and blown everything.

At some point she’d lost track of whether she was Matilda or Lara. She hadn’t thought about names at all. She was just a woman, seducing and being seduced.

As he strolled across the room to a door that presumably led to the kitchen, she lifted herself on her elbow and glanced around. They’d been so busy kissing when they’d arrived she’d done little but glimpse at her surroundings. She’d registered huge windows offering spectacular views across the city, polished oak floors and expensive artwork, but she’d been more absorbed by the man who was holding her than she was by his apartment.

Now, though, she saw that the apartment was spectacular.

She didn’t know who he was or what he did, but if he was able to rent a place like this, then he obviously had influence.

No Cup-a-Soups for him.

She should probably tell him who she really was, but did it matter? Just for one night, why couldn’t her life be fairy tale rather than reality? She wanted a night she would never forget, and she wanted to give him a night he’d never forget. She didn’t exactly know how to do that, but she was going to give it her best shot.

As he walked toward her, carrying the champagne and an ice bucket, she leaned down to pick up her dress.

He pushed it away with his foot. “If you dress, I’ll have to undress you again, and I hate wasting time.” He opened the champagne with a smooth skill that suggested he’d performed the task many times before, then poured two glasses and handed her one. “Champagne should only ever be drunk with friends, don’t you think?”

“I do.” Matilda didn’t have an opinion on the subject, but Lara definitely would have thought that. She waited while he put the bottle into the ice bucket and then raised her glass. “To—what should we drink to?”

“To an evening that wasn’t fake.”

Matilda felt a flicker of conscience as she tapped her glass against his and took a sip. The champagne was light and bubbly, and delicious warmth spread through her veins. It made a pleasant change to be drinking it rather than serving it.

“You’re beautiful.” He spoke softly and she shook her head, about to deny it until she remembered she was Lara not Matilda, and there was no way Lara would have put herself down.

“Thank you.” Saying it was easier than she would have imagined, and he leaned forward and kissed her mouth slowly, savoring every moment, as if trying to draw every last drop of champagne from her lips.

Desire rushed through her and she gave a moan and leaned into him, knocking the ice bucket with her elbow. Ice and champagne spilled everywhere, and he gave a soft curse and sprang to his feet, catching the bucket before it could empty itself completely.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry.” Her face suffused by color, Matilda scooped up ice and dropped it back into the bucket and then used her dress to mop the pools of champagne from
his sofa. It was the second time in one night she’d showered herself in champagne.

Why was she so clumsy?
Why?

But there was no irritation in his face, just laughter as he put the bucket well out of reach and topped up her glass.

“Relax. Fortunately I moved before you could ruin my chances of ever fathering children.”

Children?

She had a mental image of two adorable children with his dark hair, blue eyes and sharp mind.

Blinking rapidly, she deleted the image from her head. There was fantasy, and then there was delusion.

“This time I’ll be in charge of the champagne.” He removed the glass from her hand, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Lie down.”

“But—”

“Just do it, Lara.”

She was fairly sure Lara wouldn’t follow orders quite so passively, but Matilda lay back, deciding that as long as she didn’t move at least she wouldn’t cause another accident.

“What are you going to—”

“Shh.” He tipped the glass slightly, showering her body with droplets of champagne.

“I could have done that—”

“Yes, but you couldn’t have done this.” He proceeded to lick his way down her body, until she was moaning and writhing under the skilled touch of his knowing fingers and mouth. She felt the hot, erotic slide of his tongue tracing her intimately, opening her, exploring with shocking precision, and she was relieved she was lying down because she was sure her knees wouldn’t have held her.

She gave a moan and then a gasp of protest as he turned
her onto her stomach. She felt the warm slide of his hands on her spine and then felt him close his hands over her hips and lift her, positioning her carefully.

And then there was only the feel of him as he entered her in a series of slow, controlled thrusts that drove him deep. It was hot and agonizingly good, and she lifted her hips higher, hearing him groan as she offered him everything.

She clawed at the sofa and he brought his hand up to cover hers, his fingers tangling with hers while his other hand touched her intimately, sliding over her in sensual possession, leaving no part of her untouched. Electric sensations shot through her and she was aware of the demanding pulse of his release just before she tumbled into a climax so intense it robbed her of the ability to think.

She lost all sense of time but eventually felt him stretch out on the sofa and gather her against him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close in an embrace every bit as intimate as sex.

Matilda closed her eyes, trying to commit the feelings to memory. Never in a million years could she have written this scene. Never could she have found the words to convey the closeness, the trust, the absolute intimacy they’d shared.

She didn’t know herself with this man.

Which was fitting, she thought, as he didn’t really know her, either.