Midnight Encounters (8 page)

She looked pissed and he loved it. Not that he got off on infuriating women, but this one deserved to have a few feathers ruffled. He was used to people assuming things about him, but Maggie was the first woman who’d ever openly challenged and criticized him. The first woman who acted like having sex with him was as appealing as a root canal.

“Why did you ask me to come here when it’s obviously not what you want?” He knew he sounded angry, but what annoyed him more was the faint twinge of disappointment he heard in his voice. If anyone should be disappointed, it was her.

She poured a glass of orange juice and then sipped the liquid slowly, as if contemplating her answer. He noticed that the fire had left her eyes, replaced by a flicker of hesitation.

“It is what I want,” she finally replied.

Her entire demeanor was so glum that his ego took a nice hit. “You sound so enthusiastic.” She tightened her lips. “You don’t get it.” Turning around, she moved to the far end of the kitchen.

He couldn’t see her from where he stood, but he heard the sound of running water, then her soft footsteps as she returned to the main room. She played with the edge of her ponytail and the vulnerability dancing across her fair face chipped away at his anger.

“I don’t have much room in my life for dating.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Or sex, for that matter.

“And yet our first meeting took place in a hotel room, with you getting naked and hopping into my bed.” He took a step closer, but still kept a few feet between them. “Who were you supposed to meet, by the way?”

“Tony.” Her reply came out as a groan.

The spark of jealousy he felt at the sound of another man’s name on Maggie’s lips was not only unwelcome, but bewildering. “And who’s Tony?”

She stared down at her high heels as if they were the most interesting thing she’d seen in days. “Just a guy I meet a couple times a year.”

Ben faltered. “Not a boyfriend?”

“No. Like I said, I don’t have time for dating. Or sex,” she repeated.

As understanding dawned, Ben couldn’t fight an amazed laugh. “Are you saying you only have sex two times a year, with this Tony guy?”

“Sometimes it’s three,” she said, sounding defensive.

Another laugh tickled his throat. He tried very hard to swallow it back. For the first time all night Maggie had dropped her combative attitude. The last thing he wanted was to spark another fight by making fun of her, though in his defense, the laughter lodged in his throat was yet again driven by amazement, not ridicule.

“What exactly keeps you so busy?” he asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged. “Work. School. Volunteering. And relationships always seem to get in the way.”

“I see.”

“That’s why I don’t understand
this
,” she blurted.

“This?”

“You and me. The attraction, whatever.” She rubbed her forehead with one hand, then her temples, then pinched the bridge of her nose, as if acknowledging the chemistry between them was nothing but a headache. “I don’t bring guys to my apartment. I don’t have flings. I don’t have
time
for flings. Especially with men like you.”

Against his better sense, a grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “And what kind of man am I?” She bit on her lip. “The complicated kind. The distracting kind.” His grin widened. “What is it about me that distracts you?” He closed the distance between them, planting his hands on her waist. “Let me guess. My rugged good looks? Or maybe it’s the way I kiss?”

“Ben—”

“No, wait, I figured it out.” He brushed his finger over her lips, pleased when he heard her sharp inhale.

“I distract you because—much as it bugs you—I turn you on like no man ever has. Isn’t that right, Maggie?”

“No.”

He chuckled. “It’s okay to be in denial. And it’s also okay to feel disappointed.” She pushed his hand off her mouth and stepped back. “Why would I feel disappointed?”

“Because the ship has sailed, babe.”

“What ship?”

“The sex ship.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You blew it, Red.”

“Excuse me?” Both her reddish-brown eyebrows sailed up to her forehead, and Ben felt like kissing that indignant frown off her sexy mouth.

But he didn’t.

“You heard me. You missed your chance.” He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue and fought back a grin. “I’m sorry to inform you I won’t be fucking you tonight.”

“You are the most
arrogant
—”

“Enough small talk,” he cut in with a pleasant smile. “Will you be showing me to my room or should I just take the couch?”

Was it possible to hate a man and want to rip off his clothes at the same time?

Maggie had pondered the question for hours, but the answer still eluded her. What remained crystal clear, however, was that if there was a one-to-ten scale of sexual frustration, she’d be sitting at eleven right about now.

As the late morning sunlight streamed in from the open window blinds, she slid up into a sitting position and leaned against the headboard, wondering if Ben had slept as horribly as she had. Probably not.

Knowing him, he’d dreamt about kittens and rainbows all night long, unfazed by everything that happened.

She, on the other hand, had spent eight hours tossing and turning and fighting the urge to jump out of bed and jump Ben Barrett’s bones.

God, she’d acted like a spoiled brat last night.

Try bitch.

Fine, so she’d call a spade a spade.

When she’d brought Ben back to the apartment, she truly had intended to follow Summer’s advice and have some fun. Easier said than done. They’d walked inside, and the first thing she’d seen was the pile of textbooks on the computer desk. The stack of bills on the hall table. The schedule tacked up on the fridge.

Then she’d looked over and there was Ben. A big sexy man who made it clear he wanted to tear off her clothes with his teeth. A big sexy man who kissed like a champion and made her feel dizzy with desire.

That’s when the confusion kicked in. Somehow this cocky movie star managed to make important tasks like studying and earning a degree in social work seem secondary, and her body’s eagerness to betray her life’s goals had absolutely floored her.

To make matters worse, after she’d let down her guard and admitted she didn’t usually make time for sex, Ben had backed off. Just when she’d been ready to stop acting like an uptight party-pooper—fine, bitch—he’d promptly taken sex off the table and gone to bed. Alone.

What was up with that?

Yawning, Maggie glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table. Ten-thirty. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten up later than eight, and the knowledge that she’d wasted half her morning stewing over Ben’s rejection and her own stupidity wasn’t one she liked waking up with.

The faint sound of music finally drew her out of her warm covers. She wrinkled her forehead as she searched for her slippers, the fuzzy pink cat ones the kids at the community center had collectively bought her last year for her birthday. She found them in front of the closet, slipped them onto her bare feet and left the bedroom.

In the narrow hall, the music grew louder. Sounded like…The Beach Boys? Yep, The Beach Boys, she realized as the soft strains of “I Get Around” became clear. Then she made out a male voice humming along and nearly burst out laughing.

Priceless. Ben Barrett listening to “I Get Around”. Probably his life’s theme song.

She found him in the kitchen, frying eggs over the stove and singing along with the stereo, which he’d brought in from the living room and set up right on the splintered cedar work island in the middle of the room. The Beach Boys CD, of course, belonged to Summer, who still hadn’t mastered any of the songs on her drum.

She opened her mouth to utter a crack about making himself at home, but the words died in her throat the second he turned around.

He stood there, barefoot and bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans that rode low on his lean hips. His dark hair demonstrated a serious case of bedhead, and the stubble on his chin was thicker, giving him a masculine sexiness that caused arousal to simmer in her belly.

Her gaze drifted to his tattoo, the tribal design that turned her heartbeat into a thumping tribal drum. Her pulse quickened as she glanced south again and noted the absence of a second waistband. Was he not wearing any boxers? That realization alone was enough to soak her cotton panties.

God, why did this man have to be so damn…
sexable
?

“Finished gawking?”

His rough voice caused her to snap her head up. He was grinning at her, looking totally pleased by the fact that she’d been checking him out.

“I wasn’t gawking,” she lied, breezing toward the fridge and getting out the orange juice. “I was just—”

“Shhh.” He held up his hand to silence her, cocked his head toward the stereo, and started singing the first few lines of “Barbara Ann”.

Open-mouthed, Maggie just stared at him, waiting until he tired of the song and turned his attention back to the sunny-side eggs sizzling in the pan.

“I take it you’re a Beach Boys fan,” she said, sipping her juice. She then set down the glass so she could run her fingers through her frizzy, slept-on hair.

It was slightly unnerving having him here, making breakfast in nothing but a pair of jeans. She and Tony never did the breakfast thing, or the morning thing, or any
thing
that didn’t involve hot sex followed by goodbye.

“The biggest,” he replied, shooting her a toe-curling grin before reaching over to turn off the stove.

Using a spatula, he dropped one egg on a plate, followed by a piece of brown toast, and handed it to her. “Enjoy.”

When was the last time a man had cooked for her?

Oh right. Never.

Oddly touched, she took the plate, then the fork he held out, and settled on the lone stool by the counter. The kitchen was too small to be considered eat-in on any real estate listing, and Maggie was about to suggest moving to the dining room table when Ben picked up his own plate, leaned against the counter, and started eating standing up. Well. At least he wasn’t one of those celebrities who expected to be served while he sat on a throne.

“You know, I dated a girl named Barbara Ann once,” he said after he’d swallowed a bite of toast.

“Doesn’t surprise me.” She chewed slowly. “I bet you’ve also dated a Rhonda, and every other girl the Beach Boys sing about. You’ve also dated every actress and model in the eighteen to thirty-five demographic.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I Googled you last night.”

“No, you didn’t. We slept in separate bedrooms.”

She rolled her eyes. “Google, as in the Internet search engine, wise guy. I couldn’t sleep, so I researched you.”

He polished off the rest of his meal and walked over to the sink. To her surprise, he washed his dish and set it to dry on the plastic tray on the counter, then left the frying pan in the sink to soak. Wow. Even Summer didn’t do her dishes this quickly, and Maggie had dubbed her the ultimate neat-freak.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Ben asked, seemingly oblivious to the rest of her admission.

“I just told you I researched you and you want to know why I couldn’t sleep?”

“Yep.” He grinned. “So why couldn’t you?”

I was too busy fantasizing about licking every inch of your body.
“I was too tired.”

“Right.” It was obvious he didn’t believe her.

“Anyway,” she went on, hoping he’d leave it at that, “it turns out you’re quite the playboy.” He looked insulted. “I’m not a playboy.”

“Sure you are. You travel the world and have causal affairs with gorgeous women. That makes you a playboy.”

She didn’t mention that unwelcome pang of jealousy she’d experienced while reading about Ben Barrett’s conquests. Of all the things that annoyed her since Ben had insinuated his way into her life, the jealousy topped the list. Considering the only type of appearance Ben would be making in her world would be a cameo, she had no idea what to make of the claws that came out when she’d seen all those photos of him with other women.

“Well, with you getting laid only twice a year, I can see why my reputation might intimidate you,” Ben teased.

“Sometimes three times,” she corrected. Then she scowled. “You really are one of those annoyingly cheerful morning people, aren’t you?”

“I sure am.”

He waited while she shoved the last mouthful of eggs into her mouth, and then took her plate. To her surprise, he washed it as well.

“Don’t tell me you dated a Martha Stewart too,” she said with a sigh.

He wiped his hands with a pink dishcloth. “No, but I grew up with one. My mother never let me leave the kitchen until it was spotless.”

As if to confirm that, he used the dishcloth to wipe the counter until it squeaked. When he finished, he turned to face her. “So what are we doing today?”

He caught her momentarily off guard, but she quickly covered up her surprise. “Well, I have a ton of stuff to do, and you, I assume, will be finding a hotel. Or maybe you’ll be talking with your publicity people about your recent scandal. I read about that too, by the way.” His cheerful expression faded. “You did?”

“Yep,” she mimicked. “So that rich lady left you her money, huh?” She hit a nerve. She could tell from the way his features hardened and his eyes narrowed into slits. Not that she had a clue why she’d brought it up in the first place. Thanks to her mediocre Internet-searching skills, she’d only managed to dig up a few details about Ben’s involvement with Gretchen Goodrich, but enough to suspect how touchy a subject it must be.

Goodrich, heiress to a salad dressing empire and wife of an Academy Award-winning director, had lost the battle with breast cancer three months ago, and from what Maggie read, she’d left Ben close to ten million dollars in her will. The press hinted at an affair between Ben and the fifty-three-year-old heiress, but since there was no evidence or confirmation of that, Maggie had decided it was most likely a rumor.

Still, Ben must have been pretty close to the woman if she’d left him a part of her fortune…