Need You Now (1001 Dark Nights) (8 page)

His cell phone rings, and unbidden, I am back in his hotel room pressed against the wall, with his mouth in intimate, wonderful places. I cut my gaze, fearful he’ll read my expression when he’s just warned me an hour before we aren’t happening. Reaching for my purse, I find my phone, and I don’t know why, but I have that same gut-wrenching feeling I’d had right before I’d left his room. It makes no sense. I know he’s not married. I know he’s not trying to use me. He’s been too frank about everything for that. Or is he playing games with me? Would he do that?

Shaking off the concern until I am alone in my room and can dissect this day, I search my phone for a message from Katie, but don’t find one. Worried, I text her again. Once done, I refuse to look at Jensen, busying myself by checking more e-mail on my phone but distracted by the warm, masculine baritone of Jensen’s voice as he talks stock numbers with his caller.

“Let me call you back,” he says to whoever he’s speaking with, clearly not waiting for a reply. He ends the call, drawing my attention as he sets his phone and his iPad on the seat and fixes those piercing green eyes on me. “What are you thinking?”

I don’t bother to answer his question. My mother tells me I’m an open book that needs to be shut all the time. “Why are you asking that?”

“You wouldn’t look at me until I gave you no choice.”

“I was busy.”

“You were thinking of something I don’t want you thinking. What was it?”

My brow furrows. “Nothing I’m willing to tell you.”

Surprise flickers across his expression. “That’s not what I expected.”

I shrug. “Sorry, but some things aren’t meant to be shared before they’re cultivated with a little class and careful consideration.”

“Fair enough, but I’ll ask again. Maybe after a drink, you’ll change your mind.”

“Unless it’s tequila, it’s doubtful.”

“I seem to remember you drinking tequila last night.”

“Exactly.”

“Tequila it is then,” he declares, giving me a wink as that damn phone of his rings again while my phone remains silent.

* * * *

We are registered for our rooms by efficient and friendly staff, but I’m blown away by the room choices, both of which turn out to be side-by-side, first floor beachside suites with patios. “I didn’t need a room that big or fancy,” I say as we head into the dimly lit combination bar and restaurant and claim a booth.

“We’ll have the manager comp our rooms in the morning,” he tells me as we settle into our seats facing each other. “So enjoy it. But the very fact that the suites were available to be comped is a problem. This is prime real estate. They should be booked.”

The waitress arrives at the table. “Tequila later,” he says. “I need to pick your brain first. Do you drink wine?”

“I like wine, yes.”

“Red? White?”

“Red.”

He gives the menu a quick perusal and orders a bottle of something I expect is very expensive. We debate an appetizer and settle on cheese sticks. The waitress leaves and he pulls a file from his briefcase. “I have a list of the properties and the management teams for each. Meredith tells me you have regular interaction with the department heads and that you handle any complaints made by customers for all the locations.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And the Hamptons tops the list for those complaints.”

“Oh yes.”

“Ironically, it’s also the most profitable location.”

“It’s the only resort-style, high-volume property in an area dominated by small properties and rental houses.”

“Nice to know the executive staff is aware of the benefits of the property. I’m interested to see the property. If it’s good and the staff is bad, we can hire the right people.”

“If the property is profitable, what makes you think the staff is a problem?”

“The complaints tell me the staff are a problem, but perhaps not ‘the’ problem. But one major goal in all locations has to be to make customers want to return and get them talking to other people about the great experiences, and the profit increases, making everyone more stable.”

“You said the Hamptons location is profitable. What about the Florida locations?”

“Two of the four are losing money. This one is a loser. Tell me what you know about the staff and the history of the property.”

“The manager is very nice.”

“Great. We have a pussy manager.”

I glower. “Stop saying that word. I hate it and nice isn’t bad.”

“Nice is average. It’s unexceptional.”

“My father was nice and he was exceptional in every way.”

“Doctors can be nice. They hire office managers to be the tough ones.”

The waitress appears with our wine, making a big deal of opening the bottle and letting Jensen taste a small serving before she fills our glasses. The appetizer arrives before she departs, delivered by another waitress.

Starving, and not much on the prissy girl routine anyway, the instant we’re alone, I grab a cheese stick and take a bite. Jensen seems to time his bomb of a question for the moment my mouth is burning with scorching cheese. “Let’s talk about Meredith.”

I all but choke and manage to swallow, gulp water, and dab at my mouth. “What about her?”

“The operation has tumbled in the past eighteen months. Why?”

“Her husband got sick and then he died. It was hard on her and it’s part of the reason I stayed.”

“And the management and financial team should have been strong enough beforehand to hold together the ship while she was sinking.”

Suddenly, I’m no longer hungry. “You sound like you’ve made up your mind to side with the board.”

“She’s working up a plan to turn things around that I’ll look at if I feel the hotel locations are salvageable.”

The waitress returns and we place our order and once we’re alone again, he sets his iPad down between us. “Let’s review the management staff one by one.”

Reluctantly, I accept his position as business and allow myself to be drawn into communication as we eat. For a full hour, he urges me to drink wine and talk, while he loosens his tie and jacket. Remarkably, considering the topic, the conversation is easy and I’m surprised at how much he seems to value my opinion. But the more wine we drink, the more ways we find to laugh that we shouldn’t, the more the sexual tension builds between us until it’s an invisible band about to break.

He listens as I speak, prods as I pause, but somehow I gather tiny tidbits about him as a person. Like how much he hates fish but loves his mother, hamburgers, and dessert that he rarely indulges in. He’s a control freak and I understand him because I am one, too.

Inevitably, our table is cleared and he tries to fill my glass again and I wave him off. “No. Enough. I am lightheaded and you saw me tipsy last night. I don’t want to go for night number two.”

“You have me thinking I took advantage of you last night.”

“Oh no,” I say quickly. “If anything, I took advantage of you because I...and you...and that’s it. I really did hit my limit of wine.” I slide out of the booth and stand, and he follows, towering over me as I add, “I have to go to my room before I embarrass myself.”

“You won’t embarrass yourself with me,” he assures me softly.

“And while I appreciate the thought, I don’t want to take a chance. I should go to bed.”

“As should I,” he agrees, and we share a look that says we are both thinking the same thing. One bed would be better than two. “Our bags are already in our rooms, so,” he waves me forward, “ladies first.”

I walk toward the exit and he falls into step with me, rounding a corner to take the elevator to the room and beach level. Inside the car we face forward, not looking at each other, but I am impossibly aware of this man. Exiting, we travel an impossibly long hallway in silence, as if we are both afraid of what we might say. We stop at our rooms and Jensen accompanies me to mine, lingering close while I unlock the door. Swiping the key, I’m aware of my heart beating too fast, and crazily, my thighs are slick, my body tense with the denial of what it wants, which is this man.

The door buzzes and I open it, propping it open with my body as I turn to face Jensen. His hands come down on the frame above my head, and the scent of him, so masculine and addictive, teases my nostrils. “For the record, last night was my pleasure, I promise you. I just wanted more of you. Much more.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say to that.”

“Nothing. Don’t say anything. Look, Ms. Wood. Danny. I have to send you home in the morning.”

“What? No. No I’m here to help. I’m staying.”

“No” he insists, his voice a steel rod. “You aren’t.”

“But—”

“No debate.”

“Why? Why put me through coming here so at the last minute you can send me away?”

“Because I spent the entire dinner tonight thinking about all the ways I want to fuck you, lick you, and have my way with you, and if you stay, I will do all of them and more.” He pushes off the wall abruptly. “I’ll make arrangements for your travel and text them to you.”

I gape, unable to process what just happened.

“Go into your room, Danny, before I do something we’ll both regret.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I won’t regret it.”

“Until morning.”

“I regret leaving last night.”

“I’m right there with you on that one, baby, but everything changed this morning. Go inside.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You have to go.”

I don’t move. He doesn’t move. The air is so thick, I can’t breathe. And then suddenly he is grabbing me and pulling me to him, his fingers twining in my hair, his mouth slanting over mine. His tongue licks into my mouth, deep, sensual, sexy. I moan and curl my fingers on the hard wall of his chest, meeting his stroking, trying to get more of him, but I don’t succeed.

Abruptly, he tears his mouth from mine, staring down at me, the seconds ticking by, our breathing the only sound between us. I sway toward him and he pushes the door open behind me, and when I think he will follow me inside, instead he turns me and all but lifts me. The next thing I know, he’s deposited me inside my room and the door is slamming behind me. I turn, expecting him to be there, but he is gone. I am alone.

Devastated and fighting a tight, pinching feeling in my eyes and chest, I sink to the ground, letting my purse fall with me. My cell phone starts ringing and I dig inside my purse for it, thinking Jensen is calling me from outside the door. I grab it and answer without looking at the number. “Hello.”

“Danny!”

“Katie,” I say, one part relieved and one part disappointed. “Where are you?”

“Vegas,” she declares. “I got married!” Her tone turns serious. “And don’t freak. I’m not coming back to work, Danny. I’m going on the road with David.”

A million objections die on my lips, killed by two words. I’m married. Nothing else I can say matters and I worry for her, but I celebrate with her as well. By the time we say good-bye, I end the call feeling lost and hurt, not from Katie, but from Jensen. Somehow, impossibly, a man I barely know has gotten to me. Refusing to let that turn to tears, telling myself this is really embarrassment and not real pain, I decide a walk on the beach will do a lot to clear my head.

Pushing to my feet, I pass through the living area decorated in tropical floral colors that really do not scream luxury as they should and enter the bedroom. Opening my suitcase where it sits on a luggage rack beside an unimpressive bamboo-framed bed, I dig out the pair of shorts I brought with me and a tank top. Quickly changing, I glance at the clock, noting the ten o’clock hour, and fit my cell phone in my pocket for safety reasons. Next, I slip on flip-flops and head to the patio door. Knowing Jensen is next door with a patio as well, I opt to leave the lights out, not sure I want to see him right now. Or maybe the problem is that I want to see him so much and he clearly does not want to see me.

Sliding open the glass, the ocean air gusts in my face, blowing my hair all about. I inhale and step outside into the pitch-dark starless night, closing the door shut behind me. Glancing to my right, I find Jensen’s patio attached to mine, and I think there’s a steel railing separating us, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. It doesn’t matter. I’m avoiding him, moving forward past a table to lean on the part of the steel railing lining the beach. I can’t see the water, but I hear the waves, and I’m not sure I can go to the beach without a flashlight I don’t have. Shutting my eyes, I focus again on the waves crashing to the shore, and I start to count them, letting them soothe me.

A sound to my right snaps my eyes open. I turn and blink, bringing a shadowy figure on the next patio into view.

“Jensen?”

“Yes.” The shadows shift and he steps to the part of the rail separating us.

Smashing the nerves in my stomach, I take slow steps and join him, my hands coming down on the rail. His do the same, framing mine but not touching me. His shirt is unbuttoned, as if he was undressing when he stepped outside.

I want him to touch me.

And yet like so many times today, neither of us move. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I’ve never been so alive and on edge. And then it happens. The movement. His movement. He grabs me and the next thing I know, he’s lifting me over the divider and pulling me against him.

Part Eight: Rules Are Made To Be Broken

My feet have not even hit the ground when his hand is at the back of my head, his mouth slanting over mine, and he is kissing me. Deep, passionate kissing. I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing into him, embracing him and the moment, unwilling to face tomorrow with the same regrets of today. I never let go of my control, never indulge or feel anything, especially sex, without reservations. But tonight, with this man, I want and need him in ways I never believed I’d ever experience. Maybe it’s because we’re each other’s forbidden fruit, or maybe it’s simply how scorching hot he truly is. Whatever the case, if I go home tomorrow, it will be knowing I experienced everything with him and more.

Jensen’s hand flattens on my lower back, molding my hips to his hips, my bare thighs to his thighs, and I melt into the hard lines of his body, my fingers lacing at his nape. His tongue licks deeper into my mouth, and that now familiar rich male taste of him, teasing my senses, drives me crazy. Every nerve ending in my body is alive, and when his hand skims up my ribcage, the mere brush of his fingers on the curve of my breast has me moaning, my sex tingling and far too empty.