Nobody Does It Better (13 page)

Authors: Julie Kenner

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary

BOOK: Nobody Does It Better

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"Right. So?"

Devin put one leg over the side of the tub and stepped in.
Paris
leaned over for a closer look. A thin layer of bubbly water covered the bottom of the oversized tub. She looked back at him, eyebrows raised.

Then he swung the other foot over, sat down, and stretched out in the tub, sweatpants and all.

"Devin!"

"What?" He looked genuinely shocked at her outburst. "Three weeks isn't very long. I figure we've got no time to waste getting started on that intimacy idea of yours."

"But, but…" She had no clue what to say. "Your pants."

He shrugged, the picture of indifference. "Oh, don't worry. They'll drip-dry."

Paris
knew her mouth was hanging open. She felt like the only one in the room who didn't get the joke, and she was positive there
was
a joke.

He pulled his legs up, freeing half the bathtub. Then he splashed the water as if he were patting a seat cushion. "Aren't you coming in?"

The evening was getting weirder and weirder.
Paris
searched her mind, trying to figure out some way to articulate the utter bizarreness of the situation.

"What?" she finally sputtered. It was the best she could come up with.

Devin nodded sagely. "No, you're right. Once again, you have a point." A wide grin lit up his face, and his eyes sparkled with
mischief
.
"You're batting a thousand tonight."

As if she'd stepped into a cartoon, a lightbulb turned on over
Paris
's head. This time he was going to say that she was right about their intimacy. How could they really be close if they were wearing clothes?

She imagined him loosening the drawstring of his pants, raising his hips up and letting the waterlogged pants slide off his well-muscled legs. She pictured the way he would look, sitting there in the tub, water beading on his skin. His smile when he held out a hand to her, urging her forward. The heat from his fingers as he loosened her own pants and then grazed her hips as he slid the material down to the tile floor. Her body warmed as she imagined his eyes taking her in before she joined him in the warm, scented water.

She sighed. A nice fantasy, but it wasn't going to happen.

"I'm sorry," she said to the floor. She looked up and saw disappointment flash in his eyes. And something else. Determination, maybe? "It's an interesting suggestion, but I think we'll stick with the no-intimacy version of the rules."

Devin nodded. "I understand."

"Are you mad?"

There was no mistaking his surprise. "That you said no? Of course not."

"That I didn't stop you before you drenched your pants."

"Nah, they needed washing anyway. I'll just hang out here and give them a good soaking."

Paris
laughed. "We'll jump right into the Alexander lessons tomorrow." She nodded at the tub. "That was not an Alexander-like thing to do."

No, not at all. But very endearing nonetheless.

"Lessons are fine. Just don't forget that I'm not Alexander. I'm Devin. All of me." He crossed his arms behind his back and stretched, his chest muscles rippling.

She cleared her throat, the now-familiar fluster returning. "Yes, well, stay as long as you want. You can have this room and I'll sleep in the connecting one." She turned to leave, then paused, turning back to him. "Devin?"

His eyes were closed. "Hmm?"

"You never had any intention of following ground rules, did you?"

"'I'd gladly sidestep any rule
if
it keeps me from my mission.'"
He opened his eyes.
"'Or from another taste of you.'"

She drew a shaky breath. Another line from her first book. He was Alexander, and yet he wasn't. Her dream lover, and at the same time a flesh and blood man—fascinating and sexy. And dangerous.

She steeled herself, then nodded at Devin, fearing that any attempt to talk would end her up in his arms. She slid out of the bathroom and pulled the door shut behind her.

Memories of his caresses, his scent, his charm drifted through her mind. She sighed. It would be a long night.

But at least she'd won Round Two.

Chapter 7

«
^
»

"
H
alf-naked in a bathtub? And you left? Are you ill?"

Rachel extended a hand to feel
Paris
's forehead.

"Will you stop?"
Paris
swatted Rachel's hand away, glancing around the busy LaGuardia airport gift shop.

A well-tanned older couple wearing matching Bermuda shorts and clashing Hawaiian print shirts glanced her way.
Paris
smiled politely, hoping they were staring because they were nosy, and not because they'd overheard Rachel's comments.

Then again, maybe they were looking at the dark circles she was sure lined the undersides of her eyes. She hadn't slept at all last night, too distracted by the man in the next room. But now victory was hers, and Rachel wasn't going to spoil it. Especially considering how hard-fought the battle had been. "I told you I wasn't going to sleep with him. And I meant it."

"Well, goodie for you. You win the jackpot. Biff the Wonder Accountant, a thrill-a-minute life playing hostess at Daddy's and hubby's parades of political functions, a nanny and a prescription for Prozac. How excited you must be."

"Rachel."
Paris
shot her a warning look.

Rachel threw her hands up in surrender. "Hey, not that there's anything wrong with that. If that's what you want." Rachel slapped a magazine and a packet of gum down on the counter. "But I think you're just avoiding the truth."

Paris
rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't have even told you if I'd known you'd go psychoanalyst on me. In fact, I wouldn't have had you drive us. Devin and I would have just taken a taxi."

Rachel shrugged and paid the clerk, a dark-haired girl who looked about sixteen. "It's not too late to stock up on those condoms. You still might need them."

The clerk giggled.
Paris
aimed a dirty look at Rachel, then added a candy bar to her own stack of paperback novels. "What magazine did Devin say to get him?"

"Um," Rachel scanned the magazine rack and pointed to a dense weekly finance and investment report. "Guess our little scrapper's into light reading, huh?" She nudged
Paris
. "Maybe you can mold him into your accountant."

Paris
gave her a level stare. "Just pass me the maga
zine."

She paid the girl, who
Paris
was sure was holding back a smirk. On the way to the gate, Rachel coughed once. Then again.
Paris
looked at her.

"Nothing," Rachel said, all innocence.

"I'm not sleeping with him," she said, her gaze automatically drifting toward the bank of pay phones halfway down the concourse where Devin stood, the receiver pressed to his ear.

"Right I know. You've made that perfectly clear."

Paris
stopped dead, almost tripping a woman struggling with a massive suitcase. "Why are you making it your personal project to attach me to this guy? You're practically begging me to sleep with him. And despite all your talk, that's not your normal routine. So why are you pushing it on me? Do you win a prize or something if you manage to compromise my virtue?"

"Not me. You win the prize. A lifetime membership in the Club of Lost Virtue. Or…" She took a step back, arms crossed over her chest, and scanned
Paris
from head to foot.

"Or, what?"

"Maybe he's The One. You'll fall madly in love, and your virtues can ride off into the sunset together."

Paris
laughed. "Since when did you become the romantic type?"

"I liked
Sleepless in
Seattle
.
I cried during
Titanic."

"Only because she dropped the necklace in the
Atlantic
."

"Even so. Mark my words. I have a feeling he might be it."

Paris
frowned. Rachel needed to hurry up and get over this Paris-Devin kick before she resorted to something rash. Paris pictured Devin handcuffed to her in a locked candlelit room, and Rachel not letting them out until they finally did the deed.

Of course, that might not be such a bad thing.
Paris
pictured Devin laid out on the bed, his arms stretched wide and kept firmly in place by silk ribbons. No, by
Paris
's black silk stockings. Chest bare, she could tease and torment him with her kisses until his skin danced with passion and he writhed beneath her at only a whisper of her touch.

Paris
sighed and opened her eyes. This was not the place to be thinking those kinds of thoughts. No, she corrected, she shouldn't be thinking those thoughts
anywhere.
Plan, remember? Right kind of man, remember?

But thirty minutes later, as she sat tucked into her cramped little airplane seat, Rachel's prediction still rang in her mind.

The One?
Not possible.
Paris
was a sensible girl, and sensible girls did not fall madly in love with con artists. A smile touched her lips. Not even ones that read the financial pages, spoke eloquently about kisses and thought up goofy plans that involved taking a bath fully clothed? No, she told herself sternly, not even those.

But do sensible girls write thrill-a-minute spy novels with half-naked femme fatales lurking in the hero's bed?

With a yank, she cinched the seat belt tighter.
This
girl did. She wrote novels, she fantasized about her invented author and she hired a mystery man to impersonate her pen name. But even if he was a complete hunk, and even if she was attracted to him, and even if her hormones were working overtime, she wasn't going to fall for him.

Not hard anyway.

She was going to stick to her plan and get her life back on track so that she could tell her dad what she did for a living and marry some nice, normal guy and live happily ever after.

Paris
shot an irritated look toward Devin, buried in one of her books. She scowled. He didn't even have a clue about her angst.
Men.

She gave the restraint one more tug for good measure and made sure her seat and tray table were in the full upright and locked position. When the attendant held up an emergency procedures card,
Paris
scrambled in the pocket to find hers.

Devin wasn't even paying attention. He seemed engrossed in Alexander's third book. The plane could go down in flames and he'd have no clue about which exit to head for.

She looked up to find the oxygen masks that would fall in an emergency. The ceiling seemed pretty solid. What if her mask was in there too tight?

She turned to Devin, but he didn't seem interested, and his nonchalance fanned her already sparked irritation. She took a breath and tried to think of that mantra. Something about lotus flowers. Okay. Everything was okay. If the plane crashed
Paris
could take care of herself.

Oh, Lord, surely it wouldn't crash.

Devin turned a page, glancing up slightly, and caught her eye. A smile tugged at his mouth. His kissable mouth.
Paris
frowned and dropped her eyes, concentrating on the emergency card in her lap. Rachel was just flat wrong. That was all there was to it. He surely wasn't the one. He was all wrong. Nothing like
Paris
had planned for. Nothing like what her father expected or would approve of.

She had her entire life and career to think about. Family expectations. Appearances. She'd be silly to sabotage all that by giving in to a couple of weeks of passion. Even really, really intense passion.

She jumped a mile at the gentle nudge on her shoulder.

"Sorry." His brow furrowed. "Are you all right?"

"Sure. Yes. Of course." She peered at him. "Why are you asking? Don't I look all right?"

He nodded toward her lap.
Paris
followed his gaze and winced. She'd managed to inflict serious damage on the emergency card. Bent corners, little tears, creases and crinkles.

"My mind wanders," she said.

"I can see that."

"And I don't much like flying."

"No kidding."

It was like sitting next to a tub of dynamite.
Paris
didn't know what to do, what to say. She wanted to explore this thing, this desire, that crackled between them, even as she wanted to run screaming from it.

The silence thickened.

Getting any work done with him was going to be murder, and she still had four hours on this plane with him before they landed in
Los Angeles
. Not to mention over five hundred hours on the ground. Traveling together. Working together. Closely.
Intimately.

The hum of the engines increased and
Paris
felt the pressure of acceleration push her back in the seat. Her fingers tightened around the armrest and she closed her eyes.

The surprise of his palm on the back of her hand took her mind away from the takeoff. His caress was gentle, but still firm and reassuring.
Paris
opened her eyes and smiled a silent thank-you as the plane lifted into the air. He squeezed her hand, and
Paris
instantly wished he hadn't. Every nerve ending below her wrist was on fire, and each of those nerves had a high-speed connection to the depths of her heart.

The wrong kind of thoughts started wandering through her mind. Images of his shoulders, his thighs, the memory of the elevator and his breath on the back of her neck.

Something about a mile-high club. She shivered.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"What? Oh, the plane. Yeah. It's takeoff that gets me the most. I'm fine. Really." She glanced down at their intertwined hands, then back up quickly before he could notice.

Too late. He let go of her hand. When she looked at him, he seemed sad, but the effect was fleeting.

"You distracted me," she said, walking into dangerous territory. "I guess I should say thanks."

"You're welcome." He sat up straighter and turned to face her. "So, did you sleep okay last night?"

Her response was immediate and honest. "No."

"Me neither," he said, shifting in his seat and relaxing a little. "It'll be hard getting through three weeks on no sleep."

"Somehow we'll muddle through."

"It's a bummer." The corner of his mouth twitched and
Paris
knew he was teasing.

"What?"

"'Round the clock employment, but no fringe benefits." He spread his hands, imploring. "What's a poor boy to do?"

Paris
grinned and smacked his hand away. He was too quick and caught her fingers, his hand engulfing hers. She gave a gentle tug, but he held on.

"Gotcha." He gave a quick, gentle kiss to her fingertips, sending her mind whirling. "I think I'll just have to keep a tight hold on management until we can negotiate better terms."

No doubt he was thinking about the same type of terms that were running through her mind. Terms that involved more than just touching fingertips.

She mentally waggled a finger at herself.
Ah-ah-ah. Rules, remember? Plans? He's been officially working for you for less than twenty-four hours. Get a grip and control your lust.

She smiled sweetly. "You're not exactly being paid minimum wage." She pulled her hand free, and as her fingers slid away, the ability to think coherently returned. She regarded him out of the corner of her eye. He didn't look at all guilty about trying to change her mind. Persistent devil. "Nice try," she allowed.

"Thanks. Did I gain any ground?"

"No."
And
if
you did, I wouldn't tell you.

"Oh, well. Too bad. But I had to try."

"Why?"

He tapped his finger against his chin. "Why? Hmm. I'd have to say testosterone, mostly."

"It's amazing how accurate some stereotypes are. Men are just ruled by their—"

"—right. It's true. We're a lowly lot." He pretended to pout.

He was pretty cute when he was being lowly.

"Well, all that aside, we're keeping a safe distance between us. Platonic. Professional," she insisted.

"Safe for whom?"

Paris
ignored him.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" he asked.