Whose Bed Is It Anyway? (11 page)

‘Absolutely. I owe you,' he answered.

Good thing James had briefed him and already paid for the full day's driving.

James felt Caitlin's unrelenting gaze on him. To his astonishment he felt a flush mount in his own cheeks—probably deep enough to match hers.

Yeah, she knew it was a set-up. But she said nothing. James quickly leaned forward and pointed past her, out of her window. ‘Look, you can just see the Chrysler through there.'

He knew distraction would get him only so far with her. He knew he was spoilt. It was pure luck he'd been born into an extremely wealthy family. Hell, he donated almost his entire salary to charity because he already had enough income from his trust fund. He didn't
need
to work a day in his life, not for money. But for sanity? For self-worth? For dignity? He'd work every hour he could. Usually he took care not to flash his funds around the guys he worked with. Certainly not around the people who'd more often than not just lost everything.

But he wanted to take Caitlin out. The money, the offer, meant nothing to him. Yet meant all the wrong things to her. He knew she wouldn't accept because she was proud enough to want to go Dutch and couldn't afford it. So he was going to have to improvise. Fortunately, he knew where he could find some really good guidebooks.

And he'd show her New York.

‘You want to get an idea of where things are,' he said as the car cruised along with the traffic. ‘How the city works, in terms of design.' If she designed costumes, he figured she'd be interested in other aspects of design too. ‘I have a plan for sustained sightseeing.'

‘Oh, you do?'

‘Uh-huh.' He nodded sagely. ‘You don't want to cram too much into one day. You have the benefit of a whole month in New York—you can afford to take your time, get to some of the things that aren't on the usual lists, spend longer in some of the great places.'

‘Okay.'

He grinned; he had her interest. ‘So the rough daily plan is a gallery, a park, a place.'

‘Daily plan?' she giggled. ‘Like this is some sightseeing diet?'

‘
Feast,
' he corrected in all seriousness. ‘I'm assuming you're into galleries, right? Museums? Places to soak up inspiration?'

Her face lit up. ‘Yes, please.'

‘Then a park—some fresh air. A bit of a stretch, some greenery. And then a place.'

‘A place?'

‘Like a building, or another kind of attraction. Maybe something historical, whatever. Like Liberty. Sound good?'

‘Sure. I'm happy to be in your hands,' she turned her head towards him and cooed.

Tease
.

‘All right, let's head to our gallery for today.' He had to get out of the car before he hauled her across his lap and showed her what he really thought of the no-PDA idea. ‘The Met. You okay with that?'

‘Absolutely.'

Twenty minutes later they got out of the cab. James told the cabbie to come back in a couple of hours and then pulled the paper from his pocket. He'd printed the e-tickets while she was showering this morning. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at them and registered what they were.

‘I don't like queues.' He shrugged.

‘I'm not a charity case.'

‘You can buy me lunch in return.'

She looked up at him, her eyes very blue and fully serious. ‘I'll hold you to that.'

‘I know you will.' He ached to pull her close and kiss her and tell her not to worry about the damn price of anything. But he wasn't going to do that to her. He respected her need for independence. For space.

They were things he needed himself.

They walked into the Great Hall of the museum. She inhaled a deep breath, she even seemed to grow taller. Yeah, this was definitely what she'd needed.

He glanced around the interior—taking in the vaulted ceilings—and felt his own spirit revitalise. Yeah, he needed it too. To keep busy—his
mind
busy.

He let her pick which collections to tackle, happy to follow in her wake—the requisite ‘five paces behind' perfect for checking out the inherently seductive sway of her hips as she walked. She wore another floral dress that accentuated her waist and the lush curves of her breasts. Ah, he shouldn't be thinking of her breasts. It was going to be hours before he could bare them and set his mouth over her pretty pink—

He slammed the brakes on his thoughts and stared hard at a painting instead.

Focus, James.

But it was hard.
He
was hard. Why had he thought trailing around a gallery, unable to touch her, would be a good idea? He gave up on looking at the painted 2D beauties and concentrated on the live, warm, real woman right in front of him.

‘You don't want to take photos? Buy postcards?' he asked as they wandered from hall to hall.

‘No. I put things in here if I need to.' She pulled a small sketchbook from her bag.

‘You draw?' He peered over her shoulder to see the pages.

‘Enough to remember what I need to.' She snapped it shut.

But he'd got a glimpse—small, neat, pencilled pictures. ‘What kinds of things?' He was intrigued.

‘Patterns. Ideas. Scraps of memory. But mostly it's all up here.' She tapped her temple. ‘Treasures.'

Yeah, she was smart. Intense. Enthusiastic.

His brain wandered off course again. Hell, he needed some fresh air.

‘So are we going to Central Park?' she asked when they finally headed back to meet the cabbie.

‘That would be too obvious.' He grinned.

‘Oh.' Her brows arched.

‘This is a park where you wouldn't expect to find one.'

‘Where's that?'

He pointed a finger to the sky.

‘This is really cool—the views are amazing.' She almost bounced in excitement a half-hour later as they walked along the disused railway line that had been developed into an elevated, slim park. She turned to him and blushed. ‘You've seen all this.' She glanced at him. ‘I'm sorry if this is boring.'

‘Never boring. I love New York.' Hell, he'd forgotten just how much fun the city could be. When
had
he last had a holiday? He honestly couldn't remember. Not a real holiday anyway; he always combined travel with work. ‘And I've not seen any of this with you before. Come on.' He nodded to a stand ahead. ‘You can buy me lunch.'

She glanced at him. ‘You want this for lunch?'

‘I love those pretzels.'

‘Real carbs man, aren't you?'

He nodded. ‘I find I need the energy at the moment.'

Laughing, she went to the stand and bought two of the giant, doughy pretzels.

She handed him one with a flourish. ‘I know you're doing this to soothe my penniless pride.'

‘Careful,' he said softly. ‘Looking at me like that might make me want to kiss you.'

‘Uh-uh.' Laughing, she stepped a couple of paces ahead of him.

They walked along the High Line, eating. Ruefully he pondered how amazing it was that the decision not to touch made him so aware of how close she was. How easy it would be
to
touch. He glanced up and saw she'd caught him—no doubt his thoughts had been written all over his face given she was blushing now. But she shook her head provocatively, as if she were the mistress remonstrating with the misbehaving boy. She was going to pay for that. Later.

‘We'd better keep moving,' he growled. ‘The Public Library,' he instructed the cabbie when he met them at the end of the park.

‘The lions are called Patience and Fortitude,' James informed her as they walked towards the entrance a short-ish drive later. ‘Which do you identify with?'

‘Definitely Fortitude,' she answered wryly. ‘And you?'

‘Patience,' he groaned. ‘I need much patience today.'

‘Poor James,' she cooed. ‘Are you suffering?'

She had
no
idea.

The library was beautiful, stunning, fascinating. Just like her. James struggled to contain the rising sense of impatience as they slowly walked through the massive reading room. But he was determined to control himself—and his wayward urges. He could do something for someone else, put someone else's needs first...

Except he was starting to wonder what her needs might be right at this time. She was looking at him more than she was looking at the building and the treasures within.

‘James?' she asked softly—all the sass gone. Her blue eyes had gone smoky.

‘You got lunch, I've already got dinner.' He sent her a quelling look and marched her back to the waiting cab. ‘No arguing. Central Park please,' he called to the cabbie. ‘Best entrance for the Delacorte.' He couldn't let her derail his carefully laid plans. Not so quickly.

‘Sure.'

James peeked into the basket the driver had collected for him while they were at the library. ‘Thanks,' he said as the car pulled over. ‘We'll see you tomorrow.'

‘Nine-thirty?'

‘Perfect.'

But when he followed Caitlin out of the cab, she stood in his way, her hands on hips. ‘See him tomorrow?'

‘He owes me big time.' James nodded, switching the basket to his other hand.

‘James—'

‘Shall we go to a show?' He walked past her towards the park, ignoring her half-frustrated laugh. ‘Come on.'

‘James!'

‘Don't worry.' He pointed to a poster. ‘It's free. All the tickets are free.'

Diverted, she stopped and scanned the print. Her gaze flickered to him accusingly. ‘I don't recall you queuing for tickets today... How did you do this?'

‘Pulled strings,' he answered honestly. ‘And I have a picnic in here for us to have first.'

One thing he could do was organise.

‘Thank you.' She stepped in front of him, looking up at him. ‘I mean it. Thanks for taking me to all these places today. I have had the best time.'

So had he. But honestly? The best was yet to come.

‘You just thanked me?' He opted to tease her—mainly to stop himself from pulling her close and plundering her mouth the way he'd been thinking of for hours now. ‘Have I finally redeemed myself in your eyes?'

‘Hmm.' She put a hand to her chin and pretended to think about it. ‘Maybe one more night of sexual slavery will do it.'

James groaned, hard and hurting. ‘Don't torment me. We have hours of Shakespeare to sit through first.'

He was almost bursting out of his skin with desire for her. Why had he agreed to the no-PDA idea? Madness.

She was aware of it too—sending him sly looks. Her cheeks and lips reddened, her eyes big and sparkling. She was a minx. He knew she was sitting just slightly too close, knew she was acutely clued into his physical discomfort. And she was maxing it out for the fun of it.

Yeah, she was trouble.

He tried to concentrate on the play, truly he did. But it got about forty per cent of his attention tops. Mostly he sat watching her, watching the play. He delighted in her delight. And he couldn't wait to have her home alone and all his.

If they stayed this busy, it'd be okay. The two weeks would go by fast enough and then he'd get back into the usual routine—work, work, work, sleep. But for now he tried to think up more plans: what else they could do for free—or for very little—in New York. Only he kept glancing at her, his awareness of her so acute it hurt.

Finally the play ended. They walked through the park to the condo. The air was warm enough but the atmosphere between them sparked as if an electrical storm were raging. They didn't speak. He was too ragged and near the edge to manage it and he could hear the little shallow breaths she was taking. Was she as keyed up as he?

It wasn't possible.

But as they rode the elevator up to his condo they faced each other—each with a back to the wall, keeping that distance between them by tacit agreement. Because the second he touched her he'd be out of control.

She knew—her eyes gleamed with that knowledge. She
was
the same. She was already on fire—because her hands clutched her dress. He hissed out a breath as she lifted the hem up her legs a couple of inches. She leaned right back against the wall, her legs parted. Her breasts rose and fell quickly as she lifted her dress higher still.

‘I want you,' she said.

James swore, grabbing her wrist and striding out of the elevator the second the doors slid open. He unlocked the condo as quickly as he could, pulling her inside and slamming the door. He hauled her close and kissed her like the sex-starved animal he was. Furious satisfaction roared through him as she slid her arms around him and clung, opening instantly for him. Quickly, desperately, he worked to undo his trousers enough to release his agonised cock and sheath it, kissing her still, claiming the cavern of her mouth with his tongue.

He needed to claim all of her.

He pushed her back against the wall and dropped to his knees. Thankful she wore a dress. Thankful she moaned and spread her legs and let him. Just thankful.

He skimmed his hands up her inner thighs, his haste fuelled by her breathlessness, her willingness, her revealing heat. Beneath her dress, he pulled aside her panties and kissed her intimately, tasting her readiness, loving the clenching of her sex as she came. He loved her quick response, loved that he had to secure her hips in a firm hold because she writhed so wildly. Dominant, victorious instincts flared. He shredded her knickers so he could delve deeper with his fingers and tongue. He loved to make her take more—give her more of that unbearable pleasure until she bent double, her hands tearing his hair as she screamed for mercy. And screamed in release. Then he just gave her all of him. Pulling her to the floor and driving home.

The expression on her face when he entered her... The unutterable pleasure of being inside her... He was possessed of the primal demand to thrust, ride, own. She was his woman—to pleasure, to hold, to enjoy. Vitality, victory flowed through him as he entered her realm. Their chemistry was nuclear powerful, their bodies brilliantly compatible. He'd never tire of the sexy sighs she released as he wound her higher again. He gritted his teeth, bucking like a wild animal, driving them both full speed to oblivion.