The Man For The Job Page 7

  She scowled back at him, or at least it appeared she tried but couldn't keep her beautiful lips from twitching. “You have my pillow."

  Mike looked down at the pillow in his hands. “For once you're right about something."

  Her scowl returned, along with a raised brow. “For once?"

  "Don't think I haven't noticed that you're very excitable. You should do something about that tendency.” He couldn't resist teasing, “It could mean high blood pressure, which can be quite serious."

  Gwyneth frowned. “High blood pressure? Do you really think so? My father had that, too."

  Walking toward her, pillow in hand, he began, “That's why you should put this pillow under your lovely head and get some rest. Before you know it...” He leaned over and placed the pillow carefully under her head. “...It'll be morning, and you can blow this joint.” He tucked the sheet around her, her eyes widening at the gesture, her sensual mouth parting.

  Hell, he'd go for it. Slanting his mouth against hers, he kissed her. He felt her startle in surprise, but in the end, the surprise was on him. Her lips, soft and yielding, returned his kiss. He tasted her sweetness and reveled in the heat that spread straight to his groin. She slid her hands around the back of his neck, caressing him lightly. Yes, she touched him, didn't push him away. Would the wonders of Venus never cease? Her intoxicating scent pulled him into a maelstrom of longing. He never wanted to stop.

  Yet here she was in a hospital bed with a concussion, and here he was with an insistent dick that craved a lot more than a sweet exchange of kisses.

  Reluctantly he ended the kiss and gasped for air. She sighed, and what a sweet sound it was. “That was so far beyond incredible ... as to be indescribable."

  Her mouth curved into a wide smile. “Do you tuck all your women clients into bed at night or just the concussed ones?"

  "Just the stubborn, concussed ones."

  He held his breath and waited for her response.

  Gwyneth's face flushed a very pretty shade of pink. “I-I can't believe I just kissed you until my fingernails grew a quarter of an inch. Is that good for a concussion?"

  Willing his conscienceless body part into submission, Mike reached out and stroked her eyebrow with the pad of his thumb. God, he wanted her. “You'll be fine, counselor. Go to sleep."

  Her eyes widened. “You're not leaving me, are you?"

  "No, I'm not leaving you. I'll be right over there.” He nodded at the sleeper chair in the corner. “All night long."

  "Thank you—for everything."

  "You're welcome for everything."

  Chewing her full, bottom lip for a second, she gazed up at him from beneath her thick lashes. “Kiss me again?"

  Elated, he smiled, probably a real goofball smile if he could've seen it. He bent over and kissed her again and found her lips sweeter than before.

  * * * *

  Gwyneth spent most of the night thinking. There hadn't been much point in trying to sleep. Every time she drifted off, another sadistic nurse would come in, shine a bright light in her eyes and ask her if she knew who and where she was. Besides, she was afraid to go to sleep. What if she never woke up?

  At five, she glanced over at Mike's lean, unmoving body. One of the nurses had actually covered him with a blanket. How sweet was that? The inconsiderate wretch had slept through the nurses’ traipsing in—bright lights, questions and all. How could he sleep after kissing her the way he had? Didn't he feel anything? She'd known he was trouble from the first second he'd checked her out from head to toe.

  And that smile of his, sly and sensual, as if he knew what she liked in bed and he was just the man to do it. The smile that said he wanted her and he'd have her too, whenever it suited him.

  Her opinion hadn't changed. Even if she discounted his wisecracks and politically incorrect remarks, he was still big trouble in capital letters. What did it matter if his kisses were incredibly tender and arousing? Hell, with his finesse, he'd probably kissed more than his share of women. In fact, he probably had advanced degrees in kissing, not to mention some other activities that popped into her mind and made her insides quiver like a newborn colt on its feet for the first time.

  Maybe thinking wasn't such a good thing to do with someone like Mike, but following her emotions would only lead to more trouble. Men like Mike Carlton were a waste of time. But if he were a waste of time, why was she wasting so much of it?

  Because she'd never experienced anything like the onslaught of emotions that one man generated with his lazy, knowing smile. He made her want to tear off her clothes and offer herself to him.

  Now how bizarre was that?

  "Mike Carlton, you have a lot to answer for,” she told his sleeping form.

  "What?” Mike stirred on the sleeper, then sat up and yawned. Stretching his neck from side to side, he grinned. “Good morning, counselor. Did you sleep well?"

  "Not at all and certainly not as well as you did.” She softened her words with a smile.

  Mike's expression turned sheepish as he looked down at his feet, then back up at her, his green eyes shining. “I sleep like the living dead. My wife used to get pissed off at me too."

  "Uncle Wil told me about your wife. I'm sorry. You've been through some rough times."

  Mike shrugged, but his eyes clouded. “Others have had worse. I got through it."

  Gwyneth didn't know what to say, but she could feel his pain from across the room. “It's tough. I lost my mother and father within a year of each other. I know it's not the same, but..."

  "It is a loss nonetheless."

  "Who are you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, one minute you're a wise-cracking, politically insensitive jerk, and in the next I see a sensitive, emotional and obviously well-educated man who nearly killed the man who attacked me. How many personalities do you have?"

  "As many as it takes."

  She waited for him to complete his sentence, but he didn't. “To what?"

  His gaze sought hers and held it. She couldn't look away, no matter how she tried. He made her feel hot and cold at the same time. Another wild urge to tear off her clothes assailed her.

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “To win your heart."

  Eleven

  "You have to stop that,” Gwyneth protested, waving her hands in front of her face. “You're not answering the question, and you're confusing me.” Confusing her?

  Hell, what an under-statement. Win my heart, indeed. He's after my body—pure and simple. Well, maybe not so pure. Otherwise she wouldn't be feeling so damned hot-to-trot.

  A half-smile played about his mouth. “Are you interrogating me, counselor?” he drawled. “Are we in court? I thought we were in the hospital."

  "There you go again with the smart-ass quips.” If he just wouldn't keep grinning at her like the damn Cheshire Cat.

  "I don't mean to confuse you."

  "Then stop all this nonsense about winning my heart. Y-you just want to sleep with me."

  There. She'd said it.

  He sat on the side of her bed and leaned in close—so close she could smell the faint scent of yesterday's after-shave. So close, she could see the color of his eyes was really a mingling of colors, darkest jade close to his pupils, then a light glass green, pierced with shards of gray.

  "I don't deny I want to sleep with you.” He waited a beat. “...for the next fifty years. Every night we'll make love and never see the other grow old."

  Gwyneth took in a ragged breath and let it out. Either she was out of her mind, or he was. She wanted to believe him, but she knew better. Love didn't happen like that—at least not for her.

  "We just met less than twenty-four hours ago. You don't know me, and I sure as hell don't know you.” She tried shaking her head, but he placed a hand on each side of her face, tenderly, but still restraining her.

  "Hush, you're going to make your headache worse.” He kissed her forehead. “I know I've never met anyone like you. It's true, you're a
total pain in the butt, but there's something so fine and good deep inside you—I've only seen that in one other woman. I married her. And sooner or later, Miss Wells, I'll win your heart."

  Stunned, Gwyneth didn't know what to say. She reached up and ran her fingers through his curly hair, admiring the way the ends curled around the nape of his neck. Biting her lip, she desperately tried to think of something appropriate. “Y-you're due for a trim,” she managed, hating herself for the inanity of it. He'd poured his heart out to her, and she told him he needed a haircut.

  Mike threw his head back and roared with laughter. “I love a challenge, and by all that's holy, you're a challenge."

  The sheer confidence of the man stunned her, but she smiled anyway.

  "Will you come with me this weekend? You'll really be helping me out if you do."

  She folded her arms across her chest, completely suspicious of his motives. “And how's that?"

  A sheepish grin played about his mouth, the one he'd used to kiss her so sweetly. She couldn't help but wonder if he would kiss her again—and how soon.

  He fixed his gaze on her. “I told you my father's been ill. We've been estranged for some time, and this would be a good opportunity to mend some fences. Besides, he likes tall blondes. You'll impress him, even if I don't."

  He took her hand in his large, strong ones. Her breath caught in her throat.

  "And it would be good to get you out of town for a few days. Away from whoever's really stalking you. My parents have a lovely farm in Virginia. We can take long walks while we delve into your relationships with everyone you've ever come in contact with since the day you were born. Actually, my father might have some suggestions. He's a master strategist."

  "Hmm, the more I hear about your father, the more interesting he becomes. And heaven knows it might help you mend some fences, especially if you asked his advice for a change instead of charging around like a bull in a china shop, doing whatever the hell you feel like."

  Mike laughed again. “You know me better than you think. Either that or you've been reading my e-mail."

  "Hmph, it doesn't take ESP or reading your e-mail to know that much.” She straightened up, placing her hands on her hips. “I knew you were trouble the first minute I saw you."

  "You did? No wonder you were so nervous."

  "I wasn't nervous."

  "You were so nervous you could barely walk."

  "And you are so arrogant I can't believe your head makes it through the door."

  "That makes us quite a pair, doesn't it?"

  He leaned closer. Yes, he was going to kiss her.

  'Bout damned time. Surrendered to his lips. His morning stubble against her upper lip made a scratchy contrast to the tenderness of the kiss. He deepened the kiss. She lost herself in the eddying flow of warmth that awakened new desires. Desires to know him, every inch of him. His thumb grazed the curve of her breast.

  The door opened. They jumped apart. Dr. Canfield entered with a nurse in tow.

  "Good morning, Miss Wells. I see you survived the night and are feeling much better."

  "Uh—yes, I did,” Gwyneth managed to say, the blood rushing to her face.

  Dr. Canfield peered into Gwyneth's eyes, then checked her reflexes. “So how's the headache?"

  "Still there, but not bad."

  The petite redhead smiled. “I suppose you want to go home and take this big lug with you?” She angled a speculative glance at Mike.

  "May I? Go home, I mean."

  "If you promise you'll take it easy for the next twenty-four hours, I'll write your discharge order. And if you don't want to take him home, there are about six nurses who would kill to be in your place."

  Gwyneth giggled. “Yeah, I think they were all in here last night, one at a time. Now I know why they were so thorough."

  Mike grinned. “I'll see that she doesn't play her usual game of ice hockey this weekend. You should see the way she finesses the puck, Doctor. She has a killer slap shot and she can really handle the stick."

  Gwyneth's mouth dropped open. The man was an incorrigible tease.

  Handle the stick? What would her doctor think? “Mike,” she protested, albeit softly.

  "All right, then,” replied the doctor, twitching a smile. “I'll write the discharge order and leave a couple of prescriptions at the nurses’ station. They'll give them to you before you leave. One's for a mild painkiller. The other's an antibiotic for the cuts and scrapes."

  "Thank you, Doctor."

  As soon as the physician left the room, Gwyneth sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stood up, intending to get dressed, when a wave of vertigo hit her. Grabbing for the bed, she would have fallen if Mike hadn't caught her in his ever-so-strong arms.

  "Whoa, counselor.” He eased her back to bed. “Now, sit on the side of the bed for a few minutes. Take it slow. I'll be right here."

  "Okay, but...” She broke off, a little embarrassed.

  "What?"

  "I need to go to the bathroom."

  "Why don't you wait till you get home to take a bath. You'll be stronger then."

  "Mike..."

  His lips twitched. “Counselor, I'm happy to give you a hand."

  "You will not.” Gwyneth reached for the call button and pushed it. “Any one of those nurses who's so hot to take you home will be more than happy to help me."

  Twelve

  Mike followed Gwyneth into her Park Avenue apartment. “Nice digs.” A uniformed doorman, fancy, carved-wood doors, expensive Oriental carpets on the hardwood floors ... and a suck-ass security system. He'd have to do something about that.

  "Thank you. Most of it's stuff my mother left me. It's comfortable. That's all I care about."

  "You feeling okay? Not dizzy, are you?"

  "No, I'm fine. Much better, really.” She walked slowly down the hall on Mike's right. “The guest bedroom and bath are on the right. Mine are on the left."

  "I don't have to sleep on the floor? I was prepared, you know."

  Gwyneth smiled at him. She did have a lovely smile, when she wasn't trying to play ice princess. “No need to rough it."

  Turning around, she shuffled to the kitchen. Mike followed. It was one of those restaurant-wanna-be styles with a professional-size stove and a refrigerator large enough to provision an army division. Gleaming surfaces everywhere.

  "Ever use any of this stuff?” he asked, certain she didn't.

  "On occasion,” came her arch reply.

  "And what occasion would that be?” he asked, teasing her deliberately.

  "Dinner parties, you know, the usual occasions."

  "The caterers love it, don't they?"

  "All right, yes, the caterers love my kitchen. It came with the apartment. The woman who lived here before thought she was Julia Child."

  Mike swept her into his arms. “That's all right, counselor. You won't starve. I'm a damn fine cook.” Holding her felt so right. He inhaled her unique scent, unable to identify what was so special, except that it was Essence of Gwyneth for want of a better description.

  "And I'm the queen of ordering in."

  He shook his head and looked into her blue eyes. Her gaze was warm and tender. He hated to remind her of the danger of her situation. “Good idea, ordering in. For now anyway."

  Still relaxed in his arms, Gwyneth sighed. “When are we going to Virginia? I can't wait to get out of here."

  "Tomorrow's Friday. We'll leave whenever you can drag your lovely body out of bed."

  "Fly or drive?"

  "Up to you. Flying's easier."

  A smile curved her lips. He would have to kiss her again—real soon.

  "Let's drive,” she suggested. “We can rent a convertible and drive with the top down."

  The thought of sunshine and Gwyneth's hair blowing in the wind stirred his imagination. “Sounds great. You drive?"

  She shook her head. “Of course not. No New York City-bred girl does."

  "But I do.” He slanted h
is mouth across Gwyneth's. Every time he kissed her, he learned something new about himself. About her. Need grew and exploded in his veins. “Time you went to bed—for a nap."

  She pressed against him and whispered, “Take me to bed."

  Thirteen

  Mike swept Gwyneth into his arms and headed toward her bedroom. “Your wish is my command, counselor.” Her arms slid around his neck. A feeling of pure contentment rose in his chest. He took a ragged breath. Heart hammering, the pulsation sounding in his ears, Mike shut his eyes for a second or two.

  Gwyneth nudged him. “We're not going to make it, if you keep walking with your eyes shut."

  Opening his eyes, Mike grinned. “I was trying to decide if you really meant ‘Take me to bed’ or if I'm dreaming."

  "You know for a guy, you talk a lot."

  "Do I?"

  "Yeah,” she breathed in his ear, “but I know how to make you stop."

  "You do?"

  Gwyneth planted her lips on his for a mind-blowing, heart-rending, cojones-charging kiss. Yes, she did know how to shut him up. He luxuriated in the taste of her morning coffee, her lips still sweet from the six packs of sugar she dumped into a single cup. He would take her at her word and take her to bed. What happened after that was anybody's guess.

  Carefully he maneuvered his way around a large sofa and stumbled into the hall, barely avoiding a tall palm with spiky fronds that raked against the side of his face. At the doorway to her bedroom, he nudged the partially open door with his knee. He couldn't believe his good luck. Something had wrought a marvelous change in the lovely lady's attitude. And he wasn't about to question it.

  By the time they sank down on the quilt-covered bed, his conscience and his dick had parted company. He wanted her too much to hold back. She was in his arms, her lips on his, and she was willing.

  Gwyneth held her breath, stunned by insistent waves of heat settling in her belly and between her thighs. While Mike yanked the shirt from his trousers, she shrugged out of her blouse, for once not caring where it landed. She wanted—no needed—to feel his skin next to hers. Splaying her fingers over his broad muscular chest, she moaned.