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Authors: Lisa Jackson
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floor, she felt her feet beginning to chill. By the time the elevator car landed on the uppermost floor and the doors opened, Gina had a severe case of cold feet. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“I know it isn’t.” Still pulling her, he led her into a suite with a panoramic view of the city. The lights of Dallas blazed. Stars twinkled. Her head spun.
What am I doing here? she wondered, and nearly fell into one of two small leather couches angled around a glass-topped table that held a basket of fruit and an ice bucket with a bottle of chilling champagne. A gas fire hissed from a marble-faced fireplace and through double-glass doors she caught a glimpse of a king-size bed. Soft music played through hidden speakers.
Get out of here, Gina. Get out of here before you do something stupid!
“Pour yourself a drink. Anything you want.” He motioned to a minibar tucked inside the wall unit as he walked into the bedroom.
“I think I’ve had enough. Done enough damage to your clothes.”
“Suit yourself.” He was already unbuttoning his shirt and rather than even be tempted to look at him, she walked to the windows and stared out at the city, where the traffic hummed and a few clouds dared venture across the moonlit night.
Just get out, Gina. As fast as you can! Take his clothes, send them down the cleaner’s and then go back to your room and forget him. He’s a client, or more precisely, the object of a client’s quest. Don’t forget it. It was crazy that she was anywhere near his hotel room, especially considering how she felt about him, the mental picture she’d drawn of him, the way she empathized with his rebellion and felt pride at what he’d accomplished on his own terms.
She had to leave and fast.
She heard him emerge from the bedroom and turned to find him in a clean pair of slacks and polo shirt. Barefoot. He strode to the table and without saying a word, opened the bottle of champagne and as it popped and foamed, poured two glasses. Carrying one in each hand, he walked to the bank of windows where she stood. She hoped she didn’t look like a frightened doe caught in headlights.
Her pulse quickened with each of his steps and she forced her eyes away from the neckline of his shirt and the dark chest hairs springing from the open collar.
“Another bad idea,” she said when he held out a long-stemmed glass.
“I guess I’m just chock-full of ’em.”
“Appears so.”
Reluctantly she accepted the glass. “How about a toast?” she suggested, intending to take one sip and bolt.
“You go first.”
“Okay. How about, ‘Here’s mud in your eye’?”
A smile touched the edges of his mouth. “I expected something a little more original.”
“Such as…?”
“To chance meetings.” He touched the rim of his glass to hers and her heart did a silly little flip.
They both sipped and she managed to stare into his erotic blue eyes. “Or how about, ‘To the art of dry cleaning’?”
“Why not?” Again he tapped his glass to hers. Again they sipped.
He didn’t stop there. “Or to—let’s see—how about ‘To women who aren’t always what they seem’?”
“Are you talking about me?” she asked, ignoring the increased tempo of her heartbeat.
“If the shoe fits…”
“Easy for a barefoot man to say,” she teased, and he chuckled deep in his throat. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
One eyebrow elevated and the hint of a dimple creased his cheek. “Try me.”
“I don’t think so. Just trust me on this one.” She was warm inside from the wine but feeling guilty for the lies she’d so glibly told him. But there was no way out ofthem now. That was the trouble with lies; one bred another and another and so on. She set her half-drunk glass on a side table where a vase of irises, birds of paradise and lilies overflowed. “I think I’d better leave. Where’s the suit?”
“In the
“I know it isn’t.” Still pulling her, he led her into a suite with a panoramic view of the city. The lights of Dallas blazed. Stars twinkled. Her head spun.
What am I doing here? she wondered, and nearly fell into one of two small leather couches angled around a glass-topped table that held a basket of fruit and an ice bucket with a bottle of chilling champagne. A gas fire hissed from a marble-faced fireplace and through double-glass doors she caught a glimpse of a king-size bed. Soft music played through hidden speakers.
Get out of here, Gina. Get out of here before you do something stupid!
“Pour yourself a drink. Anything you want.” He motioned to a minibar tucked inside the wall unit as he walked into the bedroom.
“I think I’ve had enough. Done enough damage to your clothes.”
“Suit yourself.” He was already unbuttoning his shirt and rather than even be tempted to look at him, she walked to the windows and stared out at the city, where the traffic hummed and a few clouds dared venture across the moonlit night.
Just get out, Gina. As fast as you can! Take his clothes, send them down the cleaner’s and then go back to your room and forget him. He’s a client, or more precisely, the object of a client’s quest. Don’t forget it. It was crazy that she was anywhere near his hotel room, especially considering how she felt about him, the mental picture she’d drawn of him, the way she empathized with his rebellion and felt pride at what he’d accomplished on his own terms.
She had to leave and fast.
She heard him emerge from the bedroom and turned to find him in a clean pair of slacks and polo shirt. Barefoot. He strode to the table and without saying a word, opened the bottle of champagne and as it popped and foamed, poured two glasses. Carrying one in each hand, he walked to the bank of windows where she stood. She hoped she didn’t look like a frightened doe caught in headlights.
Her pulse quickened with each of his steps and she forced her eyes away from the neckline of his shirt and the dark chest hairs springing from the open collar.
“Another bad idea,” she said when he held out a long-stemmed glass.
“I guess I’m just chock-full of ’em.”
“Appears so.”
Reluctantly she accepted the glass. “How about a toast?” she suggested, intending to take one sip and bolt.
“You go first.”
“Okay. How about, ‘Here’s mud in your eye’?”
A smile touched the edges of his mouth. “I expected something a little more original.”
“Such as…?”
“To chance meetings.” He touched the rim of his glass to hers and her heart did a silly little flip.
They both sipped and she managed to stare into his erotic blue eyes. “Or how about, ‘To the art of dry cleaning’?”
“Why not?” Again he tapped his glass to hers. Again they sipped.
He didn’t stop there. “Or to—let’s see—how about ‘To women who aren’t always what they seem’?”
“Are you talking about me?” she asked, ignoring the increased tempo of her heartbeat.
“If the shoe fits…”
“Easy for a barefoot man to say,” she teased, and he chuckled deep in his throat. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
One eyebrow elevated and the hint of a dimple creased his cheek. “Try me.”
“I don’t think so. Just trust me on this one.” She was warm inside from the wine but feeling guilty for the lies she’d so glibly told him. But there was no way out ofthem now. That was the trouble with lies; one bred another and another and so on. She set her half-drunk glass on a side table where a vase of irises, birds of paradise and lilies overflowed. “I think I’d better leave. Where’s the suit?”
“In the
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