Tempting Little Tease (Blackwell-Lyon Book 4) Page 5

  “Me, either,” I admit. “He’s doing better.”

  “Lots,” she says. “I think he’s almost ready to start dating again. I hope he does. I think he’s afraid he’ll never find a love like that again, but I don’t think that’s true.”

  I lean forward, my elbow on my knee as I study her. “Don’t you?”

  “I think my brother’s one of those people with a really big heart. He has room there for another love without shoving Karen out at all.”

  “That’s nice,” I say, genuinely moved by her words, and hoping that she’s right. I’ve never spent much time thinking about settling down myself, but Brody seems incomplete without Karen, and the thought that another woman might make him whole again gives me hope.

  “It is.” She tugs out her toiletry bag, the last thing in her suitcase, then starts for the bathroom. “I want to be that in love someday,” she says, her wistful voice drifting back to me. “But it has to be mutual. And I sometimes think that being Brody’s sister is a bad thing. He made it look too easy.”

  She sounds far too melancholy, and I wonder if she’s thinking about Reg and the way their relationship crumbled without warning.

  I get up and cross to the open bathroom door. She’s putting out bottles and tubes and brushes, a strand of dark hair falling over one eye. She lifts her head and watches my reflection, but says nothing.

  “I think we’re starting to bring down the mood,” I say gently. “And it’s way too pretty a day to do that. Why don’t I unpack, and then we can go explore?”

  She hesitates only a second, then nods. “That sounds like a great plan.”

  While I put my things away, she reads through the weekend itinerary. “So we officially start at seven tonight, and after that it’s pretty much non-stop activities until the sunset ceremony on Sunday.”

  “That gives us about four free hours. It’s been years since I’ve been to Fredericksburg. I say we check out the town. You?”

  “A town famous for its wineries. Yeah, I’m in. And believe it or not, I’ve never been here before. My life before Seattle was pretty Dallas-centric.”

  Since neither of us is sure where to start, we head off to the guest services desk.

  Reg is at the counter looking at a brochure, and as he turns to us, Samantha molds herself to my side. I slide into my appointed role, possibly too eagerly, and hook an arm around her waist.

  “Samantha, you look incredible as always.”

  “Reg.”

  An awkward silence lingers, thankfully broken by the woman manning the desk, who asks how she can help us.

  I step closer to the desk, shifting my connection with Sam until we’re simply holding hands. Then I explain that we’re hoping to explore the town and check out a few local wines.

  “Happy to help,” she assures me, then pulls out a map and a red pen. “The local wineries are scattered around the area,” she tells us, “but many of them have tasting rooms in town or a presence in the pubs or restaurants.”

  “I took a stroll this morning after we unpacked,” Reg says. “Lovely town.”

  “How smart of you to unpack,” I hear Sam say from behind me. I frown, not sure what she means, then have to force myself not to stiffen in surprise when she presses against my back and slides her arms around my waist. I feel her breasts, soft against me, and the pressure of her body against my ass.

  “Ah, yes,” I say in response to the woman’s suggestion that she highlight the places she thinks we’d most enjoy. “That would be very helpful.”

  “Leo and I planned to unpack. But we got sidetracked.” She giggles—a very unSam-like sounds—and I about lose it when her body rises up, rubbing cat-like against mine, and her tongue traces the back of my ear, sending coils of shimmering heat spiraling through me. “We’re always getting sidetracked,” she murmurs, her voice suggesting that we’re about to be sidetracked right now.

  “That’s your fault, sweetheart,” I say in the kind of voice I’ve only used in a bedroom. I tug her around, so that she’s beside me, our arms around each other. “You are far too distracting.”

  As Sam seems to melt against me, I return the woman’s charmed smile—I imagine she sees a lot of affectionate couples—then turn to Reg.

  I deliberately shift my expression from dreamy to casually polite. “Sorry. Our friends always give us shit for too much PDA. But we just can’t help it.”

  A muscle in his cheek twitches. “Well, you’re still in that new phase. Totally understandable. I’m sure you’ll be able to keep your hands to yourselves soon enough.”

  I flash a thin smile. Maybe he is the devil after all. He’s definitely a prick. “I wouldn’t say we’re new, would you, baby?” It’s a risk, because I have absolutely no idea how long ago they broke up. But since he’s engaged now, I figure it’s worth a shot.

  “Not new at all.” Her eyes lock on mine, and right then I really could drown in those chocolate depths. “Amazing that almost four months can feel like yesterday.”

  “Four—” Reg stops himself and spreads his hands, his handsome face marred by a plastic smile. And that’s when I know how long they’ve been apart. Right at four months.

  “That’s great,” he says flatly. “And I hope she didn’t bore you too much talking about me. We had an amicable split, but these things still hurt.”

  “Oh.” I intentionally furrow my brow. “That’s really decent of you to worry about her—and us. But it’s all good. She didn’t even mention your name until Cherry invited us to the wedding. And I promise,” I add in what I hope sounds like a manly, conspiratorial voice, “I’m working very hard to make sure she doesn’t have the time or the inclination to think about any man who came before me.”

  I can practically feel Samantha vibrating with amusement as Reg’s face turns an interesting shade of puce.

  “Well,” he finally says, “I’m glad you two found each other.”

  “Yeah,” I say, brushing my thumb over her lips as she makes a show of sighing happily. “So are we.”

  Chapter Six

  “I’m still seeing his face,” Sam says, hooking her arm through mine as we move on to our third tasting room. Although, honestly, stumble might be a better description.

  Reg has not, thankfully, been the only topic of conversation during our exploration of the charming Main Street area. On the contrary, we’ve covered a variety of Fredericksburg-inspired topics, including wine, wildflowers, folk art, women’s clothing, leather goods, country music, architecture, and even naval aircraft carriers thanks to the Pacific War Museum.

  Now, we’re heading to a local bar that we’ve heard distills its own whiskey. Possibly not the best plan on top of two wine-tastings of three flights each, but the goal is to experience the town in the hours we have before the festivities kick in.

  “Four months,” she continues, then giggles when I say that it seems like only yesterday.

  This whole shift back to Thorne came about when the sommelier at our last stop asked how long we’d been dating. Sam’s eyes went wide, but I have to hand it to myself, because I pulled that story right back out of the vault where I’d dropped it. And it was worth it when I saw Samantha’s smile.

  “Thanks,” she’d said as we worked our way through the flights.

  “For what?”

  “For staying in character even though we’re not around anybody who matters.”

  “You matter.” The words had just slipped out, true but probably not prudent. Not the way I think I meant them. And that was a way I couldn’t think about. Not then. Because more and more, Samantha Watson was getting under my skin. And I still wasn’t sure what to do about that.

  “I just mean your mission,” I said, backtracking. “I’m all in, and that means I’m staying in character twenty-four/seven.”

  “All right,” she’d said, her voice a little reedy from alcohol. “I shall hold you to that.”

  She’d nodded, as if we’d just sealed some deal, but before I could press her on
it, she shifted the conversation to Cherry and asked if we should get her some sort of hostess gift while we were out and about. “I brought a wedding present, but I’ve never been to a destination wedding before.”

  Since that wasn’t really my department, I listened—enchanted—while she worked it out for herself, finally deciding to get her a best friend gift that was entirely separate from the wedding goings-on.

  That’s part of what we’re doing now. Searching out a fun and funky—Sam’s words—gift as we make our way to the whiskey bar.

  “Whoa, whoa,” I say, when I see the sign for The Oak Room, the bar we’ve been aiming for. She’s moved ahead, so I tug her back, and she does a dance style twirl into my arms. Laughing, I dip her, to the delight of a passing couple who pauses long enough to applaud.

  “We are so wasted,” she whispers to me, after we’ve bowed to our audience and are heading inside.

  “Nope,” I correct. “This is all part of the plan. We need to be comfortable together.”

  She tugs me out of the doorway, then hooks her arms around my neck. Her body is warm, and not just from the lovely spring weather. And her lips—glossed with a strawberry balm she bought in a cute shop on the last block—glisten with invitation.

  “I’ve been comfortable around you my whole life, Leonardo Vincent Palmero. Is that really news to you?”

  Her voice is so soft I can almost tell myself that I’m imagining the words. But I know I’m not, and my breath catches in my throat as I gamely try to fight temptation. Because at the moment, there is nothing I want more in the world than to taste her.

  “Table for two?”

  The bright, cheerful voice pulls me back to reality. Sam, too, I realize, when she takes a step back, her face flushing pink. “No,” she whispers. “No, actually we can’t stay. We, um, just came in to buy a bottle of whiskey. We heard it’s really good, and, um, well, it’s a present.”

  “No problem at all,” the clueless hostess says. “We do a great gin, too, and you get a discount if you buy two.”

  “Sure. Great. Perfect.”

  “Fab! I’ll be right back. You can meet me at the register.”

  As the girl heads to the back, I tilt my head in question, but Sam only shrugs. “It’s getting late, and I should shower before tonight’s cocktail party. And, you know. Do we really need more drinks when tonight is all about toasting the couple?”

  I nod my agreement, even though what I want to say is that hell yes we need more drinks, because I’m not allowed to have this woman, and that means I want to be numb. But all I say is, “Right. Of course. Honestly, I may take a walk while you clean up. Clear the alcohol haze out of my head.”

  “Sure. Great idea.”

  It was a great idea, because as much as drinking myself to numbness sounded like one hell of a plan, it was also doomed to failure. Drinking lowers inhibitions, and right now I needed to keep a tight hold on my self-control. Not an easy task considering it was Sam I wanted to hold onto.

  Honestly, what the hell was I thinking? Not about Brody, that was for damn sure. More than that, as much as Sam tempts me—and she tempts me a lot—I don’t want a random hook-up with someone important to me.

  Hell, I don’t want a hook-up at all. Not with her, not with anybody. This isn’t a dry spell that I’m going through—I know that. I just haven’t let myself think about it. But the bouncing from bed to bed with no real connection isn’t just getting old, it’s gotten boring. Meaningless.

  But there’s nothing boring or meaningless about Samantha.

  And she deserves a hell of a lot more than what little I have to offer.

  Which means that what’s supposed to be a light and easy weekend of role-playing with the little girl I used to tease is turning out to be not so easy after all.

  Because damned if I don’t want her.

  And that is exactly what I can’t have.

  Chapter Seven

  The resort is huge, but I intend to walk every square inch of it over the next sixty minutes. I’ve got two water bottles with me, and I take long swallows from each, hoping the liquid and the motion will wash the alcohol right out of my system—not to mention the lingering effects that Samantha’s left on my now all-too-tense body.

  I see Reg as I set out. He’s in one of the converted stables, and the entrance to his unit faces the pool. His door is clearly visible from our back gate, which is where he’s standing as I leave Samantha to enjoy her shower in peace. Although to be honest, my motives for leaving weren’t entirely altruistic. The idea of being alone in the room while she’s naked and soapy wasn’t doing my tightly-strung body any favors.

  I nod to Reg, and for an uncomfortable moment I think he’s going to try to catch up with me. But I adjust my ear buds, pretend I haven’t noticed him signaling me to hold up, and keep on walking. By the time I glance back, he’s nowhere to be seen.

  I feel no guilt. After all, I don’t like the guy. More important, my role here is to be Samantha’s devoted arm candy. And that’s a role best played at her side.

  I quickly banish thoughts of Reg from my mind, but despite my good intentions, Sam lingers in my head for the entirety of my walk. I think about her as I wave to Cherry, wondering how their friendship will change and if Samantha will ever marry. The guy would be a lucky bastard, that’s for sure, and I tell myself that the tight knot in my stomach isn’t jealousy. Not by a long shot.

  I think about her on the grassy lawn with the long stone table and fairy lights strung in the trees. The sun hasn’t set yet, but it’ll be twilight when the cocktail party starts, and the place will look magical. Samantha, I think, deserves all the magic she can get.

  I think about her as I once again pass the pool, imagining her silky body cutting through the water, her long hair hanging in wet strands as she steps out, her nipples hard beneath a thin, white bikini.

  And, damn me, I think about her as I step through the gate back into our private garden. She’ll be out of the shower by now, and I’d caught a glimpse of a flirty red cocktail dress as she’d unpacked. I hope she’s wearing it tonight. It will bring out the hints of red in her dark brown hair.

  The drapes are drawn, so I try the door quietly in case she’s taking a nap. It’s unlocked, and I gently pull it open, then ease past the curtain.

  The sitting area is empty, so I head toward the bedroom, only to stop dead in my tracks the moment I hit the threshold.

  She’s standing right there in front of a chest of drawers, her back to me, wearing nothing but a towel. There’s a mirror mounted above the chest, but I already know that the angle of that wall is such that it doesn’t reflect the doorway.

  I should cough. Speak. Do something. But I don’t. I simply stand there as she opens the top drawer, pulls out something red and flimsy that I assume is a pair of panties, then reaches between her breasts, loosens the towel, and lets it drop to the floor.

  I suck in a breath, stunned out of my stupor by my overwhelming desire to touch her. Her body’s not perfect by traditional standards. Sports Illustrated won’t be coming to call. But by God, I’ve never seen anyone lovelier. Her legs have already enchanted me, but now her hips claim me, too. They’re narrow, but well defined by her small waist, just the right size to get my hands around. And her ass is more rounded and firm than it seems when she’s wearing denim. I can imagine my hands cupping her rear as I pull her close to me, naked and ready and craving me.

  I almost moan, then force the sound to stay in my throat, not wanting her to know I’m there. Wanting another few seconds of this forbidden moment.

  Then I realize she’s not moving at all. The hand with the red silk is still extended. Her shoulders haven’t shifted. She’s not even breathing.

  She knows I’m behind her.

  A wave of self-loathing washes over me. I have no right to invade her privacy like this. I owe her more than an apology, but damned if I can find the words.

  I’m searching for something to say when she slowly turns her
head, and I hold my breath, expecting her to bend for the towel. To cover herself, then lay into me, and I’m prepared to do nothing but weather the blows.

  But she doesn’t bend. And it’s not just her head that she turns toward me. She shifts her entire body, her arms at her sides so that no part of her is covered. Her breasts are firm, her nipples erect. The muscles in her belly quiver, the only hint that she’s the slightest bit nervous, and her slightly spread legs put her lovely waxed pussy on display. I suck in air, and damned if I can’t look away. She’s incredible. She’s everything, and I realize my mouth is open, but there aren’t any words. I have no idea what to say, and I’m aroused and ashamed and astounded all at the same time.

  “Hey,” she says, the heat in her voice giving me all the permission I thought that I lacked. She takes a step toward me, then another and another, until she’s right in front of me, entirely bare and close enough to touch.

  I want to—so help me, I do—but despite an obvious invitation, I can’t move a muscle.

  “How was your walk?”

  “Fine.” My voice is a croak.

  “So was my shower. I missed you.”

  “Sam…”

  She comes closer, and I catch the scent of strawberries in the freshness of her damp hair. “It’s okay, you know.”

  But it’s not. I hear Brody’s voice in my head. Hell, I hear my own. I’m tired of hook-ups. Tired of sex for sex’s sake. And I absolutely do not want to fuck up half a lifetime of friendship between me and Brody or between me and Sam.

  “It’s not,” I say. “I’m sorry. You’re so damn tempting. But I can’t. I need—I just can’t.”

  I turn and walk back to the curtain, still covering the French doors. I want to look back, to see if I’ve leveled her. I hope I haven’t. Surely a woman with the balls to do what she just did will survive one freaked out man.

  But I can’t even turn back. Because the truth is, I want what she’s offering, and I’m afraid if I look, I’ll take it. But that’s something I just can’t do.