All Over You (7 page)

“Are you close to your sisters?” he asked, knowing he was pushing it. Grace had already proven she was a very private person.

She shrugged, looked away. “Sure.”

He saw a flash of unhappiness in her eyes and wondered.

“What about you? Do you have a big family?” she asked.

“Two younger brothers,” Mac said. “Both of them happy-as-pigs-in-mud married with kids.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Now
you
sound jealous.”

“Absolutely. They’re the smart ones — knew what they wanted, went out and got it, and now they’re in clover. Why wouldn’t I be jealous?”

For a long time, he’d viewed his brothers as having mundane lives full of routine and obligation. Only lately had he begun to realize that they were content, even fulfilled, in a way that he’d never been.

She made a disbelieving raspberry noise. Quite a loud one, thanks to whatever she’d had to drink before he picked her up and the lion’s share of the bottle of wine they’d been enjoying. The couple at the next table looked across with a frown. Mac hid a smile behind his napkin.

“What have I done wrong now?” he asked, responding to her derision.

“You’re rich, famous and last year you were voted one of the sexiest men in America. And you’re jealous of them?” she asked disbelievingly.

“Guess it just depends on what you think is important in life. Do
you
think being on the cover of
People
magazine is the be-all and end-all?”

The waiter began clearing their plates and Grace eyed Mac assessingly.

“Why are you interested in directing?”

He blinked at the direct question. He remembered his earlier suspicion that she resented his moving into a second career. Not that he was doing that. He was just…dabbling.

“Change of scenery. Something a bit different.” He shrugged.

“Huh,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You’re a terrible liar for an actor.”

He spread his hands wide to signal his complete honesty.

“It’s the truth, I swear. You’re welcome to pat me down and see if I’m concealing a single lie.”

Her gaze flicked up and down his body, then she studied him over the rim of her wineglass. “Maybe you’re lying to yourself, too,” she said. “Either way, you’re still too good to be true.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

Why did he get the feeling he was about to feel the sting in the tail?

“Too good-looking. That body. Now you’re smart and nice and funny and modest, too. Something’s wrong,” she said.

“Wow. I should feel flattered, but somehow I’m not. That’s a real gift you’ve got there,” he said. He let his gaze drop to her breasts. Man, he hoped they were real. Was it possible he was going to get a chance to find out?

She shrugged a shoulder, the movement languid and relaxed. Her breasts swayed hypnotically.

“Four years of celibacy,” she said, as though that explained everything. “You make the preemptive strike early on, guys back off and you never have to fight with temptation. I’ve got a black belt in verbal self-defense.”

That got his attention.

“Four years without sex. Now who’s bullshitting,” he scoffed.

She sat up a little straighter, stuck her chest out a little more. “Four years, three months and five days, to be exact,” she said.

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“Because nobody with a body like yours could go four years without sex,” he said bluntly.

She shifted in her chair, made a huffing noise, frowned and then blinked.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean by that,” she finally admitted.

He didn’t say a word, just let his gaze roam, from her tilted green eyes to her lush, ripe mouth to her even lusher breasts and her tiny waist.

She blushed.

“Yeah, you do,” he said, unable to stop a slow smile from curving his lips. He was enjoying himself more than he had in a long time. She was prickly as hell, but he had a hard-on that desperately wanted to make her closer acquaintance.

“There’s no need to look so pleased with yourself.”

“Am I looking pleased with myself?” And there he was, thinking he was looking horny. For the first time in a long time.

“It’s not a skill test,” she said.

“Sorry?”

“Me being celibate. It’s not a challenge to you to try to get me into bed. It’s just a lifestyle choice I’ve made. End of story.”

“Believe me, rising to the challenge would be last on my list of reasons to get you into bed,” he said.

She froze, then her eyelids dropped to half-mast. “There’s a list?”

“A long one. Getting longer by the second.”

“What’s at the top?”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then to her breasts again. He smiled. He caught a brief glimpse of her tongue as she bit her bottom lip.

“Let’s just say there are a number of…items jostling for position,” he said.

Across the table, he could see her pupils dilate. The tem-perature at their table rose about ten degrees. Her breasts rose and fell as she took a deep, sudden breath. He felt as though he was witnessing something momentous — like standing on the brink of a volcano that was about to erupt.

“Dessert, sir? Madam?” the waiter asked, offering two slim, leather-bound menus.

Grace broke eye contact. Mac turned to the waiter, mentally raining down a million curses on the guy’s head. Did the man not realize that he was performing delicate work here, coaxing a self-confessed celibate back into the land of the living?

“Not for me, thanks.”

When he glanced across at Grace, he saw that she’d rescued her glasses from the table and that she was once more ensconced behind them.

Damn. The moment was gone. Possibly never to return.

“Not for me, either,” she said. “In fact, I’ve got an early start tomorrow….”

He could take a hint, even if it meant his boner was flying solo tonight. It was probably the smarter course, anyway. They had to work with each other. The wedding special was a big deal and she’d already shown she could be obstructive. No point in making things messier by crossing the line.

He shot one last regretful look at her breasts before turning back to the waiter. If only…

“Just the check, thanks,” he said resignedly.

T
HE FULL HORROR
of her behavior struck Grace as she walked out into the cool night air. The brisk ocean breeze was like a bucket of cold water — brutal and highly effective in cutting through the fuzzy shroud of alcoholic courage she’d woven around herself in an attempt to survive the evening.

She’d told him she was celibate.

Mac Harrison. A walking god.

And she’d told him he was gorgeous. Even that he had a hot body. God, he must think she was gagging for it.

And he would be right — she was.

The two glasses of wine she’d had before he arrived to pick her up had been supposed to keep her calm, in control. But she’d underestimated the power of nerves and a good Californian chardonnay on an empty stomach. By the time he’d appeared on her doorstep, she’d been feeling no pain at all.

Which had given her the
illusion
of being calm and in control. But the moment she stepped outside the restaurant and the chill night air rushed across her overheated skin, she saw the flaw in her strategy.

She’d made a fool of herself. She’d confessed her born-again-virgin status to him and she’d flirted shamelessly. Now she felt like the biggest moron to ever walk the earth. What must he be thinking? She’d really stuffed up spectacularly. First, her utter bitchiness during the day, now her inappropriate — drunken — fumblings over dinner. Talk about from one extreme to the other.

“Lord, please take me now,” she mumbled as she stared up at the starry sky.

“Did you say something?” Mac asked, turning away from his conversation with the valet.

“No,” she said quietly, feeling utterly miserable. She just wanted to be home, in her bed with the covers over her head and her eyes tightly shut. Then this would all be a dream, a horrible nightmare, and she wouldn’t have to endure the selected highlights that would no doubt be flashing across her mind for the next few months.

She shivered, rubbing her hands along her arms.

“Cold?” Mac asked. Before she could shake her head, he’d shrugged out of his designer denim jacket and was holding it out for her to slide her arms into.

Because it was easier to comply than to explain that it had been more a shiver of self-recrimination than actual cold, Grace poked her arms into the proffered sleeves. Immediately, he settled the jacket on her shoulders and she was enveloped in his warmth and his scent.

“Better?”

She forced a smile. “Thanks.”

It wasn’t his fault that she found him attractive. Well, not completely, anyway. He’d been born good-looking, so that part wasn’t his fault. But the working-out-to-achieve-a-perfect-body thing — that was definitely something she could lay at his door. And the good fashion sense — that was his fault, too, even if his taste came via a stylist. Then there was the witty dinner conversation, his taste in cars, his laugh and the mesmerizing intensity of his blue eyes. They were all definitely, definitely his fault. He could have been a cocky, egotistical jerk, like all the other stars she’d met. But no, he’d chosen to be charming. The irresistible bastard.

The Corvette burbled to a halt in front of them, valet behind the wheel, and Mac rested his hand on the small of her back as he guided her toward the passenger seat. Heat slithered along her veins from the brief contact.

So stupid,
she told herself.
So, so stupid.

But it was useless. She’d fantasized about having Mac Harrison and now here he was, sitting beside her, driving her home. Her body didn’t know the difference between fantasy and reality. She’d trained it too well.

Even though she knew nothing would happen, even though she knew it was insane to even consider that something might happen, her body was off and running.

She could feel her heart clamoring against her ribs. Staring out the side window, she was unbearably aware of the brush of her clothes against her skin. Beneath the protection of Mac’s coat, her nipples had hardened into two urgent peaks and she squeezed her knees together in a vain attempt to quell the slow ache that was growing between her thighs.

Images flashed across her mind: Mac’s superbly muscled chest, the firm perfection of his butt in jeans, the strength of his thighs.

God, she wanted him.

And she was
so
never going to have him.

“You okay? Not still cold?” Mac asked, shooting a look across at her as they stopped at a red light.

Cold?
She’d never been hotter. If he took off too fast, she was liable to slide off the seat.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

Surreptitiously, she snuck a peek at his thighs flexing and relaxing as he clutched to change gears, then accelerated away from the light.

Biting her lip, she focused her eyes higher, toward the substantial bulge in his crotch. She’d wondered about him so many times, how thick he was, how long, what it would feel like to have him inside her….

The screech of brakes behind them brought her back to reality and she tore her gaze away.

“Moron,” Mac said, glaring at the rearview mirror.

He might as well have been talking to her. Eyes fixed straight ahead, she spent the rest of the drive reciting the times tables in her head. Anything to distract her libido from the object of its persistent desire. But she felt as though she’d let the genie out of the bottle. It had been years since she’d flirted with a man, exchanged loaded glances, laughed knowingly at risqué jokes. She didn’t know how to backpedal, how to shove the genie back down where he belonged.

The genie wanted to get busy. And the chances of that happening were about a million to one.

She practically sprang from the car the moment it stopped in front of her apartment block.

“Thanks for dinner,” she blurted, but she saw with a sinking heart that Mac was getting out of the car.

Just her luck — she’d eroticized the only Hollywood hunk with old-fashioned manners.

Gritting her teeth, she scampered up the single flight of exterior stairs to her entrance porch. If they were teenagers, or even two normal people home after a night out together, she’d feel slightly nervous about the whole good-night-kiss thing. But she had no expectations where Mac was concerned. He was a star. She was…well, she was what she was — early thirties, too curvy, too busty, not pretty enough, veteran of too many dumpings to count. He may have flirted with her over dinner, but only because she’d been so tipsy that he hadn’t had much choice.

Desperately, she tried to call on her Bette Davis demeanor, but she was too rattled to pull it off.

“Okay. Thanks for dinner,” she said as she pushed her door open with trembling hands. “And, again, I’m sorry about today.”

And tonight,
she added mentally. God, how was she going to recover from tonight?

“Already forgotten,” he said. She couldn’t see his face properly in the dim light in the entrance porch.

“Well. That’s good,” she said stupidly. “Anyway, I’m dying to get into bed.”

She closed her eyes briefly as she heard her own words. She truly was not fit to be out without adult supervision.

“I mean, alone. Get into bed alone,” she clarified.

Offering a feeble wave of her hand, she stepped hastily toward her open door.

“Grace,” Mac said from behind her.

She froze. Despite all the common-sense lectures she’d given herself, despite all rational thought, she couldn’t help hoping against hope that he was about to say something incredibly sexy and romantic. Something straight out of one of her fantasies — maybe that he’d been unable to stop thinking about her all day. Or that he’d tried to fight it, but the attraction between them was undeniable. She’d even settle for “Yo, hottie” — anything that matched the unbearable desire-filled ache inside her.

“My jacket,” he said.

“Oh. Right,” she said.

It was ridiculous to feel disappointed. Crazy, even.

Turning toward him, she began to shrug out of his jacket, then winced as her long, dangling earring got caught on the collar. In vain she twisted her head and tried to free the snag.