Be Still My Heart (2 page)

“I often wondered what men do when they refuse to take calls,” she informed him.

“How did you get in here?”

“Door.” She accompanied the word with a nod in that direction, as if he needed clarification.

“The door is locked.”

She moved her hands apart and twirled a long nail-file thing at him, catching the light with the motion. Stuart would’ve refilled his tumbler, but his hand might shake. That was unacceptable, given the circumstances.

“You picked it.”

It wasn’t a question. She nodded anyway.

“All right. I’ll bite.
Why
would you pick my lock?”

He didn’t know what brought the slight smile to her lips, he just enjoyed the reaction of his heart as it kicked into a faster beat.

“To meet you.”

Of course she had. All the advice was wrong. The future Mrs. Findlay hadn’t needed flowers and verse and walks on moonlit beaches. No. All he had to do was lock his door and get drunk.

Speaking of…

Stuart looked over at his multi-faceted glass. This was some kick-ass Scotch. He’d have to stock more of it.

“Doctor Stuart Emerson Findlay. The Third.” He cocked his head toward her and waited for the reply. And then decided another drink was in order after all.

“What are you a doctor of?” she asked.

No name exchange. Oddly enough he didn’t care. It was enough, given the view. And if he was going to dream this encounter he might as well have mystery as well.

“You like what you see, Doctor?”

“Philosophy”, he replied.

“You like to argue, do you?”

“Where did you learn of philosophy? Grammar school?”

He got another ghost of a smile from her with the resultant stutter in his heart rate again. He was ready to pay for those.

“You don’t look like you work out very much.”

Damn
. Why did every woman have to hold his physique against him? A man of his height couldn’t put much bulk on. No matter how much he ate or how many hours he wasted in a gym, sweating his balls off. He couldn’t change what was six foot five and 210. Add that to the width of his shoulders, and regardless of what he did, he just looked gangly. He usually tried to hide it with loose-fitting jackets and looser trousers.

“I swim.”
Damn it to hell
. Now, he sounded defensive. It was better to fill his glass and gulp it down.

“A swimmer. Hmmm.”

Stuart choked. And his groin responded, shifting into hard without using any of the first gears. It was that throaty sound she made, combined with the flash of leg as she flew around his desk and somehow managed to be right next to him, her buttocks perched atop the desk, while one stiletto settled onto the open drawer edge. Good thing his mother had passed on and the trustees were far away from this. They’d faint at the abuse of this particular antique.

“You don’t use enhancement drugs?”

She pulled his glasses off and set them on his desk blotter. Her next move was his tie sliding from beneath his vest, using such a sinuous motion it looked better than anything he’d seen in any movie. Felt better, too.

“I’m a doctor.”

“I know. Of philosophy.”

“Yes.” He agreed, so she wouldn’t move her well-manicured fingers from where they were taking the top button from his shirt apart and stretching the collar. Stuart held his breath as she moved to brush his hair back behind his ears. He was overdue on a trim and it probably looked especially stupid, but he didn’t care. She was leaning him backward in the chair and if he didn’t change a thing, she might be atop him next. His heart rate kicked up another notch in anticipation and he was beginning to think his trousers were too tight after all.

“Doctors have access to all kinds of drugs.”

“Vitamin pill. An occasional Glucosamine for joint stress. A rare acetaminophen pill for pain. Rarely.”

“That all?”

“And Scotch.”

Where were his wits? This was ridiculous. And then the future Mrs. Findlay used the hold she had on his head to angle it, lowered perfectly shaped and reddened lips toward him, and started breathing on the exposed skin of his throat. And if he didn’t change something and soon, he was going to cream his pants, just like he had way back in Junior High when Miss Selvig had leaned over him to help him with his math assignment, showing all the bosom an impressionable young male could want.

“You have attention deficit issues, Doctor.”

Damn and Bloody Hell!

His future wife had pulled back and was regarding him from the length of her arms. Fully stretched out. As if to prevent him ravishing her. Which was a complete joke.

“Doesn’t look like a problem to me.”

He licked his lips and watched her eyes widen, while what could be shivers ran her entire frame. Or something. Stuart had the exact same reaction, and felt each one, since he had his hands about a slim waist, wrinkling the silk into a pattern of male fingers. She was right about the attention thing. He couldn’t even remember reaching for her.

“There’s a call for you on line three, Doctor Findlay.”

The intercom cracked to life, proving everything in this dream was imagination. It had started with the Scotch. And he was buying more of it.

“Doctor Findlay?”

His dream woman stretched onto her belly for the button, putting silk-covered ass and thighs right in his line of vision, and Stuart had a full appreciation of toned female. Especially this one.

“I already informed you to hold my calls, Miss Barclay.”

His voice came out of her, and it wasn’t his pleasant voice. He had to change that. He felt very pleasant. And very sensitive. As if everything on his body got primed the moment she’d touched him. Stuart shoved up onto his feet, the chair glanced off the high glass window at his back, and he leaned into this dream woman, putting engorged male right against that toned ass, giving her full scope of what she’d brought into play and what he expected of it as well.

“Oh. I forgot,” the intercom answered.

“It’s a good thing you’re my cousin, Darcie. A very good thing.”

What the hell?
Stuart had both hands spread onto the desk top and his mind fogged but still managed to hear his voice coming out of this female speaking of things only he should know.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Change of plans, Miss Barclay.”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“I want you to hold all my calls for…a span.”

“A span?”

Darcie Barclay sounded shocked. Stuart should be feeling it as well. He wasn’t. He was trying to rein back full male desire and losing. It must be that attention deficit thing.

“I’ve decided to take a sabbatical.”

The future Mrs. Findlay kept speaking and she just kept using his voice. He’d ponder it later when he woke. Or sobered. Or whatever.

“A what?”

“It’s a vacation. I’ll be gone…some time. And I won’t be taking any calls.”

“Some time?”

“You might want to consider taking the same vacation time, Miss Barclay.”

“Are you serious?”

Was he?

“Close the office for the day. And don’t bother me again. That’s an order.”

The woman lifted her hand from the button and turned to look over her shoulder at him, sending his heart rate into complete overdrive. Maybe if she wasn’t wearing a figure-skimming suit. And maybe if her hair had been up in a tight bun. And maybe if she hadn’t been the most sexually exciting creature in existence. Maybe then, he could control what was turning into raging lust. But he doubted it.

“I never take vacations,” he informed her.

“You are now.”

“Where am I going?”

His brain wasn’t functioning and her words were getting confused with the amount of buzz accompanying them. Or maybe it was just the perfect red-tinted lips that were curved around each word. Or maybe it was that attention deficit thing again.

“Mediterranean. Caribbean. Indian Ocean. Anywhere warm. Yacht.”

Words again, when he wanted a kiss. Hell, he’d give his trust fund for a kiss from those perfectly formed and sensual lips. Everything on him was urging it. He could swear she was even pursing for it while spouting words at him. And then some of them filtered through what was left of his consciousness.

Water. Ship. Not a chance.

“I get seasick,” he mumbled. It wouldn’t be remotely romantic. And if he tried dosing himself with medicine, he’d just be comatose.

“You need to release me,” she said next, using a sultry low voice he hadn’t heard before.

“I don’t think so,” Stuart replied.

The next moment he was flat on his back, the desk shaking with the power of his landing, while his chest complained sharply as well. Lack of air was known to cause that. His fingers felt like needles pricked each finger pad. That must be what woven silk felt like when it spun against skin in lightning fast movement. Stuart had a moment to suck for air before she was atop him, encasing his hips in prisons of lightly tanned thighs, and using his necktie so she could raise him in order to slam her lips to his. And that just made fireworks rocket off his skull.

God, that was good Scotch.

Not possible. Not probable. Not acceptable. And add in that it wasn’t feasible. She hadn’t just felt
something
…amazing. Not with this…doctor. She’d been told her mate would come and she couldn’t fight it. But it couldn’t be Doctor Findlay. No. She refused to believe it.

“They’ll have the jet fueled and ready.” Vaughn’s voice filtered through the enclosure.

“Good.”

“What? We’re going flying now? No. I really must protest this time. I get air-sick.”

“It’s not an issue, Stuart. Not anymore.” Sasha answered, doing her best to ignore the tremble in her voice. She didn’t dare look at him again. The slight trickle of blood on his lower lip was too massive an offering. The urge was impossible to fight. She already knew that from when she’d opened the cut in the first place and nearly drowned in the ecstatic feel from the first taste of him.

Sasha sat poised in her side of the limo, keeping an eye on him. Not him. Oh please. No.

She hadn’t realized how very tall he was. Nor how heavy. Nor how handsome now that he had his glasses off and his hair slightly mussed. And his tie askew. Not to mention where his shirt gapped, showing very nice pecs and what felt like one solid abdomen.

It wasn’t possible. Doctor Findlay didn’t look like a man capable of hiring an assassin to kill Prince Hussein Ada Majin. Regardless of the evidence she’d gotten. That assassin had lasted longer than she’d liked, but had given up the IP address finally. And that had led her directly to this fellow’s office. And no. She still refused to believe it.

“Well, something’s an issue. I can’t just fly off with you, as entertaining as that sounds. I have to make plans. Get reservations. Find an ATM. Get my passport. Pack an overnighter. A razor. Essentials like that. Sounds like I’ll need swimwear, too. Bugger that. I’m guessing you don’t wear any and I’m game. But I’m going to need sunscreen. Lots of it.”

“You worry too much.”

“You’re joking, right? I don’t even have my toothbrush.”

“You won’t need one.”

“What? I’ll have you know I practice excellent dental hygiene. I get regular check-ups and follow a regimen that includes a toothbrush, floss, assorted mouthwashes—”

The last word ended in a gasp. She had him slammed into the seat; her knees locked about his thighs, and her right hand wrapped about his throat, wondering why there wasn’t the slightest inkling to squeeze. His eyes were intense blue, wide and alert, while his heart thrummed an erratic beat against her left palm, which rested on his chest.
Damn everything!
It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair, but everything about this man assaulted her. Sasha’s eyelids sagged as she bent closer, inhaling perfect male aroma. Her vision dipped to the slit on his lower lip, puffing just slightly with sting. A drop of blood welled as she watched, glistening as it called to her. An aura seemed to surround him, including her in its glow, granting such bliss she narrowed her eyes against it. He was her mate. He had to be. Sasha felt her fangs lengthen, cutting into her inner tissues and drawing blood, while her lips formed a pout to cover it.

“All right,” he told her. “No toothbrush. Shaving’s over-rated as well. Got it.”

And then he winked. It was such a surprise, Sasha pulled back while her canines retracted. She sucked at the cut absently and blinked him back into focus. He didn’t look remotely frightened. Just more mussed. And that made him much more adorable. She frowned.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re not frightened?”

“Hell no. I’m just hoping I get some of this committed to memory before I wake up.”

“You think you’re dreaming?”

“I’m thinking it’s more on the line of a fantasy. I’m a doctor, you know. Of philosophy. Oh. I also have a Masters in Chinese Anthropology. We sort of skipped over that. This doesn’t mean I’m an over-achiever who spent a lot of time in universities. Perish the thought. It was more on the line of an easy means to escape the constant supervision of very wealthy guardians. I’m rambling. Which is another oddity. I’m normally tongue-tied and clumsy around women, especially beautiful women, and that computes to having zero imagination and even less experience with fantasies such as this one. Please. Don’t stop.”