His Wedding Date (The Second Chance Love Series, Book 2) (26 page)

If they just had a little time together, without all this craziness, he would make her believe. He wouldn't give up until he did.

For now, for this moment, it was enough to hold her close. Again, like that time on the riverbank after the plane had gone down, he didn't see how he could ever let her go.

Shelly wriggled around, trying to sit up, trying to pull herself away from him, and it made him furious all over again.

"Don't even think about it," he said, locking his arms around her.

No way was he going to let her go.

They were still sitting there like that when the sound of sirens came into range.

Standing in the parking lot, Brian and Shelly told the police what had happened. Then the police fanned out to see if they could locate Grant Edwards.

An officer who followed them back to Brian's house had more questions. The officer wanted names and phone numbers of all the firm's employees so he could check on them, as well.

Shelly left in the middle of that, feeling as battered emotionally as she did physically. She took aspirin for her head and found some cough drops that might help her sore throat. Then she did as Brian suggested and helped herself to the whirlpool tub in the bathroom, hoping it would loosen up her sore muscles.

She was too tired to cry, too mixed up to even figure out what she might cry about if she had the energy. Besides, her head already hurt, and crying would only make it worse. She soaked in the warm water until it turned cool enough to make her want to get out.

It wasn't until she'd dried off with a massive, dark-green towel that she remembered she'd never gotten any clothes out of her apartment.

She didn't want to put on the clothes she'd just taken off, so she got into the bathrobe that had been hanging on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. It was green terry cloth, a mile too big for her, and, just her luck, it smelled of Brian. The scent enveloped her as completely as the robe did.

God, was she ever going to get out of this man's house? Out of his robes and his shirts and his life?

Ultra-protective Brian was seriously messing with her head, and it was the last thing she needed. Holding her like he'd never let her go, like she meant the world to him and he'd been so scared of losing her? Kissing her the way he had that morning in the kitchen?

She heard a knock on the bathroom door and then, "Shelly?"

She sat down on the edge of the big tub and let her face drop into her hands. Oh, how she wished she'd made it to the bed in the next room without having to face him again that night.

"Shel? You all right?" He knocked again.

"I'll be out in a minute," she managed to say, dreading the moment when she had to open that door.

She was at the end of her rope. She couldn't take any more of this, and she desperately wanted to be alone. She needed time to gather her defenses, to try to put back together the shield she'd always worn when he was around.

It was probably a lost cause. She knew that. But he'd already seen more than he needed to know of how she felt about him.

"Shelly? Open the door."

She swallowed hard, forced herself to rise and walk past the double marble vanity to the door. The lock turned with a small click, and she barely had time to step back before he opened the door and stepped in.

He'd unbuttoned his white dress shirt all the way and pulled the tail ends loose from his jeans, leaving bare a two-inch-wide strip of tanned, muscled chest and stomach.

"You all right?" he asked.

She nodded, barely.

He must have been getting undressed for bed when he heard her in here, she decided. Shelly closed her eyes at the image of him walking in there, shedding his clothes—all of them, she suspected—and climbing into that big bed in the room behind him.

Her cheeks burned at the thought—that and being caught staring at him—even if he was staring back at her.

He was as baffled by all this as she was, with this combination of fear and adrenaline and being together constantly, leaning on each other the way they had. Still, he could turn her insides to mush with one look, one oh-so-light touch.

He'd been quiet in the car on the drive back to his house, and he hadn't touched her at all. But now... now he stood in front of her, watching her watch him, heating her blood with nothing but the look in his eyes.

He did want her. Shelly knew that. She didn't know why, and that was the big question. Maybe curiosity alone. Still, it was a sweet reward for all those years she'd wanted him, just to know that he wanted her now, as well.

And she was having trouble figuring out why she shouldn't let herself have one night with him. A night when he knew exactly who he was with, who he wanted, and that woman was her.

It might make it harder, in the end, when it came time to leave him.

But, she reasoned with herself, how much harder could it be? How much clearer could the memories she had of him be? They were etched into the surface of her brain. She would never forget him, never truly escape him.

So why couldn't they have this one night together? One she'd always dreamed of? One he'd cheated her out of before, when he'd been dreaming of someone else?

That last thought, and that alone, gave her pause when nothing else could have. She would not be a substitute for the woman he really loved.

Shelly found the courage then to look him in the eye.

He stood like a statute, not moving, barely breathing, his hands clenched tightly to his sides.

He was angry, she thought at first. But she'd believed that tonight in the car, too, at first. He had been angry then, but that wasn't all. She hadn't figured out what else was there, but whatever it was, she was seeing it again now.

That was curious, she thought, taking one step closer to him, watching him pull himself up a little straighter, his chest filling with the air he took in, his shoulders seeming just a little broader as he braced himself.

Braced himself for what?

* * *

Brian was fighting desperately for control and wondered if she realized it.

"I thought you'd gone to bed," he said finally, as if that explained why he could do nothing but stand there and stare at her.

He wondered if she realized how she looked, standing in his bathroom—so soft, so pretty, and sexy as hell. Her hair was still dripping, her skin a little flushed.

He was certain—enough that his throat tightened painfully—that she wasn't wearing anything but his bathrobe.

"Damn," he muttered. He tried to look away, but couldn't.

From the bedroom, he heard a soft, electronic whir. The music he'd turned on a moment ago, before he'd realized she was still in his bathroom. A second later, a soft, sexy saxophone played lazily in the background.

He had known the music playing that night in the hotel in Tallahassee—the song they'd danced to, the one they'd nearly made love to.

Sometimes, when torturing himself didn't seem like such a bad idea, he played it here at night. When he couldn't sleep, and he let himself think of her and the way she'd felt in his arms that night.

He watched her now and waited, wanting her all the more, thinking of her, soft and wet and naked inside that robe of his. He didn't see how he'd ever be able to wear it again without thinking of her in it.

The music rose higher, the melody distinctive and sensual. She recognized the song. He could tell by the way her chin came up just a fraction as she tried not to let him see that it bothered her to hear that song with him now.

The tension in the room kicked up another notch, past the point of being unbearable, right into the stratosphere.

She wasn't a foot away from him, less than the length of his arm. All he had to do was lift his arms from his sides and hold them out to her. He could have her close in a fraction of a second.

And then he'd be lost.

He was a man who prided himself on his self-control, his ability to think things through and to act on logic and reason rather than emotion. She'd robbed him of that, though he couldn't truly say he regretted it.

A woman he'd known for years, one he'd protected and looked out for and loved like a sister—she'd done this to him. She'd turned him inside out. She had him at the brink of breaking a vow he'd made to her and himself—that he wouldn't ever hurt her again and that he wouldn't come to her until he was sure of his feelings for her.

And right now he could be sure of so damn little.

That he wanted her so much he ached with it. That he was scared to death of losing her and determined to protect her in each and every way, even from himself. Those two things were all he could say for certain, and it wasn't enough—not for her.

But it was enough to keep him from closing the distance between them and hauling her into his arms. Because if he did, he'd never be able to let her go without making love to her.

He shook his head and threw up his hands, disgusted with himself and his own lack of control, but he didn't back away.

"I thought you'd gone to bed," he said again, trying to pry his eyes off her. "I thought all I'd have to do was make it past that closed door of the bedroom where you were sleeping. Thought I might actually be exhausted enough to sleep tonight. And even if I did dream about you again... Did you know I've been dreaming of you?"

"No," she whispered, pulling the robe tighter around her, cutting off his view of the shadowy hollow between her breasts, reminding him again of that awful, wonderful night they'd spent together.

He remembered the way he'd nestled his face against her sweet-smelling hair only moments before he'd fallen to his knees in front of her and buried his face in that space between her breasts.

They were so perfect, so sexy. He remembered the slight weight of them against his hand. Did he remember the way they'd tasted, as well? He thought he did.

Brian groaned again.

She was remembering, too. He knew it in some unexplainable, elemental way. And despite what he'd done to her before, she still wanted him.

He was infinitely grateful for that, even as he fought against the desire that rose so potently between them. Like a force field, it surrounded them. Like something that had its own mysterious source of energy, one that grew instead of lessened with time, it tightened its hold on them yet again.

"I do," he said. "I dream about you every night. And I thought the dreaming might be enough. I thought if I could walk past your door, I might make it till morning before I put my hands on you again." And with that, he took the first step. He took her hand in his and ran his thumb across the back of it.

Touching her at last, even in this small, simple way, was such a relief. He'd wanted this so badly, needed it more than he needed his next breath.

She was warm to the touch, and her hand was trembling. Or maybe it was his hand. Maybe they both were.

Brian realized it had been years since she'd touched him voluntarily. It used to come easily for them. A quick hug. A friendly kiss on the cheek. But it wasn't that way now. She went out of her way to avoid touching him in the smallest of ways. And he found himself wanting her touch, needing it.

He tugged on her hand, slipping it inside the ends of his shirt and pressing her palm to his chest, right over his racing heart. With his hand over hers, he held it there, wanting her to feel for herself what she'd done to him.

"I get up every morning," he told her, "hoping I can make it one more day without laying my hands on you, yet hoping at the same time that I won't. I know that once I let myself touch you, I'll have to pry my hands off you."

And that's what it was going to take tonight—prying his hands off her. He could do it. He would, if she asked him to. He found himself praying she wouldn't ask.

He allowed himself one step to bring his body closer to hers. Another, and her soft breasts would be nestled against his chest. It would take only a tug on the belt of that robe, a swipe of his hands to pull the sides apart, and he would have her right there, her skin to his, her heart pressed against his.

But he didn't do that. He didn't make that move yet. He stopped again, this time to wonder exactly what was in her heart.

He knew she had loved him once, with no encouragement from him and, due to his long involvement with Rebecca, with little hope they might have a future together. And he knew he must have hurt her over and over again. He swore silently, just remembering all the times he'd turned to her, his friend, his confidante, when he needed someone to talk to about whatever problem he and Rebecca were having at the time.

That had to have hurt in ways he couldn't imagine. And he wondered how much of her feelings for him had survived that and the events of that fateful weekend in Tallahassee.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said.

And he would hold that thought uppermost in his mind, far above the way his body yearned for her.

He would not hurt her again.

Her pretty brown eyes collided with his. It was the first time she'd looked him in the eye since he'd come into the bathroom. Was she scared? That part was easy enough to see. But the rest of it—he couldn't say.