Melt Into You (10 page)

He wondered if Natasha was having an affair with him.

Damon didn’t think she was the type to cheat on her marriage vows, but weirder things had happened on business trips. Especially in Las Vegas. The idea felt disconcertingly possible. And disappointing, too. Damon treasured his notion of Natasha’s infallibility. He liked her integrity and her poise. Sometimes, he needed her better qualities to stand in for his.

Tonight was one of those times.

“There’s not much room for a workshop,” Natasha went on in her expert way. “It must have been standing-room only.”

She didn’t know
.
She hadn’t heard
. A sense of overwhelming relief flooded him. Until that moment, Damon hadn’t realized exactly how much he hadn’t wanted Natasha to see him the way everyone else had seen him today: as a gigantic public failure.

The truth was, his varietal chocolate workshop had been a debacle. The B-Man Media footage of Damon—basically having an on-camera meltdown while semi-drunkenly trying to devise an impressive new flavor of truffle on the fly—had already gone viral. It was on the CNN news crawl. It was the talk of the conference. It was fueling rampant schadenfreude in the chocolate industry. Worst of all, the resulting gossip—or maybe just Damon’s incompetence itself—had even made his mother cry!

Damon still couldn’t get over that. His mother had
cried
. His father had looked tight-lipped and dissatisfied. No matter what Damon had said—for the first time in his life—it hadn’t helped. In fact, the only person who initially
hadn’t
seemed to find Damon’s colossal screwup reason enough to ridicule, reproach, or simply abandon him was Tamala, the pastry chef—and soon enough, Tamala had shown her true feelings for him, too.

At least she hadn’t brought a crème brûlée blowtorch ...

To be sure his one-person reprieve was real, Damon called out warily to Natasha. “You didn’t see the footage online?”

“I told you, I was on a date,” she said. “Remember Scott?”

“Remember being married?” Damon couldn’t help frowning. He was that disillusioned. “What about ...”
Hell
. He couldn’t remember her husband’s name. Pedro? Patrick? Pacey?
Pacey
sounded right. But no—Pacey was on
Dawson’s Creek
. Damn it. When it came to Natasha’s husband, Damon had some kind of mental block working against his usually excellent powers of recall. “... your husband?”

Natasha rounded the corner. She saw him. Her eyes widened.

It wasn’t too late to apply some charm. “Um, ta-da!”

“‘Ta-da’?” Arching her brows, Natasha examined him—at length, and once by turning her head to view him upside down.

She sighed. The fact that Natasha had been through a lot with him showed, because she was otherwise completely unfazed by his compromising position. “I don’t think you have any room to judge me with all these probing questions about my husband, Damon.” She pointed at him. “You’re tied up, naked, covered in chocolate, and decorated with strategically placed—” She paused. “What
is
that, exactly?”

“Nougat. It’s modeled nougat.” Helpfully, Damon aimed his chin at his groin, where Tamala had outfitted him with a makeshift confectionary Speedo. At the time, he’d thought it was strange, but he’d been up for it. Now, he frowned. “You might be surprised to learn that nougat is
not
as warm as it looks.”

“I see. Anyway,” Natasha said, crossing her arms in a “you’re headed to the principal’s office” fashion, “the point is, you’re hardly being ... restrained yourself at the moment.”

“Actually, I’m being
quite
restrained at the moment.” Damon tugged at the red velvet souvenir scarves that bound him to the bedroom’s chaise. With an exuberance he definitely didn’t feel, he gave Natasha a smile. Maybe he could wriggle his way out of this by joking. “You know, in the ‘tied up’ sense of the word.”

“Right. ‘Tied up.’” Natasha didn’t seem amused.

She also didn’t seem, it occurred to him, very interested in the fact that he was essentially naked. Damon didn’t get it. Women
liked
seeing him naked. He typically returned the favor.

He knew Natasha had noticed his physique a time or two; he wasn’t blind
or
oblivious to a certain ... underlying sizzle between them. It had been there from the start, from the day they’d met in his office. But she was married.
And
she was his assistant.

Despite his current predicament, Damon
did
try to be good sometimes. He always had his philosophies involving Pop-Tarts, kung fu, and
not
sleeping with married women to fall back on.

Doing anything else—like seducing Natasha into abandoning her wedding vows—would have ultimately made her unhappy. Making Natasha unhappy, on purpose, was where Damon drew the line.

It was a good thing she possessed an oversize quantity of tolerance when it came to his antics, he realized. Because otherwise, he might have found himself making her unhappy a lot.

But Natasha had never given him a single indication that she was bothered by coming to his rescue. She’d always seemed unfailingly patient, tirelessly proficient, and brilliantly ingenious. She’d backed him up time and again. She’d never even revisited her threat to leave him if he took things too far.

But just in case she was toying with the idea ...

“So ... this isn’t ‘it,’ is it?” Damon asked, just the way he always did. If he hadn’t literally been bound into immobility, he would have given a carefree gesture toward his outrageous position, too. Because even though he desperately needed reassurance from Natasha—tonight more than ever—that didn’t mean he had to tip his hand overtly. He was tougher than that. “This isn’t the thing that finally makes you leave, is it?”

“This ...” Dismissively, she gestured at him. “... thing?”

“Yes.” For the first time today, inexplicably, Damon felt ashamed. He’d survived the workshop meltdown. He’d endured the crushing looks from his parents, colleagues, and friends. He’d even managed to swagger his way through his later encounter with Tamala. But seeing Natasha looking at him that way nearly broke his spirit. Defiantly, he eyed her. “Yes,
this thing
,” Damon said again. Then, just to be excruciatingly clear—because that would make Natasha’s inevitable reassurance twenty times more valuable, and also because the world loved a man who was willing to risk it all on a dare, and
he
was definitely that man, above all—Damon added, “This thing that involves me being tied up, naked, covered in chocolate, and sporting a nougat thong.”

“Right. I get it.” A pause. “If you had known it
was
the thing that might make me leave,” Natasha asked, gazing at him through dark and unfathomable eyes, “would you still have done it?”

What a ridiculous question. Of course he wouldn’t have.

Damon tried to chuckle. “Well, it’s not
every
day a man gets invited to become a real-life, chocolate-covered, finger-painting palette in a naughty game of bondage taste testing.”

Not that the situation had gone down remotely in that way, he knew. Tamala had invited herself in, gotten him all worked up, taken her time seductively painting him all over with bold Cote d’Ivoire and honeyed Carenero Superior, then snapped a few compromising photos with her cell phone and taken herself away.

Apparently, Tamala had wanted retaliation. Or leverage, in case her association with his workshop threatened her job. Damon wasn’t sure exactly what Tamala had wanted. Either way, it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was Natasha ... and making sure she forgave him, released him, and maybe even smiled at him.

Preferably, in that order. His unwanted chocolate coating was beginning to harden. Soon he’d be homemade Magic Shell.

“You ought to try a lick,” he joked. “I taste delicious.”

Natasha’s eyes flickered, but still she didn’t move.

Humor was a gamble. Damon knew that. His situation was tenuous. But if anyone could get away with cracking wise at that moment, it was him. He’d always been blessed with an unfair share of charisma—and a lifetime supply of get-out-of-jail-free cards, too. He’d used them time and again, even with Natasha.

Obviously, a crueler woman—a woman like Tamala, who’d exacted her revenge on him with the help of his own dense, clueless, horny, and always affection-craving self—would have walked out on him already. She would have left him (and had) for a hapless member of the housekeeping staff to discover sometime tomorrow. But Natasha would never have been so cruel to a hotel employee. She was too kind. Too considerate. Too giving.

She would, it turned out, be cruel to
him
, though.

“Yes, Damon,” Natasha said. She spoke clearly and yet somehow he still couldn’t believe it. “This
is
the thing that makes me leave you.”

He felt as if he was hearing her from underwater. Maybe he had chocolate couverture in his ears. Just in case, Damon decided to brazen out the conversation. She’d probably been kidding anyway. That was the relationship they had. “Well, you can take that ten pounds of tempered milk chocolate with you, if you want. God knows, it didn’t do me a damn bit of good today.”

This time, Natasha appeared even stonier. He’d meant she could take the chocolate with her because it hadn’t helped him create something amazing to impress the world with. He’d meant it hadn’t helped him wow his father or secure his future at Torrance Chocolates. But Natasha didn’t know that, because she was the only person on the entire freaking planet who didn’t already know about his humiliating workshop-based breakdown.

Vaguely, Damon wondered if this was what hitting bottom felt like. But then he remembered:
he
was
him
. He was fine!

At a loss for another quip, Damon gazed directly at Natasha.
Yes, Damon. This
is
the thing that makes me leave you
, he heard again, if only in his desperate, befuddled mind, and he knew that that couldn’t be what Natasha had said, because that would be bad. Bad things never happened to him. He didn’t want this to be happening ... thus, it wouldn’t occur. It couldn’t occur.

In the silence, Natasha stared at him, almost as if she was waiting for more. Damon could have sworn there were tears in her eyes ... except that was impossible, too. Natasha had nothing to be upset about.
He
did. He was the one who was tied up, wasn’t he?

“Hey, don’t cry,” Damon joked. “You weren’t even there. You’ll have to get the workshop director’s cut on DVD. It comes with bonus footage of me making an ass of myself in public!”

But Natasha didn’t hear his last, despairing joke. Instead, from far across the room, she gave a mystifying, muffled sob.

“I can’t stand this anymore, Damon,” she said. “You, me, all these ... situations you get yourself into. I can’t do it.”

Well.
That
couldn’t be good. “I know,” Damon began, trying his best to sound contrite while simultaneously racking his brain to remember what Jason had said to him this morning. “I’ve been on a bender. It’s not good. You want to go to bed early!”

“No, I don’t want to go to bed early.” Her quizzical look was replaced by a mighty sniffle. She sighed. Then, before Damon could guess what was happening, Natasha hurried to the chaise.

She dropped beside it, then began untying the red velvet scarves with hasty, jerky motions. Were her hands ...
shaking
?

He didn’t want her to shake. Not like this. Not because of him. As soon as Natasha had freed his arm, Damon caught hold of her hand. Cradling it, he peered intently into her face.

Immediately, he discerned that those
were
tears. Uh-oh.

“Natasha, I’m sorry! I know things have been a little out of control lately. But it’s got nothing to do with you.
You’re
—”

Wonderful. Amazing. The only person who really “gets” me
, Damon meant to say. But Natasha interrupted him before he could.

“I’ll submit my formal resignation to Jimmy tomorrow, after I get back to San Diego.” Natasha pulled free the final knots, then plucked off the Liberace-worthy scarves. “You won’t have to tell him yourself. If he’s disappointed, it’ll all be on me.”

“No. See?” Feeling truly alarmed now, Damon nudged up her chin. “You’re still trying to take the fall for me! You’re still trying to protect me.” He gave her a fond smile. “That’s how I know you’re only kidding with this quitting stuff. You don’t mean it.”
God, he prayed she didn’t mean it
. “You could
never
mean it. You and me ... we’re a team. Together we’re like—”

“I quit, Damon. Listen to me: I quit,” Natasha said. “I’m leaving. I’m finished making excuses, finagling appointments, and juggling pouty ex-girlfriends for you. That’s it.”

He couldn’t comprehend it. “But I need you,” Damon protested. He wanted to get to his feet, but he couldn’t move. His legs had fallen asleep sometime during his vigil. “Natasha, I ...” He hesitated, searching for something that might make her stay. There was only one thing that always—
always
—worked in these situations. “I love you! I do. Please don’t go.”

Disbelievingly, she stared at him. “You love me.”

Eagerly, he nodded. Inwardly, he held his breath.

“I told you
never
to tell me you love me.”

Vaguely, Damon remembered that.
Don’t tell me you love me
, Natasha had stipulated during their initial meeting at Torrance Chocolates.
Don’t flirt. Don’t inform me of your sexual conquests or expect me to bail you out of them
. Well, three out of four wasn’t bad. Until tonight, he’d been batting .750.

“How else can I do it,” he asked, “except with words?”

“Easy. Don’t do it at all.”

“But I can’t just let you leave! How will I”—urgently, Damon cast about for something really convincing to tell her, something incontrovertible—“get through my day without you?”

“You’ll manage. You’re the luckiest man I know.”