One Last Hold (16 page)

Before this was all over, he was going to take her to bed. Where was his protective instinct now?

Seeing Caitlyn again brought back memories.
Too
many memories. She was very much alive and very much a person he’d loved. He grew up, slept with other women, but never had he fallen in love or felt what he felt with her. He thought, given time, he’d find a woman to spend the rest of his life with. He just wasn’t ready.

Caitlyn made him ready.

And that pissed him off.

Caitlyn preened in front of the mirror and refreshed her makeup. Wesley was on his way. She wanted to look good for him, wanted to knock his socks off. Why now? She didn’t know.

Of course she knew. She wanted Wesley to desire her, to beg for her body. Wanted to feel him, to be close to him, and desperately wanted to do crazy stupid things with him.

Going to bed with him would be crazy and stupid. But didn’t mean she couldn’t at least tempt him by looking good.

Wesley preferred to be interviewed here, in the dingy last-minute-before-the race motel. It would be near impossible to grant an interview in public without fans racing up to him. She figured he didn’t want to hold it in his trailer so he could leave whenever he was ready.

Her plan to expunge Wesley from her memory had gone seriously awry and she wondered what her life was going to be like when this was all over. She was falling for him all over again. Hard. Would she ever be the same after tonight?

A knock sounded at the door and she glanced in the mirror one last time. Her pulse somersaulted as she opened the door, even if she had just seen him an hour earlier.

He’d changed into something more comfortable but no less appealing. He wore a tight black shirt and a pair of dark jeans. He removed his cap and ran his finger through his already mussed hair before stepping through the door. He smelled clean but musky.

He hadn’t shaved, and she fought the urge to touch the dark stubble lining his face.

Sexy personified.

Caitlyn tried not to notice as they settled at the table. She clutched her notebook, forgetting all the words she rehearsed in her mind earlier and the questions she wanted to ask him. She inhaled a deep breath, trying to put herself into the persona she adopted when she interviewed people and trying to forget she was once in love with this man.

Once? Had she ever stopped loving him?

She stared at the page. She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t breathe him in.

“Adam thinks I should do a televised interview,” Wesley said.

Caitlyn glanced up. “Do you want to? I’m sure Blake would love to televise an internet broadcast.”

“I’d rather not.”

Caitlyn nodded and glanced down, drawing circles on her page before she caught herself. She preferred pen and paper over a laptop because it offered a deeper connection to her subject and her words, but she couldn’t allow the page to sidetrack her.

Wesley’s charisma was enough of a sidetrack.

“Do you want to tell me a little about the race, things you do to get ready for one?”

“Drivers don’t just jump in the car and drive. There’s so much more to it than that. Our days are filled with activity. We must be resourceful and multi-talented to deal with the day-to-day happenings.”

“Do you have a game plan before the big day?”

“Impossible. Nothing is planned. You have to focus on the here and now and expect the unexpected.” Wesley’s lips curled as he spoke. His eyes beamed as he rested his palms on the table, face up. Enthusiasm poured from him, and Caitlyn tried to portray it on the page so readers would understand how much Wesley loved to race.

She tried to maintain the steadiness of her hands as she wrote in her notebook. The steadiness of her heart was another story. She’d lost that a long time ago.

“What about wrecks?”

“What about them?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve always thought racing was so dangerous.”

“No more dangerous than anything else.”

“Going two hundred miles per hour isn’t more dangerous than anything else?” She hadn’t meant to bring this up, it was an interview after all, but the chance of an accident had always been her biggest fear for him.

“The cars are built for safety.” He folded his palms in, big sign that she was overstepping her bounds.

She bit back her retort, and kept going. This wasn’t about her. It wasn’t about her concerns for his safety.

And it damn sure wasn’t about her telling him that she’d love to see where their relationship could go, if they’d just try.

“Why do you race?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Why does anyone do it? Adrenaline, competition, thrills. Fans, winning, victory lane. There’s no way to describe how and why you do something you love.”

And there’s no explaining why you pursue someone you love who just didn’t love you back, but she wasn’t going to say that.

She took a deep breath. Usually her interviews became more personal. She wasn’t sure how personal to get with him. She knew a lot about him—at least she used to—but she was scared of asking him the wrong thing. She didn’t want to set him off.

“What’s your favorite color?” Caitlyn held a pen in her hand, poised to write, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. Her focus, though, was Wesley’s deep green eyes. Eyes able to pierce her and reach a part of her no one had ever been able to touch before. Something about the way he looked at her, like he saw only
her
, deep down, clear to her soul.

A hint of danger lurked in his eyes, a predator-like stance that made her sense he was ready to devour her, sexually and otherwise. A vulnerability that made Caitlyn yearn to take him in her arms, to be as close to him as possible. His gaze held no arrogance, no indifference, and no deceit.

Her throat felt parched. His eyes devoured every morsel of her power and well-being.

She couldn’t think of a decent thing to say. Thank God it was his turn to talk.

“My favorite color,” he said as he leaned across the table, closer to Caitlyn, “is the capricious color of your eyes.”

His lips were only inches from hers so that his breath licked against her skin. His eyes possessed her.

She clutched her pen in midair, frozen in space for a mere second. He touched her hand.

The pen fell.

“Blueberry,” he said as he trailed a light kiss across her knuckle, his eyes still magnetizing hers. Her heart stopped in her throat. “Dark and wounded. Cornflower blue, tantalizing with banter and witticism.” He kissed the tip of her pinkie and went on to taste each finger, slowly taking his time with each one. “Sea blue, bright and sparkling like the waves catching a sunset, when you’re happy.”

Caitlyn, entranced with his words, was amazed he even noticed her eyes and more amazed he practically recited poetry. Where had he come up with this?

“Storm clouds,” he continued as he stroked the inside of her palm. “Brewing with a passion and desire you’re too afraid to feel. Sometimes periwinkle, sometimes almost lavender and sometimes a sultry gray. Right now though, they are definitely–”

She pulled her hand away and scooted back in her chair. Thoroughly aroused, she squeezed her thighs tighter in an attempt to bury the spark.

“You’re full of it,” she said. “My eyes don’t change colors that much and even if they did, you wouldn’t notice.”

“What makes you say that?” He leaned back in his chair, taking the two back legs to its haunches, something they both used to get in trouble for when they were kids.

She shook her head and didn’t answer. The touch of his warm mouth on her fingers still burned in her core.

“I always notice your eyes.”

Caitlyn ducked under the table in search of her pen, a good attempt to conceal her red face. Her whole body burned. She spotted her pen and reached, feeling like an idiot. But at least it took her mind off everything else.

She straightened and smoothed her skirt, which she now regretted wearing. Ignoring him, she returned to her seat and adjusted her low-cut top.

“So,” she said as she scribbled
favorite color
on the tablet. “Your favorite color is blue?”

“Come on, Caitlyn, what’s with the interview? I thought you knew everything there was to know about me?”

“It’s been ten years,” she reminded him, this time finally looking at him as she straightened her rumpled hair and made an attempt to discount the object of her passion. “I thought your favorite color was black.”

“Why?”

“The old sports car you drove when we were teenagers, the one you used to keep nice and shiny, was black. Almost all of your fixer uppers were eventually painted black. And you wear the color a lot.”

“I look damn good in black.” He grinned and winked.

Caitlyn agreed, but then again, he looked damn good in anything.

“What’s
your
favorite color?” he asked.

“Green,” she said and immediately regretted it.

His smile spread wider, more roguish, if that were possible. He shot the chair back down on all fours and folded his hands on the table.

“Oh? Any particular shade?”

She wasn’t going to be baited by him. She could describe the color of his eyes as immaculately as he had described hers. The way they changed from light to dark and every shade in between, from delight to anger, aloofness to desire, tantalizing to satiating. Deep, dark emerald green in passion, olive green when he became perturbed and a light, apple green, like now, when he teased.

“We’re not here to interview me.” She adjusted her body to fit the contours of the seat more comfortably. “What’s your favorite food?” Surely food would be a safe subject.

“You know I’m a meat man. Steak and potatoes mostly. Builds big muscles.” To prove it, he demonstrated by flexing a well-toned bicep.

She grinned and rolled her eyes. “Favorite fruit?”

He lowered his arm and looked into her eyes again. “Blueberries. Definitely blueberries. Or strawberries,” he added as his gaze trailed to her lips.

She shied away, writing in her notebook. Wesley reached up and touched her lips softly with his fingertip. Her gaze flew to his and she tossed her pen. It bounded off the table to the floor, again.

“Wesley!” She gripped his hand, was tempted to squeeze him toward her, but pushed it away instead. “Please! What are you trying to do? Do you want to just strip naked right now and do it on the table, to hell with the consequences?”

“I’d like to,” he said and laughed.

Caitlyn loved the way his body moved as he laughed and his eyes crinkled—that was new—when he smiled.

“I’m sorry,” he said, all laughter ceased. “I’ll answer seriously now.”

“Why did you think that was funny?”

“What, the getting on the table and doing the wild thing?”

She nodded.

“It wasn’t your words so much,” he answered. “It was your look. Like you were afraid I might actually take you up on that offer. Not that I wouldn’t want to,” he added.

She huffed and glanced away all the while thinking he was wrong in that respect. She did want him to take her up on her offer. Very badly.

But for some reason, whenever either of them got too close, the other pushed away. He’d done it at her house. She’d done it when he dropped her off at her hotel. It was an ongoing cycle, them pushing each other away, and it should have been a clue.

Don’t have sex. Don’t touch each other. Don’t even look at each other. Hell, don’t even associate with other.

“Shall we get on with it?” she asked. He nodded and she cleared her throat. “What’s your favorite drink?”

“Water and milk. Builds bigger muscles.” This time he used his other arm to demonstrate, but Caitlyn didn’t smile at his fun. He coughed and sat up in his chair. “Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin.

“You know, this interview would take half the time or less if you would give up on your antics.”

“Good thing we decided not to record it then, huh? I can’t believe someone would want to know what my favorite book is. Come on, ask me something interesting.”

“Tell me what got you into racing.”

“My Uncle Tim.”

“Ah, so I was right,” Caitlyn said.

“No, he helped me with a passion I already had.”

Caitlyn wanted to ask him why anyone wasn’t aware of that passion, but she didn’t. And as far as asking him something interesting, she didn’t know what to ask him. Most questions she would ask people were off limits. Too personal. He didn’t want to talk about that. She could tell.

“I’m tired of sitting here at this table and getting antsy,” Wesley said. “Can’t we go out and get some sunshine?”

“We haven’t been here long.”

“Yes, we have.” He pulled his long legs out from underneath the table and stood up. “Let’s do something. I can’t sit still much longer.”

She stood along with him. “How do you sit in a racecar for hours on end?”

“That’s different, but I think it’s also why I can’t sit very still when I’m not racing.”

“That’s good,” she said as she leaned over to write his comment, a personal aspect of Wesley he wasn’t ashamed of.

*

As Caitlyn leaned over to write, her shirt, which was only slightly low cut, hung lower. Wesley saw the unmistakable sign of pink underneath the tee. His breath whooshed out of him at the thought of what hid underneath that concoction: dusky pink tips, full and poised in perfect unison. He longed to brace her with his hands and cup her perfect breasts.

She continued to write, stopping to think before writing again and clucking her tongue a couple of times, in tune with the words flowing on paper. A pang of lust shot through him and he stiffened. His entire body hardened.

She didn’t notice. Did she?

Finally straightening, she picked up her tablet of paper and pen and sauntered away. “Be right back.”

He watched the sway of her backside and practically drooled. He knew exactly what would be covering that perfect ass of hers: panties, lacy and silky and pink. Pink panties to match her pink bra. She always wore a matching bra and panties, telling him once that it made her feel sexier, like a woman should feel. Would it be a bikini, a thong, or those sexy boyshorts?