PhoenixKiss (5 page)

When she turned around, he was standing right there.

His eyes locked with hers. With a fingertip, he traced the
neckline of the T-shirt from the pulse beating madly at her throat, down the
edge of the sleeve, down her arm. Did he know what she was feeling again?

“Are you ready for bed?”

Her mouth closed and opened again. For a second, she saw a
look that flashed in the depths of his eyes she didn’t understand. He wanted
her. She knew that but something about the way his irises flared to life almost
took her breath away.

“Yes.”

Before she could tell him to stop, he swept her off her feet
into his strong and capable arms.

“This isn’t necessary. I’m a big girl. I can walk two feet
to the bed.”

Jordan chuckled before placing her gently on the bed. “I
want to make sure you don’t get away.” He kissed her knuckles. “For a few hours
anyway.”

What happened to her nerves of steel? She’d agreed to this
challenge, damn it. She wanted her story, didn’t she? But Jordan was making her
want more, to question the real reason she was here. Yeah, she’d had sex with
him but she wasn’t supposed to make it this easy for him. She wasn’t supposed
to develop…feelings.

“You’re used to getting your own way,” she stated
matter-of-factly.

“What’s the point otherwise?”

Layla moved away from him. His nearness caused little
tingles all along her nervous system. “You can’t possibly believe this secret
of yours will stay that way after tonight,” she retorted.

“When you decided to break into my home, you made your first
error of the night.” He wrapped fingers as unyielding as handcuffs around her
wrists. Long, lean fingers with well-kept nails and a spattering of dark hair
across the knuckles. “Come on. It’s time for bed.”

Had she ever felt like this in her life? It was as though
he’d mesmerized her. Her heart began to beat a fast, steady rhythm and the
warmth from his touch spread throughout her limbs.

Minutes later, she was snuggled next to Jordan on his huge
bed, his arm slung over her waist. But for some reason, sleep wouldn’t come.

The door to the balcony was now closed but the soft glow
from the moonlit sky illuminated the room. He was curled against her back, his
breath wafting over her neck as if he was supposed to be there, as if what
happened between them tonight was perfectly natural.

Chapter Four

Jordan lay on his back and listened to Layla’s even
breathing. He hadn’t expected to
feel
anything for her. Sure, he’d had
an ulterior motive for blackmailing her into staying in his home and having sex
with him. He’d needed time to figure out how to deal with her and coerce her
not to tell his story.

He hadn’t expected the sex to be so incredible. He hadn’t
expected to experience comfort and a general sense of well-being while he was
with her. He never thought he’d hear her personal thoughts and want to kiss her
so badly he’d have to mentally and physically stop himself from doing so.

If he’d given her the phoenix kiss…it was something he
didn’t want to think about. Something he’d never encountered with any woman.

Number one, he never brought women into his home. Layla
broke in but that was beside the point. She was still there. Even now, he
resisted the urge to turn on his side and pull her close to him so he could feel
her body next to his.

Number two, he’d expected to be able to maintain a distance
from what happened between them. He’d wanted to treat this night exactly like
any other business deal and strategize until he reached his ultimate goal. He
hadn’t become the head of a vast international network of businesses and hotel
chains by sitting back and not going after what he wanted.

He’d actually fallen asleep with his arm draped over her,
knowing that what he wanted more than anything was to wake up in the morning
with this woman in his bed.

Jordan shoved himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her
sleeping form. Her face in sleep was without guile or purpose. It was
beautiful, with high cheekbones, a delicately tipped nose and graceful chin.

Her beautiful brown skin looked like warm caramel next to
his stark-white sheets. He couldn’t believe this woman hunted down and
investigated the most intimate secrets about people and published them for the
world to see.

But he needed to remember that. It was the reason she was in
his home, to reveal his secrets to the world.

Jordan willed a cold lump of clay into his heart and rose
quietly out of the bed, strode to the alarm system beside the door and entered
the sequence of numbers to turn off the interior doors. With a last look behind
him at her sleeping form, he left the room.

He marched downstairs to his kitchen and flung open the
refrigerator. His eyes raced over the food inside and, as his mind began to
formulate a plan, he decided what he wanted to cook and began to pull out
items.

He didn’t want to discern why he was so grumpy. With the
smallest glimmer of humor, he knew he was being ridiculous. So she’d gotten
under his skin a little bit. After tonight she’d be gone again and he’d find an
even more willing woman to fill his bed and remove any memory of Layla Martin
from his mind. The thoughts of hers he heard didn’t really happen. It was his
imagination.

But Jordan knew for some reason she’d touched him in a place
he’d never before been touched in his life. In the phoenix soul he’d buried so
deep he thought it would never surface again. He’d never allowed it before. Had
never wanted to, had become an expert at blocking it.

However, the instant he found her toppled over on his closet
floor, it was if he’d had no choice but to her let her in. In a way he bitterly
resented, she’d pierced each and every one of his defenses.

After he broke the spaghetti noodles in half, he dropped
them in the boiling water and drained any excess oil from the lean hamburger
meat he’d cooked. He began to roll out dough on a cutting board. Forward and
backward, he pushed the rolling pin and wished he could remove the ache in his
heart the way he flattened the lumps out of the floured dough.

Instead of moping, he should be trying to figure a way out
of this mess. It was his fault for not turning on his alarm system. Hell, he
never did. When he was out in his phoenix form, he always left his balcony
doors open and the alarm system off so he could fly directly into his bedroom.
Today, he’d come to regret that decision.

Again, he pounded the dough, pressing, pushing, until all
the lumps were out, reminding himself that even though the sex had been
extraordinary…thank God he hadn’t kissed her. Then he’d really be in trouble.

She’d tried to several times but he’d become an expert at
avoiding that particular mating ritual. Literally. If he kissed her, he would
be stuck with the damn woman for the rest of his life. He refused to believe she
was meant to be his mate. A damn reporter.

He’d almost succumbed, her mouth had been so tantalizing and
sweet. He’d congratulated himself that he was able to withstand the driving
need to capture her lips between his. But he’d come close. Really close.

Jordan shook it off as he took his rolling cutter and sliced
perfect three-inch by twelve-inch rectangles to make homemade cinnamon rolls.
He’d made them so much over the years, the recipe came so easily to him, it was
like adding one plus one without using his fingers.

He decided to take his mind out of it, stop thinking about
it. He’d already told himself he would treat it like business. A solution would
come to him soon enough.

So he cooked. He drained the spaghetti noodles, added the
meat seasoned with onions and bell pepper and then stirred in the spaghetti
sauce. He rolled the rectangular squares for the cinnamon rolls into perfect
circles and sprinkled them with a mixture of brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and
sugar before putting them in the oven to cook for twenty minutes.

While he waited for the spaghetti to bubble hot, he poured a
glass of wine, leaned against the counter and stared out into the night.

But he knew he was in trouble when he immediately sensed
Layla had woken up.

Shit
.

Layla swung her legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the
tips of her toes through the soft carpet. She glanced at the clock on the
nightstand behind her. Two thirty.

She had six more hours.

Her stomach began to make a most unladylike sound and she
smelled a slight whiff of cinnamon and some type of Italian sauce.

He was cooking.

She stood, more than aware she had nothing on under the
black T-shirt Jordan had given her earlier. But the smells that assaulted her
nose were more important to her than impropriety right now. She was freaking
starving. She hadn’t had a chance to eat dinner before she broke in…
visited
Jordan’s home tonight.

About to open the door, she stopped herself and looked at
the green light flashing on the alarm panel. She hoped it meant the alarm
system was off. Surely he wouldn’t lock her in the room. Would he?

She grasped the doorknob and pulled, relieved a horn didn’t
start blaring. She vaguely remembered where the kitchen was even though she’d
bypassed sightseeing through his home when she’d broken in. The one thing on
her mind had been finding his bedroom. She’d told herself she’d explore later.
But right now, the monster growling in her stomach took precedent. The only
room she wanted to explore was the room with the food.

When she found Jordan, she stopped cold and stared.
Cerulean-blue paint covered the walls of the huge kitchen and polished
cherry-wood cabinets lined three sides. Above the large farmhouse sink was a
backsplash of glass tiles.

The floors were a light wooden-gold tone that gleamed, and a
stainless steel double refrigerator, regular oven, confectioner’s oven and
microwave took up one wall. An octagon-shaped island sat in the center with a
black granite top. The man loved granite. A tall crystal vase was in the
center, bursting with ice-blue hydrangeas and white roses.

What surprised her most, though, was Jordan. In one hand he
held a glass of red wine. In the other, he was wearing one of those baking
mittens and pulling a pan out of the oven.

She swooped in and stood beside him. “Are those cinnamon
rolls?”

He turned to look at her. “Yes.”

“Oh my goodness, they smell divine.”

And they were her absolute favorite dessert.

Unlike Jordan, from what she could tell from the items that
still littered the countertop, she didn’t make hers from scratch. All she did
was make a quick run to the grocery store to find the refrigerated section and
the Pillsbury Doughboy.

Jordan set the round pan on a cooling rack and turned the
oven off.

She moved to sniff the rolls and closed her eyes in
anticipation of savoring one in her mouth.

Jordan sagged against the island and sipped his wine, with
one arm hugging his middle, and watched her as she moved from the pan of
cinnamon rolls to the stove.

She lifted the pot and grinned like an idiot. “I think I’ll
move in here with you,” she jokingly said, glancing over her shoulder.

“Are you trying to say the way to a woman’s heart is through
her stomach? I thought that was just men.”

Beside the pot on the stove was a utensil holder. Layla
picked up a fork, twirled it around and pulled out a steaming mouthful of
spaghetti. She held her other palm under the fork, blew on the food and put it
in her mouth.

After she chewed, she said, “No. That’s just me. Most women
like a man who buys her purses and shoes, jewelry. Me, cook me a meal and
you’ll have to push me away. That was so good, by the way. Did you make the
sauce from scratch too?”

“Yes. It’s an old family recipe. I take it you’re hungry.”

Why she felt so at home, she didn’t know. She began to open
drawers and cupboards until she found a plate. When she turned around, he was
standing so close she could still smell the soap from their shower several
hours ago.

He reached for it. “Allow me.”

She quirked a brow but gave him the plate.

He nodded to the barstools on the other side of the island.
“Have a seat.”

Layla couldn’t help but watch him. He was so comfortable in
this space, as if it were an extension of who he was. And damn if he didn’t
look sexy. Because he’d only put on the pajama bottoms, his muscular chest
teased her with every move he made.

She bent over the counter. No shoes either. He even had the
nerve to have sexy feet. Why didn’t he have one flaw? A bunion on his big toe.
A huge, grotesque boil on his back
. Something
.

Before long, she had a steaming plate of spaghetti and a
cool glass of white wine sitting in front of her. Jordan stood across from her
and ate also. An awkward silence stretched between them, which would have been
fine with her but she had to get her game face back on and start thinking like
a reporter. There were questions to be asked and answered.

Plus, undeniable proof needed to be found so she could tell
the world what Jordan was. This was the exposé of her career and she was not
going to blow it. No matter how good the sex was.

Yeah, she’d agreed to a little bit of quid pro quo to get
the information she needed but spending a night with Jordan Gaines was hardly a
sacrifice. The man was gorgeous and sexy and the sex was, needless to say,
outstanding.

Except she needed a plan of action that involved more than
salivating over the man she planned to write an exclusive feature about.

He turned to pour himself another glass of wine. “How does a
Brown University graduate end up working for a newspaper like the
Tattler
?”

The fork heading up to her mouth stalled and she lowered it
back to her plate. “How did you know that?”