Raindrops on Roses: Book One of the Favorite Things Trilogy (3 page)

Their eyes locked—and Michael's body reacted
in a way he'd never felt before.

Breaking the stare, Priscilla got up. "Come
with me," she said and motioned for him to follow. "I want to show
you something." Discreetly, she led him up a back stairwell to the
second floor.

As he climbed the steps, Michael knew his
father would be wondering where they'd gone, but he shrugged it
off. He was too busy breathing in the soft cashmere scent Priscilla
Bauer was leaving in her wake...and it felt like he was in a
dream.

They walked down the
hallway to a set of double doors at the end where she led him into
a large bedroom suite, full of light blues, pastels and ashwood.
Michael guessed it was
her
room, and he paused in the doorway, unsure of her
state of mind.

She's been
drinking,
he thought.
I shouldn't be up here with her like this.

Motioning for him to come in, she indicated
an oversized portrait that practically covered the entire wall
behind the bed. There was a beaming little girl on the shoulders of
a tall, young man standing on the beach. The man's head was turned
toward a woman standing just behind him. The woman looked like
Veronica Bauer. The life-sized photograph seemed to capture a very
happy moment in time for the Bauer family.

That must be her with her
dad
, Michael thought.
I wonder why she wanted me to see this
.

A little confused, he turned to look at her,
searching her eyes for any hints. He felt the urge to touch her
again, just as he had at the gravesite—only this time having been
invited into her bedroom, he didn't hold back.

Putting an arm around her, Michael slowly
pulled her up against him and she didn't resist.

It's what she
wants
, he realized.

"It's a nice photograph," he whispered,
kissing her temple, feeling her soft body responding to him. "Is
that your father?"

"Yeah," she replied softly. Pulling back,
she looked up into his eyes. "Michael, look, I..." Her eyes closed
briefly before she continued. "Thanks again for being here for
Gran's funeral. I'm really glad we met. I like you. And it's so
strange because..." She paused, tucking her hair behind her ear.
"And this may sound a little corny—but you don't seem like a
stranger to me at all. I feel like we must've met before. Have
we?"

Michael sensed a moment had arrived. Without
saying a word, he cupped her head and gently kissed her lips,
sampling the taste of her. As the kiss deepened, Priscilla's arms
came around him, and he was completely intoxicated. Soon she was
clinging to him and it was all the consent he needed to lift her up
and carry her to the bed.

Oh, God
, he managed to think.
Does she know
what she's doing?
But why else would she
bring a strange man up to her bedroom in the first
place?

Michael had no answers—but
he could feel the energy of a girl who
evidently
needed to be in control
again. A girl looking to be comforted. A girl whose whole world had
just fallen apart.

A girl who's
also
just a little
drunk,
he thought as he knelt over her in
the bed, gazing down at her beautiful, sad face. "Are you sure?" he
asked before he began undressing her.

"Yes," she breathed, helping him out of his
jacket. "Yes."

•
CHAPTER TWO •

W
hen Priscilla Bauer woke up, her head felt heavy on her
pillow. She could tell her eyes were fifty shades of swollen and
she couldn't seem to get them open. Stretching her body to full
height, she yawned, drowsily contemplating the dilemma. Maybe she
should just leave them closed and go back to sleep?

But poor Chewy,
she thought.
I should go
to him
.

The French doors on her balcony had been
left open and she heard the ocean waves calmly crashing in the
distance. What time was it? Should she be getting up?

Nope. Not getting up just
yet,
she thought, rolling over. And for
the first time in her adult life, her hand collided with another
body lying in her bed.

Priscilla froze.

His body was warm. Hard. Delicious. The
memory of their passionate lovemaking came back in a hot flash.

Thoroughly flushed, she resisted the urge to
snuggle up against him. Her eyes snapped open in the darkness and
she saw him there, lying right next to her beneath the sheet.

Michael,
she thought dreamily, wanting him to be there
forever....

But then a sobering thought hit and she shot
straight up in the darkness.

Oh, Priscilla.
She glanced over at him.
Of course, now he thinks you're a first-class
slut
.

Slipping from the bed naked, she went
quietly to the bathroom and got into the shower, her favorite place
to think.

What the hell?
she shouted at herself.
What's happening to you? Gran just died—and you don't
even
know
this
guy! Oh, my God...this makes you a slut of the highest order.
A
real
slut! You
met him standing over your grandmother's grave, for Christ's sake.
You drank circles around him and then branded yourself an easy
lay!

What exactly had come over her? Once she'd
looked up into those hypnotic green eyes, there'd clearly been no
turning back. She couldn't even begin to understand the powerful
attraction toward Michael Frost the moment she laid eyes on him.
And she certainly couldn't deny that she'd wanted to be alone with
him almost immediately. He was an unexpected beacon of light in a
dark, dim tunnel of grief—even as he'd interrupted her final
farewell to her grandmother.

And the impulsive invite
up to her bedroom? Well, she hadn't really thought
that
all the way
through, had she? Second thoughts were now racing through her brain
faster than she could keep up.

But do you regret it?

Memories of how he'd made love to her came
rushing back and she felt heat between her thighs.

God, no
, she thought as her nipples hardened.

Still, she wanted to be out of the shower
and dressed before he woke up. There was no way she could see
herself getting back into the bed with him so she decided to lay on
the chaise in her sitting room, lick her self-inflicted wounds, and
wait.

It's not like she could
just ditch him, right? After all, he was in
her
bedroom and in her bed...looking
deliciously like he belonged there.

And—holy mother of
God!
A chill shot up her spine.
What if he sells this to the tabloids?

Great!
she thought. She could just hear her mother's rebukes
now:
Oh, you've just exercised some
excellent judgment, young lady! Exactly what everyone needed the
day after burying your grandmother!

When she left the shower, Michael Frost was
still fast asleep in her bed, snoring softly. She sprinted from the
bathroom and slipped into her closet to get dressed. Closing the
door, she flipped on the light and grabbed a pair of clean undies
from the island. She could barely hold her head up as she stepped
into them. Never in her life had she been this reckless, this
flakey—which made this lapse in judgment sting all the more.

Tiptoeing to the closet doorway, she peeked
out at him where he lay in the bed.

Those adorable, dark curls. The straight
lines of his nose and jaw. The kissable lips—and the places they
had just been.

Blushing, Priscilla tore her eyes away.

Okay. So. She would just have to put this
behind her and hit the reset button, but it would be hard. She'd
never felt this way about anyone so quickly, and she didn't like
what it said about her character—not to mention her
self-respect!

No, no, no,
she thought, standing taller.
There's no way you can be a slut. You were just emotionally
charged—and a little drunk—and a hot guy was interested. That’s
all. This doesn't define you. It's not who you are.

Once she got into her bra, she pulled on a
black tank top with a pair of black jeans. It seemed appropriate.
She was in mourning and felt like expressing it.

She left the closet fully dressed and went
into the sitting room, where she curled up on the chaise, feeling
vaguely self-conscious and confused. She wondered if maybe she
should just wake him up now and send him on his way...

A little while later, she must've dozed off,
because the next thing she knew there was a hard body of warmth
engulfing her, and her lips were being kissed with the minty fresh
smell of her mouthwash. Bringing her free arm up, she buried her
fingers in his hair and melted into his arms as if they were
age-old lovers.

God, she
loved
the way this guy
kissed. It made her dizzy, her body instantly responsive and ready
for more. But when she finally broke the kiss and pulled back to
look at him, those gorgeous sea green eyes hypnotized her all over
again.

Damn.

Even in the pre-dawn of her sitting room,
she could see them clearly. And now she didn’t know what to do.
Every single thought went out of her head.

Touching her nose with his, Michael placed a
finger, soft and uncalloused, against her lips. "Hey," he
whispered. "There's no need to regret this."

He can
tell
, she thought.

But his smile seemed
sincere and she felt a little less embarrassed. Maybe she could
give
him
some
credit for not being a flake either.

"I…" She trailed off, a blush rising to her
cheeks. "Michael, I don't regret making love with you. It was
beautiful and I enjoyed it..." She paused. "But I don't think this
was the right time."

His smile dimmed but he nodded. "Yeah...I
guess I understand that. Really."

Kissing her lips one last
time, he disengaged their legs—
when
had
that
happened?
—and stood up.

"I’ll go ahead and leave now, okay?
Quietly." He reached down, tucking her hair behind her ear. "No one
has to know about this, Priscilla. It's cool."

Glancing up at the clock, she saw that it
was 3:17 a.m. She looked up into his eyes again, not really wanting
him to go but knowing it was best that he did.

"Get some rest," he said. "And don’t worry
about this at all—everything's fine. Maybe we can get together for
dinner when you're feeling up to it. But I have your number and
I’ll be in touch, okay?"

"Thanks, Michael Frost,"—she laced their
fingers—"for being a gentleman."

He offered to put her back to bed but she
opted to stay in the sitting room, so he pulled the afghan over
her, kissed her cheek and said goodbye.

Left alone in the darkness, Priscilla lay
there unable to get him off of her mind. The way he had moved
inside her...he had certainly left his mark. Her thighs were
already remarkably sore and tender—and it felt delicious.

Still,
she thought.
I shouldn't have slept
with him so soon.

But as she drifted off to sleep again, her
body was thoroughly awake, aroused...and left wanting more.

•
CHAPTER THREE •

M
ichael's drive home was surreal and went by in a blur.
Trusting Nickelback to keep him awake, he flew down the interstate
doing almost ninety the whole way.

An hour and a half after leaving Priscilla
Bauer's bed, he hung a right into his apartment complex and cruised
toward the carport, hardly able to believe he had made it home so
quickly.

When he entered the
apartment, he saw that Amber had fallen asleep on the sofa and was
snoring softly, sprawled out against the oversized pillows. She'd
popped open a mini-wine bottle and left it half empty on the end
table next to her wine glass. Her phone lay in the palm of her hand
and she looked almost camera-ready lying there with her porcelain
face still in full make-up and her ash blonde hair fanned out like
a halo around her head. The top of her
Forever Amber
tattoo peeked out from
her ample cleavage.

She must've gone
out
, he thought, noticing her heels had
been kicked off near the coffee table. But she had clearly fallen
asleep out here waiting for him.
Of course
she did—what'd you expect?

Truth was, Michael hadn't
expected anything. He hadn't thought much about Amber in hours.
Once he'd laid eyes on Priscilla, he'd lost all concepts of logic
and reasoning. But the funny thing was—he'd loved it! The time he'd
spent in her company had made him feel
alive
, in a way he hadn't known he'd
been out of touch with until now.

The spacious three-bedroom apartment he
shared with Amber had always been cozy, a really nice home for the
two of them, but Michael stood there now, looking around the living
room, sensing that the end of their life together had just
begun.

He saw an uncovered dish of lasagna sitting
cold on the dining room bar. When he flipped on the kitchen light
to put it away, Amber woke up, looking around as if she wasn't
exactly sure where she was.