The Angel Tasted Temptation (10 page)

"Why?"

"Because I'm not the kind of guy a girl like you deserves."

She let out a gust and pushed her menu to the side of the table. "Why don't you let me decide that? I'm tired of everyone else choosing what's good for me. All my life, everyone has told me what decisions to make and I've gone along with it. Because I'm a good girl." She air-quoted that with her fingers. "Well, I'm tired of being the good girl. Now I want someone who can teach me how to be
bad
."

When she said the words, she caught his gaze again and left no doubt of her meaning. Ever since she'd met Travis Campbell, she'd wanted him, and the more he pulled away, the more she wanted to reel him back in, like a stubborn bull that refused to be penned. He was the right man for what she wanted. She knew it, deep in her gut and deep inside the parts of her that had lain as dormant as onions in a cellar until the night he'd walked into Slim Pickin's.

"Meredith, Boston is a city that... well, that does funny things to people. It's not like New York or LA or hell, Dallas. People here can get swept up in the quirkiness of the place and do things they'd never do anywhere else."

"Are you saying I'm not thinking straight?"

"Yeah."

"You're wrong. I know exactly what I'm doing
and
what I want." She took in a deep breath and decided she'd prove that to him, and herself. Meredith got to her feet, skirted the table and stopped beside his chair. Before she could think twice, she cupped Travis's face with her hands, drew him to her, and kissed him.

She didn't kiss him like she'd kissed Caleb. Or any of the fumbling boys who'd taken her to school dances and football games. She let her instincts guide her, allowing those primal calls she'd always ignored to be heard. Her tongue darted in to meet his, tasting and teasing, asking him to come out and play. When he did, a grenade launched itself in her pelvis, turning on switches she hadn't even known existed.

It was exactly the kind of move a city girl would make. And exactly the kind of thing shy, predictable Meredith Shordon would never do.

That knowledge sent a fire rushing through her veins and yet at the same time, it was chilled by a chaser of a question. Would changing herself so drastically leave her even more lost in the end?

From behind her, she heard the whispers of the other diners, the gasp of some woman a few feet away and knew she'd gone a little too far. At least in a public place.

Before she ended up straddling him in the middle of the restaurant, Meredith pulled back. Her mother's words, "Indiana girls are good girls," echoed in her head, like drums beating a warning of impending danger.

"Now who's not thinking straight?" she said to him, determined not to let her mother's warnings or her Indiana roots show. Her voice sounded husky and sexy, filled with everything stirring deep inside her.

"My, my," said a voice over her shoulder. "Most people do that
after
they have the oysters."

Meredith's the-Heat-Is-On Steamers

1 tablespoon butter

1 teaspoon garlic, minced

1 pound clams, soft-shell, cherrystone or littleneck

1/4 cup white wine

Clarified butter for dipping

It's already steaming in the kitchen, so be sure to get a bite to eat to keep up your stamina. Start by rinsing the clams thoroughly in cold, running water. Soft-shell clams can hold onto that sand like some mothers try to hold onto their daughters, so scrub well. You may even need to soak them for a while in salted water to encourage them to let go. Drain, rinse again, then it's time to cook.

Preheat the saucepan, melt the butter and cook the garlic—but don't burn it. It's hard to lose track of what you're doing, especially with a man who looks like him around, but pay attention, just for a few minutes. Add the clams, just enough to cover the bottom. Too many and they'll stack up on each other and make it hard for each one to open up. Give them a stir, then add the wine. Cover and let it steam.

If you have nothing else to do, feel free to kick up a little steam in the kitchen yourself with that gorgeous guy who's doing everything in his power to resist you. I'd put a timer on, though, because those clams will be done in four minutes. Take out any clams whose shells are open .. .just begging to be eaten.

Any stubborn ones that didn't open should be discarded.

Serve with clarified butter and a little of the leftover juice. The best way to eat them? Dip, take a bite and then kiss him ... then repeat.

Many, many, many times.

The waitress's interruption had been both a blessing and a curse for Travis. Meredith was making it impossible to stick to his resolution and yet at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to forget the whole damned plan, especially when she had her lips on his.

Wasn't that where all his trouble had started, though? Between the beer and the women, Travis Campbell had somehow lost his way. The best answer to finding the path back was to suspend all bad behavior until he got his head clear.

Of course, his head was reeling now, filled with lusty images of Meredith Shordon and the education she wanted him to give her.

The waitress left after they placed an order for a large basket of steamers. Meredith, now safely on her side of the table again, asked for a glass of wine, Travis stuck to Coke. And stuck to his side of the white table top, keeping his thoughts on everything but the woman sitting across from him, the curve of her breasts teasing him through the V of her pale pink T-shirt and her unbuttoned leather coat.

Work. He'd think about work. And how getting to know Meredith—and probing into her thoughts— could help him get that promotion he was after.

Yeah, that worked. Sort of.

"Tell me about Indiana," he said.

"You don't need to get to know me. I'm not interested in a relationship."

"It's small talk, Meredith, not a marriage proposal."

"Well. .. good." Was it his imagination or did she look a bit disappointed?

The woman was a contradiction, that was for sure. Clearly, as desperate as she was to shed that Midwestern upbringing, a part of her still clung to those values like a security blanket.

Despite his baser self, that intrigued him.

"It's good for me, too," he said. Kept him on track and reminded him he'd made a thirty-day deal not to get involved with a woman, if only to prove to himself that he could live without wine, women or both together.

"If you're uncomfortable with me using you for sex—"

"Not at all," he lied.

"Good." But her storm-blue eyes seemed to send a very different signal.

Who was Meredith Shordon? And why did she keep saying she wanted one thing when she was so clearly not that kind of person?

"Tell me about where you come from," he asked again.

"Indiana is boring," she said after a moment "Lots of green nothing and a few farms."

"There are cities there, I hear." He grinned. "Even a state capital."

She chuckled. "There are, but not where I live. My town boasts a whopping three thousand people, and that's only in the summer."

"When all the snowbirds return?"

"Exactly."

"So what do you do for fun out there?"

She toyed with the stem on her wine glass, sending the zinfandel swirling a little against the clear goblet. "Well... compare our hogs."

He blinked. "As in Harleys?"

"No." She laughed again. "In Heavendale, we're strictly interested in the four-hooved kind. Virtually everyone is a member of 4-H," she explained. "The height of excitement is a blue ribbon at the state fair for having the honor of owning the world's biggest, and laziest, hog, or managing to get your sow to give birth to a record-breaking farrow, meaning a big litter of piglets."

He took a sip of his soda. "You don't seem the piglet type."

"I'm not."

When she didn't elaborate, curiosity nudged him closer. He leaned forward, waiting until her gaze met his a second time. A pretty shade of pink that mirrored her wine bloomed in Meredith's cheeks, like lightly dusted apples. "What type are you?"

She looked away, investing her attention in straightening her silverware. "The type that doesn't want to spend my Friday nights mudding in Bobby Reynolds's four-wheeler and my Saturday afternoons at Petey's Pizza Parlor serving pitchers of Bud to the men's athletic league."

"And so you came here to Boston, seeking more?"

"A lot more," she said softly, and the tone in her voice reignited the slumbering fire inside his gut.

The waitress came by and dropped off their basket of steamers. She checked on their drinks, asked them if they wanted another appetizer, and altogether lingered so long that the heat between Travis and Meredith subsided again from High to Low.

With that, Travis's better sense returned and he reminded himself he wasn't here to have sex with her—unfortunately—but rather to save her from making a reckless decision, something he knew way too much about, and to help him find a way to market the impossible to Middle America.

"What are these again?" Meredith asked, gesturing toward the covered basket sitting in the middle of the table.

"Soft-shell clams with drawn butter for dipping." He lifted off the bowl on top, picked up one of the opened clams and held it out to her. "Otherwise known as heaven on a plate."

Meredith gave him—and it—a dubious glance. "They look kind of... slimy."

"Not at all. Try one. You'll see."

She arched a brow and picked up the clam, careful to only touch the shell with the tips of her fingers, then put it back down into the pile, clearly not ready for steamers yet.

"What's the matter, don't you trust me?"

"Well... no."

He chuckled. "Good. Because I wouldn't trust me either, except when it comes to seafood." He reached for a second one, slipped the clam meat out of the shell with his fork, then dipped it into his dish of butter before popping it into his mouth. The taste of salt and fat hit his palate like a gift.

"I don't know ..." She gave the clams another uncertain glance.

"Here." He took his fork, scooped out the clam meat from the shell, then swirled the plump tan morsel in the warm, clarified butter. Then he moved forward, holding the fork outside her mouth. His gaze met hers and asked her to do the impossible.

Trust him.

The air between them stilled, caught in the crossfire of a budding desire and the first tentative steps each was taking toward the other.

Then Meredith smiled, leaned toward him and opened her mouth. When she parted those soft pink lips and took the bite with white, perfect teeth, Travis almost groaned. His mind flashed images of her mouth on him, giving his body the same delicate attention she had given to the ocean's finest.

Oh, damn. He was crazy if he thought he could keep his hands off her. If he thought some silly resolution he'd made while still in the throes of a hangover would stand up against a real woman.

A real woman who wanted him to go to bed with her. A virgin, no less.

Every man's fantasy—on his own personal queen-sized platter, anytime he wanted it.

Oh, boy. He was in trouble now.

"Oh God, Travis," Meredith said twenty minutes later, the words almost a sigh. "I had no idea it would be this good." A contented smile spread across her lips.

"I told you so."

"Mmm." She closed her eyes, clearly reliving the entire experience. "You were so right. I'll have to listen to you more often."

With her looking like that, satisfied and happy, and just waiting for him to take the lead, Travis nearly sprang out of his seat and finished what Meredith had started earlier, consequences be damned. Instead, he reined in his hormones, picked up his fork and speared the last steamer from their second order. He dipped it in butter before holding it out toward her.

"You're letting me have the last one?" she asked.

"I'm not hungry anymore." For food at least. For watching her give him that smile again ... That appetite he suspected would never be quenched.

Meredith opened her mouth, accepting the edible gift, and sighed again after she swallowed. "
Nothing
in Indiana tastes like this."

"Too many cows spoiling the epicurean experience." Travis grinned.

She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, then replaced it neatly in her lap, the primness of her actions—and all its contradictions to the way she'd behaved earlier—a turn-on he hadn't expected. "Does all seafood taste this good?"

"Everything I've had does."

She looked down at the dish, now just a pile of empty shells and leftover juice. "Can we do this again sometime? Soon?"

"Anytime you want."
Tonight, in my bed. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast. Preferably naked next time.

Meredith cupped her chin in her hand and smiled at him. "Well, I guess that makes two things I'm craving in Boston now."

"Two?"

"Uh-huh." The twinkle in her eyes left no doubt what one of the two things was. "And I want to get as much of both as I can before I have to return to the land of beef and pork."

Oh God
. Travis waved a hand at the waitress. "Uh, check please."

Around them, the restaurant and the marketplace plaza hummed with activity but Travis barely noticed. His attention stayed riveted on Meredith, on the woman he'd tried so hard to avoid and now couldn't seem to stay away from.

Her hair, now freed by the new cut to frame her face, trailed along her jaw and neck. He wanted to reach forward and brush the tendrils back, then lower his mouth to the delicate flesh along her throat, to taste the sweet skin there, working his way down along the edge of her breasts, taking first one in his mouth, then the other, giving each equal attention. Then he'd kiss a path along her waist, slipping past her hips, down, down, down to—

No. No.
No!

That was
not
why he was here.

Hadn't he agreed to her crazy proposition to protect Meredith from herself? What was he thinking? That was like asking the Big Bad Wolf to be Little Red Riding Hood's Sunday school teacher.