The Reluctant Cinderella (14 page)

She laughed. “What more could there possibly be?”

He paused for effect before proudly announcing,
“I've decided I'm through living in the city. I want us to have more time together, to take this thing between us…wherever it goes. So I'm moving back to Rosewood. ASAP.”

T
here it was, Greg thought. That strange look in her eyes again….

The look he'd seen more than once yesterday. The faraway look, the one that told him there was something going on with her.

Something…not good.

Twice yesterday, he'd asked her what was wrong. She'd claimed there was nothing. And both times, just like now, her green gaze had slid away….

He should ask her again, and he knew it. Say,
What's the matter, Megan? Stop evading. Tell me. What's wrong?

But damned if he wasn't afraid of her answer.

And the fact that he feared what she might tell him….

That bugged the hell out of him. It more than bugged him. It made his gut churn and his heart pound out a rhythm of heavy, sick dread. It had him thinking that there could be a downside to going crazy over a woman. After all, the crazier a man got for a woman, the more she might hurt him.

There had been a time when Carly could hurt him—and she had. Deeply. By turning away from him in all the ways that really mattered, by keeping her heart a secret from him, by making their lives a dry, bloodless exercise in going through the motions.

That had been bad.

This, though—what he felt for Megan…

It was stronger, deeper, hotter—right from the first. With Carly, looking back now, he could see that there'd always been a certain distance between them. She'd looked up to him, deferred to him, put herself second to him. At the time, that had seemed like the way it
should
be.

But now he knew better. Now he wanted a true equal, a woman to stand beside him.

And Megan was that—more than that. So much more.

Megan had it all: a big heart and a great sense of humor; that round, ripe, so-sexy body, and a brilliant head for business. She got to him in some undeniable, basic way. She had from that first moment he'd really seen her, in his office, on the eve of Independence Day.

From that very first moment she'd walked in the
door, he couldn't even look at her without wanting to grab her and hold her—and never, ever let her go.

Seventeen days, since that first day. Hardly more than a couple of weeks. And yet, somehow, in that short space of time, it was getting so it wasn't only about how much he wanted her, how much he wanted to
be
with her. It was getting so he couldn't imagine his life without her in it. As if, without her, some vital part of himself would die.

That
was damn scary.

That was the thing that, for the first time, had Greg Banning thinking that maybe his cold, distant, untouchable parents had the right idea, after all. If you didn't let yourself care too much, you couldn't get hurt too much, could you?

“Oh, Greg,” Megan whispered.

What the hell did that mean? Oh, Greg, I'm nuts for you? Oh, Greg, I'm not sure about you and me?

Oh, Greg, kiss me…?

He decided he wouldn't ask. He'd go for the kiss.

And he did, reaching across the console, taking her flushed face in his hands, leaning close to breathe in the faint, arousing scent of flowers and peaches that always seemed to cling to her skin.

“Megan…” His voice came out low and rough with desire and confusion. He took her mouth, hard, so she gasped a little—and then, almost instantly, he felt her soften, opening to him, swaying closer, a low moan escaping her. He drank in the surrendering sound, tasting her more deeply,
running his tongue over the slick, hot surfaces beyond her parted lips.

With another moan, she swayed even closer, giving herself up completely to his kiss. He took what she offered, threading the fingers of one hand up into the silky fall of her hair, cupping her head more firmly—and freeing his other hand to touch her.

And he did touch her. He ran a slow finger down the side of her neck, tracing the V-shaped collar of her T-shirt.

Her breasts were so round and full. So beautiful…

He took one in his hand, flicking at the nipple through her shirt and bra, feeling the hard, needful little nub even through her clothes. She shivered, gasped again. He drank in the sound.

His own arousal strained at his jeans. He
always
wanted her, but now, at this minute, the longing was a pulse that beat through his veins, demanding…now! Now, now…

He broke the kiss. She moaned in protest and surged up, trying to recapture his lips. Fingers tangled in her hair, he held her still, his mouth an inch from hers. “Inside the house,” he growled. “Now…”

Her eyelids were low. She sighed. “Yes. Oh, yes…”

They couldn't get out of that car fast enough. Her side was closest to the inner door. She got there ahead of him and waited, her eyes the green of a secret pool, her body swaying toward him as if magnetized.

“Oh, Greg…” This time he had no doubt what the words meant: she wanted him.

As he wanted her….

She reached out with a tiny cry. He caught her in his arms, wrapped her tight against him, kissed her again. Because she wanted it. Because he couldn't resist.

He pushed her back to the door, and ground his hips against her. It was agony, the sweetest kind of torture, the kind that turns a man inside out, that makes him forget the shadows in a woman's eyes.

Her little shirt ended right above the low waist of her jeans. He dipped his hands up under it, felt the full, sweet, giving flesh of her midsection, ran his palms up her rib cage, over her bra—and around to the back.

A flick of his thumb and index finger and the clasp let go. He pushed the bra out of his way, easing his hands beneath it, so he could cup those beautiful, soft breasts. She sighed into his mouth, her nipples, hard with yearning, poking into the center of his palms.

She touched him—and it nearly finished him—her soft, stroking hand finding its way down between their tight-pressed bodies. She cupped him through his jeans, her hand curling around him lengthwise, covering him, rubbing him.

He thought he would die—and not mind at all. Go out in a blaze of mindless, lust-bright glory.

She was a woman with a mission and she went to work, kissing him madly, rubbing her round, hot
body against him, all the while stroking him, unhooking the metal buttons at the front of his jeans, one and then the other, slipping his boxers out of the way.

Until she had him, naked, in her hand.

He let out a moan dragged up from the depths of him. And she wrapped her fingers snug around him, brushing a naughty thumb over the nerve-thick head, catching the bit of moisture that wept from him, spreading it around….

She laughed, a low, rough sound of pleasure, of excitement. “Now,” she pleaded—a plea that was somehow, at the same time, a bold command. “Now, Greg. Please…”

He had a condom—more than one. He'd thought that after dinner and a glass of wine, at the end of the evening, they might try out his new bed.

So much for waiting to use the bed….

He reached behind him, fumbled in a pocket of the jeans she'd pushed halfway down his hips. He pulled one out and then brought it between them.

With a pleased little purring sound, she took it, peeled the wrapper off with eager hands and rolled it down over him. He moaned as she did that; he whispered her name. “Megan…”

“Yes,” she breathed with another low, sexy laugh, as her flat canvas shoes went flying. “Oh, yes….” She unbuttoned the snap at the waist of her jeans. She brought the zipper down. The small, rasping sound as the teeth parted drove him crazy. Insane. Stark, raving out of his mind.

To have her. Now. To be inside her, right here, standing up, against the door….

She skimmed the jeans off and away, her sexy, lacy panties with them. He took her by the hips, lifting her. She wrapped those full thighs around him.

He entered her in a slow, even glide. Her body opened like a liquid flower for him, giving him no resistance. Only wetness, heat and welcome. She took him in—deep. All the way. They both threw back their heads and moaned at the sheer aching pleasure of it.

And after that, it was quick and wild, fierce and mindless….

He braced her against the door and she locked those fine, big legs around him as she rode him, hard, rolling her hips against him, crying out in excitement, meeting his every thrust with one of her own.

He held her, with the help of the door. And the world burst wide open—open so far that it seemed to turn itself inside out. He felt her coming….

That did it. He went over, too, pressing himself hard up into her, holding her hips to keep her in place. With a low groan, he sagged against the door, waves of pleasure tingling along every nerve. Smelling of peaches and musk, her skin moist from loving, she rained soft kisses on his lips, his chin, his jaw, his neck….

Finally, she unclasped her ankles from their tight grip around him. Gently, with great care, he lowered
her to the step. She clung to his neck, burying her head in his shoulder.

He kissed her hair and whispered, still half-breathless, “So much for a nice bottle of wine and fresh sheets on my new bed.”

She giggled and nipped his ear. “We could still do the wine. And the bed. Eventually.”

“Then we'd damn well better get busy.”

“You are so right. Button up, big boy. Let's get to work.”

 

They did make it to his new bed. Well after midnight.

By then, every room had furniture in it, attractively arranged. Also, most of the kitchen stuff and linens had been put away. He still had more work to do, to get everything where it belonged.

But it was livable. He could move in.

And he planned to. On Saturday. Once he was in, little by little he would be moving stuff from the apartment to Rosewood. And in a few weeks, he would be selling off whatever goods and furniture he couldn't use, putting his place in the city up for sale.

They didn't talk about any of that, though—about when he would move in, about his plans for the Manhattan apartment and its contents. Greg wasn't sure which of them was avoiding the subject. He decided it didn't matter.

He'd told her he was coming back to live in Rosewood; he'd hit the main point. If she wanted to know more about his plans, she could ask.

In his new bed, late that night, he took care to make the loving slow and lazy, to make it last. He looked down at her flushed face beneath him as he moved in long, slow strokes within her, and he thought that he'd never seen a woman so soft and open to loving, a woman so right for him….

Strangely, in the passion and the wonder of it, there was sadness for him, too. And an edge that might have been the beginnings of anger….

He pushed those darker emotions away. He denied them. He concentrated on the woman in his arms, on giving her pleasure, on taking it back in kind.

Afterward, she smiled so sweetly up at him. She whispered with a yawn that she really did have to get going. He watched her eyes drift shut.

She sighed. “I think I'll just lie here with you, for a minute or two….”

He watched her fall asleep. And he didn't wake her. She was only a few blocks from home and could get over there in a flash come morning. A lock of her wavy blond hair had fallen across her cheek. With a finger, he guided it away, smoothing it on the pillow. Then he pulled up the sheet and gathered her close.

It took him a long while to fall asleep.

 

Megan woke to daylight. She blinked at the slits of sunlight peeking through the cherry-wood blinds—and sat bolt upright with a cry.

Beside her, Greg grumbled, “Huh?” Yawning
hugely, he dragged himself to a sitting position. “What's up?”

“I'm late.” She picked up the alarm from the nightstand and shook it at him. “Greg. It's 8:00 a.m.”

He squinted at it. “Yep. Sure is.” And he yawned again. “Looks like I'm going to be late for work, too. But it's no big deal. Not this once. I've got no major meetings or anything….”

“Good to hear,” she muttered dryly, as she threw back the sheet and scrambled for her scattered clothes. He just sat there, looking sexy and sleepy, his hair sticking up every which way, all manly muscles and a come-back-here-and-kiss-me-baby smile. She shook out her panties with a hard snap and shoved her legs into them. “Come on. Get dressed.” She grabbed his jeans from the pile of clothes on the floor and threw them at him. He caught them, still grinning. She scowled. “In case you didn't notice, I desperately need a ride home—right now.”

He pretended to sulk. “I was going to make lattes.”

“You don't have any coffee.” She got her jeans, stuck her legs into them, yanked them up and buttoned them.

“I could buy some—and did you know you have the cutest butt of any woman around? So full and tempting. A shame to cover it up….”

“Sorry, no time to buy coffee. I have to get to work.”

“You work too hard. You should take a day off.”

“Can't. But about my butt…”

“Umm?” He laced his hands behind his head, causing the muscles in his big arms to bunch in the most amazing way. She stared. She couldn't help herself. He prompted, looking smug, “You were saying, about your butt?”

“So glad you like it.”

“I do.”

“Get dressed.” She threw his boxers at him, grabbed her bra, which was all tangled up, and set about straightening it out so she could put it on.

At last, grumbling, “You're no fun,” he threw back the covers and strutted toward the bath, looking like something that had walked right off the page of a really fine beefcake calendar: Mr. July, in the flesh.

She tried not to watch him walk away. It was very difficult, not watching him. And not drooling? That was kind of hard, too. Once he'd shut the bathroom door, she sucked in a big breath, let it out slowly and put on her bra.

 

Marti Vincente, trim and pulled-together as always in black capris and a white cap-sleeved shirt, was out watering her hydrangeas when Greg pulled into the driveway. Megan waved. Marti paused just a fraction of a second before waving back—and she wasn't smiling.