Under the Tycoon's Protection (6 page)

He acknowledged her teasing with a raised eyebrow but then shook his head. “I wasn't born rich. There's a difference.”

Rather than argue with him, she asked, “What does this charitable organization do? And, by the way—” she held up a hand “—while I'm enjoying this enormously because I like tweaking your nose about your closet philanthropy, I'm delighted you've seen fit to try to do good in the world.”

“This ‘charitable organization,' as you put it, sponsors programs for neighborhood kids.”

“Very good.” She nodded. “I'm just surprised you're not doing something more tied to Rafferty Security's line of business.”

He looked surprised for a second.

“What?”

“We are. Good guess.” He added, “We offer self-defense classes and classes on home security.”

“Ah,” she said.

“I can see that light bulb going on in your head.”

“Well, it does explain a lot after all. Your father was into giving back to the community and you grow up and move back to South Boston and set up a charity. Not only that, but your father died thwarting a burglary and you go into the security business.”

He shoved away from the kitchen counter. “Connecting those dots is easy, petunia. Just don't read too much into it. I don't.”

“Why? Are you saying your father's death had nothing to do with it?” she persisted.

“What I'm saying is you ask too many questions,” he grumbled. “But, yeah, I'll concede the influence.”

Despite his casual tone, she knew she'd finally penetrated a bit below the facade that Connor Rafferty presented to the world. She'd also gained some insight into the source of Connor's protective instincts.

She really should give him some slack, she thought, even though she disliked the way he had come barging into her life. Having suffered one tragic loss, he was obviously protective of those close to him—and that protective instinct even extended to helping his former neighbors.

“What are you thinking, princess?” he asked. “I can almost see the wheels turning in that head of yours.”

She gave her head a slight shake, her lips curving upward. “It's hard to believe, but I was feeling almost inclined to like you.”

He stared at her intensely for a moment, then said, “You should smile more often.”

Their eyes caught and held before she looked away, feeling suddenly uncharacteristically shy and awkward.

“What about you, petunia?” he said, leaning back against the kitchen counter and breaking the mood. “Your mother is a judge and you're a prosecutor. Seems to me you're just as guilty of some semi-conscious influences.”

She relaxed as they seemed to be back on safer ground. “Psychoanalyze away,” she said lightly, “but you should know the analogy doesn't work well. If I'd really wanted to make my family happy, I'd have stayed away from prosecuting criminals at the DA's Office and gone to some nice, comfy law-firm job.” She wrinkled her nose. “You know, doing non-profit law or some such, which would have dovetailed nicely with all those charity auctions I'm supposed to be organizing.”

He grinned, seeming to recognize the jab at him and his comment the night he'd shown up at her townhouse. “All right,” he said, folding his arms, “maybe I was too quick to judge.”

She gave him a look of mock skepticism. “You think?”

 

Ignoring her bait, Connor realized it was time to turn the tables on her. She'd probed and poked and made him realize and acknowledge more than he'd wanted to. He figured he was entitled to reciprocate. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Work at the DA's Office when you clearly don't have to, and when you could have gotten a cushier job, which your family clearly expected you to do.”

She cocked her head to the side and contemplated him for a second, as if considering how much to divulge.

“Fess up, princess. You're not the only one who knows how to be dogged with questions.” She looked deliciously delectable perched on the bar stool, her long legs encased in snug blue jeans, a cotton top outlining a pert and enticingly rounded chest.

“Would you believe me if I said a passion for justice?” she asked. “Before a late-life career in the law, my mother was the queen of those philanthropic charity benefits you're so fond of. I guess some of that do-gooder stuff rubbed off on me and my brothers.”

“And yet, your family wasn't thrilled by your choice of the DA's Office.” Connor forced himself to focus on what they were talking about despite the weight that had settled in his groin.

She looked down as if to shield her expression
from him, stretching out her legs as she did so, one of the mules she was wearing dangling from her foot. “You may have noticed they're rather protective.”

“No more so than with you, the baby of the family and the only girl,” he finished for her.

She looked up, her eyes meeting his. “Exactly.”

He smiled. “Well, you sure as heck didn't make it easy on them. From what I recall, you did a good job of rattling the bars of the cage.”

She gave him a meaningful look. “You'd know something about that, wouldn't you?”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Let's make a deal to steer clear of that episode in the bar. I'll admit it wasn't one of my finer moments. I usually don't deal in trickery.”

She looked somewhat mollified by his almost apology, but he couldn't help adding, “Anyway, it's not as if that night in the bar was out of character for you.”

“Oh?”

There was a wealth of meaning in that “oh” and, if he knew what was good for him, he should probably shut up now. Unfortunately, he was rarely one to shut up where Allison was concerned. “What about the year you started a campaign to get all the high-school girls to
accidentally on purpose
show up for class braless?” He grinned. “As I recall, it was the first time your school had to make a rule about underwear.”

“We were making a political statement!”

“Yeah, to the enjoyment of the male half of the student body,” he said dryly. He'd heard about the ensuing ruckus from Quentin.

“The point,” she said tightly, “was to show that if one girl wore a top without a bra one day, it was no big deal, but, if every girl went without a bra every day, it would be disruptive. In other words, we could wield a lot of power by joint action. After that, we were able to get some real change through the student council.”

“So is that what the DA's Office is all about? Just more of your maverick tendencies?” he asked. “Or were you just trying to make your family crazy?”

“It's debatable whether I drove them crazier than they drove me,” she muttered.

“Ah.”

“The DA's Office is the first time I felt I had established an identity for myself apart from my family. I wasn't Allison Whittaker, heiress, daughter of philanthropists James and Ava, sister of Quentin the tycoon, Matt the enigma, Noah the playboy.”

“I see.”

“Do you really?” she asked. “At the DA's Office, I was first and foremost Allison Whittaker, Assistant DA. Many of the defendants in my cases hadn't even heard of the Whittakers. And, the other lawyers at the DA's Office didn't care what my last name was as long as I was pitching in with everyone else to help dig us out from under the mountain of cases.”

Her voice had risen half an octave and her words had started coming faster. He'd touched a nerve, that was for sure.

The DA's Office had been a means to independence for Allison and he'd been making light of it. Suddenly he was sorry for that.

“Do you really understand, Connor?” she continued. “Because sometimes you seemed to act no better than my brothers.”

“Believe me, the last thing I feel for you is brotherly,” he said, half under his breath. Her impassioned speech had brought a spark to her eyes and a boldness to her body language that his libido was intuitively responding to.

“What?” she asked, although the arrested look on her face said she'd heard him.

“Did you not hear me, petunia?” he asked, meeting her eyes directly. “Or is it that you just can't believe what you heard?”

All the reasons he'd given himself over the years not to test the waters with Allison flew out the window. In reality, he had already tested the waters where she was concerned, and, now that he had had a taste of her, the need for more was irresistible.

She gave a laugh that sounded forced. “I imagine it was hard to feel brotherly when I was a thorn in your side.”

He pushed back from the counter. “Loss of cour
age isn't something I'd ever have thought to accuse you of.”

They were alone in the woods together at the getaway cottage he'd recently finished building and where he'd brought no other woman. Suddenly, he didn't give a damn about the consequences of getting romantically involved with her. All that mattered was now.

The threat she'd gotten in the mail, the proof that some nut had been watching her, waiting to strike, all that hammered home that he could have lost her already.

He might not have tomorrow—to laugh with her, to make love to her—and he'd be damned if he was going to wonder any longer about what might, could, or should have been.

She straightened on the stool, her brows drawing together. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't you?” he asked softly. With two strides, he was in front of her, within touching distance. To her credit, she stayed where she was, her chin coming up in that way she had when she was getting ready verbally to sock it to him.

He almost smiled as he reached out to touch her.

“Don't,” she said on a breath. It wasn't fear in her eyes—or panic—but a turbulent set of emotions.

“Why not?” The urge to touch her was overwhelming and there didn't seem to be a reason in the world not to give in to it. “Because your brothers
would beat me to a pulp?” He raised her chin, his thumb caressing her lower lip. “I think I'll risk it,” he murmured.

A
llison felt prickles of awareness all over her skin at Connor's touch. She knew if they slept together, nothing would be the same again.

This wasn't just about one kiss or one night. This was about getting tangled up with a man who wouldn't be as easy to handle as any of the ones she'd dated in the past. Connor would challenge her, and there'd be no smug assurance that she was in control.

When she still hadn't said anything, the light went out of Connor's eyes and his hand dropped away from her mouth. She hadn't voiced an invitation—and he hadn't read one in her eyes—so he was backing off.

In that instant, however, she knew she couldn't let this moment pass. He offered comfort and safety in a world that had become a much scarier place. And, while she knew she could always stand on her own two feet if she had to, she also knew that now—tonight—she wanted that comfort.

Suddenly, she couldn't wait to dive in to his arms. The possibility that she wouldn't be in control was more of a temptation than a risk to be avoided.

She slid off the stool, bringing them nearly flush up against each other.

His usual cocky facade was not on display. Instead, what she saw was raw hunger and naked desire.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Connor…”

She placed her hands on his chest and felt the strong, rhythmic beat of his heart. He held himself very still as she went up on tiptoe, searched his face, and then, slowly, very slowly, pressed her lips to his.

His mouth opened under the pressure of her lips, his lips rubbing, stroking against hers. He took his time—as if he had all the time in the world—letting her lead, then demanding more. Yet, he held his arms at his sides, his mouth the only part building a response from her.

Yes, she thought, the man definitely knew how to kiss.

Just when she was on the point of making sounds
of frustration, however, he appeased her need and wrapped his arms around her.

The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping between her lips to swirl within her mouth and duel with hers.

She moaned and her fingers threaded through his hair. She couldn't get close enough to him—couldn't get enough of him.

When he finally tore his mouth from hers, he said huskily, “Wrap your legs around me.” She readily complied and his hands splayed across her bottom, supporting her weight.

In this position, his erection pressed into the most intimate part of her and, instinctively, she rubbed against him.

He muttered an oath as he headed for the stairs leading to the bedrooms. “Do that again and we won't make it to the bed.”

She laughed breathlessly. “What about the couch down here?”

He stopped for a second and gave her a smoldering look. “I want to see you lying in my bed. I want to see your thick, dark hair spread out across my pillow.” He leaned forward so his forehead rested against hers, then added, his voice deep, “I want to see you, I want to hear you and, most importantly, I want to taste you while you're lying on my bed.”

“Is that an order?” she quipped.

He straightened and started up the stairs, hoisting
her higher and giving her a wry grin. “No, but I hope I've answered your question. There
is
a couch down here, but
we
won't be using it.”

“Can you hurry then?” she joked, almost hurting with the wanting. It seemed as if she'd been waiting for this moment forever and now need threatened to sweep her away.

At the end of the hallway upstairs, he kicked open the door to his bedroom and, in two strides, crossed the room to the bed, coming down half on top of her.

There was almost no thought then: need consumed them. They were like two people who had crossed the desert and finally come to a stream of water.

She was dimly aware of kicking off her sandals and of Connor helping her slide her top over her head. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he undid the front clasp of her bra.

“You're perfect,” he groaned, his gaze hot on her breasts, which were capped by nipples that were tight and hard and peaked. Under his gaze, they became even more so.

“They're just average breasts,” she muttered, embarrassed.

“Perfect,” he repeated in a low voice. Then, with his eyes never leaving hers, he slowly lowered his head to one breast. She sighed when his mouth closed around her nipple.

Waves of sensation threatened to take her under as she watched him use his mouth on her.

When he moved his mouth to her other breast, she threaded her fingers through his hair and let her eyes close. A restless longing had taken hold of her, making her limbs quiver and suffusing her with a liquid warmth.

His mouth left her breast and seized her lips and she wound her arms around his neck, meeting his questing mouth kiss for kiss until he finally pulled back with a groan and sat up.

She opened her eyes and nearly moaned in protest until she saw the desire written on his face. Raising herself on her elbows, she watched as he quickly rid himself of his plaid shirt and then yanked his white undershirt over his head.

His chest had only a sprinkling of hair, so there was little to conceal the muscles that defined his chest and upper arms.

She'd seen him shirtless several times over the years, when he'd come to pool parties at the Whittakers', and, memorably, when she'd spied him in the process of removing his sweat-stained shirt and putting on a fresh one during a school-break construction job in Carlyle.

She'd fantasized about touching him then. Now, she sat up to run her hands along the sculpted muscles.

“Yes, touch me,” he muttered. “Make me burn, petunia.”

She reveled in the power she had to affect him.
She pressed her lips where her hands had been, placing hot, wet kisses over the planes of his chest.

He stopped her only so he could rid them both of their shoes and jeans. He peeled the denim off her in one fluid movement, taking along the underwear underneath.

His hand splayed on her hip as they fell back onto the bed again and their lips met in a deep, hungry kiss.

His hand caressed her leg, then moved to her inner thigh, making her tingle with anticipation.

She tore her mouth from his. “Ah, Connor…”

“Shh,” he said as his hand slid up to the juncture of her thighs. Holding her, his eyes steady on hers, his finger parted her and he caressed her inside.

“Oh!”

“Yes,” he said in a smoky voice. “Let me hear how it makes you feel, petunia.”

She clutched his shoulders, his look of possession the last thing she saw as her eyes closed and her world spiraled beyond everyday sensation in response to the sure and steady rhythm of his hand.

“Connor!” The cry was torn from her as she entered oblivion.

When Allison floated back down to earth, Connor was lying next to her, facing her, his arm bent and his head propped up on his hand. His other hand was drawing lazy circles on her thigh.

She looked down and he followed her gaze.

“Yup, I still want you,” he said, a hint of humor lacing his voice.

She looked back up at him. He was looking just a wee bit too pleased with himself, she decided. Giving him a coy look through her lashes, she said, “Well, thanks for everything,” and made to rise.

Laughing, he pushed her back onto the bed. “Not so fast, princess. I think we have some unfinished business.”

“Really?” She feigned innocence. “And that would be…?”

Instead of responding, he drew her to him, his mouth coming down on hers, and she was lost again in the sea of emotion and sensation between them.

He was the most magnificent man she'd ever been with. Connor's physical size made her feel small and dainty despite her statuesque five-foot-eight frame. His scent—the warm muskiness of all-male—enveloped her.

He kissed her deeply, hungrily, his mouth plundering. She opened her mouth to him even as he parted her legs, making room for himself.

She reached down then and grasped his erection, stroking him until he released her mouth with a growl. “I'm about to come out of my skin, petunia.”

“That's what I was hoping for,” she teased.

“You don't have to hope anymore,” he countered, then smiled so wolfishly he made her giggle.

He opened a drawer in the nightstand and retrieved a small foil packet. Turning back to her, he cleared his throat and said, “Before you jump to conclusions, I'm going to tell you that you're the only woman I've ever brought out here with me.”

She opened and shut her mouth.

“And secondly,” he went on, “I didn't bring protection along because I was sure of myself. I just thought being prepared wouldn't be a bad idea given the fireworks exploding between us lately.”

She felt ridiculously pleased about being the only woman he'd brought to his refuge in the Berkshires. She took the packet from him and, ignoring his surprised and then delighted look, rolled the protection slowly onto him.

“Ah, Allison,” he sighed.

She gave him a quick peck on the lips.

He spread her legs then and positioned himself. “Last chance, princess,” he said and, despite his lighthearted tone, she knew he was holding himself tightly in check.

In some ways, it seemed she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life. She'd be darned if she'd beat a retreat now—the consequences for tomorrow be damned. She was about to find out if the reality lived up to all her girlhood fantasies.

“Not a hope, Rafferty.” She wrapped her legs about him and raised her hips.

He groaned as he slid into her. “Ah, petunia—”

She gasped, then sighed.

He set a rhythm that she took up, meeting him with counterpoint thrusts, the momentum building in tandem with the tension between them until it burst forth and sent her spiraling into a starry darkness, her hands clutching spasmodically on Connor's shoulders and feeling the thin sheen of sweat that had broken out on his skin.

Dimly, she heard him give a hoarse groan and take his own release.

 

Connor came back to reality slowly. He felt as if he'd been passed through a wringer; he was spent, his muscles weak with release. Paradoxically, he felt gloriously alive.

Before tonight, he'd thought the sexual tension between him and Allison was a strong sign they'd be explosive in bed together.

He hadn't been wrong.

He looked over at Allison. Her eyes were closed, their ebony lashes flickering against her fair skin. A slight smile played at the corners of her lips.

She'd blown him away. If he'd had any clue, he wondered whether he could have resisted her as long as he had, even with the many reasons it made sense to do so.

And that was the problem, he acknowledged. Those reasons had not gone away.

His job was to protect Allison, not bed her. She was still the daughter of the couple who'd treated him as if he were a surrogate son. She was Quentin's baby sister. Someone whom he, along with her brothers, had treated for years as if she were a spoiled brat.

He closed his eyes. He didn't—couldn't—regret what had just happened. It had been the most glorious sexual experience of his life. But what was he supposed to say to Quentin next time he saw him?
I slept with Allison and, hey, it was better than I ever fantasized?

'Course, then he'd have to let Quentin deck him. He'd been asked to be her bodyguard, not her lover.

And yet, the attraction between him and Allison had been simmering for a long time. The threat against her had simply been the match that had ignited the tinderbox that they'd shoved their attraction into so they could safely ignore it.

He was going to have to tread carefully, that was for sure. Among other things, he had to figure out sooner rather than later who was making the death threats. After that, he could focus on figuring out what uncharted territory he and Allison had steered their relationship into.

He glanced back over at her sleeping face.
Whether Allison was going to admit it or not, what they'd started tonight wasn't finished.

 

Allison woke to the smell of fresh coffee. Had she set the automatic timer on her coffee pot?

She rolled over and opened her eyes. Dark wood ceiling beams greeted her. She frowned, momentarily disoriented. Where was she?

And then it all came rushing back…the death threat in the mail…her agreement to come out to the Berkshires with Connor despite her better judgment…their intimate dinner…the two of them tangling the sheets together.

She flushed. He'd certainly lived up to her fantasies and then some.

They'd woken up in the middle of the night, and they'd had at each other in a way that had been just a bit less mind-blowing than the first time.

More importantly, she knew that last night she'd seen a side of Connor that he rarely let anyone glimpse. She'd seen vulnerability when he'd talked about his father's death and she'd realized his protective instincts ran deep and strong.

Then he'd made love to her tenderly and passionately.

Made love.
Was that literally what it had been?

Her mind shied away from the question.

Certainly he desired her. She hugged the sheet to
her as she thought about Connor's demonstration of desire last night.

She had to admit their relationship had changed irrevocably.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

She groaned. Leave it to Connor not to give her a moment to freshen up and look presentable.

“Rise and shine, princess.”

He was dressed in a beat-up T-shirt and jeans and his hair still appeared damp from his shower. He looked positively yummy.

A smile played at the corners of his lips. He held out the steaming cup in his hand. “I brought your shot of caffeine. I was going to hold it under your nose to resuscitate you, but I see you're awake.”

She sprang up in bed and held out her hands. “Bless you.”