BTW: I Love You (Mills & Boon M&B) (One Hot Fling - Book 1) (9 page)

Those round green eyes met his. ‘No strings. No promises. Just great sex?’

‘That’s correct.’

Rye felt the punch of his own heartbeat as he waited for her reply. The smile died as he began to feel a little uneasy. Had he ever been this desperate for a woman to say yes?

‘All right,’ she said, as if mulling the idea over in her mind. ‘I think that would be fun.’

‘Great.’

He gripped her waist, hauled her up for a kiss, relief and euphoria lifting the moment of discomfort.

She giggled, then the little line returned to her brow as he set her back on her feet. ‘Can I ask you for one promise, though, Rye?’

His heart sank at the thoughtful tone of voice. Promises were top of his list of things to avoid in a relationship. ‘Sure,’
he said cautiously, hoping like hell whatever she had in mind wasn’t going to be a deal-breaker.

‘Promise me,’ she said gently, ‘we’ll never pretend this is something it’s not.’

The breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding gushed out. ‘You have my word,’ he replied, pleased her promise would be so easy to keep.

‘Good.’ She sent him a tentative smile, the look on her face a tantalising combination of bashful and eager. ‘I could cook you dinner at the cottage tonight,’ she said, the sparkle in her green eyes making his breath catch. ‘And we can discuss terms.’

He chuckled. ‘I’m there.’ Tightening his arms round her waist, he kissed her again. ‘What time do you want me?’ he said, his heart soaring at the prospect of a decent meal in fascinating company after so many months eating convenience food alone.

‘Get there at seven.’ She tapped a fingernail to his chest, her eyes smoky with desire. ‘I’ll let you know when I want you later.’

He laughed at the saucy comment as the blood rushed straight to his groin.

Damn, but it was good to be back in the world of the living at last.

MADDY glared at the gloopy mess in her saucepan and felt the snakes in her stomach tangle themselves into giant knots.

Her béchamel had curdled. How could her béchamel have curdled when she’d made it about a billion times before? She pressed her hand to her stomach and took two careful breaths.

Perhaps because her nerves were stretched so tight they were about to snap.

Why on earth had she invited Rye to dinner? It had seemed like such a great idea at the time.

Her hormones had still been fizzy like a bottle of shaken cola and her confidence soaring into the stratosphere at the knowledge that he still wanted her. When he’d made the offer of a no-strings affair and she’d blithely agreed, the endorphin rush had blinded her to all the possible pitfalls.

No strings, no promises meant no expectations. Which was just what she wanted. Why he should want her so much, she had no idea, but she wasn’t about to look that gift horse in the mouth a second time. When was she ever likely to get an offer like this again? And the chance to dynamite herself out of the rut she’d been in for years?

She could avail herself of Rye King’s superstar abilities in
bed and spice up her sadly mundane sex life for the next few weeks and all she had to do was enjoy the ride.

It was way past time she put Maddy first for a change. It all made perfect sense. Or so she’d thought at the time.

She’d offered him a home-cooked meal because she loved cooking. It relaxed her. And inviting him to the cottage gave her the home advantage. She’d planned to be nicely mellow and totally in charge of the situation before they jumped each other tonight.

But what she hadn’t counted on was the crows of doubt swooping down and pecking apart her logic once the dizzying rush of lust from their nooner in Phil’s office had cleared.

What if she’d made a catastrophic mistake? Was she really capable of handling a man as overpowering as Ryan King? She had absolutely no experience of the kind of fling he was talking about, while he was clearly an expert at them. And how was overdosing on endorphins on a regular basis going to affect her common sense?

The first crow to appear had been Phil. She’d insisted on finishing her shift, hoping against hope that Phil would be too chivalrous to mention her and Rye’s twenty-minute disappearing act. No such luck. Although Rye hadn’t helped her chances one bit with the deliberately proprietary kiss he’d planted on her lips in front of the whole café—garnering a round of applause from the customers and a scowl from his manager—before he strolled out of the door, the hitch in his stride taking on a definite swagger.

Maddy had nipped off to the kitchen, but Phil had cornered her by the wait station ten minutes later.

‘Maddy, what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he’d demanded.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied, struggling for guileless but failing miserably with the heat throbbing in her cheeks after Rye’s kiss.

‘Don’t give me that. Knowing Rye, I can guess what you two were up to in my office.’

The denial clogged in her throat as the heat in her cheeks went nuclear.

‘Yeah, I thought so,’ Phil finished, shaking his head.

‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out. Why did the liberating experience of ten minutes ago seem hopelessly immature and impetuous all of a sudden?

‘Don’t be,’ he said, resigned. ‘It’s not your fault. Rye has that effect on women. He always has. Even when we were in school. He could have any girl he wanted. The rest of us were in awe.’

Maddy swallowed. While she appreciated this insight into Rye’s teenage years, Phil wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already guessed. And, frankly, knowing about Rye’s success with women from such an early age was making her nervous.

‘But he never kept any of them,’ Phil said, his voice sombre. ‘And some of them tried really hard to hang on to him.’ He sighed. ‘Whatever he’s told you, whatever promises he’s made, he won’t keep them. I love the guy like a brother. But, when it comes to women, he’s about as dependable as Casanova on Viagra.’

The knots of tension in Maddy’s shoulders tightened. She really didn’t need to hear this.

‘It’s okay, Phil. I know what I’m doing.’ Or at least she hoped she did. ‘You don’t have to worry.’

Phil shrugged, looking resigned. ‘Fine; I guess I can’t stop you.’ He leant down and gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead. ‘But make sure you don’t fall for him. Because the only one whose heart will get broken is yours.’

Maddy huffed out a laugh at the memory of Phil’s parting comment as she plucked the whisk off the utensils rack. Who would have guessed that Phil had such a romantic streak? She
started attacking the lumps in her béchamel as the snakes in her stomach began to calm down.

Phil’s little speech may have made her a little too aware of the magnitude of what she had agreed to. And how much more experienced Rye was in bed. But, thank goodness, falling for her no-strings fling was one problem she didn’t have to worry about.

She wasn’t a romantic. And she never would be. She had seen what the ‘love delusion’, as Cal liked to call it, had done to her parents. Hadn’t they always professed to love each other while tearing each other apart?

She stared out of the window at the dusky evening light. She had no delusions about love. Because the experience of living through the carnage of her parents’ marriage had made her positive it didn’t exist.

Yes, one day she yearned to have a stable, steady relationship and make a home she could be proud of—with a man who respected her and cared for her. A man she could trust implicitly. In a way her mother had never been able to trust her father.

But she already knew Rye wasn’t that man and she wasn’t enough of a fool any more to think she could mould him into that man with enough time and effort and patience on her part.

Tonight would set the tone for the weeks to come. And the only reason she was so nervous was that she wanted to get it right. She wanted to be confident and in control, but also sexy and alluring and irresistible. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Which meant she had to relax.

She poured the still gloopy but just about passable sauce onto her lasagne.

Basically, she wanted to be Mata Hari. She layered the vegetables she’d roasted with the sheets of pasta. With a little pinch of domestic goddess for added flavour. She slipped the
completed lasagne into the oven. Which was a tall order for any woman, especially a woman who’d spent most of her love life so far being Minnie Mouse.

Then she spotted the time on the oven clock.

Six thirty-five!

Whipping out the tea towel tucked into her jeans and dumping it on the counter top, Maddy dashed into the cottage’s shoe-box-sized bedroom.

She had less than half an hour to turn Minnie Mouse into Mata Hari, Domestic Goddess.

Maddy jumped at the buzz of the doorbell and swept damp palms down the simple black dress she’d settled on after trying on three different outfits. Pulling one of the silk designs she’d painted this spring off the top shelf, she used it as a scarf to tie her hair back hastily, drew a few curls down to frame her face and hoped it made her look sexy. Slipping into her matching black pumps, she crossed the front room and pulled open the heavy oak door.

Rye’s broad shoulders blocked out the evening light as his gaze dropped down her figure. The dress didn’t have much of a cleavage, but heat still crept up her chest at the thorough perusal.

‘Hello, Madeleine,’ he said, the husky tone of voice deliberately suggestive. He handed her the bottle of wine he had tucked under his arm. ‘I bought French Merlot. I hope it suits whatever you’re serving.’

She glanced at the label. The wine looked pricey and sophisticated—and far too good for the mess she had in the oven. ‘This’ll be great.’ She beat a hasty retreat, clutching the wine in her fist. His uneven tread sounded on the wooden floor behind her and she forced herself to slow down.

Relax. Focus.

She sucked in a hasty breath.

And remember to breathe, Mata Hari, before you pass out.

She plonked the bottle on the small pine table she’d laid in the front room with her grandmother’s best bone china and made herself face him. He looked impossibly large in the cosy confines of the sitting room, his head skimming the exposed beams on the ceiling. How come she’d never noticed how tall he was until now? He had to be at least six foot three.

‘I made vegetarian lasagne.’ She fiddled with one of the knives, straightened it, before clasping her hands together. ‘I hope you haven’t any objections to aubergine.’

His lips quirked. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said, amusement lightening his voice. He wore a black leather jacket, a dark blue T-shirt and black jeans, one hip raised in a casual stance as he surveyed the room.

So much for having the home advantage. She was wound tighter than a coiled spring and he couldn’t have looked more relaxed, dominating the small space as if he owned it.

His eyes came back to hers. ‘Where did you get the seascape?’ he asked, nodding past her shoulder as he shrugged off the jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. ‘It’s stunning.’

She glanced round, but knew the picture he was referring to. She’d painted it last autumn, not long after she and Steve had broken up. ‘I did it,’ she replied, relaxing a little; small talk was good. It would help her focus. ‘It’s a silk painting, actually.’

He stepped up to the artwork. She drew in a sharp breath as the soft hairs of his forearm brushed against her, enveloping her in the tantalising scent of musk and man and pheromones.

‘You’re an artist,’ he murmured. ‘And a remarkably talented one.’

She flushed, surprised by the compliment and how much it meant to her. The silk painting had only ever been a hobby. ‘Thank you.’

‘Why were you angry?’ he asked, his eyes fixing on hers.

‘How can you tell?’ she said, stunned again by how perceptive he was. She dragged her gaze away to look at the painting. Her anger at Steve and at herself was clearly visible in the choppy crest and spikes of the waves, the glowering clouds on the horizon. The weather hadn’t been particularly turbulent that day, as far as she could remember, but she had been.

She jumped slightly as a warm hand settled on her nape.

‘You keep surprising me, Maddy. And I’m not easily surprised.’

Electricity raced down her spine and her nipples pebbled into hard points as his fingers stroked up her neck.

He turned her towards him and she braced her hands on his chest. ‘Is that a bad thing?’ she said breathlessly.

‘A bad thing? Not at all.’ His lips skimmed across hers, the touch barely there. She strained towards him instinctively, her bottom lip quivering.

‘Why are you so nervous?’ he murmured.

‘I …’ she stuttered. He was so close she could see the flecks of silver in his irises, taste the peppermint on his breath. So much for Mata Hari. One kiss and he was very definitely in charge. ‘I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed,’ she said truthfully.

‘I see.’ He chuckled and his mouth closed the tiny gap.

Her fingers sank into the silky strands of his hair as his lips travelled down to devour her neck. Her head dropped back to give him better access, her whole body vibrating with need, excitement finally drowning out her trepidation. And then her nose wrinkled and she drew in a deep breath … Of burnt lasagne.

‘The dinner,’ she yelped as she scrambled out of his arms. She raced across the room with his laughter echoing in her ears.

So much for the domestic goddess too.

‘It’s ruined.’ She dumped the charred remains of her signature dish onto the hob and batted away the acrid smoke.

‘Maybe just a bit.’ He laid his palm on the small of her back and passed her a glass of the Merlot.

She took a hasty swallow to ease the mortification tightening her throat—and nearly choked.

His palm rubbed circles on her back through the cotton of her dress. ‘It’s not a problem. I’ll order take-out from the hotel restaurant, get one of the waiters to drive it up.’

She placed the glass on the sideboard, her shoulders slumping. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t cut out for this. She didn’t do sophisticated, or sensual.

‘I’m so sorry, Rye. But I’m not sure this is going to work.’

His eyebrow lifted and he looked so damn gorgeous she wanted to bawl her eyes out. Why couldn’t she be the sort of woman who could have her cake and eat it too? Or, at the very least, bake it without burning it to a crisp.

‘All this over burnt lasagne.’ He gave her an easy smile, not looking deterred in the least. ‘It’s not important, Maddy. As sweet as it was for you to offer, I don’t expect you to cook for me.’

‘I know. It’s not that. It’s …’ She picked up her wine glass, watched the rich red liquid slop against the rim. ‘I’m so nervous I’m shaking.’

He took the glass out of her hand, placed it carefully on the sideboard again.

‘I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before,’ she blurted out. ‘I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.’

He drew her neatly into his arms. She blinked, shocked to feel the outline of his erection. How could he be turned on when she’d made such a mess of things?

‘You’re over-complicating things,’ he said, the low timbre of his voice making the hairs on her nape stand on end and every one of the places where their bodies touched throb. ‘I
know exactly what I’m doing,’ he said, framing her face. ‘So there’s no need for you to worry about it.’

He threaded his fingers into her hair, held her head steady for a mind-numbing kiss. Her panic receded, blasted away by the rush of lust as his tongue worked its way into her mouth and then explored in soft, sensual strokes.

He broke away first, gave her a quick kiss on the nose. ‘So why don’t you relax and enjoy yourself and let me lead the way?’

‘I’ll try,’ she said hesitantly, still feeling hopelessly overwhelmed.

He grinned suggestively and she gave a half-laugh. He looked so sinfully seductive.

‘Don’t worry, I happen to know a great relaxation technique.’

By the time the delivery of seared scallops and rocket salad arrived an hour later, Maddy was so relaxed she was practically in a coma—and ready to let Rye lead her anywhere he wanted to.