Pursued by the Playboy (3 page)

Marc watched her throat work,
and
felt the tightening in his groin as her tongue flicked to catch a stray drop.  “So where does the cowboy fit in?”

“What cowboy?”

“The one you were with at the gala.”

“You mean Jake?”  She fiddled with the silverware beside her plate.  “We’ve known each other for ages.  His family sort of adopted me in college.”

His eyes narrowed as he tried to gauge what she wasn’t saying.  “So I won’t ha
ve to ask him to step outside?”

“Step outside…?  Good lord, don’t tell me you’re one of those!  Violence never solves anything, you know.  Besides, whom I choose to spend time with is exactly that:  my choice.”

He smiled and covered her hand with his
, thumb sweeping across her knuckles
. 
Tiny
jolt
s
of electricity
shot
up
his
arm. 
Her eyes met his, and he was gratified to see that her pupils had dilated, leaving just a sliver of blue around the periphery.

Their food arrived, and
s
he withdrew h
er
hand.  For a while they ate in silence.  
When
he spoke again,
he kept his voice gentle
.  “What happened to your family?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said Jake’s family adopted you.”

“I didn’t mean it literally.”  She
paused, as if searching for the right words
.  “I met Jake my first day at
Penn.
  He was an RA in my freshman dorm.  He thought I was someone’s kid sister or something, and offered to help find my folks
. 
I was sixteen, awkward, self-conscious, totally clueless.  He took me under his wing.  His mom used to bake this wonderful sour cream apple cake and drop by with it every once in a while.  I got to know her, and eventually Jake’s dad as well.  They just sort of embraced me into their family.  Before I knew it, I was spending winter breaks at their house, and then summer vacations.”

“Didn’t your parents mind?”

“No.”  She took another bite of her sandwich and chewed slowly.  Eventually, she said, “My parents and I don’t exactly get along.”

Marc didn’t press.  Instead, he redirected the conversation.  “So you and Jake are…what?” 

“Family.   His parents moved down to
Florid
a
last year, so now it’s just the two of us.”

“Okay then.  I’ve got a chance.”

Her gaze flew to his.  “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

His response was bland.  “Who said anything about a relationship?”

She inhaled sharply.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.  We’re both adults.  Unattached.  There’s nothing stopping us from enjoying ea
ch other’s company, is there?”

She blinked, but otherwise
her expression remained neutral.  “I’m not sure I have the time to spare for any leisure activities.”

“You took time for lunch today.  What’s another dinner or two in the grand scheme of things?”

“
So we’re talking about food
?”

“Among other things.
”  He grinned, sensing victory at hand.  “What do you say? 
Dinner, tomorrow night?” 

She was already shaking her head. 
“I
meet with my graduate students
Wednesday afternoons, and most of the time it spills into the evening. 
How about this weekend?”

“You’re going to make me wait three more days?  Cruel woman.  What about Thursday night?  I’ll cook.  We’ll keep
it low key.  You like Italian?”

“You’re offering to cook for me.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”  He managed to keep a straight face.  “My pasta carbonara is to die for.”

Two days later, Kate had to concede he was right. 

Perched on a bar-stool at the central island in his spacious kitchen, she sipped a full-bodied vintage Nebbiolo and watched Marc cook.  His knife sliced through garlic and parsley at breathtaking speed.  One-handed, he cracked eggs into a bowl, added a dash of salt, and whisked in freshly-grated cheese. 

At her raised brow, he shrugged.  “I love to eat.  And cooking relaxes me.”

The kitchen was a chef’s dream, laid out with an eye toward efficiency and no expense spared:  Viking range, professional exhaust hood, Sub-zero fridge, and Franke stainless steel double sink set into a Blue Bahia granite countertop.  

The pasta turned out perfectly
al dente
, laced with browned pancetta and creamy parmesan.   Kate relaxed over dinner, her initial reservations melting
with
the realization that the evening was turning out to be nothing like she had anticipated.  

She’d looked him up online the same night they had met.
Hours after Jake had dropped her off at her apartment, she found herself wide awake, staring into the darkness, reliving the feeling of dancing in Marc’s arms.   A sense of restlessness simmered through her, like a carbonated stream of bubbles rising, bursting, and then reforming at the pit of her stomach.  She tried to convince herself it was the after-effect of the unpleasant encounter with her parents earlier that evening.  Or the stress of speaking in front of several hundred people at the awards gala.  But when the usual remedy of valerian root tea failed to calm her nerves, she finally gave in to curiosity and powered up her laptop. 

There he was:  Marcus DiStefano, MD.  Golden boy of the
Main Line
set.  Star of the university hospital’s division of gynecological oncology.  Walking advertisement for Zegna and Armani in endless photos from glossy gossip rags, the captions linking him to a veritable who’s who of actresses and models, never the same face twice.  Where he found time to see patients, she didn’t know. 

When he’d shown up in her lab and practically bullied her into having lunch with him, she’d been intrigued.  She’d also been sure it was a one-off.  Men like Mar
c
DiStefano didn’t pursue women like her.  There wasn’t a single serious-minded academic type in his long roster of female companions. 

Which was why the offer of an affair had caught her completely by surprise.  She
had to scramble
to recover her equilibrium. 
Short term, that’s what he was talking about.  Fun, light-hearted, no commitment
required.  She was tempted. 
And
what did she have to lose?  She wasn’t interested in the long haul.  She was completely focused on he
r work.  It consumed her.  T
he last thing she needed was someone who would tie her down with responsibilities that would compete with her drive to succeed in her career. 

Besides, she’d spent years bearing silent witness to the disaster zone of her parents’ marriage, and vowed never to put herself in that position.  Marriage?  Children?  No thanks.  Just the idea of anything permanent made her break out in a cold sweat. 

But that didn’t mean she had to stay celibate forever.  It was nearly three years since she’d been involved with anyone intimately.  That relationship had died a natural death when she’d left
Berkeley
to return to
Philadelphia
.   Since then, she’d been so consumed with her research and the perennial dictum of academe—publish or perish—that everything else had fallen by the wayside.  If not for Jake, who periodically dragged her out for a meal or a hike, she would have been completely subsumed by work. 

An affair, especially with a man like Marc DiStefano, who was well-known for his short attention span when it came to women, could be quite enjoyable.  It obligated her to nothing.  

And he was magnificent, a prime specimen of male virility, tall, broad-shouldered, with lean hips and loose-limbed gait.  He exuded a confidence that bordered on arrogance, and while in anyone else that attitude might have been off-putting, she conceded that it only enhanced his appeal. 
Should
she do it, take him up on his offer?  Her pulse skittered at the thought. 

They lingered over their espressos and the tiramisu she’d brought for dessert.  Despite the heat and awareness that seemed to pulsate between them, he kept the conversation light.  They bantered about campus life, and the gentrification of West Philly, and the frustrations of dealing with bean-counting bureaucrats who demanded that every toner cartridge and test-tube be accounted for on the appropriate form in triplicate.

Marc declined her help in clearing the table, which left her free to wander beyond the kitchen.  Far from the glitzy bachelor pad she’d been expecting, Marc’s townhome overlooking
Rittenhouse Square
was a study in understated elegance.  Soaring ceilings with pre-war crown molding, gleaming hardwood floors, exposed brick walls framing carefully screened fireplaces, and not a high-tech gadget in sight.   Bookcases lined the walls, filled with medical texts and paperback novels, a large array of old cookbooks, and piles of dog-eared journals.  Framed
photographs
occupied almost every flat surface. 

Kate stopped in front of a portrait of a petite dark-haired woman whose features bore a marked resemblance to Marc.  She felt him
approach and
pause behind her, his body so close she could almost feel the heat enveloping her. 

“My mother.” His voice was low.  “She died when I was four.  Ovarian cancer.”

She looked up at him, barely resisted the impulse to stroke her hand along his jaw.   “I’m sorry.”  She glanced back at the photograph.  “It must have been terrible.  How old were your sisters?”  

“They weren’t born yet.  Dad married Sophia when I was almost seven.  Emma came a year later, then Izzy.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“No reason you should have,” he said.  “We’re a close-knit family.  Sophia treats all of us the same—with a lot of love, and complete irreverence.”

The affection in his voice was clear.   His family was so different from hers, she didn’t know how to respond. 

In the ensuing pause, his fingers traced lightly up her arm, raising goose-bumps in their wake.  His breath shivered against her skin.  Her breasts swelled, nipples tightening against the lace-edged cups of her bra. 

She turned, met his gaze. 
His eyes, pale gray ringed in dark blue, should have been cold; instead, they seemed to burn into her. 
Slowly, as if giving her time to change her mind, he leaned forward.  His lips came down on hers, gently at first, exploring, melting away whatever resistance there might have been.  His tongue licked across the seam of her lips, and she opened to him, their breaths mingling.  She swayed closer, arms entwining around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. 

He brought her flush against him, palms burning through the thin cotton of her dress, erection pressing against her stomach.  Liquid heat pooled in her pelvis, and she shifted, restless, aching.  His hands drifted down her back, over her bottom, caressing, kneading, lifting her up toward him.  She gasped and his lips whispered along her jaw, down her neck, pausing at the pulse skittering frantically at the hollow of her throat. 

“Marc.”  Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, hoarse, breathless. 

He muttered something, and lifted her higher.  She wrapped her legs around him, her weight completely supported by his hands. 

She felt him moving, opened her eyes briefly as he carried her down the hall into a darkly masculine bedroom.  They fell together on the bed. 

His fingers were already drawing the strap of her dress down one arm, his tongue tracing a pattern across her chest to where the lace of her bra barely covered a puckered nipple.  A strong hand kneaded her other breast while his tongue swirled around the lace-covered bud, teeth nipping gently, before suckling deep.  She shuddered as moisture welled at the juncture of her thighs. 

Her fingers fumbled desperately at his clothing, pulling his shirt from the waistband of his pants, tugging at his belt.  He lifted slightly, mouth and fingers abandoning her breasts to help her pull the shirt over his head and off.   He quickly shed the rest of his clothes, and she had a fleeting glimpse of a powerful chest sprinkled with dark hair, sleek abs, and a thick erection that made her breath catch.  Then he was back, dragging the hem of her dress up to bare her legs, her quivering belly, and with one final tug removing the dress completely. 

“Beautiful,” he breathed, settling between her thighs.  His hands stroked her breasts, mouth ravaged her lips, tongue plunging and retreating as if offering a teasing hint of what was to come.  She barely felt the front clasp of her bra give way, and then it was bare skin on skin, his touch like fire burning a path across each sensitized peak. 

Her hands drifted across his back, smoothing over the rippling muscles.  The tension in her pelvis wound tighter, and she moved restlessly against him, trying to find relief.  Fingers hooked into the flimsy scrap of lace that covered her, tugging, tearing the material, and then those fingers were on her, burrowing into the curls between her legs, finding the tiny bud of pleasure there and circling it, teasing.  Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, he shifted.  One long finger dipped into her moisture, buried itself deep inside, and then slowly withdrew.