The One in My Heart (2 page)

“Yeah. You?”

“I’ll be thirty-two in a few months.”

So I really was an older woman here. Hmm.

He leaned back an inch. “I’ll see you around, Evangeline. Thanks for the ride.”

He already had his fingers on the door handle, but I wasn’t ready to let him go—since he appeared, I hadn’t freaked out about Zelda at all. “Umm…It was really nice of me to give you a ride. Do you think you can share some of your tiramisu with me?”

He considered. “That depends.”

I was already smiling again from his mock-pompous tone. “On what?”

“On whether you are a secret princess.”

“Of course I am.”

“How would I know that?”

“There’s a picture of me online in a diamond tiara and a ball gown.” Which was not a lie. “I’m the real deal.”

Something flickered in his eyes before he gave me a look to let me know he was reserving judgment. “Okay, then. You can come and have some tiramisu.”

A thrill leaped through me. We got out of the car. Bennett dealt with the house’s security system. I, waiting behind him, happened to glance down at myself—and barely managed to suppress a yelp.

Wherever my wet white T-shirt clung to my skin, I was practically naked. The flesh-tone cotton bra I wore underneath didn’t appear to have turned as transparent, but it was thin, and Bennett would have to be blind not to see the outline of my cold-hardened nipples.

Hastily I crossed my arms over my chest. Without turning around, he asked, “Do you want me to find you a bathrobe or something like that to wear?”

My other choice would be to go back to Collette’s house. But the closer I came to tiramisu, the more reluctant I was to give it up. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

He showed me bathroom to the left of the front door. I ducked inside, nearly squealing again at my reflection. Then I covered my mouth and tried not to giggle. What a mess I was tonight.

But tiramisu was going to make everything better.

I stripped off my clothes, glad to be rid of their sodden weight. Bennett delivered a fluffy white towel and a blue lightweight bathrobe. When I came out of the bathroom, he was waiting for me.

“I can put your clothes in the dryer,” he told me.

He was back a moment later to lead me down the central passage toward the back. The house was an
Architectural Digest
editor’s dream come true. But I didn’t give a second glance to the console table that would make an
Antiques Roadshow
appraiser jump for joy, or the paintings on the walls that were probably American Impressionist originals, by artists who had once thrived right here in Cos Cob.

Instead I took in the man in front of me, the soft-looking olive-green Henley shirt, the jeans that hung just right on his hips, the sexy gait, his strides long and easy, his footsteps almost silent on the gleaming wood floor. My adrenaline-soaked perception had lied to me earlier: He wasn’t at all built like a linebacker, but along far more lithe and sinewy lines—kind of like his car, actually.

His kitchen was high ceilinged, with exposed beams and three exposed brick walls. Neat stacks of bowls and plates sat on open shelves. He took two plates and two spoons and placed them on the central island, shifting aside a bowl of red Bartlett pears and a vase of yellow daisies.

Now he pulled open a refrigerated drawer set beneath the counter of the island and took out a dish of—no kidding—honest-to-goodness tiramisu, with a thick dusting of cocoa powder and generous sprinkles of chocolate shavings.

I sucked in a breath.

“You look like an ER patient, the kind who comes in jonesing for a fix,” he said.

I sat down on a bar stool opposite him. “Well, prescribe me my drug of choice, Doctor.”

He handed me a heaping serving. The tiramisu was fresh and not too sweet, with just enough espresso and dark chocolate to cut the decadence of mascarpone cheese and whipped cream. I devoured it.

“Where’d you get this? It’s so good.”

“My housekeeper made it,” he said, watching me.

Something in his gaze made my heart thump. Had I thought he wasn’t interested in me? That indifference was nowhere to be seen now.

“So…what kind of surgeon are you?”

A kettle trilled. He poured hot water into a mug and pushed it toward me, along with a box of assorted teabags. “Cardiothoracic. But I’m still doing my fellowship.”

“What’s that?” I asked, gratefully wrapping my still-cold fingers around the mug.

“Extra training after residency.”

“To take your God complex to the next level?”

He chortled softly. “Nah, I was born with a full-fledged God complex. In fact, I’ll have you all fixed up by the time you leave, princess.”

That made me grin. I couldn’t believe it—from pure misery to this lightness of heart in mere minutes. I felt like…a princess, one who found herself under an unexpected enchantment.

Bennett studied me a moment, the corners of his lips lifting. My heart thudded again.

Black hair, great angles, and those mesmerizing eyes—he was drop-dead gorgeous.

“What do
you
do,” he asked, “when you are not wearing a diamond tiara and a ball gown?”

“I’m an assistant professor of materials science.”

“That’s a mash-up of physics, chemistry, and engineering, right?”

“Close enough.”

He whistled. “Beauty
and
brains—I’m not sure I can handle the two together.”

“At this point it’s mostly just beauty. My brain was confiscated in grad school and never given back.”

He laughed. He had a great laugh.

Our eyes met. He didn’t look away. I somehow couldn’t.

It was late. We were alone. And I was already naked beneath the soft, warm robe that smelled faintly of sunshine and freshly mowed grass.

All this had been true since I stepped into his kitchen. But the possibilities that had only lurked in the depths of my subconscious mind now broke surface and created huge ripples.

I looked away, finished the last bite of my tiramisu, and asked, “Were you at the hospital when I called about Biscuit?”

He rolled up his sleeves. “Uh-hmm.”

His forearms were lean and strong—and since when did I pay attention to a man’s forearms? “Is your hospital in Greenwich?”

“It’s in the city,” he answered, giving his dishes a quick but expert wash.

Manhattan, he meant, thirty miles away. I was surprised. “Do you commute every day?”

“Usually I only come up on weekends, when I’m not on call.”

“I hope you didn’t have to come all this way for Biscuit.”

It was fifty minutes by train—one way. Taking care of Biscuit had been a lot of trouble for him.

I remembered my T-shirt.
To err is human
was printed on the front. To know the rest, he would have had to turn around and watch me from behind.

He reached for a pear from the bowl on the island. “I did.”

My gaze was riveted to his hand, the loose yet secure hold he had on the pear.

“You didn’t ask your housekeeper to do it?”

“She was out most of the week. Just came back this afternoon.”

I looked down at the smudges on my plate—all that remained of my dessert. A hot thrill had zigzagged through me when I’d thought that he’d made the trips because he’d wanted to. But now it seemed he’d done it only because he had to…

“That’s really nice of you,” I said, trying not to sound as deflated as I felt. “I hope it didn’t interfere with your schedule.”

He bit into the pear. “I traded an overnight shift with a colleague.”

His shirt stretched with the movement, revealing a braided cord around his neck, which dipped with the weight of an unseen pendant. It shocked me how badly I wanted to know the shape and material of that pendant. “When do you have to take that overnight shift?”

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was Saturday. I turned my spoon over. “Did I ruin your weekend?”

“Effectively. I was going to sleep for thirty hours straight. Now I’ll have to work for thirty hours straight.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be. I can’t let a dog starve. Besides, I didn’t help entirely out of altruism—Biscuit was going to be my introduction to this really beautiful woman.”

I licked the back of my teeth. Finally, an expression of unambiguous interest on his part. But what exactly was the nature of this interest? “Well, introductions are done.”

“So they are,” he said softly.

Our gazes held again. The fridge hummed. Rain pounded on the skylight. My breath echoed in my head, all erratic agitation.

“Would you like some more?” He broke the silence, pointing at the tiramisu dish with the half-eaten pear in his hand.

“No, thank you. It was delicious, though.”

He took my spoon and plate to the sink. I stared at his back. The shirt was a perfect fit across his shoulders, hinting at the lean, graceful build underneath.

“If I understand you correctly, you are the stereotypical workaholic, looking for some no-strings-attached sex.”

Shit. Did I say that?

Or should I instead be surprised that it had taken me this long to get to this point, I who had invited myself to his house after midnight on the flimsiest of excuses?

It was never tiramisu that I wanted, was it?

He turned around and considered me. The flare of heat on my skin—as if someone had aimed a blowtorch at my throat and cheeks. “I wouldn’t say no-strings-attached literally—sometimes it’s fun to be tied up in bed. But yes, a metric ton of sex is right near the top of my Christmas wish list.”

He bit into the pear again. The sight of his teeth sinking into the firm flesh of the fruit caused a jolt of lust in me such as I hadn’t felt in years, perhaps ever.

Everything about our encounter was out of the ordinary. I couldn’t tell whether I wasn’t quite myself—or whether I was more myself than I’d ever been anywhere, with anyone.

The rain let up all of a sudden, its steady drumming softening to a pitter-patter on the roof. The fridge, too, fell quiet. But my heart continued to rattle my rib cage, its fast, hard slams thunderous in my ears.

He lowered his gaze for a moment, then looked back at me from underneath his eyelashes. “Is silence consent?”

Yes.

I wanted him to come closer. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to take whatever sorcery he was working with and enfold me securely inside.

My hand settled around my throat. My skin was hot, my pulse a rapid staccato. “Not to a metric ton of sex. Maybe once, tonight. I’m saving myself for marriage.”

“So am I, but you can lead me astray anytime.”

It was the sexiest thing anyone had said to me in a while, so much so that I had to clear my throat before I could speak again. “You’re sure you want to do this? I mean, I
was
wandering around in the rain. Next thing you know I could be boiling your bunny.”

“I’ll send my bunny into protective custody first thing tomorrow morning.” He put away the remainder of the tiramisu without taking his eyes off me. “Don’t underestimate the desperation of a chronically underlaid man.”

The intent in his gaze…I bit a corner of my lower lip. “Then we’d better get to it. You’ll need to sleep soon so you don’t kill patients tomorrow.”

Did he swallow? The very handsome column of his neck moved in a way that made my heart beat even faster. “In that case, would you mind standing against that wall?”

I glanced in the direction he gestured. Unlike the other walls in the kitchen, this one didn’t have exposed bricks, but was smoothly plastered. I hopped off the stool on wobbly knees and set my shoulder blades against the wall. “Like this?”

His gaze pinned me in place. I didn’t feel as if I were leading anyone astray. Quite the opposite—I felt as if I were a girl from a convent school, secretly meeting a boy from a motorcycle gang.

He rounded the island and came up to me. Dipping his head close to my still-wet hair, he said softly, “So this is what rain smells like on a woman.”

I couldn’t quite breathe. Sex should be exciting, of course, but my reaction seemed to have shot right past excitement to land somewhere near trembling anticipation.

He loosened the sash and pushed the robe off my shoulders. I was entirely exposed, my heart pounding.

He sucked in a breath. I spread my fingers against the wall, trying to hold on to something—anything. His eyes dipped low, then lower, before they met mine again.

I panted, the sound primal. Animal.

He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, revealing a runner’s build: strong shoulders, slim waist, beautifully cut abdomen.

I closed my eyes for a moment, overcome by lust. When I opened them again, it was to the sight of my hand on his upper arm. And then I did something that surprised me: I leaned in and nipped his shoulder.

He grunted. I found myself pressed hard against the wall, his hand between my thighs. For a moment I thought he’d be rough, but he touched me lightly, delicious little caresses at just the right places.

“Yes,” I whimpered. “Yes.”

He kept on with those clever fingers, finding all my most sensitive spots, stroking and teasing me, making my toes curl and my thighs weak.

I didn’t want him to ever stop. Then all at once I wanted more—skin, contact, the heat of our bodies pressed together. I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans, and touched him through his boxers. And almost yanked my hand back in shock—if a man had to pay tax according to the size of his endowment, Bennett would owe the government a lot of money.

“Do you have a condom?”

He extracted a foil packet from his pocket and spoke into my ear. “Very unprincessy of you, Evangeline. I expected to work much harder.”

“Take off your clothes,” I rasped.

He did. Then he opened the packet and rolled on the condom, his motion swift and efficient.

I stared. He caught me staring. “Like what you see?”

On the tail end of those words, he pushed into me. I expelled a lungful of air. God, that felt good. I wrapped my legs around him; he drove so deep my breath shook. He lifted me higher and licked my nipple. Pleasure rippled through me.

The next moment something else rippled through me: incredulity, as if I’d just woken up and realized what I was doing. I’d been entirely seduced by this man, in a way that had never happened to me before.