The Place I Belong (27 page)

“Oh,” she breathed, feeling the tension in her core wind tighter. Now her imagination was painting the scene where she was lying on the bed, bared to
his
eyes and
his
touch. “I’m not finding much incentive to win.”

“Bragging rights,” he said, bending down and slinging her over his shoulder.

“Hey!” She sputtered as she found her face mashed against the leather covering his back.

He carried her to a sectional couch that stretched in front of a huge window giving onto a spectacular mountain view. Lowering her to a sitting position on the couch, he knelt at her feet, his fingers busy with the button on her waistband. “We’ll both have a view to enjoy,” he said with a wicked smile as he tugged her zipper downward and coaxed her trousers and undies down over her hips to her ankles, where he stripped them free.

The nubby texture of the couch cushions against her bare skin made her doubly aware of her nakedness. He locked his gaze with hers as he ran his hands along the tops of her thighs to her knees, grasping them and gently pressing them apart. “Prepare to lose,” he said and lowered his head.

She admitted defeat as his mouth sent wave after wave of pleasure coursing through her until she disintegrated into a screaming orgasm. When he had confirmed her unconditional surrender, he laid her down on the couch and sent her spiraling into another climax when he found his own release deep in
side her
.

They lay tangled with each other, still panting, as they came down from the detonation between them.

She felt a tremor of nerves at the intensity of what he made
her feel and how easily he annihilated any instinct for self-
preservation
she might muster. Here she was sprawled half-naked
on a couch in broad daylight in front of a plate glass window with no curtain, entwined with a man still wearing all of his clothes, including his leather jacket. She’d let him spread her open to his eyes and his mouth without even a blush.

Even worse, she loved him.

Chapter 24

A
DAM LET HIS
gaze glide down Hannah’s bare curves, savoring the way her fair skin contrasted with his black jacket and jeans. If they hadn’t both just come in a near-nuclear blast, he’d be letting more than his eyes roam over her body. Now he held her against his chest and stroked her corn-silk hair.

“Mmm,” she murmured against his leather jacket as she gave a little shiver.

“Cold?” he asked, looking around for something to throw over her.

She nestled closer and wrapped her fist around his lapel. “Nope, just aftershocks.”

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of her against him. He wanted to etch her on his memory because he knew this couldn’t last. He could make her happy in bed and in the kitchen, but that was all he had to offer.

Something twisted painfully in his chest, making him grimace. Yes, he’d fallen in love with her, but that changed nothing. She deserved a whole man who could love her without fear, not the scarred and damaged creature he was.

He dragged his mind away from the torment of feelings he couldn’t speak out loud and stroked lower, tracing along the slope of her waist to the swell of her bottom. When he pressed his fingertips lightly into the softness of her flesh, she shuddered again.

“More aftershocks?” he asked against the top of her head as he inhaled her fragrance, adding to his sensory stores.

“They might be before-shocks if you keep that up,” she said, making his cock harden again.

Then her stomach growled, and guilt smacked him. She needed to eat before she went back to work. “Time for lunch,” he said, shifting her gently off him and rolling her toward the back of the couch. Swinging his legs over so he could sit up, he stopped to enjoy the sight of her stretching, from her up-flung hands to her pointed toes, before she levered herself up on her elbow, her flaxen hair drifting over her bare breasts. The smile she gave him was pure feminine satisfaction.

“Let’s eat fast so we have time for dessert,” she said.

He laughed and bent to gather up the clothes he’d so ruthlessly stripped off her, handing them to her before he brushed his lips along her shoulder. “The door over by the stairs is the powder room. Meet me in the kitchen through there.” He pointed toward the opening to the dining room.

She reached up and traced her finger along his jaw as a shadow crossed her face. It reminded him of when she’d gone quiet during the car ride up. He wasn’t going to ask her what she was thinking. Right now he didn’t want to know.

Hannah walked into the kitchen and stopped dead, not because of the impressive, professional-level appliances, nor the enormous, stainless-steel island overhung by a rack holding myriad pots and pans, nor the vividly hued winter garden beyond the glass wall.

It was the sight of Adam standing in front of the massive range, the black of his clothing outlining his tall, sinewy body against the gleaming silver, as he lifted a spoon to his lips and tasted the dish he was cooking with such utter concentration he didn’t even realize she was there. The air around him vibrated with his passion as he scanned a grouping of small, glass bowls beside the stovetop, each filled with a different colored ingredient. His hand moved so fast and with such certainty it almost blurred as he selected what he wanted and stirred it in.

She understood as she never had before that he was an artist. The Aerie wasn’t a business for him; it was the embodiment of his creative genius.

He stirred the pot again, sending the aroma drifting past her nostrils. One inhalation and her eyes drifted shut on a groan of appreciation.

A satisfied chuckle made her force her eyelids open.

“Smells good?” Adam asked, plucking a plate down from a cabinet and filling it with the contents of the various pots and pans around him.

“That would be an understatement,” Hannah said, starting toward him.

He waved her toward a sleek, mahogany table set by the glass wall that looked onto the garden. “Sit. I’ll bring it over.”

She slid into a leather-and-chrome chair, finding its stark shape surprisingly comfortable. The table was already set with clean-lined flatware and forest-green glasses set on brown leather placemats. She filled both glasses with ice water from the matching pitcher as Adam came across the room with plates balanced up both arms.

“I had to be quick, so it’s just homemade fettuccine with cri
mini, oyster, and shiitake mushrooms grown locally,” he said, set
ting the dishes in front of her. “And some fresh greens for salad.”

“
Just
homemade fettuccine,” she said, plunging her fork into the pasta and bringing it to her mouth. The flavors burst on her tongue and sent pleasure signals beaming to her brain. “Oh, yes!”

“If you say it’s better than sex, I’m not cooking for you again,” he said.

“How did you guess?”

His smile turned hot. “The way you said ‘oh, yes’. Very similar to your tone on the couch earlier.”

“So you’d rather be loved for your body than your cooking?” she asked, teasing.

The smile faded as he turned his gaze to the garden. “If I had to choose.”

She’d struck some nerve she didn’t even know existed. “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t have to choose,” she said, trying to retrieve the lighter mood, “because I love you for both.”

Poor choice of words. She winced, hoping he wouldn’t notice the “love” part of her comment.

He turned back to her. “I can handle your most basic needs at least.” His tone was humorous, but his eyes were opaque.

“This pasta is not basic in any way.” She allowed herself a few more delicious bites before she brought up the subject hanging over them. “So tell me more about the O’Briens.”

He twirled some fettuccine onto his fork. “They’re perfect.” His voice was flat. “My private investigator can’t find a thing wrong with them.”

“And you’ve told him to try as hard as he can.”

He nodded and put the pasta in his mouth, chewing without any noticeable pleasure.

Hannah put down her fork. “You don’t have to keep looking for flaws in the O’Briens.”

He lifted his eyebrows in a silent question as he took
an
other bite
.

She leaned forward. “You don’t need an excuse to keep Matt. You’re his father.”

His fork clattered onto his plate. “I’ve been his father for all of four months.”

“You’ll be his father for the rest of his life.”

“We went through this last night,” he said, making a short, sharp gesture. “How can I be his father when I work seven days a week, twelve hours a day? And those hours are exactly the ones when he’s home and needs a parent. How can I be a father when I don’t even know if I should take him to Disney World to swim with the dolphins, or if that would break his heart because his mother wasn’t there with him?” He flung out his hand
again. “How
?”

“Every parent has to figure those things out. Sometimes they get the answers wrong at first, but it doesn’t matter because you love Matt. That’s all he’s going to care about.”

Adam stood up, making the chair scrape backward with a squeal of metal on tile. “One thing I learned young is that love is not enough. Children need to be protected as much as loved.”

“You’ve already protected Matt by making sure the O’Briens would be welcoming to him.”

“I can protect him from outside things,” Adam said. “I can’t protect him from myself.”

“Are you still worried about punching the sous-chef?” she asked. “Because that was a long time ago and you were a di
fferent perso
n.”

“No, I’m the same person.” He leaned forward across the table. “Last night I opened the minibar in my hotel room and saw all those tiny bottles of oblivion beckoning to me. The only way I kept myself from drinking them all was to call Matt. It’s a battle I fight every day.” He banged his fist on the table, making the dishes jump. “Every. Single. Day.”

He lowered his head so she could no longer see his face. His despair seemed to weigh down even the air between them.

“And every day you don’t give into that urge,” she said. “You do the right thing every single day.”

He shook his head without looking at her.

“Matt would help you, just like he did last night,” she said. “Maybe that’s what you’re missing: a reason not to dive into t
he bottl
e.”

That got his attention, and she almost wished it hadn’t. The look he gave her was scorching in its fury. “You think running a multimillion-dollar business isn’t a good enough reason to
stay sob
er?”

“You tell me. Is it?” She had the napkin in her lap rolled into a ball and was crushing it in her hands.

He avoided her question. “I’m not going to use Matt as some sort of life preserver.”

She wanted to reach out to him, to soothe him the way she would an abused, frightened animal who won’t allow anyone to come near. Except Adam was afraid of himself and the damage he might do to someone he loved.

“What about me? Will you let me stay around?” she asked, knowing the answer meant more than she wanted it to.

His head snapped back, almost as though she’d struck him. “What do you mean?”

Not good. “Well, it seems as though we’re going down the road to a relationship,” she said. “I’m wondering about where it will take us.”

He closed his eyes, the tendons in his neck standing out w
ith tensio
n.

“I don’t expect a declaration of undying love,” she backpedaled, “but if there’s no hope for the future, I’d like to be
prepared
.”

After a long silence, his stance went from strained to relaxed and he opened his eyes. “It’s a legitimate question,” he said, his voice level and rational. “I should have told you right from the start that former alcoholics are a bad bet for long-term relationships. I already mentioned the track record for chefs when it comes to divorce.”

“If I believed in nothing but statistics, I wouldn’t bother treating many of my patients. But I’ve seen how the love between a human and an animal can heal them both. Look at how strongly you feel about Trace.” She stood up and gestured toward the dog, where he lay with his gaze firmly on his master.

Adam’s expression softened as he glanced toward the dog, but his voice was bleak. “Trace has been seriously injured twice while he’s been with me.”

“No one can keep another being safe all the time. Life is risk. Your love helped him heal both times.” Frustration made her voice rise, so she lowered it. “You’re pretty arrogant if you think you can’t be healed by love as well.”

“Arrogant? Of course, I am. I’m a chef.” He shook his head, a humorless half-smile curling his lips. “No, in this case, I’m realistic.” He took a step back from the table.

She wanted to leap across the barrier between them, grab fistfuls of his shirt, and shake some sense into him. Instead she hurled her napkin on top of her unfinished plate. “Why did you start something you had no intention of finishing?”

That made him flinch and look away. “I didn’t intend to start it.” He swung his gaze back to her with that same half-smile. “You’re a beautiful woman who bathes everyone you know in warmth and light. I’m a selfish man and I couldn’t resist you.”