Нора Робертс - Bed of Roses

“I’ve heard rumors about ballet, opera, theater there, too.”

“Really?” He sent her an exaggerated look of puzzlement. “That’s weird.”

“You, Jack, are such a guy.”

“Guilty.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked you, why architecture?”

“My mother claims I started building duplexes when I was two. I guess it stuck. I like figuring out how to use space, or change an existing structure. How can you use it better? Are you going to live in it, work in it, play in it? What’s around the space, what’s the purpose? What are the best and most interesting or practical materials? Who’s the client and what are they really after? Not all that different, in some way, than what you do.”

“Only yours last longer.”

“I have to admit I’d have a hard time seeing my work fade and die off. It doesn’t bother you?”

She pinched off a knuckle-sized piece of bread. “There’s something about the transience, you could say. The fact that it’s only temporary that makes it more immediate, more personal. A flower blooms and you think, oh, pretty. Or you design and create a bouquet, and think, oh, stunning. I’m not sure the impact and emotion would be the same if you didn’t know it was only temporary. A building needs to last; its gardens need to cycle.”

“What about landscape design. Ever consider it?”

“Probably more briefly than you did New York. I like working in the garden, out in the air, the sun, seeing what I put in come back the next year, or bloom all through the spring and summer. But every time I get a delivery from my wholesaler it’s like being handed a whole new box of toys.”

Her face went dreamy. “And every time I hand a bride her bouquet, see her reaction, or watch wedding guests look at the arrangements, I get to think: I did that. And even if I’ve made the same arrangement before, it’s never exactly the same. So it’s new, every time.”

“And new never gets boring. Before I met you, I figured florists mostly stuck flowers in vases.”

“Before I met you, I figured architects mostly sat at drawing boards. Look what we learn.”

“A few weeks ago, I never imagined we’d be sitting here like this.” He put his hand over hers, fingers lightly skimming while his eyes looked into hers. “And that I’d know before the night was over I’d be finding out what’s under that really amazing dress.”

“A few weeks ago . . .” Under the table, she slid her foot slowly up his leg. “I never imagined I’d be putting on this dress for the express purpose of you getting me out of it. Which is why . . .”

She leaned closer so the candlelight danced gold in her eyes, so her lips nearly brushed his. “There’s nothing under it.”

He continued to stare at her, into the warmth and the wicked. Then shot up his free hand. “Check!”

He had to concentrate on his driving, particularly since he attempted to break the land speed records. She drove him crazy, the way she cocked her seat back, crossed those gorgeous bare legs so that the dress slithered enticingly up her thighs.

She leaned forward—oh yes, deliberately, he knew—so that in the second he dared take his eyes off the road he had a delectable view of her breasts rising against that sexy red.

She fiddled with the radio, cocked her head long enough to send him a feline, female smile, then leaned back again. Re-crossed her legs. The dress snuck up another half inch.

He worried he might drool.

Whatever she’d put on the radio came to him only in bass. Pumping, throbbing bass. The rest was white noise, static in the brain.

“You’re risking lives here,” he told her, and only made her laugh.

“I could make it more dangerous. I could tell you what I want you to do to me. How I want you to take me. I’m in the mood to be taken. To be used.” She trailed a finger up and down the center of her body. “A few weeks ago, or longer than that, did you ever imagine taking me, Jack? Using me?”

“Yes. The first time was after that morning I saw you on the beach. Only, when I imagined it, it was night, and I walked down and pulled you into the water, into surf. I could taste your skin and the salt. I had your breasts in my hands, in my mouth, while the water beat over us. I took you on the wet sand while the waves crashed, until all you could say was my name.”

“That’s a long time ago.” Her voice went thick. “A long time to imagine. I know one thing. We really need to go back to the beach.”

The laugh should’ve eased some of the ache, but only increased it. Another first, Jack concluded: A woman who could make him laugh and burn at the same time.

He whipped the car off the road and onto the long drive of the Brown Estate.

There were lights glowing on the third floor, both wings of the main house, and the glimmer of them in Mac’s studio. And there, thank God, the shine of Emma’s porch light, and the lamp she’d left on low inside.

He hit the release for his seat belt even as he hit the brakes. Before she could do the same, he managed to shift toward her, grab hold of her and let his mouth ravish hers.

He molded her breasts, gave himself the pleasure of riding his hands up those legs, under that seductive red.

She closed her teeth over his tongue, a quick, erotic trap, and struggled with his fly.

He managed to yank down one shoulder of her dress before he rammed his knee into the gear shift.

“Ouch,” she said on a breathless laugh. “We’ll have to add knee pads to the elbow pads.”

“Damn car’s too small. We’d better get inside before we hurt ourselves.”

Her hands gripped his jacket, yanked to bring him back for one more wild kiss. “Hurry.”

They shoved out of opposite sides of the car, then bolted for each other. Another breathless laugh, a desperate moan, sounded in the silence. They stumbled, grappled, and groped as their mouths clashed.

She yanked and tugged his jacket away as they circled up the walk like a pair of mad dancers. When they reached the door she simply shoved him back against it. Her mouth warred with his, breaking only so she could drag his sweater up, nails scraping flesh before she tossed it aside.

The heels and the angle brought her mouth level with his jaw. She bit it as she whipped the belt out of his pants, and tossed that aside as well.

Jack fumbled behind him for the doorknob, and they both lurched inside. Now he pushed her back to the door, yanked her arms over her head and handcuffed her wrists with his hand. Keeping her trapped, he shoved her skirt up and found her. Just her, already hot for him, already wet. And her gasp ended on a cry when he drove her hard and fast to climax.

“How much can you take?” he demanded.

Breath ragged, body still erupting, she met his eyes. “All you’ve got.”

He drove her up again, beyond moans and cries, storming her system with his hands, with his mouth. Heat sheathed her, slicked her skin as he dragged the dress down to free her breasts, to feed on them. Everything she wanted, more than she could imagine, rough and urgent, he used and exploited her body.

Owned her, she thought. Did he know? Could he know?

Want was enough, to want like this, be wanted like this. She would make it enough. And wanting him, craving him, she braced against the door and wrapped a leg around his waist.

“Give me more.”

She consumed him, in that moment before he plunged inside her, the look, the feel, the taste of her consumed him. Then with a new kind of madness, he took her against the door, battering them both while her hair tumbled out of its pins, while she said his name over and over.

Release was both brutal and glorious.

He wasn’t entirely sure he was still standing, or that his heart would ever beat normally again. It continued to jackhammer in his chest, making the basic act of breathing a challenge.

“Are we still alive?” he managed.

“I . . . I don’t think I could feel like this if I wasn’t. But I do think my life passed before my eyes at one point.”

“Was I there?”

“In every scene.”

He gave himself another minute, then eased back. He was indeed still standing, he noted. And so was she—flushed and glowing, and naked but for a pair of sky-high sexy heels.

“God, Emma, you’re . . . There are no words.” He had to touch again, but this time almost reverently. “We’re not going to make it upstairs yet.”

“Okay.” When he gripped her hips, lifted, she boosted up to wrap both legs around his waist. “Can you make it as far as the couch?”

“I’m going to give it a try.” He carried her there where they could fall in a tangled heap.

Two hours later, when they finally made it upstairs, they slept.

She dreamed, and in the dream they danced in the garden, in the moonlight. The air was soft with spring and scented by roses. Moon and stars silvered the flowers that bloomed everywhere. Her fingers twined with his as they glided and turned. Then he brought hers to his lips to kiss.

When she looked up, when she smiled, she saw the words in his eyes even before he spoke them.

“I love you, Emma.”

In the dream her heart bloomed like the flowers.

In preparation for the seaman meeting, Emma filled the entrance urns with her big pots of hydrangeas. The intense blue created such a strong statement, she thought, dramatic, romantic, and eye-catching. Since the bride’s colors were blue and peach she hoped the hydrangeas would fit the bill for the initial impact.

Humming, she went back to her van to unload the pots of white tulips—the bride’s favorite—that would line the steps. A sweeter image than the hot blue, softer, more delicate. A nice mix, to her mind, of texture, shape, and style.