Melanie laughed at his expression and tried to ignore her racing pulse. Again she had to force herself to remember that this was an interlude. An affair. No commitments, no promises. She had to enjoy it while it lasted, then let it go. No more relationships for her. No way. Just fun and games.

Now all she had to do was convince her heart.

In an effort to control the emotions simmering on the surface, she asked, "Shower? Us? You mean like, together?"

"Absolutely." He wrapped his arms around her and stood. "Never let it be said that I haven't done my part in the global water conservation effort." He walked toward the bathroom, kissing her all the while.

"Besides," he added when they reached their destination, "we have to do something to keep up with our tradition of getting wet every time we're together."

"I've never done anything like this," Melanie murmured, watching him turn on the water spray.

The intense, burning look he sent her melted her insides to the consistency of maple syrup. He unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it off her shoulders. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear that." Opening the shower door, he held out his hand to her. "Come with me."

"Hmmm. Now there's a phrase that's ripe with possibilities," Melanie said, managing to keep her tone light in spite of the ever growing tightness in her throat. Her heart and mind were battling it out again in the Olympic love-versus-lust war. She had a sinking feeling that heart was going to win.

She slipped her hand into his and stepped into the shower.

Oh, well. Let the Games begin.

Chapter 13

"You look great," Chris said several hours later, leaning back to survey his handiwork. Melanie lay in the middle of his bed, naked except for several well-placed swirls of fluffy fudge frosting. "Fabulous, if I may say so myself."

"This is not how you decorate a cake," she insisted, squirming as he continued to "paint" her abdomen. "I've read dozens of cookbooks, and I've never seen instructions like this. If Betty Crocker even suspected what you're doing with that frosting, she'd fall down in a dead faint."

He drew a heart around her navel. "Who?"

"Never mind. And this may come as a shock," she added in a breathless voice, "but baking is normally done in the kitchen. Not the bedroom."

"This is not baking," Chris countered, dipping his finger into the glass bowl he held and spreading another dab of chocolate icing on Melanie's nipple. "This is decorating. We burned the cake. I wouldn't think of wasting all this great frosting." He leaned forward and sampled the delectable treat he'd just made.

"Delicious," he pronounced.

Melanie leaned up on her elbows. "We did not burn the cake," she informed him in a haughty tone that made Chris smile. "You burned the cake."

"Only because you wouldn't let me take it out of the oven when the timer went off."

"Wouldn't let you! How do you figure that?"

"You were on top," he reminded her in a calm tone. He suppressed a laugh at the bright red blush creeping up her cheeks. "I couldn't move."

She shot him a dirty look. "Oh. Well, you could have moved if you'd wanted to."

"Ah, but I didn't want to," he said, spreading a thin layer of icing on her bottom lip. "I was very happy where I was."

He watched her eyes darken with remembrance of their earlier lovemaking, and his heart squeezed tight in his chest. There it was again-that warm rush of love sweeping over him. It washed through him, nearly stealing his breath and leaving a lump in his throat that he had to struggle to swallow around.

Even though she hadn't said so, he knew she was feeling the same things he was. She had to be. He could see it in her eyes every time she looked at him, feel it in her touch, taste it in her kiss. He wondered how she would react if he told her he loved her.

You idiot. She'd run like a scared rabbit. And that was the last thing he wanted. It was too soon.

Besides, how do you tell a woman something like that? Just blurt it out? Damned if I know. He'd never told a woman he loved her-except his mother and sisters, and they didn't count.

Do you just tell her? Open your mouth and let the words flop out? Yeah. Let 'em flop out. Simple was best.

But he had to wait until she was ready. He'd give her another week. Nodding to himself, he decided that was fair. She could have one more week to realize they were meant to be together. Then he'd tell her that he loved her, she'd tell him the same thing, and that would be that.

A sobering thought burst through his reverie. What if she doesn't love me? A shudder ran through him, and he swatted the disturbing idea aside.

She does. She has to. And if she doesn't yet, she will. I'm not going to marry someone who doesn't love me. Since I'm going to marry her, she just has to love me. Period. That's the bottom line. End of discussion.

He was about to dip his finger into the frosting again when his hand froze. Did I just think what I think I thought?

Sure did, buddy, his inner voice replied. You just thought the dreaded M word.

Marriage. He was thinking about marriage.

Lifelong commitment. House in the suburbs. Kids.

He sat perfectly still, waiting for panic to seize him.

Only panic never came.

Instead, a warmth unlike anything he'd ever felt suffused him. Like bachelors everywhere, he'd always avoided the M word like it harbored E. coli. The thought of spending the rest of his life with one woman gave him hives.

But not anymore. Not since he'd met Melanie. In fact-

"Are you okay?" Her voice penetrated his musings.

He looked at her, feeling dazed. "Huh?"

She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "I asked if you're okay. You look like a piano just fell on your head."

He laughed and wondered just what his expression looked like. "Squashed and half an inch high?"

"No. Kinda shocked, surprised, and"-she peered at him-"green around the gills." She grabbed the bowl of frosting from him and set it on the nightstand. "You've eaten enough of that. You're obviously suffering from sugar-induced dementia."

A slow smile eased over his face. He leaned over her and licked her bottom lip. "On the contrary, I haven't had nearly enough."

She leaned back and sighed. "You'll get a tummy ache."

"It's not my tummy that's aching."

"Think of all those cavities."

"I have a great dental plan," he whispered against her lips. "Any more arguments?"

She arched against him. "Would there be any point?"

"Nope."

"Very well. Carry on."

He settled himself between her thighs. "Okay. If you insist."


* * *

At ten o'clock Sunday evening, Melanie sat in the Mercedes, her thoughts in turmoil. They would arrive at her house in less than five minutes, and she had no idea what to say to the man with whom she'd just spent the last thirty-six hours. Naked.

An offhand "Thanks, it's been great" didn't really seem appropriate, but neither did "I love you madly, please don't make me go home."

In fact, Chris had asked her to stay, but Melanie had somehow found the strength to say no. After spending only one night in his arms, she was addicted to the feel of him. The taste of him. If she stayed another night, her heart would suffer a fatal attack of the love-sickies.

Oh, who am I kidding? She already had the love-sickies so bad she was ready for the intensive care unit.

And boy, have I done it this time. Falling head-over-heels, ass-over-backwards in love. And with a confirmed bachelor, no less. That was certainly brilliant.

She looked out the window and cursed her stupidity at letting her hormones get her into this mess. It was entirely their fault. She should have shot those suckers dead the minute they started acting up. Bang! Death, followed by a hormone funeral and a brief period of mourning. Then back to her orderly life.

But nooooo. She had to meet Mr. Gorgeous. One look at him and all her plans had hopped out the window and plunged forty stories to their demise.

She sneaked a peek at him from the corner of her eyes. There he sat, calm, cool, collected, humming off-key to the radio, while she was suffering. He'd probably already forgotten about their time together. No doubt the minute he left her, he'd forget her name. She bet he'd come up with some excuse to not see her for the rest of the week, then conveniently "forget" to ever call her again.

Well, that was fine. Who needed him anyway? They'd spent their time together, now it was finished. She'd go on with her life, he with his. Two ships that pass in the night, make love several times-okay, several dozen times-then say adios.

She needed to nip this now. She knew firsthand where falling in love left a person-in a big, dark, painful hole with your skin ripped off. It had taken her a long time to climb out of that dungeon once before, and she didn't ever want to do it again.

She'd had her fun; now it was time to end it.

Before it was really too late.

"You're a million miles away, Mel Gibson."

She blinked at the sound of his voice and realized they were parked in front of her house. The porch lamps blazed cheerfully and the kitchen light glowed, announcing Nana's presence.

Melanie stared at him, unable to look away. She wanted to say something, anything, but she couldn't force any sound past the lump lodged in her throat. God help her, she didn't want to go inside and leave him. But she needed to end this before he did and left her in tatters.