Chapter Three

"Can I help you? Oh, hi love. What'll you have?"

Julianna stared at the man behind the bar and pursed her lips. “Where’s Mike?”

He grinned at her obvious annoyance and lowered an eyelid in a naughty wink. “He had a thing he needed to go to with his wife. I told him I’d cover his shift. Let me guess. White wine? Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay?”

Julianna bit her tongue. Hard. “Martini, extra dry, extra olives.” She swore she’d drink the whole damn thing if it killed her, and tried not to look longingly at the bottle of white wine she preferred.

He lifted a brow. “You got it. Not driving, are you?”

She bristled and turned to her companion, whom she’d forgotten when faced with her irritating, sex-god gardener. “Tom, this is my handyman. What would you like to drink?”

“Stout, please. Guinness.”

Jack poured, shuffled glasses, and served with an economy of motion and grace. The scents of perfume, heat, and alcohol burned through the air as the crowd thickened in the late evening hour. The marina bar courted a tourist crowd. She had scheduled this first meeting with Tom in a public place where she wouldn’t have to worry about the locals. After all, he was the first official response to her ad. So far, dinner had been a polite, quiet affair with no sparks. She figured a crowded bar might loosen him up a bit, so she’d suggested a quick drink before ending the evening.

Unfortunately, her companion sat on the bar stool, tight-lipped and unsmiling. He glanced around the rustic, slightly dirty waterfront bar as if he smelled something bad. When he paid for the drinks, he didn’t tip. She squirmed and quietly pushed a ten dollar bill across the bar while Jack wasn’t looking.

“Interesting place.” Tom said. “I prefer the New York scene, of course. Happy hour is always quite raucous.”

She nodded. “Yes. I’ve always wanted to see the city.”

Silence.

She watched Jack from the corner of her eye while she searched for more conversational topics. Obviously, he had met many new women this past week. A line of blondes and brunettes laughed at his jokes, cooed over his English accent, and generally made themselves available for a late-night date. She twitched her nose in disapproval. Jack Wolfe didn’t seem to care who shared his bed, as long as she was warm, female and willing.

At least he’d stopped sniffing around her place. Thank goodness.

She drank the rest of her martini and a pleasant heat buzzed through her, allowing her to relax a notch. Tom finished his drink, then stood. “Well, I have to get back early in the morning, so I better say good night.”

She fought past the disappointment. “Of course.”

Jack suddenly appeared. “Another?”

“No, thank you, we were just leaving.” To prove a point, she grabbed Tom’s hand and forced a merry laugh. She went to walk him out, but he stopped her at the doorway.

“I’ll email you and we’ll discuss possible arrangements for marriage.”

Julianna blinked. The beat of the jukebox blared and pumped out Nelly’s “Hot In Herre.” “I thought, I thought we’d meet once more before making a decision.”

Tom shrugged, obviously bored. “I need a wife in order to climb up the corporate ladder. Damn company’s only promoting family men. I want someone who'll stay out of my life but be there for work events. I’ll give you the money for the house and we can arrange a wedding in the city. No big deal.”

She twisted her hands and fought off sheer panic. “Ummm, well, email me and we’ll see.”

“Fine. Nice to meet you.” He leaned over, placed a peck on her lips, and strode out the door.

Julianna stared at his retreating back, then glanced at the bar.

Jack stood with her empty martini glass in one hand, towel in the other. Whiskey colored eyes burned across the room.

She raised her chin and met his gaze head on.

Then turned her back and ran outside.

Gulping in breaths of salt water air, she went round the back and leaned against the side wall of the building. Damn him. Damn him for getting her body tied up in knots. Marrying Tom would be an easy business arrangement, but the idea of sleeping with him, let alone bearing him a child, seemed impossible. Not that he appeared interested in her. Maybe they'd each have their separate affairs like a true marriage of convenience. He was polite. He smelled like onions from dinner and had very weird eyebrows that sloped together into one, reminding her a bit of Groucho Marx, but she'd probably be able to stay at the Cliff House and only travel to New York on certain occasions. Actually, it seemed a perfect arrangement.

Despair hit her low and hard in the gut. Alone, she allowed herself to say the one curse word she loved and rarely uttered. “Fuck.”

“Didn’t know you had it in you, love.”

She whirled around. He stood behind her, framed in darkness. A bright orange glow appeared, and she watched him light a cigarette. He smoked with a lazy gracefulness that contradicted his working class stature. Gardener, handyman, bartender. Yet he spoke like an English aristocrat and seemed above petty day-to-day frustrations. The liquor burned through her veins and heated her temper.

“You shouldn’t smoke.”

He shrugged. “Shouldn’t do a lot of things that are fun.”

“What game do you think you’re playing?” she hissed.

Jack grinned and crossed one foot in front of the other as he leaned against the wall. “I’m not the one with a checklist for a husband. Tom seems like a real fun guy.”

She tossed her head. “He’s lovely. We’ll be seeing each other again.”

His lips literally twitched. “Obviously. Make sure he waxes his brows before the wedding.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Two curse words in one night. I must have broken all your records. Really, love, give yourself more credit. Are you that hard up?”

“You’re fired.”

She spun on her heel to march away, but he grabbed her arm and spun her right back. The delicious scents of rum and smoke and male arousal swam around her. He loomed tall and muscular and dangerous, and her body thrilled to the raw power. Her breath caught, her nipples rose, and her pussy throbbed with anticipation. He seemed to literally smell her arousal like a big bad wolf ready to mark his mate. His nostrils flared.

“When are you going to let yourself go?” He lowered his voice to a hypnotic demand. “You teach poetry, for God’s sakes. Too much control and the writing lies flat and lifeless. Look at you. You’re practically shaking with need. I can make you shatter just by slipping my hand down your pants.”

Julianna fought for breath, fought for control, fought for sanity. As if taming a wild stallion, he pressed his lips to her temple in mock gentleness, then spoke against her ear.


Sex contains all, bodies, souls,

Meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,

Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk,

All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, all the passions, loves,

beauties, delights of the earth….


She shook hard, on the verge of an actual orgasm. The slow slide of his tongue over her lobe teased and taunted, and Julianna clawed for control. His low wicked laugh told her he knew how bad she wanted him. Still, she refused to yield and forced out her words. “Where did you learn that poem?”

“Walt Whitman literally drips sex onto the page. A Woman Waits For Me. I happen to be read in other things besides Dr. Seuss. But I guess I’m still not good enough for you. Quoting poetry and making you come means nothing without money.” With a sneer he stepped back. “Enjoy your night.”

He walked away and left her. Aching. Empty.

And alone.

* * *

Jack took a long pull of beer and gazed out at the ocean, his feet propped up on the back deck. The Schooner cut through the water with steadfast smoothness and grace. The sails hugged and caught the wind, and the lights of the horizon flickered in the distance.

He wanted her.

The knowledge twisted his belly with disgust. The irony was almost too much. He searched for a woman who’d love him for himself. Yet, he bodily craved one who was the literal poster image of a greedy, shallow socialite wanting to marry for the exact wealth and title he possessed.

She pissed him off. Her date had barely looked her in the eye, let alone bothered to see past that horrible outfit she wore. For God’s sakes, jeans and tank top would have looked sexier than that buttoned-up floral number. The fabric covered her from neck to ankle.

He cursed under his breath. Why the hell did he care? He had a dozen phone numbers in his pocket. Some were more suited to one-nighters, but the other half might contain the number of his future wife. Julianna Waters was a dead frikkin end.

But she called to his sense of challenge. He wanted to be the first to claim her virginal lure. The hunger in those seething dark eyes made him crave to touch her and bring pleasure. He yearned to wipe the polite façade from her face and unearth the glimmer of passion and rawness hiding beneath. When he quoted Whitman, he’d almost had her. The connection surged hot and strong, and she’d been ready to crumble. But his temper reared. For God’s sakes, her mission to marry a man with money trumped all other impulses—even pleasure.

He put the beer down and focused on re-tacking the sail to change direction. The tangy scent of salt water calmed his nerves. The ocean had roared in his blood since youth, and often when he was uneasy or needed to clear his thoughts, sailing was the only activity to bring him calm. Once he married and the company had the necessary stability, he planned on travelling for most of the year, especially to the ports in the US where his heart now lay. Newport soothed his soul. He missed his father, especially out on the water when he felt a piece of himself was missing.