Just Trust Me…

She liked attending the ballet while he preferred not attending the ballet ever, but they both enjoyed seeing Broadway shows.

She’d learned he was witty, intelligent and looked oh, so fine sitting cross-legged on a bedspread wearing nothing except a towel around his hips and a wicked gleam in his eyes. Never once had he bragged about what she knew from her file on him were his impressive professional credentials and affiliations. Nor had he mentioned his work, except to relate a couple of amusing laboratory disaster anecdotes.

She also knew he kissed better than any man she’d ever before kissed, that he was a skilled and generous lover, and that over the course of the evening, he’d brought her to orgasm six times. An image of them on the bed, the empty pizza box pushed to the floor along with their towels, her legs splayed wide and Brett’s dark head between her thighs, flashed through her mind, and she waved her hand in front of her face to dispel the heat that whooshed through her.

The man had magic hands, magic lips, a magic tongue. Magic…everything. And she fully expected that after he returned with food and drinks and they’d refueled, another orgasm or two lurked in their immediate future. Certainly she owed him at least one more-he’d only come three times.

She’d also learned that it was difficult to envision him as a fraud-Brett Thornton was nothing like the arrogant, reclusive, secretive, unfriendly, party-deserting man she’d expected-and that she liked him. Really liked him.

Of course, that could just be the six orgasms talking. There was nothing to dislike about that. Still, she’d be wise to remember that this giddy…infatuation or whatever it was, surely had something to do with the thin air and the cloud of post-coital bliss fogging up her receptors. It was fine to like him, but she couldn’t lose sight of why she was here.

Which brought another wallop of guilt from the other direction. Damn it, she didn’t like deceiving him, and although she hadn’t told him any outright lies, neither was she being honest with him.

But hey, he hasn’t been totally honest with you, either.

That’s right. He hadn’t mentioned his formula or the fact that every cosmetics company in the free world was wooing him. Or that he’d laid claim to an extraordinary product he’d yet to prove actually existed. No, he wasn’t exactly spilling all his secrets.

That knowledge assuaged her conscience a bit, and with a sigh, she turned her attention to her text messages. As with the voice mails, they were all from her mother and sisters, except two. One was from Nelson, repeating his phone message, and the other from her good friend Suzanne Freeland, an interior decorator, who simply asked, “How’s Dr. Thorn-in-your-side?”

She’d been surprised to realize that New York and Cusco were in the same time zone, which meant that it was after midnight at home. Given the late hour and the fact that she had no desire to get involved in any conversations about baby names or wedding disasters, she fired off a quick succession of text messages, the first telling Meg to relax and delegate-but not to her-after which she added a smiley face, the second informing Cindy that no kid would appreciate the name Butterfly, the third reassuring her mom that she didn’t look like anyone’s nana, the fourth to Nelson telling him she’d found Dr. Thornton and that she’d check in as soon as she knew anything, and the last one to Suzanne: He’s not what I expected.

After sending the messages, she tucked her phone back in her bag, then stood and curled her fingers over the intricately curved iron railing. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath, absorbing the unfamiliar sounds and scents of this place so far away and so vastly different from her New York apartment.

Soft strains of guitar music floated upward, a slow, seductive rhythm that encouraged Kayla to sway her hips. Cool air brushed across her skin, and she breathed deeply, inhaling the delicious scent of some exotic food lingering in the clean mountain air. The view from her hotel room overlooked the plaza, but Brett’s faced the other direction, his view a vista of the majestic mountains and dotted lights from the outlying barrios of Cusco and distant villages.

She heard the door to the room open, and after a quick peek over her shoulder to make certain it was Brett, she remained where she was, enjoying the music, knowing he’d join her.

Seconds later she was proven correct when he came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her neck with his lips. “Hi,” he whispered against her ear. “Miss me?”

A hum of pleasure escaped her. Firmly shoving aside her shame and guilt and all thoughts of La Fleur and promotions and payback and formulas, she reached up and back to encircle his neck. “Hi, yourself. And yes, I did,” she said, and realized with a start that it was true.

“I missed you, too.”

“How did your food scavenger hunt go?”

“Very well. There’s a restaurant two doors down. Lucky for us sandwich is apparently a universally understood word. I bought us each two, seeing as how we’re working up such an appetite. I also scored us some bottled water and homemade brownies.” His hands cruised up to cup her breasts. “But seeing you wearing my shirt…suddenly I’m craving something other than food.”

Pleasure rolled through her as his nimble fingers unfastened the top three buttons then slipped inside the material to play over her nipples.

She leaned her head back against his shoulder and arched into his hands. “Amazing how great minds think alike.”

“I liked that little dance you were doing when I came in.”

“Oh? You mean this one?” She slowly gyrated her hips, brushing her bottom against him.

His low growl rumbled next to her ear. “That’s the one.”

“Hmmm. I can tell you like it…unless that’s an ear of corn in your pocket.”

He chuckled and skimmed one hand down, over her abdomen, then pressed her more firmly back against his erection. Kayla sighed and turned her head, her lips seeking his. He utterly disarmed her with a slow, gentle kiss, brushing his mouth over hers with featherlight strokes that teased and made her ache for more. Gentle nibbles turned into a lazy swirling of tongues.

He sank into the kiss with an exquisite lack of haste, deepening the intimate strokes of his tongue until her legs trembled and desire gushed through her, pooling low in her belly, leaving her body, which only moments ago had felt sated, tense with need.

While one hand continued to tease her breasts, the other hand coasted lower, inching up his shirt that she wore until his fingers curved over her bare mound.

He groaned. “No panties. And God, you’re wet.”

She opened her thighs and he thrust a finger inside her, dragging a long moan from her throat. Ensconced in darkness and the cool air, surrounded by the moon and stars and mountains, enclosed in the moonlit privacy of the small balcony, Kayla gave herself over to the seductive lure of his caressing fingers. The tempting persuasiveness of his lips trailing down her throat.

“If you keep doing that,” she whispered, sweet, hot pulses of pleasure jolting through her, “I’m going to… ahhh…” He slipped another finger inside and pressed his palm right…ohhh…there. Her breathing turned jerky and she bucked against him.

“Going to what?” he asked.

But she couldn’t answer. The combined stimulation of fingers tugging on her nipple and pumping inside her while his palm pressed upward to rub against her sex with an exquisite rotation, shoved her over the edge. Her mind and body spun away in a fast, hard climax that shot sparks of pleasure through her. Limp and still breathing hard, she mustered the strength to turn around. He wrapped his arms around her waist, supporting her weight.

Their gazes met and held. “Don’t let go,” she warned.

He held her tighter. “Not letting go.”

“Good. Because if you do, I’ll just melt into a steaming heap at your feet. Holding me up is the least you can do after turning my legs to the consistency of overcooked spaghetti.”

One large hand cruised down to slip beneath her shirt and cup her bare buttock. “Have I mentioned how much I like overcooked spaghetti?”

She huffed out a laugh. “No one likes overcooked spaghetti.”

He made a sound like a game-show buzzer. “Wrong. I do.”

“You realize the orgasm score is now seven to three. My honor demands that it’s your turn. You’re going to