Love and the Single Dad Page 8

  He nodded.

  “Can you put a file together while I’m talking to him, please? It’s a trust he’s interested in, right? He’s—” She stopped, her gaze zipping back to the computer screen. Cory Spondent? She laughed.

  “Send Mr. McCoy in, please. And I’m sure he’ll want coffee.”

  Moses stood aside, and Donovan came in, a manila envelope in hand, obviously having been waiting just outside the door instead of in the reception area.

  “Cory Spondent?” she said, gesturing to him to take a chair opposite her desk. She knew why he’d come. So did her body. Blood raced through her, scorching hot. Almost two weeks—plus fifteen years—of anticipation swirled and stormed.

  “You laughed,” he said. “I heard you.”

  “Well, of course. I do give you points for creativity, but I don’t know why you bothered.” Yes, you do.

  “Just wanted to surprise you.”

  “Were you going to be in Sacramento anyway?” No, he’d planned this, just this.

  “I came here specifically to see you.” He laid the packet on her desk. “Nice office. A little on the stodgy side.”

  She didn’t take offense since she agreed with his assessment. The firm was old and respected, and the furnishings reflected it in the dark woods and deep-tone colors. The walls were thick, not allowing voices to drift down hallways or room to room. “So, Donovan, what’s going on that couldn’t wait until I got home?” I’m glad you couldn’t wait.

  “The paperwork is done, Laura.”

  Bells seemed to toll at the statement.

  “It’s time,” he added.

  “I’m your lawyer,” she said, knowing that was about to change.

  He leaned forward and plucked one of her business cards out of its brass holder, then set it on her desk right in front of her. “Which one of these attorneys do you respect the most?”

  Her finger shook just a little as she pointed to a name. “But he’s a partner. All these men are. I think you’d be happier with Monique Davis. She’s an associate, like me.”

  “See if she’s available. Please.”

  Moses came in with a mug of coffee while she made the call. Donovan set it on a coaster on her desk without tasting it. He leaned back casually, his body seeming relaxed, but his eyes were focused directly on her, his jaw as tight as hers felt.

  Over the next interminable minutes, papers were signed and witnessed. Then when the room was empty except for the two of them again, Donovan got up and headed to the door.

  She held her breath, stunned. He was leaving? Why? To drag it out further? To wear her down even more with anticipation? To—

  He shut the door and walked back toward her, coming around the desk, and setting his hands on her armrests.

  “You’re fired, Ms. Bannister.”

  “Good.” Everything was simple now. She would know, finally, what it was like with him.

  She grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer, but he took the final action. He kissed her, and it was every long-held fantasy come true. His lips were soft and demanding, his tongue gentle and seeking, his breath hot and tempting. She’d been waiting half her life for this moment.

  He slipped his arms around her and pulled her out of her chair so that they were body to body, deepening the kiss and contact, groaning, gentleness turning flatteringly fierce. He slid his hands down her back, curved them over her rear, pulled her snugly against him. Sounds came from inside her that she didn’t recognize and couldn’t control.

  “This isn’t the place,” she said, tipping her head back as he ran his lips and tongue down her throat into the deep V of her blouse.

  He touched his forehead to hers, his breath wavering. “Do you need all your girly stuff?”

  “Girly…stuff?”

  “Yeah. Makeup. Lacy nightgown. You know. Frills.”

  “As opposed to what?”

  “Coming with me right now to a hotel. As is.”

  Laura was torn. She wanted it to be good. Not perfect—she was realistic, after all, and firsts weren’t ever perfect—but good. Memorable. Waiting until they got back to Chance City wouldn’t make a difference. Nor would a sexy nightgown. They were both too anxious to deal with the trappings.

  “Let’s go, newsman. Correspondent.”

  He chose a large, pricey hotel walking distance from her office, a place big enough to offer some anonymity. Then instead of going to the front desk he guided her to the elevator banks. From his pocket he pulled out a card key.

  “You planned,” she said as soon as the elevator doors shut. She leaned into him when he put his arm around her and kissed her.

  “I hoped.” He cupped her face. “I figured the odds were in my favor, but I had to allow room for your feelings about the matter, which I didn’t want to presume.”

  The bell pinged, and the doors opened. They ran down the hall, stumbling, laughing, anticipating. He surprised her by sweeping her into his arms and carrying her inside, her briefcase banging against the doorjamb. She didn’t know what he meant by the grand gesture. Maybe nothing. She didn’t want to read anything into it.

  “You really planned,” she said, looking around. He’d folded down the bedding, leaving just the bottom sheet, the huge, beckoning expanse of a king bed. Champagne on ice on the nightstand. Chocolate-covered strawberries. Drapes drawn.

  “I’m not a barbarian.” He set her down. “Champagne?”

  “Later. Much later.”

  “Laura.” He grabbed her hands and held them against his chest. “I have to be home tonight. As much as I’d like to spend the night with you, I can’t. Ethan—”

  She put her fingers against his mouth. “I understand.” She didn’t want their relationship to be public, anyway, needing to see where it was going first—if anywhere. For now she just wanted him.

  Laura let her suit jacket drift down her arms, then tossed it onto a chair. She stepped out of her high heels, kicking them aside. The rest was up to him.

  And he knew exactly what to do and how to do it. How to let the backs of his fingers brush against her skin as he unbuttoned her blouse. How to ease down the zipper of her skirt and slip his hands underneath the fabric to push it to the floor in a bare whisper of sound, her blouse quickly joining the skirt. She didn’t wear pantyhose in the summer, so she was left wearing only high-cut white panties and a matching lace bra.

  “You have tan lines,” he said, surprise in his voice. “So, your story about your bikini being confining was just that? A story? You don’t sunbathe in the nude. You just meant to stir me up.”

  She looped her arms around his neck. “It worked, too, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He kissed her, lingering until she couldn’t get enough of him. “The idea of you naked by your pool turned me on, big time. As I’m sure you know. But the tan lines? Very sexy, too.”

  He took his time then, looking and touching, teasing and promising, her skin on fire from his caresses, from the need. He ran his fingers through her hair, freeing it, finger-combing the tangles out. “You know what people call you?” he asked.

  “The Ice Queen?” she guessed.

  He looked startled. “Not that I’ve heard. They call you The Body.”

  “You mean men. Men call me that.”

  “Some women probably, too,” he said with a grin, reaching for her bra clasp.

  She stopped him. “Let’s catch you up first.” She went to work on him, undressing him as slowly as he’d undressed her, revealing his body to her appreciative eyes and hands. Scars marred his skin here and there, some looking much more serious than others, a visual reminder of the risks he took—liked to take. He kept himself in shape, but wasn’t overdone. She didn’t like the overly brawny look. He was perfect—strong arms, broad shoulders, a wide chest with a dusting of black hair that arrowed straight down his body.

  Kneeling, she ran her hands down that tempting line and under his briefs, not rushing the unwrapping, the unmatched pleasure of discovery. She heard him suck air be
tween his teeth as her fingertips grazed his velvety hardness. His thighs went taut; then he hooked his hands under her arms and pulled her up. Her bra was off in an instant, her breasts filling his hands, her nipples sucked into his mouth, teeth scraping, tongue circling. He moved her back until her knees hit the bed and she landed with a bounce. He wasn’t slow or gentle removing her panties—nor did she want him to be. She wanted him over her, around her, inside her.

  “You are incredible,” he said, harsh and low, as he ran a hand down her body, barely touching her, just enough to drive her wild. “Perfect.”

  She could hardly catch her breath. “So are you.” She wrapped her hand around him, guiding him, needing him.

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments. “You’re on the pill?” he asked, impatient.

  I can’t get pregnant. “It’s taken care of,” she said, closing her eyes as he pressed into her, stretching and filling. Then he went motionless, letting their connection just be. She didn’t know whether it was her pulse or his she felt—maybe both—but it pounded where they were joined. The absence of movement stretched out the climax she felt building, second by second. He lifted his head and kissed her, hot, wet, openmouthed, mimicking the act itself but not moving his hips, just staying there. She clenched around him.

  “Yes,” he whispered against her mouth. “Keep going.”

  He was giving her control, yet he was completely in control, too. Equals. Partners. Light-headed, she tensed and released him rhythmically until his body shook and hers arched. Then at exactly the same moment, they moved in need, melded in desire, soared in satisfaction.

  She’d never felt closer to any human being in her life.

  And it was perfect.

  Too perfect. Scary perfect.

  She wrapped her arms around him as he collapsed against her, feeling the sting of tears, and a huge, hot lump in her throat.

  How had she ever thought it would be simple?

  Chapter Ten

  D onovan jammed a pillow against the headboard and tucked his hands behind his head as he waited for Laura to emerge from the bathroom. After all the wondering, the anticipation, and then the incredible pleasure, he should feel relaxed….

  He was more tense than ever.

  Every reason he’d created for steering clear of her had been valid. She was a banquet, a feast for the eyes and mouth. He should be satisfied, but hunger for her growled, demanding to be fed again. A taste of her wasn’t enough.

  The door clicked open. He enjoyed watching her walk toward him, but kept his gaze on her face, needing to read what was there. She’d taken a long time in the bathroom, much longer than he would’ve expected.

  Second thoughts, maybe?

  No. She would’ve come out wearing the robe hanging on the back of the door. Instead she was gloriously naked, sexy tan lines and all. Her smile was small and tight. Why? She didn’t look as though she’d been crying.

  Donovan scooted over, holding out a hand to her, pulling her close, wrapping her in his arms. She let out a long, slow breath and slipped one foot between his.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his breath stirring her hair.

  “I’m fine.”

  She wasn’t fine, that much he knew. He needed to see her eyes. “Want some champagne?”

  “Sure.”

  They sat up. He opened the bottle without ceremony and poured two flutes, passing her one, touching the lip of his glass to hers but not saying anything, not sure where he stood. He took comfort in the fact she hadn’t gotten dressed.

  After they’d each taken a sip, he offered her the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries. He’d had fantasies about feeding them to her, but that didn’t seem like something she would enjoy at the moment.

  He waited for her to finish eating the first one, then said, “You’re quiet.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He was afraid to ask why. “Can we talk about it?”

  After a few seconds, she laughed, low and soft. “That cost you a lot, didn’t it? You don’t want to talk about it, whatever it might be.”

  “Not really. But I do want to know why you’re so quiet.” Usually he didn’t second-guess anything he did. Maybe other things hadn’t mattered as much as this. It was taking every bit of his control not to pull her under him and take her again.

  “I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed,” she said.

  “In what way?”

  She brushed his hair, then rubbed his earlobe between her fingers. “You have to understand that this is something I’ve wanted since I was fourteen—and I didn’t even know what I was wanting. Every time you came to town since then, every time I saw you at a wedding or a barbecue or whatever, it was brought home to me again. You’ve been kind of an obsession.”

  “And now it’s been fulfilled and you’re disappointed?”

  “On the contrary.” She flattened her hand on his chest. “I want more. Lots more.”

  “I’m willing to accommodate that.”

  She smiled, then let her hand drift down his chest, his stomach, his abdomen and beyond. “I can see that you are,” she said. “It’s also complicated now.”

  He clenched his teeth as her fingertips danced over him. “In what way?”

  “The relationship has to be private. Stolen moments. Can you do that?”

  It wasn’t what he wanted, but he understood what she was saying, and why. There would be too much speculation from his family, putting pressure on them. And then there was Ethan. Donovan didn’t want to confuse his son by being gone overnight, and he couldn’t invite Laura to stay over at the cabin after they moved in.

  But he wasn’t giving her up. “I can do that, Laura. Can you?”

  She took his champagne flute and set it on the nightstand with hers, then straddled him, settling herself exactly where he wanted her.

  “I don’t want to give this up, newsman.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Would you be saying the same thing if I were dressed?”

  He was glad she’d recovered her sense of humor. “What do you think?”

  She took the lead then, and he let himself enjoy the view and the ride. He thought he’d last longer, be able to take more time, use more finesse, but need stopped him from keeping any kind of control—not to mention she kept bringing him to the brink, and then stopping at the pivotal moment. Finally he pulled her down, rolled over and started a rhythm designed to bring them both to climax quickly and mutually again, their bodies and needs attuned.

  The moment she hit the peak, he let himself, as well. He thought he’d been satisfied before, but this time went so far beyond it. Sated, maybe. Replete.

  Happy.

  Now, there was a word that hadn’t defined him lately.

  “Wow,” Laura said, her breath hot and shaky against his shoulder.

  Which, he decided, summed up how he felt, too.

  “Do you want to leave separately?” Laura asked Donovan when they were both dressed and ready to go, their idyll over. Her body ached pleasantly. She wished she could curl up with him and sleep for a while.

  “I don’t think there’s a need for evasive maneuvers,” he said, his back to her as he put some tip money on the nightstand.

  She heard laughter in his voice. “We’re both recognizable around Sacramento, both have had our photos in the newspaper a number of times, our own claims to fame. Local kids make good.”

  “Tell you what. I won’t feel you up in the lobby. How’s that?”

  She realized how ridiculous she was being. So what if they were seen together? “Dumb, huh?”

  “A little.” He put his arms around her, but kept her at a distance where they could look at each other. “I imagine it’s important to maintain a certain image for your firm.”

  She toyed with the buttons on his shirt. “My stodgy old firm?”

  He smiled. “I said your office was stodgy.”

  “The office reflects the firm.” She’d accepted the offer to work
for them because she could build a practice quickly there, which had been important to her.

  “How long until you make partner?”

  “Never. I split my time, so I’m never going to work the eighty hours a week to bring in the necessary revenue to be offered a partnership. They brought me aboard and allowed me to work part-time because of my pageant background, frankly. They didn’t say so, but I knew it. They like being able to tell clients that. It gives them a certain cachet.”

  “Are you okay with not making partner?”

  “It’s not that I couldn’t, because they keep asking me to come aboard full-time. But having my own firm, where no one tells me what to do, satisfies me more than a partnership would. I could work in Chance City full-time if the McCoys would start getting divorces….” She grinned, then kissed him.

  He deepened it, then turned it tender, lingering. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said finally.

  Her automatic refusal of his chivalry didn’t come, as she would have expected. After all, it wasn’t even dark yet. But some woman she didn’t recognize said in her own voice, “Thank you.”

  They held hands as they walked down the hall and then waited for the elevator, but once inside they let go, standing about a foot apart, each watching the panel of lights as the elevator descended.

  They reached the lobby level. The doors opened, revealing a man and woman facing away but turning toward them.

  Joe and Dixie, Laura realized. What were they—No. Not Joe. Another man with a ponytail.

  The color drained from Dixie’s face, as it probably had from her own, Laura thought. Donovan recovered first.

  “Hey, Dix,” he said as he and Laura stepped out of the elevator.

  Dixie’s face not only regained its color but turned deep pink. “Um, hi.” She looked as if she wanted to ask them what they were doing, then thought better of it. Because she would have to explain herself?

  “This is Rick Santana,” she said without further explanation of who he was. “Rick, these are my friends Laura Bannister and Donovan McCoy.”

  There was hand-shaking all around, then a moment of awkwardness.