Isn't it Romantic? Page 14

  “What’s wrong with this?” he asked after frantically fumbling with the hooks in the back to no avail.

  “Oh great!” Katrine almost sobbed. “I’m wearing the one with a crooked hook. There’s a pair of scissors on the shelf behind me. Cut it off!”

  His gaze searched the shelves. Trey quickly snatched up a pair of scissors. He eyed her skeptically. “Are you sure you want me to—”

  “Just do it!”

  Katrine jumped when the cold steel of a blade slid between her breasts. She heard a clipping noise, felt the lace being peeled away, and saw the flare of heat in Trey’s eyes when he looked at her. Slowly, his head lowered to her breasts.

  She sighed, twisting her fingers in his hair. He flicked his tongue across her nipple before taking the crest inside his mouth. His soft sucking sent heat racing up her thighs. A warmth that spread to her lower regions where her quivering insides contracted with a need only he could fulfill. She wanted him desperately, and to prove it, Katrine bravely reached for the waistband of his jeans.

  Trey sucked in his breath sharply at her boldness, straightening to afford her better access. “Remember the night on the bike?” he asked huskily. “I haven’t been able to forget the feel of your hands on me. I’ve fantasized about it a time or two, about what would have happened if I hadn’t reached the restaurant when I did.”

  Katrine smiled seductively at him. “I’ve thought about it, too,” she admitted, struggling with the button due to the tightness of his jeans, a tightness brought about by what he had bulging inside. “At the time, I was thinking about a book.”

  “A book?” He took a step back. “You were thinking about a book?”

  “Yes,” she answered with a hint of annoyance, pulling him toward her with the pressure of her hands on his waistband. “I can’t get this button undone.”

  “One you planned to write, or one you’ve already written?”

  “One I’ve already written,” she snapped. “Trey, if you don’t get this button undone, I’m going to take the scissors to your fly.”

  “I’ll do it,” he quickly decided.

  While he fumbled with the fastening, the washing machine went into the spin cycle. Katrine slammed up against him, almost smashing Trey’s hands in the process. He grasped her hips.

  “This thing’s getting ready to rock like crazy with only one piece of clothing in it,” she warned. “We’d better—”

  Before her words of warning were completed, the ride began. The thin slacks she wore weren’t much resistance against Trey’s Levi-strained hardness. The machine bounced and bucked, creating a friction between them that was, to Katrine’s way of thinking, better than it had a right to be.

  “Damn,” Trey swore softly, securing a stronger grasp on her hips. “Damn,” he said again before capturing her lips.

  He split her bottom lip with his teeth because of the bouncing, but Katrine hardly noticed the pain. The machine-made friction drove her to the brink of a world she’d never experienced. She felt a tightening sensation grip her.

  “Oh,” she moaned, “Ohh my—”

  Visions of Nadine’s red, panting face surfaced in Trey’s mind. Suddenly, he felt a loss of interest overriding the stimulating feel of Katrine rubbing wildly against him. “Don’t,” he warned between labored breaths. “Don’t say that. Not now.”

  A hand clamping over Katrine’s mouth brought her plummeting from her journey into another world. She crash-landed into reality.

  “Ouch!” Trey wrenched his hand from between her teeth. “You bit me!”

  “I was this close,” she panted, bringing up her fingers to measure out an inch. “This close to being somewhere I’ve never been before, and you mined it!”

  “Katrine, let’s not argue. Not now,” he stressed.

  “Oh no you don’t.” She reached behind her, turning the washer knob to ‘off’.

  The bucking came to an immediate halt. Trey gave the top of the washer a frustrated pound with his fist, then tried to bring his breathing back to normal. “All right, that was the weirdest foreplay I’ve ever had, but now we’ll have normal sex.”

  “Not now, we won’t.”

  “You’re not going to leave me this way?” he asked in disbelief. “This is cruel and inhuman punishment.”

  She smiled.

  “I’m sorry.” Trey ran a hand through his damp hair. “You’re obviously angry because I ruined your ‘burst of ecstasy’. Hell, I’ll give you another one. I’ll give you as many as you can handle. Be reasonable.”

  In answer, she lifted a brow, grabbed up her sweater and held it to her naked breasts. “I don’t want another one. I wanted that one. You can leave now. I’m not drying your damn shirt, and I’ll go back to my imagination where you were a considerate lover!”

  “Like one of your heroes?” he snarled. “You know real sex is never that perfect or that ridiculous. I’m sure a virgin is going to orgasm ten times her first night with a man.”

  “Ten times, that’s unreasonable,” Katrine agreed stiffly. “Once her first night, that’s logical. Once in a lifetime, I guess that’s too much to ask!”

  He blinked. “You mean, you haven’t…? You’re kidding, right?”

  Her cheeks started to burn. “I thought with you … I wanted to understand, to experience what I’ve written about, but—”

  “I’m research,” he interrupted flatly. “You wanted me to help you with the damn ‘burst of ecstasy’. Does every man who ends up between your legs also end up between the pages of your next novel?”

  The insulting question brought Katrine’s temper to a rolling boil. The light in the basement seemed suddenly too stark, her behavior too embarrassing. There was nothing romantic about the interlude. The hero was no hero at all!

  She jumped down from the washer, lifted the lid and threw his wet shirt at him. “Don’t flatter yourself. You don’t have to worry about reading this scene in one of my novels. I write historical romance, Westmoreland, not hysterical romance.”

  “I’m out of here,” he assured her, struggling to force his arms into a clingy, wet shirt.

  “Good,” she quipped.

  “It was at least that,” he agreed, moving toward the stairs. “Had you managed to unfasten my jeans, it would have been even better.”

  “Conceited bastard,” she accused at his back. “I’ve always heard it isn’t quantity, but quality that counts most.”

  He laughed. “Right. I’ve noticed all your fantasy heroes have plenty of quantity.”

  “Well, yeah, they know what to do with it, too!”

  Trey hesitated on the bottom step. He turned. “I assure you I know what to do. Are you trying to goad me into proving it? Do you want me to give you something to write about?”

  In answer, she snatched the scotch bottle off the table and held it menacingly, as if she planned to throw it at him. “What I want is to never see you again.”

  “Fine,” he said through clenched teeth.

  As he moved up the steps, Katrine felt an emptiness settle inside her. She didn’t truly want him to leave. She wanted him to make good on his earlier promise. She wanted to start over.

  “The limo will pick you up at seven on Friday night,” she called weakly.

  “Fine!”

  The basement door slammed.

  Chapter 12

  Trey lifted a glass of Perrier to his lips. He sipped while caressing the cover of a book. The raised print of the author’s name caused him to smile slightly. “If this is what you want, Kat Summers, this is what you’ll get.” When the security buzzer sounded, he placed his glass aside, rose, and walked toward the speaker system.

  “Katrine?”

  “No. I’m Bob, the driver. She’s waiting in the limo. You ready?”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  Moving into the bedroom, he snatched up his keys and frowned at a pair of red-sequined heels cluttering his immaculate dresser top. He lifted a shoe and caught the faded fragrance of her perfume. S
he’d obviously spilled a few drops on her shoes the night he took her to Shotty’s.

  He swore the scent became stronger at night, when sleep failed to claim him. He’d lie awake thinking of her, reliving the feel and taste of her skin, fighting his irrational attraction. Quickly, he replaced the shoe and steeled himself for the evening ahead. What he had planned should cool things down between them considerably. Among other things, Katrine Summerville certainly stimulated his creativity.

  Bob, the uniformed limo driver, waited outside the security gate. The chauffeur tipped his hat and hastened to open the door for Trey. The overhead light blinked on, revealing a long leg. Trey swallowed loudly.

  Bending slightly, his gaze ran the length of an aqua gown with a slit up the side and a body melted and poured into it. Trey coughed uncomfortably when the swell of bosom rising above the gown’s low neckline shifted into view.

  “Ah, Mr. Westmoreland? Would you care to get in?”

  A voice inside his head issued a warning: “Step into my parlor…” At least Katrine wasn’t wearing black, he consoled himself before taking the plunge.

  “Care for a drink?”

  The spider wasn’t wasting time. Damn, why did she have to look that good? Her long blonde hair was piled attractively on top of her head, leaving the slim column of her throat exposed. She wore the same perfume, only a lot less of it. And her eyes—what had she done to make them so green? With effort, he pulled his gaze from the tantalizing sight of her.

  “Sure.” He shrugged, hoping to appear unmoved.

  “Scotch?”

  Bitch. “That’ll be fine.”

  “Straight up?”

  The minute I laid eyes on you. “No, rocks off, I mean, on the rocks,” he quickly corrected, running a hand over his forehead. The limo’s elaborate back seat felt much too warm.

  “I thought we’d go to Chez Fred’s for dinner, then … well, we’ll see.”

  See what? Trey wondered. If we can find an all night laundromat? Why was she using that soft, husky voice on him? Why wasn’t she being her usual shrewish self? What was going on?

  Katrine smiled inwardly over his flustered expression. The sales lady at the trendy upscale store assured her this particular dress, with a figure like Katrine’s stuffed inside, would turn a man’s mind to mush. With mush being the purpose of this date, Katrine hadn’t hesitated to purchase the daring gown.

  It was worth the ridiculous price to see Trey’s eyes bulge and his adam’s apple bob. Good, her efforts were paying off. Romance was in the air. She meant to insure Trey had as much trouble writing his boring, rational side to this date as she’d had writing about their first one. That his well-groomed, impressively dressed self affected her as well, Katrine wasn’t above admitting. The man sitting next to her was the same suave paid escort who picked her up the night of the awards banquet. The one who had her squirming all over his lap in the degrading space of an hour.

  “How’s Shelly? I should have called her the last couple of days.”

  Yes, you should have, Katrine thought with annoyance. Shelly had been moping around because he hadn’t. “Maybe you should just stay out of my daughter’s life.”

  Her suggestion snapped his head her direction. “Why?”

  “I don’t want her to get hurt.”

  “I’d never hurt Shelly. I’m nuts about that kid.”

  “What happens when the feature ends?” Katrine asked. “When we’re not forced to share each other’s company anymore? You’ll go on about your business and gradually the phone calls and outings will stop.”

  “I’ll always have time for Shelly. She’ll outgrow me long before I’ve outgrown her.”

  Trey hadn’t thought about life beyond the feature or the consequences of giving his heart to a little girl with blonde hair and brown eyes. Could he continue a relationship with a child that forced him into constant contact with her mother? A mother about to spill out of the front of her dress—a mother who drove him totally insane?

  “We shouldn’t discuss Shelly on our dates,” Katrine said softly. “We’re on assignment, remember?”

  Resenting the idea of Katrine and Shelly going about their lives without him once the assignment was over, Trey smothered his caring, his confusion, his emptiness by reminding himself he had a date to ruin. “Damned right,” he agreed.

  ———

  The soft strains of a violin echoed around a room bathed in soft candlelight. Quality linen draped a table for two. Silverware gleamed and crystal goblets of water sat before them. A smartly attired waitress laid immaculate leather-bound menus on the table.

  “Would either of you care for a before-dinner drink?” she questioned politely.

  Trey looked toward Katrine with inquiry.

  “I’ll have a glass of white wine.” She returned the waitress’s smile.

  “And you sir?”

  “Hmmm,” Trey said, glancing at the bar selection on the back of his menu.

  While he deliberated, Katrine reached for her water glass. His response froze her fingers on the goblet’s stem.

  “Beg your pardon?” the waitress asked weakly.

  “I said, I’ll have a hearty ale, Wench, then later, I’ll lift yer skirts and have me fill of ye.”

  The girl’s face flushed scarlet. She glanced at Katrine, obviously unsure of the order or how the man’s date would react to his forwardness.

  “He’ll have a glass of wine,” she said stiffly.

  As the waitress eagerly scrambled away, Katrine turned a glare on Trey. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He shrugged. “I only ordered a drink.”

  “I’ll have a hearty ale, Wench? You’re lucky she didn’t deck you. And that remark about lifting her skirts? She wasn’t wearing a skirt, Trey. What sort of nonsense—” Katrine supposed the color drained from her face.

  When he made the ridiculous remark, a certain feeling of déjà vu stole over her. She’d heard those words before, and oddly enough, even six years ago when she wrote them, it was Trey’s voice she heard in her head.

  “Border Lord?” she whispered.

  “Bingo.” A smile settled over his lips.

  A groan left Katrine’s. “Trey, don’t do this to me.”

  “Do what?” he questioned innocently. “Isn’t Sean McNeil one of your fantasy men?”

  “He’s a fictitious character for God’s sake!”

  “But he’s romantic, at least in your opinion.” His gaze lowered to the daring neckline of her dress, then slowly traced a path back up. “I want to please you.”

  His heated regard sent the blood coursing through her veins. Katrine refused to let him sidetrack her. “It would please me if you wouldn’t quote Sean McNeil for the remainder of the evening. His crude mannerisms were excusable. He lived two hundred years ago.”

  “I don’t think rape was any more excusable then than it is today.”

  “He never raped anyone!” Katrine defended, then realized she’d spoken too loudly. Several heads turned their direction.

  “Oh, excuse me, attempted rape,” he corrected. “If you’ll recall, he practically forced himself on the heroine in the first chapter.”

  “Sean mistook her for the serving wench … ah, woman who’d agreed to meet him upstairs. Once he realized he’d made a mistake—”

  “He didn’t act too sorry in my opinion,” Trey interrupted. “’I’m tempted to pretend I dunna ken it’s a lady’s legs I’ve landed between’,” he quoted gallantly, then fixed Katrine with a challenging stare.

  “Here are your drinks,” the waitress announced loudly.

  That the girl heard Trey’s excellent imitation of Sean McNeil was obvious by the color of her cheeks, and also by the fact she served their drinks from Katrine’s side of the table.

  “Could I take your dinner order now?”

  “Oh.” Katrine reached for her menu. “I haven’t even looked.”

  “I’ll have the Cornish hen on rice,” Trey said. “I hear it’s
excellent.”

  “In that case, I’ll have the same,” Katrine decided.

  After the waitress gathered their menus and took herself off, Trey continued, “Does that sound like an apology to you?”

  “Trey.” Katrine sighed. “You’re a man. You don’t understand the female mind. In a fantasy situation some women are turned on by forceful men. Not in real life, but in a book, where it’s safe to be attracted to a man who normally wouldn’t appeal to them.”

  “Just because a person enjoys murder mysteries doesn’t mean they want to murder anyone, so just because a woman enjoys romance novels where the hero gets somewhat out of line doesn’t mean she wants to be raped.”

  “All right,” he conceded, “But tell me this, Ms. Summers who gave such a pretty speech at the awards ceremony about beer commercials being sexist; why are all the heroines in your novels perfect in form and feature? Isn’t your message the same thing?”

  Katrine shook her head. “Not at all. When a woman escapes into a novel, she becomes the heroine. We all want to be beautiful, desirable, courageous and have perfect bodies. We all want to fall in love with a handsome, dangerous, dark haired, dimple—” Katrine quickly cut herself off, realizing the man she was describing sat across from her. She lifted her wine glass and took a sip.

  “You were saying,” he reminded.

  “I’m saying, romance is a private relationship between reader and heroine. The reader shouldn’t feel threatened. It’s not the same as if she’s sitting next to her husband or boyfriend through the beer commercials listening to comments like; what a great pair of—well you know? Or, I wish you had a body like that, or, I remember when you had a body like that.”

  “Sounds like a man she’s better off without,” Trey commented dryly. “I guess I understand. Still why do romance writers create heroes no modern-day man could compete with? Why can’t they be regular Joes? Why don’t they ever have a normal job? Why aren’t they ever too tired when they come home from raiding and pillaging to make love to the heroine? They always save the day—they never fail.”

  While he raged on, his usual mask of control slipped, and Katrine saw a side of him she wouldn’t have expected existed. A vulnerable side. He’d obviously been hurt.