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Pursued
Tracy Wolff
The tycoon’s enemy is now pregnant with his child! Only from New York Times bestselling author Tracy Wolff.Diamond tycoon Nic Durand’s steamy weekend with a mysterious beauty is only a temporary fling—until she admits that she’s the reporter threatening his company with an exposé. Oh, and she’s pregnant with his baby! Is it really his? There’s no way Nic will let her leave his side before he finds out the truth. Pursuing his heir means pursuing his lover—and possibly losing his heart…


Maybe she should walk away now.
Even as the thought came to her, she knew she wouldn’t do it. Partly because she wasn’t sure her knees would hold and partly because there was nowhere she’d rather be than right there, smiling up at this charming, beautiful man—and having him smile back at her.
“I’m Nic, by the way,” he said. “I’m Desi.”
“Would you like to dance, Desi?” he asked, taking the champagne glass from her hand and depositing it on a passing tray.
She should say no. She had a million things to do here tonight, and not one of them involved getting swept onto the dance floor by some hot, rich guy who had probably forgotten more about seduction than she’d ever known. But even as the thought occurred to her, even knowing that she might very well get burned before the night was over, she nodded.
He held her closer than was necessary for a first dance between strangers. One hand on her lower back, his fingers curving over the soft swell of her hip. His hard, strong chest brushing against hers with each step.
Desi felt herself melting. Felt herself falling a little more under his spell. She knew it was stupid, ridiculous, insane, but for the first time in her life, she didn’t care.
Tightening her hand where it rested against the back of his neck, she pulled him forward, pulled him down, down, down, until his lips met hers.
* * *
Pursued is part of The Diamond Tycoons duet—Marc and Nic Durand are ruthless, sexy and powerful—and only the women they love can tame them.
Pursued
Tracy Wolff


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
TRACY WOLFF collects books, English degrees and lipsticks, and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six, she wrote her first short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven, she ventured into the wonderful world of girls’ lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten, she’d read everything in the young-adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mum started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her lifelong love. Tracy lives in Texas with her husband and three sons, where she pens romance novels and teaches writing at her local community college.
Contents
Cover (#uab23eac6-a3ad-5119-9bda-fd046255ee06)
Excerpt (#u23d411a0-6397-563e-b618-8982a378d4a6)
Title Page (#u1e82a814-5ebe-51bf-9ae4-c70a261b4ca6)
About the Author (#u02c1d047-93e3-5da3-ae9d-5e724fa349aa)
One (#u29090ac3-955b-5313-8386-77ab2f1a7900)
Two (#u265ddd01-134a-5bec-94e8-cea195fdd489)
Three (#u7857eb7b-8a08-514c-9ba2-2db0d3dd9240)
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Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
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Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#ulink_c64bc5db-19cf-57d7-a897-7369d1757d43)
He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
Desi Maddox knew that sounded excessive, melodramatic even, considering she was standing in a room filled with beautiful people in even more beautiful clothes, but the longer she stood there staring at him, the more convinced she became. He. Was. Gorgeous. So gorgeous that for long seconds he blinded her to everything around her, even the glitter of gems and flash of high society that under normal circumstances would be impossible to ignore.
But these were far from normal circumstances. How could they be when his emerald gaze met hers over the sea of people stretching between them and her knees trembled. Actually trembled. Up until now, she’d always thought that was a cliché best saved for chick flicks and romance novels. But here she was in the middle of a crowded ballroom and all she could do was stand there as her heart raced, her palms grew damp and her knees actually trembled with the force of her reaction to a man she’d never seen before and more than likely would never see again.
Which was probably a good thing, and knowing she wouldn’t see him again was exactly what she needed to remind herself why she was here among the best and brightest of San Diego’s high society. Scoping out hot men was definitely not what her boss was paying her for.
More’s the pity.
Shaking her head in an effort to clear it, Desi forced herself to glance away from his mesmerizing gaze. Forced herself to check out the rest of the fancy gala, and the fancier people, she was currently stuck in the middle of. And the people were fancy, some of the fanciest she’d ever seen. Even he—of their own volition, her eyes moved back to Tall, Dark and Much Too ­Handsome—was fancy, in his five-thousand-dollar tuxedo and the flashing diamonds on his cuff links. She couldn’t hope to compare.
Not that she wanted to. This was so not her scene, and once she’d paid her dues, her boss would recognize that fact and move her somewhere else. Somewhere where she could actually make a difference to the world. After all, what did it matter if the wife of the mayor of San Diego was wearing Manolos or Louboutins on her dainty, pampered feet?
It mattered too much, she told herself wryly as she looked around the crowded ballroom. To a lot of people, it mattered too much. Which was why, on her next sweep of the room, she made herself take her time, made herself study—and identify—each face that passed by. As she did, she didn’t know whether to be pleased or horrified that she recognized nearly every person there. It was her job, after all, and it was nice to know that the hours she’d spent poring over old newspaper articles and photos hadn’t gone to waste.
After all, unlike the rest of the people here, her role wasn’t to drink champagne and drop a lot of money on the charity auction. No, her role, her job, was to stay on guard and pay attention to what everyone else was doing so she could write all about it when she got home. If she was lucky—if she kept her eyes open and her mouth shut—and the stars actually aligned, someone would say or do something really scandalous or important and she’d have the chance to write about that instead of the food, the wine and whatever designer was currently “it” among Southern California’s social elite.
And if she wasn’t lucky, well then she still had to pay attention. Still needed to record who was dating whom and who had made a fashion faux pas and who hadn’t…
And yes, her job as the society-page reporter for the local paper really was as boring as it sounded. She tried not to let herself dwell on the fact that she’d spent four years at Columbia’s School of Journalism only to end up here. Her father would be so proud of her—that is, if he hadn’t been killed six months ago while embedded with troops in the Middle East.
A waiter passed by with a tray full of champagne flutes, and she reached out and snagged one of the half-full glasses. Drained it in one long—and hopefully elegant—sip. Then blocked her father’s death and disapproval from her mind. She needed to focus on the job at hand. Currently, that job was reporting on this ridiculous affair.
To do her job, though, she needed to blend in with her surroundings. Not that she had much of a chance of actually doing that with her department-store dress and clearance shoes, but she could try. At least until her boss saw the light and took her off this godforsaken beat to put her on something a little more important. And more interesting, she thought, barely smothering yet another yawn as she overheard her fifth conversation of the night about liposuction.
Wanting to free up her hands, she turned to place her glass on the empty tray of yet another passing waiter. As she did, though, her eyes once again met dark green ones. And this time, the man they belonged to was only a couple of feet from her instead of halfway across the crowded ballroom.
She didn’t know whether to run or rejoice.
In the end, she did neither. Instead, she just stared—stupefied—up into his too-gorgeous face and tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t make her sound like a total moron. It didn’t work. Her usually quick mind was a total blank, suddenly filled with nothing but images of him. High cheekbones. Shaggy black hair that fell over his forehead. Wickedly gleaming emerald eyes. Sensuous mouth turned up in a wide, charming smile. Broad shoulders. Lean hips. And tall, so tall that she was forced to look up despite the fact that she stood close to six feet in her four-inch heels.
The word beautiful really didn’t do him justice. Neither did any other word she could think of at the moment. For a second, she was assailed by the fear that she might actually be drooling over the man, something that had never happened before in her twenty-three years of existence. Then again—she reached a discreet hand up to her chin to double-check and nearly sighed in relief when she found it still dry—she’d never seen a man like this up close before.
Hell, whom was she kidding? she asked herself as her knees trembled for the second time that night. She’d never seen a man like this before ever, in real life or in pictures. And yet, here he was, standing right in front of her, his right hand holding a glass of champagne that he was quite obviously extending toward her.
“You look thirsty,” he said, and—of course—his voice matched the rest of him. Deep and dark and wickedly amused. So wickedly amused. Suddenly her knees weren’t all that was trembling. Her hand, as it reached for the glass of champagne, was shaking, as well.
What was wrong with her?
Besides the fact that her libido had obviously overpowered her brain? she asked herself viciously. But as she stood there, watching him watch her, she figured she’d better find a way to get her brain functioning again. Because the man obviously wasn’t going anywhere until he got a response…even if she had no idea how she was supposed to respond to his observation that she was thirsty…
Eventually, though, her brain, and her sense of humor, kicked in. Thank God. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.” It wasn’t the wittiest comeback, but it would do.
“Were you?” His mouth curved in a crooked grin that did something strange to her stomach. “Well, you wouldn’t be wrong.” Then he lifted his own glass of champagne to his lips and took a deep drink. She watched, mesmerized, for long seconds before she managed to shake herself out of it. Jeez! How far gone was she that even watching him swallow was turning her on? Maybe she should just walk away now and cut her losses while she still could.
Even as the thought came to her, she knew she wouldn’t do it. Partly because she wasn’t sure her knees would hold her if she tried to walk away and partly…partly because in that moment there was nowhere she’d rather be than right there, smiling up at this charming, beautiful man—and having him smile back at her.
“I’m Nic, by the way,” he said, after he’d watched her take a slow, steadying drink from her own glass.
“I’m Desi.” She held out her hand. He took it, but instead of shaking her hand as she’d expected, he just held it as he gently stroked his thumb across her palm.
The touch was so soft, so intimate, so not what she’d been expecting, that for long seconds she didn’t know what to do. What to say. A tiny voice inside her whispered for her to let go, to step back, to walk away from the attraction that was holding them in thrall. But it was drowned out by the heat, the attraction, the sizzle that arced between them like lightning.
“Would you like to dance, Desi?” he asked, taking the glass from her other hand and depositing it on a passing tray.
She should say no. She had a million things to do here tonight and none of those things involved getting swept onto the dance floor by some hot, rich guy who had probably forgotten more about seduction than she’d ever known. But even as the thought occurred to her, even knowing that she might very well get burned before the night was over, she nodded. Then she let him lead her gently toward the center of the room. Playing with fire was a cliché for a reason.
The band was playing a slow song—of course it was—and he pulled her into his arms, started to move her across the crowded floor. He held her closer than was necessary or expected for a first dance between strangers. One hand on her lower back, his fingers curving over the soft swell of her hip. His other hand continuing to hold, continuing to stroke, her own. His hard, strong chest brushing against her own with each step they took. His thighs doing the same.
Deep inside, Desi felt herself melting. Felt herself falling a little more under his spell. She knew it was stupid, ridiculous, insane, but for the first time in her life, she didn’t care. She didn’t care if it was a bad idea to let him touch her. Didn’t care if she’d regret it later. Didn’t care, even, if she ended up getting in trouble at work because she’d spent time with Nic that she should have spent trying to pry quotes out of the local celebrities. Which, if she stopped to think about it, didn’t make sense at all. She was a woman who lived to work, who was dying to make a name for herself as a journalist. The fact that she would put that at risk for a man she’d just met was absurd.
She wasn’t that girl, had never been—and never wanted to be—that girl. And yet, here she was, moving closer instead of back. Arching forward so that her breasts and her thighs brushed more firmly against him, instead of walking away. Surrendering instead of putting up a fight.
The gleam in Nic’s eyes as he looked down at her was as obvious as his rock-hard pelvis pressing against her own. Instead of offending her, it aroused her. Instead of making her scurry for cover, it made her clamor for more.
One night never hurt anyone, after all. And neither did one kiss. Or at least that was her story for this evening and she was sticking to it.
Which was why, after taking a deep breath, she tightened her hand where it rested against the back of his neck and pulled him forward. Pulled him down, down, down, until their bodies were meshed together and his lips met hers.
Two (#ulink_6103d684-f764-5cfb-aedc-cd6972830a00)
She was delicious. It was the only thing Nic Durand could think as his lips met those of the beautiful blonde in his arms. Desi, she’d said her name was, he remembered as he fought to keep from getting completely lost in the feel of her soft hands on his neck and her lush body pressed so tightly against his own.
It was a lot harder not to get lost than it should have been. A lot harder than it had ever been. He’d met—and charmed—a lot of women in his life, but never had he been so affected by one. Never had he come so close to forgetting who and where he was when he was with one—even one as gorgeous, and amusing, as Desi. But here he was, attending his first charity gala since he and his brother had moved the headquarters of their diamond company to San Diego earlier that year, and all he could think about was getting his hands and mouth all over a woman he’d just met.
As second in command of Bijoux, he was in charge of marketing, advertising and public relations. It was his job to come to these ridiculous galas, his job to schmooze and donate pieces to the silent auction in an effort to continue building the philanthropic reputation of the business he and his brother, Marc, had poured their hearts and souls into ever since they’d taken over more than a decade before. The fact that he’d rather just give all that money straight to charity meant nothing. After all, experience had proved that buying seats at boring, trumped-up galas like this one always earned his company good PR. And good PR was the name of the game, especially when you were one of the new kids. And not just any new kid, but one determined to shake up the old system and make things happen. It was the best way to gain access. He’d come here tonight with an agenda—people to meet, business to do—but all it had taken was one look at Desi, one conversation with her, one feel of her pressed against him while dancing, to make all of that fly out the window.
And he didn’t give a damn.
It was odd. Crazy, even. But he wasn’t going to fight it, he decided as he slid his hand down her spine to rest against her lower back. Not when a simple kiss with her was hotter and more exciting than anything he’d done with any other woman.
With that thought in mind, he put a little pressure on her back, pressed her forward…and more tightly against him. She moaned a little at the contact, her mouth opening with the sound, and he took instant advantage by licking his way across the little dip in her upper lip, then across the soft fullness of her lower one. She gasped a little, her hands sliding up to clutch at his tuxedo shirt. It was all the invitation he needed.
Delving inside her then, he swept his tongue along her own. Once, twice, then again and again. Teasing, touching, tasting her. Learning her flavors…and her secrets.
Despite her sharp cool looks—all platinum-blond hair and ice-blue eyes, striking cheekbones and long, slender body—Desi was heat and spice. Cinnamon and cloves, overlaid by just a hint of the crisp, sweet champagne they had shared. The warmth of her seduced him, drew him in—drew him under—until all he could think of, all he could want, was her.
Sliding his other hand into her hair, he tangled his fingers in the silky strands and tugged gently. Her head tilted back in response, giving him better access to her mouth. And he took it without a thought to anything but how much he wanted her.
Sucking her lower lip between his teeth, he bit down gently, then soothed the small hurt with his tongue before once again licking inside her mouth. This time, he slid his tongue along her upper lip, toyed gently with the sensitive skin then delved deep into the recesses of her mouth.
Desi moaned, burrowing even closer as he licked his way across the roof of her mouth before tangling his tongue with hers. She tasted so good, felt so good, that he wanted nothing more than to stay right there forever.
But at that moment someone jostled him. The jolt broke the spell and he came back to himself slowly, became aware of their surroundings and the fact that he was about two seconds from undressing her in the middle of one of the most important social events of the Southern California season. He should be embarrassed, or at least shocked that he’d let things get so far out of hand. But he didn’t care about that, didn’t care about any of the people milling around them or what they must be thinking.
All he cared about was getting Desi out of there…and getting inside her as quickly as he possibly could.
Pulling away from her reluctantly, he forced himself to ignore her moan of protest—and the way it shot straight to his groin. It wasn’t easy. Just as it wasn’t easy to look away from her flushed cheeks, her swollen lip and slumberous eyes. But if he didn’t, he would say to hell with social niceties and take her right here in the middle of the dance floor where everyone could see them. Where everyone could watch as he put his claim on her.
Just the thought—which was an admittedly odd one to have when he didn’t know this woman at all—had him placing a hand on her lower back and escorting her through the bright crowds to the darkness of the balcony beyond the ballroom. As he did, he tried to ignore the looks they were getting. It wasn’t easy, especially when he saw the way so many of the men were looking at them. Looking at her. Only the awareness that he was one small step away from growling and beating his chest like some kind of caveman kept him moving.
Desi went with him willingly, pliantly even, which soothed some of the strangely possessive feelings rocketing through him. But he’d barely gotten her outside—the door was still closing behind them—before she was on him. Her arms wrapping around his neck, her body wrapping itself around his own, her mouth desperately seeking his.
The same urgency was a fire inside him. A pounding drum in his bloodstream, a stroke of lightning that he couldn’t shake. That he didn’t want to shake.
All he wanted was her.
It was a shocking revelation, and a humbling one. He loved women, loved everything about them and always had. But this driving desire for Desi, this craving to have her any and every way he could, was something new. Something as unexpected as it was exciting.
Keeping his mouth on hers and his lips open so she could delve inside him the same way he had explored her, Nic turned them until her back was against the outside wall of the ballroom. She moaned softly as her bare skin came in contact with the building and he shifted back, so that he could slide an arm between her and the rough, cold stone.
“Please,” she whimpered, pressing her pelvis against his as her hands clutched his shirt, pulling and tugging at it in a frantic need that mirrored his own.
To help her—and to get her hands on his bare skin faster—he pulled away slightly and ripped his shirt straight down in a practiced move that had the studs giving way to his impatience. Desi sighed then, her hands sliding beneath the parted fabric to caress his ribs, his back, his abdomen.
Her fingers felt so good—she felt so good—that for long seconds he did nothing but stand there, letting her explore him as he longed to explore her. But in the end, his need got the better of him and he took control, pulling the top of her dress down so he could see and touch and kiss her.
“Hey!” she protested breathlessly. “I wasn’t done yet.”
“I’m sorry,” he told her as he gazed at the sun-kissed skin he had revealed. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but then she didn’t need one. Her breasts were small and high and perfect, tipped with pale pink nipples he was dying to taste. “I promise, you can touch me anywhere you want. Later. Right now, I have to—” His voice trailed off as he pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to her neck, her collarbone and the slope of her shoulder before moving on to her breasts.
Her skin was as soft and fragrant as he’d imagined it would be, and as he pulled her nipple into his mouth, as he circled her areola with his tongue and sucked just hard enough to have her crying out as she buried her hands in his hair, he felt as if he would die if he didn’t have her. Soon.
“I need to be inside you,” he growled against her breast.
“Yes,” she gasped, her hands sliding from his hair to his shoulders, then down his chest to his waist, where she began fumbling with his belt buckle. “Now.”
They were the two most beautiful words he’d ever heard.
He slipped a hand under the silky blue skirt of her dress, then slid his fingers up her thigh until he found her underwear—and more important, her sex. He traced the elastic leg of her panties for a few seconds, reveling in the feel of her. Soft. Wet. Hot. So hot that it took all his self-control not to plunge inside her right then.
Still, he couldn’t resist slipping two fingers inside the lace.
Couldn’t resist petting and stroking her until her knees buckled and she grabbed at him for support.
Couldn’t resist slipping first one finger and then another into her tight, silky heat and pressing deep.
“Nic!” It was part command, part plea and in those moments he wanted—needed—nothing more than to give her what she was demanding of him. But first—
He ripped the fragile lace away from her body with one strong tug, then dropped to his knees in front of her.
“Oh, yes,” she cried, her hands grabbing him as he lifted one of her legs over his shoulder and, in doing so, opened her completely to his eyes and hands and mouth. Then he leaned forward and blew a long, slow, steady stream of air right against her most sensitive spot.
She cried out then, a high-pitched strangled sound that made his own need skyrocket. But this wasn’t just about him, wasn’t some quick, anonymous screw. Not to him anyway. And though he didn’t yet know what it was about Desi that intrigued him, he did know that he wanted to see her again. Did know that he wanted to get to know more about her than what color her nipples were or how hot and wet and tight she felt around his finger.
Although he was good with knowing all that, too. More than good, he admitted to himself as he worked his way across her flat stomach, kissing and licking and sucking every inch of her skin.
Her hands moved from his shoulders to his head, her fingers tangling in his hair with a sharpness that only turned him on more. Pleasure coursed through him and he groaned at the sensation before nipping sharply at her hip bone in retaliation.
She cried out again, wobbled a little, then grabbed on to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she fought to stay upright. Her obvious arousal fed his, and he gently bit her a second time. A third time. Then he laved the little stings and explored more of her soft, gorgeous skin. As he did, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d left marks. If she would look in the mirror tomorrow and see tiny bruises on her hips, her stomach, her thighs, and think of him as he knew—even now—that he’d be thinking of her.
“Please, please, please,” she whimpered in the sexiest mantra he’d ever heard. He laughed in response, then kissed his way back across her stomach, then lower, so that his tongue traced along the very edges of her sex.
She was shaking, her body and arms curving around him as much for support as to hold him to her. He loved the feel of her wrapped around him, loved the fact that she was as affected by what was happening between them as he was.
In answer to her silent pleas, he moved closer, pressed her legs apart a little more as he trailed his mouth lower. In response, she stroked her fingers down his face, rubbed the stubble on his jaw. She played with it for long seconds, and her fingers felt so good he felt his resolve crumble. He wanted to be inside her, needed to be inside her with a desperation that bordered on insanity.
But he wanted this more. It was a driving compulsion, this need to watch her while she came. To know what she looked like, sounded like, tasted like when he took her to the edge and then flung her over.
With that thought a beacon shining through his own dark and desperate need, he leaned forward and put his mouth on her. Then he nearly lost it as Desi pressed a hand against her mouth to muffle her scream.

She was in sensory overload, her every nerve popping with pleasure at the feel of Nic touching her. At the feel of his arm around her waist, his big, calloused hand kneading her backside. At the feel of his fingers still buried deep inside her. At the feel and sound and sight of his mouth moving against her sex.
It was so good, so good, that she couldn’t stop herself from pressing back against the wall, against his hand, even as she tilted her hips forward to give him better access.
She was so close that it didn’t take long to bring her right to the edge. She knew he was aware of how close she was. She could feel it in the tension of his shoulders and in the slow, careful way he caressed her. For a moment, just a moment, she wondered what he was waiting for, but then the insidious pleasure of what he was doing, the care he was taking, streaked through her. Intense, powerful, mind-numbing.
“Nic, I can’t—”
“You can,” he told her, his voice hoarse with his own restraint.
“I can’t,” she answered, the words broken and brittle and breathless. “I need—”
“I know what you need.” He kissed her then, hot and openmouthed, making her knees tremble and her hands shake. Her whole body slammed into overload and she reached for him, her fingers tugging at his shirt, his hair, the bowtie hanging limply from his collar.
“Please, please, please,” she muttered mindlessly as she arched against him. She needed more, needed him.
He cursed then, harsh and low, and the words felt hot against her skin. The sensation only added to the tension inside her until she couldn’t think, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. All she could do was feel.
All she could do was crave.
And then he did it. He twisted his fingers inside her even as he swirled his tongue around her most sensitive spot and reached up with his free hand to pinch one of her nipples, hard.
The different sensations slammed Desi into overload. She careened straight over the edge into ecstasy, her body shuddering as pleasure swamped her, more intense and powerful and shattering than anything she had ever felt before.
“Nic!” Lost in the maelstrom, she cried out for him.
And he was there, his hands stroking her soothingly even as he took her higher and higher and higher. Even as he thrust her straight into the stars that shined so brilliantly above them.
When the pleasure broke, when she finally started to come back to herself, Nic wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he fumbled with the front of his tuxedo trousers as he shoved to his feet. Then he cupped his hands under her and lifted her right off her feet.
She was still pleasure drunk and more than a little dazed, but even so, her instincts kicked in. She wrapped her legs around his lean waist, her arms around his broad shoulders and pressed back against the wall for better leverage.
Then he was there between her thighs, blunt and hard and big. She had just come, but as he probed gently at her opening, Desi couldn’t help but respond.
He had been so patient, so careful to ensure that she was satisfied, that she expected him to be impatient now. To be rough, hurried.
Instead, he took his time here, too. Leaning forward until his lips were right next to her ear, he whispered, “You’re so damn beautiful.” Then he pressed soft kisses to her cheek.
The words, combined with the feel of him right against the core of her body, took her arousal up another notch. “It’s okay,” she told him, arching her hips in an effort to encourage him. “I’m ready.”
He groaned then, thrusting forward gently until he was buried halfway inside her. “Okay?” he ground out, and she felt him shaking from the effort it took to hold himself back.
Touched more than she wanted to be—certainly more than she’d expected to be from a torrid encounter with a stranger—she leaned into him. Pressed her mouth to his in a kiss as soft and gentle as his concern for her. “Please,” she whispered against his lips. “I want to feel you inside me.”
That whisper was all it took to snap his control like a twig—which she was exceptionally grateful for.
Nic thrust into her then, so hard that he slammed her back against the wall. But she was still wet, still turned-on, and more than ready for him. Pleasure crashed through her at the first stroke, coursing along her every nerve ending until her entire body felt lit up like the Fourth of July.
“Damn!” he growled, his fingers digging into her hips as he held her in place. “You feel good.”
Again, she expected him to slam into her, even braced herself for it, but again he surprised her. He brushed kisses across her forehead, her cheeks, her lips as he waited for her to adjust to him. Only when she squirmed against him, trying to get closer, did he finally relent.
He began to move in slow, steady, powerful strokes that had her grasping at him as the need ratcheted up inside her. Soon—too soon—she was on the brink of coming again. But she didn’t want to go over alone this time, didn’t want to lose herself in the ecstasy without him.
Tightening her inner muscles in a long, slow caress, she did what she could to take him as high as he had taken her. She brushed her thumbs across his nipples, whispered how much she wanted him in his ear, lifted her hips to meet each of his thrusts. It must have worked, because he groaned, then began thrusting harder.
Then he was leaning forward, his mouth inches from hers. “Kiss me,” he commanded, a scant moment before his lips slammed down on hers.
She did, pulling his lower lip between her teeth and nipping at him as he had done to her earlier. She wanted more of him, wanted all of him. Craved him until it was an inferno deep inside her.
She bit him again, a little harder this time, and the shock of pain must have been what he was waiting for, because he came with a growl. She tore her mouth away from his, gasped for breath, but Nic wouldn’t let her go. He followed her, his mouth ravenous on her own while the heat of his body seared hers wherever it touched. In moments, the pleasure swamped her, overwhelmed her, and she followed him over the edge, her body spinning wildly, gloriously, completely out of her control.
Three (#ulink_612d00c6-21d8-5fd5-894b-0fcb9e76d39b)
When it was over, when she could breathe again and her scattered thoughts finally came back to her, Desi didn’t know what to do. What to say. How to act.
There was a part of her that was shell-shocked. A part of her that couldn’t believe she had just had sex with a stranger in public. And not just in public, but on the balcony outside a gala that she was supposed to be covering for work. If someone had told her an hour ago that before the night was over she’d be pressed up against the hotel’s outside wall, her legs wrapped around Nic, whose last name she didn’t even know, having just had the most intense orgasms of her life… Well, she wouldn’t have called that person a liar. She would have called him or her a damn liar and then laughed herself silly.
But here she was. And the kicker was, she wasn’t even sorry. How could she be when her body was so blissed out that she still wasn’t sure her legs would be able to hold her when Nic decided to set her down? Which—­thankfully—he hadn’t yet made any move to do.
“You okay?” he asked after a minute, pressing his lips to her neck.
“I don’t know. That was—” Her voice broke and she swallowed in an effort to get some moisture into her too-dry throat.
“Amazing,” he said, kissing his way over her collarbone. “Incredible. Earth-shattering.”
She giggled. It was a totally foreign sound to her, one Desi couldn’t ever remember making in her adult life. She wasn’t the giggling sort. Then again, she wasn’t the one-night-stand, public-sex-against-a-building sort, either. And yet here she was, with absolutely no desire to move. And absolutely no regrets.
Nic lifted his head, gave her a mock frown that in no way reached the beautiful green eyes she could just barely make out in the shadows. “Are you saying that making love to me wasn’t earth-shattering?”
He slipped a hand between them, circled his thumb around her. She gasped, arched against him. She knew exactly what he was doing, knew that he was teasing her, but she couldn’t help it. Normally, she never let a man get the upper hand, but with Nic she couldn’t help it. Everything about him appealed to her, drew a response from her that she had almost no control over. His sense of humor, the intelligence she could see in his eyes, the careful way he held and touched and kissed her. And, of course, the fact that he was the hottest man she had ever met certainly didn’t hurt, either.
“I’m saying,” she said, her voice more breathless than she would have liked, “that I very much enjoyed having sex with you.”
“Sex, huh?” He rubbed a little harder, a little faster, and shocks of electricity sparked through her. Just that easily, he made her ache. Made her want. Again.
“Nic,” she whispered, cupping the back of his neck with her palm, even as her head fell back against the cool stucco wall.
“Desi.” His voice was low, teasing, but she could hear the sudden thread of tension as clearly as she could feel him hardening once again within her.
“Don’t play.” Suddenly she was as needy, as desperate, as if she hadn’t come at all.
He scraped his teeth along her jaw, bit lightly at the sensitive spot behind her ear. “I thought you liked it when I played.” His breath was hot against her skin, the words a whisper that worked its way deep inside of her.
“You know what I mean.” She clenched her core around him to underscore her words, took great delight in the sexy hiss the movement elicited from him. He closed his eyes, dropped his forehead against hers, and the hungry noise he made had her tightening her inner muscles again and again.
He cursed then, a harsh, sexy word that only ramped up her arousal more. From the moment he’d taken her out onto this balcony—hell, from the moment he’d kissed her on that dance floor—Nic had had the upper hand. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t feel good to get a little of her own back. Especially when doing so was so incredibly pleasurable for both of them.
Nic’s hand tightened on her behind as he lifted her nearly off him before letting her slowly sink back down. He did it a second time and then a third, all the while continuing to stroke her with his other hand. It took only a minute or two before ecstasy beckoned—brought even closer by his careless demonstration of strength—but just as she was about to go over the edge for the third time in less than an hour, he stilled.
“What’s wrong?” She forced open her too-heavy lids, tried to focus on his face despite the urgent need lighting her up from the inside. “Why’d you stop?’
“Come home with me.”
“What?” She was so far gone that her brain had trouble assimilating his words.
“Come home with me,” he repeated, thrusting deep inside her for emphasis. She moaned despite herself, tried to arch against him and get that last bit of needed pressure. But he held her firmly, refused to let her move. Refused to let her come.
“Please,” she gasped, her whole body shaking with the need for release. “I need—”
“I know what you need,” he whispered, taking her mouth in a kiss that was somehow both hard and tender. “Say you’ll go home with me and I’ll let you come.”
She bit his lip, not hard enough to draw blood but definitely hard enough to make him take notice. “Let me come,” she countered breathlessly, “and maybe I’ll go home with you.”
He laughed then, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down her spine even as it made her entire body melt. “I want you in my bed.”
She tightened around him yet again, taking great pleasure in the fact that he groaned deep in his throat. “You know what you need to do then.”
“Is that a yes?” He stroked her once gently. Too gently, but she wasn’t complaining as her nerve endings tingled.
“It’s not a no.”
He laughed again. “Damn, I like you, Desi.”
“I certainly hope you do, considering what we’ve spent the last forty-five minutes doing.” She had to bite her tongue, but somehow she managed to resist adding that she liked him, too. A lot. She hadn’t been with that many men—only two before Nic—but neither of them had ever made her laugh. Not out of bed and certainly not while making love to her. Until him, until now, she hadn’t even known that she’d been missing something.
He bent his head, licking his way over first one nipple and then the other. “Come home with me,” he urged when she was even more of a trembling, needy mess, “and I’ll spend the rest of the night showing you just how much I like you.”
She didn’t want to give in—not because she didn’t like him, but because she did. Too much. And the last thing she needed right now was to fall for a sexy, charismatic rich guy who would break her heart if she let him.
And yet…and yet, like him, she wasn’t quite ready for this night to end. Wasn’t quite ready to walk away from Nic with his bright green eyes and ready smile, his quick wit and gentle hands. And she sure as hell wasn’t ready to walk away from the pleasure he brought her so effortlessly.
“Please, Desi,” he murmured against her cheek, and for the first time she heard the strain in his voice, felt it in the way he trembled against her. “I want you,” he said. “If you just want it to be tonight, that’s okay with me. But please—”
“Okay.” In one desperate, vulnerable moment, she threw caution to the wind.
“Okay?”
“I’ll come home with you.”
His eyes shot up to hers. “You will?”
“I will.” She grinned a little wickedly herself. “That is, if you make me come in the next sixty seconds.” This might be her first—and probably her last—one-night stand, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t make the best of it…
“I thought you’d never ask.” His answering smile was blinding, and it caught her right in the gut. Which probably would have made her nervous if her body hadn’t been on a collision course with its third orgasm of the night.
Nic bent down and took her mouth with his. Less than thirty seconds later he was muffling her screams as she came and came and came.

His house was gorgeous. Worse, it was perfect. Which, she was growing desperately afraid, was simply a reflection of its owner. And while most women would jump at the shot to start something with a gorgeous, rich, perfect man, Desi wasn’t most women. The thought of falling for Nic made her itch, so much so that she couldn’t help casting a few surreptitious glances down at her bare legs to make sure she wasn’t actually breaking out in hives.
Which was why it made absolutely no sense that she was sitting at the bar in the middle of Nic’s (still didn’t know his last name and still didn’t want to) gorgeously designed arts-and-crafts kitchen at two in the morning, watching as he made her homemade blueberry pancakes. Simply because he’d asked what her favorite food was and that was what she had answered.
“So, what’s your favorite TV show?” he questioned as he expertly flipped the first batch of pancakes. Watching him made her a little crazy, especially since all he had on was a pair of well-worn jeans. No man should be allowed to look that good outside the pages of a fashion magazine.
And no man should be able to make pancakes that perfect after three rounds of the best, most earth-­shattering sex she had ever engaged in. It went against the laws of nature.
“Desi?” he prompted, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at her.
She tried to look as if she hadn’t spent the past ten minutes ogling his perfectly defined back. Judging from the smirk on his face, she didn’t succeed nearly as well as she’d hoped to.
So she cleared her throat and focused on answering his question as a means of distraction from the fact that she was more than a little afraid that she was turning into a sex addict. “I don’t watch TV.”
“What do you mean you don’t watch TV?” He turned to stare at her incredulously. “Everyone watches TV.”
She quirked a brow at him. “Not everyone. Obviously.”
He named a few popular shows, but when she just shook her head, Nic sighed heavily. “Okay, fine. How about your favorite movie, then? Or do you not watch movies, either?”
“I watch movies. But it’s hard to pick just one, isn’t it?” She did her best to keep from smiling at his obvious frustration.
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s your favorite then?”
“Titanic.”
It was her turn to stare at him incredulously. “You don’t really mean that, right? You’re just messing with me. You have to be.”
“Why wouldn’t I mean it?” He looked completely disgruntled now. “It’s a fantastic movie. Love, passion, danger, excitement. What’s not to like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Betrayal, maybe? Attempted suicide, attempted murder, poverty, icebergs, death. Not to mention the world’s most infamous sinking ship.” She paused as if considering. “You’re right. What was I thinking? It’s a barrel of laughs. Obviously.”
He made a disgusted sound. “You’re a real party pooper. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“Well, then, let me be the first. You’re a real party pooper.”
“I’m a realist.”
He snorted. “You’re a nihilist.”
She started to argue on general principle, but stopped before she could do more than utter a few incoherent sounds. After all, whom was she kidding? He was totally right. “Just call me Camus,” she quipped with a shrug.
“Is that a movie?” he asked as he poured more batter on the griddle.
“Are you serious?” she demanded, watching him like a hawk as she tried to find some kind of tell to prove he was messing with her. But the look he sent her was utterly guileless. Not too guileless, mind you. Just guileless enough, as if he really had no idea what she was talking about.
Huh. Maybe he wasn’t so perfect, after all. The thought made her inexplicably happy, though she refused to delve too deeply into why that was.
“Albert Camus was a French writer,” she told him after a second.
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
That knowledge made her infinitely more relaxed. “Oh, well, a lot of people would say you weren’t missing much.”
“But not you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
He grinned as he slid a plate piled high with perfect, golden, fluffy pancakes in front of her. “But you still didn’t tell me what your favorite movie is.”
“I told you I couldn’t choose just one. Not all of us can wax poetic over a sinking boat, after all.”
“More’s the pity.” He cast her a mischievous look that she immediately mistrusted. “But you know what? I think you’re right. I don’t think I can choose just one favorite movie. Now that I’m thinking about it, a few more come to mind.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“The Stranger, definitely. And maybe The Guest. And—”
“You suck!” she told him, breaking off a piece of pancake and throwing it at him. He caught it, of course. In his mouth. Without even trying. “Those are two of Albert Camus’s most famous works.”
“Are they?” he asked, his face a mask of complete and total innocence. “I had no idea.”
She studied him closely, looking for his tell. He was lying to her, obviously, but the fact that she couldn’t tell was odd. She could always tell—she prided herself on it. It’s what made her such a good investigative journalist. And such a lousy society columnist.
The fact that he didn’t seem to have a tell fascinated her. And made her very, very nervous all at the same time.
When she didn’t say anything else, he nodded at her untouched plate. “Eat your pancakes before they get cold.”
“Maybe I like cold pancakes.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed the bottle of maple syrup and drizzled it over the top of her pancakes. Then he cut into them and lifted a forkful to her mouth.
He waited patiently for a few seconds, but when she just looked at him instead of taking the proffered bite, he rolled his eyes. “My pancakes don’t taste good cold. Trust me.”
Trust him. The idea was so ludicrous that she nearly laughed out loud. Only the knowledge that he definitely wouldn’t get the joke kept her from making one wisecrack or another. But there was no way in hell she was ever going to trust him. Mr. Perfect. No, thank you. Been there, done that, still had the T-shirt as a not-so-pleasant memento.
Not that she was bitter or anything. Or sexist.
Because it wasn’t that she didn’t trust men. It was that she didn’t trust anybody. Not when life had taught her over and over and over again that she couldn’t count on anyone or anything. If she needed something, she could count on only herself to make it happen. Anyone else would just let her down.
Maybe it wasn’t a great philosophy, and maybe—just maybe—it was a touch nihilistic. But it was her philosophy. She’d lived by it most of her life, and while it hadn’t gotten her much—yet—it also hadn’t cost her much since she’d adopted it. And in her mind, that was a win.
And yet, even understanding all that, she—­inexplicably—leaned forward and let Nic feed her the bite of pancake. She had no idea why she did it, but it certainly wasn’t because doing so made him look incredibly happy. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
That was her story, and like her philosophy, she was sticking to it.
Which was why it was so strange when, after she finished chewing, Nic simply handed her the fork and went back to what he was doing without so much as a backward glance. Was she the only one affected by this strange night of theirs?
It was a definite possibility, she told herself. He could totally be the kind of guy who picked up a different one-night stand at every party he went to. Which would mean that tonight—hot sex and cool banter and delicious ­pancakes—could be standard operating procedure for him. Which was fine, she told herself, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. One-night stands weren’t SOP for her—far from it—but that was what she’d expected, what she’d wanted, when she’d come home with him. Deciding in the middle of it that she wanted something more wasn’t okay, no matter how much pleasure he gave her or how much she enjoyed sitting here, teasing him.
“So, favorite movie is off the table,” he said, after he poured another round of pancakes onto the griddle. “How about favorite song?”
She forked up another bite of pancakes under his watchful eye, took her time chewing it. “What’s with all the questions?” she asked after she finally swallowed it.
“What’s with all the evasive answers?” he countered.
“I asked you first.”
“Actually, if you think about it, I asked you first. About your favorite song. And I’m still waiting.”
“You are a persistent one,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is charming.” He crossed to the fridge, took out a bottle of champagne and a quart of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Debonair. Maybe even…sexy?”
He wiggled his brows at her then, and it took every ounce of concentration she had not to burst out laughing. “Sexy, hmm. Maybe. And here I was thinking humble.”
“Well, obviously. Being humble is what PR professionals the world over are known for.”
“Is that what you are?” she asked, intrigued by the rare glimpse into his real life. “A public relations guy?” It would explain the gorgeous house and even more gorgeous artisan decorating scheme.
He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He faked a surprised look as he slid a mimosa in front of her. “You don’t actually think you’re the only one who can dodge questions here, do you?”
She did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. He really was the most charming and interesting man she had met in a very long time. Maybe ever.
She reached for the champagne flute he’d put in front of her and took a long sip. As she did, Nic took advantage of her preoccupation and grabbed her smartphone off the counter.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as he started pressing keys.
“Programming my number into it, so you can call me whenever you want.”
“What makes you think I’m going to want to call you when tonight is over?”
He gave her what she guessed was his most unassuming look. “What makes you think you aren’t?”
“Are we seriously going to spend the rest of the night asking each other questions and never getting any answers?”
“I don’t know. Are we?”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. But before she could say anything else, his phone started buzzing from where it sat next to the stove. He made no move to answer it.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” she asked, partly because the reporter in her wanted to know who was calling him at two-thirty in the morning and partly because he was standing just a little too close to her. They weren’t touching, but she could feel the heat emanating from his body, and it was making it impossible for her to think—and even more impossible for her to maintain the distance she was trying so desperately to cling to.
“It’s just me, calling from your phone. So now I’ve got your number, too.” He looked her in the eye when he said it and there was something in that look, something in his voice, that made her think he meant a lot more than the ten digits that made her phone ring.
Suddenly she was taking far too much effort not to squirm.
She didn’t like the feeling any more than she liked the vulnerability that came with the knowledge that he could see more of her than she wanted him to. And so she did what she always did in situations like these—she went on the offensive. “What if I hadn’t planned on giving you my number?”
He raised a brow. “You don’t want me to have it?”
“That’s not the point!”
“It’s exactly the point.”
“No, it—” She cut herself off. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
“I have been told that a time or two.” He paused, then said, “So I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“Uh, no, thanks.” She moved to stand up, but he pressed her back into the seat.
“You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”
“Yeah, well, when a guy says those words to a girl he hardly knows, it usually ends with her chained in a basement somewhere while he maps out patterns to make a dress from her skin.”
“Wow!” He cracked up. “Suspicious much?”
“I’ve seen Silence of the Lambs. I know how these things work.”
“It appears that you do. But, sadly, I have no basement. And no handcuffs. And no deep-seated psychopathology, at least not that I know of. Also, I don’t have a clue how to sew. So, you’re probably safe.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She eyed him with mock suspicion. “So what exactly is this proposition of yours?”
“That I keep your phone number, even though you aren’t exactly overjoyed that I’ve got it. And I promise that I won’t call you until you call me first. Fair?”
“What if I never call you?”
“Then I’ll be very sad, but I promise I won’t bother you with harassing phone calls. Deal?”
She thought about it for a moment, thought about whether or not she would ever want to talk to him again once this night was over. And decided, what the hell. She might as well leave the option open. If she didn’t want to use it, well, then, he was giving her the perfect opportunity to walk away, no harm, no foul.
“Deal,” she told him.
“Excellent.” He smiled, then reached a hand up to rub the back of his neck. Involuntarily, her eyes were drawn to his very enticing six-pack and the V-cut that peeked out of the top of his low-slung jeans. She locked her jaw and, for the second time that night, tried not to drool.
She must not have been very successful, though, because his voice was amused a few seconds later when he asked, “See something you like?”
“I like you.” The words were out before she had a clue she was going to say them. The second it registered that she’d actually spoken what she’d only planned to think, she clapped her hand over her mouth in horror.
She wanted to take them back, wanted to pretend she hadn’t just screwed up everything by letting her tongue—and her emotions—get away from her. But it was too late. The words hung there in the air between them, like a bomb waiting to go off.
He didn’t look horrified by her admission, though. Didn’t look as if he was about to duck and cover in an effort to avoid the shrapnel from the bomb she had just dropped. In fact, Nic looked absolutely delighted, as though she’d given him a present…or the best orgasm of his life.
Which wasn’t so far-fetched when she thought about it. He’d certainly done that for her, after all.
Before she could think of something—anything—to say that might work as damage control, he closed the small distance between them. He turned her stool around so that she was facing him, then moved closer still, until he was nestled between the V of her spread legs.
“I like you, too,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then another one to her cheek and yet another one to her lips.
“Do you?” she asked, tilting her head back so he could skim his lips along the side of her neck.
“I do. And since we’ve established that you like me as well…” His hands went to the buttons of the too-big shirt she was wearing. His shirt, she thought dazedly as he slipped the first two buttons through their holes then gently skimmed his knuckles along the undersides of her breasts. “I think we should maybe head back to my bedroom and like each other some more.”
“Like each other some more?” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady despite the heat arcing through her like a lightning storm. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
He laughed. “It’s what I’m calling it. Sorry. I know it’s not very romantic, but my brain pretty much stops working the second I touch you.”
She was charmed by the admission despite herself. Determined to keep things light after the confession she’d had no intention of making, she told him, “I guess it’s all right if your brain isn’t working, as long as other parts of your anatomy are.”
He quirked a brow at her. “The other parts of my anatomy are working just fine, thank you very much.”
“Oh, yeah?” She ran a hand over his firm, hard chest. “Prove it.”
His eyes darkened at the challenge and he grabbed her hips. Pulled her forward until she was balanced right on the edge of the seat and her sex was nestled right up against the hard ridge of his erection.
“Proof enough for you?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.
“I don’t know. I think I might need a more detailed demonstration.” She arched against him then, reveling in the groan he didn’t even try to hold back.
“A more detailed demonstration, hmm?” He slid his hands under her and picked her up as if she weighed nothing. For the second time that night, Desi wound her arms and legs around him.
She clung to him like a limpet as he carried her out of the kitchen, through the family room and down the long hallway that led to his bedroom. She waited until he’d crossed over the threshold before she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “‘Need You Tonight.’”
“I need you, too,” he said as he carried her over to the bed.
It was her turn to laugh. “I meant, that’s my favorite song.”
Something moved in his eyes—something wonderful and terrifying and so, so exhilarating. Then he was kissing her, his mouth slamming down on hers with the same desperation that was suddenly crashing through her.
And then they were falling onto the bed with him on top of her.
“What’s your favorite song?” she managed to choke out as he finished unbuttoning her shirt, pressing kisses to each new bit of exposed skin. Her brain was going fast, her body taking over, but after all the back-and-forth, she wanted—needed—to know this one thing about him.
“I thought that was obvious,” he said and she could feel him smile against her stomach. “Eric Clapton’s ‘Wonderful Tonight.’”
Four (#ulink_3feacf98-fb2e-5d08-be08-16e300eea0d3)
Nic woke up alone. Which was unexpected. And which also really, really sucked.
Especially since it wasn’t as if Desi was temporarily gone, like in the kitchen making coffee or the bathroom taking a shower. No, she had bugged out of his place and taken every last trace of her existence with her. She hadn’t left a note, hadn’t left a last name, hadn’t left so much as a high-heeled glass slipper behind for him to go by.
She was really gone. So gone that if he didn’t have scratches down his back from her nails, a bed that looked like a disaster zone, and—he glanced at his phone, just to make sure—her phone number in his contacts list, he might be tempted to think he’d imagined the whole damn thing.
But he hadn’t imagined it. Desi was real. He had her number to prove it, he told himself as he stared at the 323 area code of his last missed call. Unfortunately, he also had a promise—not to use that phone number until she used his first.
Which, again, really, really sucked.
Because he liked her. He really, really liked her. More than should be possible considering he knew almost nothing about her—and what knowledge he did have, he’d gained from asking questions and pushing the issue until she very reluctantly responded.
Which, now that he thought about it, probably should have been his first clue that this wasn’t going to go the way he’d wanted it to. Damn it, he really hated playing the fool.
A quick look at his bedside clock told him it was barely 7:00 a.m., and since he knew she’d been asleep in his bed at five, when he’d finally succumbed to exhaustion, he couldn’t shake the idea that he had just missed her. That if only he had woken up a few minutes earlier, he would have caught her before she disappeared.
The thought made him crazy, especially since he’d planned on starting the morning the same way he’d spent most of the night. Deep inside Desi, watching her fall apart, as the defensive wall she’d built around herself crumbled one tiny brick at a time.
It seemed like a ridiculous plan now, considering he was alone in rapidly cooling sheets. After all, he’d known she was emotionally closed off—he would have had to be an idiot not to see the No Trespassing signs she had posted over pretty much every part of herself. And yet…and yet she’d opened up to him, over and over again through the night. Oh, not about big things such as who she was or why she had such a bleak outlook on people or even what her favorite movie was. But she’d let her guard down enough for him to catch glimpses of a lot of the mixed-up pieces that made her who she was.
He’d liked what he’d seen, a lot. Which was just one more reason this disappearing act of hers bothered him so much. For the first time in a very long time, he’d been looking forward to exploring her. To exploring them and finding out all the little things that made Desi tick.
For God’s sake, he’d brought her to his house, which was something he did not normally do. At least not until he’d been on a few dates with a woman. And definitely not until he knew she was someone he wanted to get serious with.
Yet last night, on that balcony, he’d been adamant about convincing Desi to come home with him. True, part of that was because he’d really, really wanted to sleep with her again—the two times on the balcony hadn’t been close to enough to exhaust the sexual chemistry between them. But that didn’t explain why he’d been so determined to bring her home, to his house. They’d been at a hotel, for God’s sake. How much easier would it have been to simply stop by the front desk and get a room for the night?
Instead, he’d brought her home. He’d made her blueberry pancakes and asked her questions and—when she had commented on various pieces of his furniture—had even thought about showing her his studio, which was pretty much the most sacred place in his house. He barely let his brother, Marc, in there, let alone anyone else.
But she didn’t know any of that, a part of him rationalized. He’d thought he had made his interest clear to her last night, but maybe he hadn’t. Maybe she’d thought she really was nothing more than a one-night stand to him. Maybe she’d thought he expected her to be gone when he woke up. After all, he hadn’t said otherwise.
No, but he’d made a point of giving her his phone number, he told himself as he rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom. Had made a point of getting hers. Surely that had given her a clue that he was interested in her.
Then again, maybe his interest—or lack thereof—wasn’t the problem. Maybe hers was. She’d been pretty damn reluctant to answer even his most innocuous questions, and when she had answered, it was usually with a nonanswer. As if she was afraid of letting him too close, of letting him learn too much about her. Or maybe, more accurately, she didn’t want him to get close to her.
Just the thought annoyed him. It had been a long time since he’d met a woman who really interested him. Who was smart and funny and also sexy as hell. So why was it that the first woman he did meet who interested him on all those fronts had gone running from him the first chance she’d gotten?
He turned on the shower, and while he was waiting for it to warm up, he took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. As he did, he couldn’t help wondering what it was Desi had seen when she’d looked at him. Had she seen his public persona, the easygoing, happy-go-lucky guy who was always up for a beer or a game of golf? The guy who didn’t make waves and always had a joke at the ready?
Or had she seen deeper than that? Had she seen who he really was under all the polish and bull? He’d tried to show her a little bit of that guy last night, had thought—when he caught her looking at him as if she had a million questions—that maybe she had seen him. And if she had…if she had, was that who she had run away from? Not the man she’d picked up at the gala, but the one who lurked below his surface?
The idea grated. But it also lingered, long after he’d all but scrubbed himself raw in the shower in an effort to get rid of the warm-honey scent of her that had somehow embedded itself in his skin.
He was still poking at the wound, still turning it over in his mind, when he cruised into his brother’s office an hour later.
“How was the gala?” Marc asked without looking up from where he was checking his first emails of the day.
“Enlightening,” Nic answered, walking over to the window that made up one whole wall of the room. Beyond the company grounds were rocky cliffs and a small sandy beach. Beyond that was the endless Pacific. He watched the water for long minutes, saw the waves build out at sea, then crest, then roll harmlessly onto shore. It was winter, so the water was cold, but there were a few surfers out there, paddling on their boards as they waited for the next big wave.
For a second, he wanted to be out there with them. Wanted to be free, wanted—for just once in his life—to do whatever he wanted. To be whomever he wanted and to hell with the consequences.
But then Marc asked, “Enlightening how?” and the fantasy was shattered.
“What do you mean?” He turned to look at his brother.
Marc pushed back from his desk, then crossed the room to the small minifridge embedded in the bar. He grabbed a bottle of iced coffee for himself, then tossed Nic a pint of the fresh-squeezed orange juice he favored. He caught it neatly.
“When I asked you about the gala, you said it was enlightening. How so?” Marc came to stand next to him by the window, glancing out at the ocean before turning to Nic, an inquisitive look on his face.
Nic started to gloss over it, to focus on the people he’d met or the money he’d pledged from Bijoux. But Marc was his brother and his best friend, the only person he ever really opened up to. And so, before Nic even knew the words were there, he found himself saying, “I met a girl.”
“You met a girl?”
“A woman,” he corrected himself, thinking of Desi’s lush curves and quick wit. “I met a woman.”
“Do tell.” Marc gestured to the chair opposite his desk, and though Nic had too much energy to really want to sit, he found himself doing so anyway. As usual.
“What’s her name?” his brother asked.
“Desi.”
“Desi…?”
“That’s all. I don’t have her last name.”
“Well, that’s sloppy on your part.” Marc studied him closely. “Which is not an adjective I would usually use to describe you, so… This must be big.”
“It’s not big. It’s not anything, really.” And yet Nic really didn’t like the way those words tasted in his mouth.
Marc laughed. “Of course not. Which is why you look like you swallowed a bug just saying that.”
“Look, it’s complicated.”
“Dude, it’s always complicated.”
“Yeah, well, this time, it’s really complicated.” And so he told Marc the whole story, about how he’d fallen for Desi’s looks at first sight and her startling quick wit almost as fast. About how he’d taken her home…and how he’d woken up alone.
“But you have her phone number, right?” Marc asked when Nic was finished with his tale of woe. “Please, tell me you were smart enough to get her number.”
“Of course I was. But I was dumb enough to promise her I wouldn’t call her until she called me.”
Marc rolled his eyes. “All these years and have I really taught you nothing about how to woo a woman?”
“Considering you’ve spent the last six years licking your wounds from Isabella, I’d have to say that your own wooing skills are pretty lacking right now.”
“I haven’t been licking my wounds,” Marc growled. “I’ve been busy running a multi-billion-dollar diamond corporation.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Call it whatever you like. Besides, I’ve been right here with you every step of the way, turning Bijoux into the second-largest responsibly sourced diamond corporation in the world.”
“I know that—I wasn’t implying otherwise. I was just saying I haven’t had much time to woo anyone lately. Then again, neither have you. Maybe you’re rusty.”
Nic shot him a look. “I am not rusty, thank you very much.” Sure, he preferred quality over quantity and always had, despite his playboy image in the press. But it wasn’t as if he’d gone months without sex, for God’s sake. His skills weren’t rusty. At least, he didn’t think they were.
God, what if that’s why Desi had snuck out before he’d woken up? Because she’d thought he was bad in— No, no, no. That was one rabbit hole he was not going to fall down this morning. Because if he did…hell, if he did, he was afraid he’d never climb back out of it again.
“I’m not rusty,” he said again, perhaps with more force than was absolutely necessary.
“I’m not saying you are.” Marc held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, if you have her phone number, why don’t you use it?”
“I already told you—”
“I know. You can’t call her until she calls you. But that doesn’t mean you can’t text her, right? Or did you make promises about that, too? And let me just say, if you did, you’re stupider than you look.”
“I didn’t, actually,” Nic answered as the wheels started turning in his brain. “I mean, I suppose an argument could be made about the spirit of the agreement—”

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