"Why now?"
"It's time," she said simply. "I spent the first half of my life focused on my goals and career and I don't regret it. I gave up things, some opportunities that may have led to marriage and a family. I refuse to have regrets but my priorities shifted. I want a husband. Children."
Dylan nodded. "I can understand that. You launched a successful business, but it takes everything you have. If you had settled too soon, things may not have worked out because you weren't ready to commit completely."
"Yes, exactly. But now I'm focused and know what I want."
He added two pickles to the plates. "Give me the list."
"So you can make fun of me? No way."
"I won't, promise. What's the requirements?"
A nice hazy glow enveloped the stainless-steel kitchen. Why not? She didn't care what he thought. "He has to have a secure job. I want to have a strong friendship first before we go into sex. He needs to want children, be trustworthy, dependable, intelligent, even tempered."
"Even tempered?"
She glared. "Yes."
Dylan cleared his throat. "You'll eat him for breakfast and spit him out for dinner. Darlin', you're a hellcat. You need someone to stand up to you or you'll get bored."
She stabbed a finger at him. "I am not a hellcat! I never lose my temper with anyone but you. I need a companion, father, friend, and general helper to make a successful marriage."
"What about sex?"
"That's not important."
He stared at her in astonishment. "It's the basis of a relationship. Sex bonds two people together."
"Sex doesn't have to fit in the box."
He frowned. "What box?"
She sipped more wine. "You know, the box. When you're ready to settle down with someone and make a life together, it's best to create a sort of mental box where that person can fit comfortably. The box needs to conform with your lifestyle so you're both compatible. For instance, sex is nice but it doesn't have to fit in the box. It's pleasurable, but not necessary."
Dylan reached for the wine and refilled his glass. "Now I need alcohol. You've managed to stump me with this one. Why didn't I know about this box?"
"Because it's my own creation," she said stiffly. "Marriage isn't easy. I don't want to give up my business. I intend to hire more staff, work from home, and be more flexible. But my husband is going to also have to sacrifice, and it's not always passion and games and romance. It's brutal, hard work. And I want that. I want to be exhausted and happy with someone and wake up in the morning and do it all over again, knowing we wouldn't choose differently. Now do you get it?"
"Sex has to be in the box."
She glared. "It's my damn box and I say sex isn't in it. Sex can be in your box."
"What if we have the same box?"
She almost choked on her wine. "We can never have the same box. We're complete opposites."
"Funny, I think we have a lot more in common than you think."
"Yeah? Name one."
"We both signed up with Kinnections for the same reason." He cut the sandwiches in half, looked up, and grinned. "Let's eat in the dining room."
Still reeling from his remark, she grabbed her wine and slid off the stool. "You want to seriously get married?" She trotted after him. "I don't believe you. You're a billionaire, used to parties on yachts and impromptu vacations. You live in the land of the beautiful and fantastical. Domestic boredom and routine would freak you out and you'd run for the hills."
"A complete illusion. You're basing these assumptions on the boy I was ten years ago. Do you think you're the same person from Cornell?"
"Well, no."
"Neither am I. I come from a strong family background. My parents have been married for thirty-four years. I have two sisters, tons of aunts, uncles, and cousins, and it was always a rotating door of people visiting. My grandmother lived with us. When I got home from school, she'd make coffee and I'd sit in the kitchen with her and talk. She told me about my parents when they were young. They grew up together as friends, turned enemies as teens, and married in their early twenties. I know marriage isn't easy because I see what they go through every day. I have no illusions. They run a successful empire so Dad has to travel. Mom gets lonely a lot. And my sister had a drug problem that almost tore us apart. But they love each other."
Riley followed him into the dining room, fascinated by his story. He placed the plates down, turned, and met her gaze head-on. "They're in it for the long haul, and by God, if that's not romance and passion, I don't know what it is. They have friendship, respect, and trust. But sex still needs to be in the box."
Her head whirled. She opened her mouth to say something, then got struck by the magnificence of the dining room. "Holy crap. You do live in the Beast's castle."
The formalized area held a solid marble table over ten feet long--enough to fit King Arthur and all his knights. The runner gleamed gold and silver and spread the entire length. High-backed cushioned chairs spread around the table, and a vase filled with exotic blooms was set in the center. The dark wood floors were bare and held a polished shine. The walls were a soft dove gray and displayed an array of tapestries. A French door lined with burgundy velvet drapes led onto some type of balcony area.
Once again, there was a fireplace. Two candelabras of bronzed gold rested on the mantel. The scent of damp logs drifted in the air, along with the sound of crackling wood.
"Umm, Dylan? How many fireplaces does this place have?"
He tilted his head in thought. "About ten."
"Riiiight." She picked up her plate and placed herself at the head of the table. Why not? She felt like she'd slipped into a fairy tale anyway. Might as well play the part of Belle. His words still echoed in her head, making her heart beat wildly. To imagine Dylan settled down with a wife and family filled her with a sweet longing she didn't understand. It couldn't be true. Maybe he thought he wanted to settle down, but if so, why hadn't he found his wife yet?
"How long have you been a client of Kinnections?" she asked.
He walked over to the fireplace and grabbed the candelabras. "Awhile."
Aha. Now she'd prove the truth of his inability to hold down a long relationship. "But you still haven't found who you're looking for? Doesn't that show you're not ready to settle down?"
Dylan opened the china cabinet drawer and slid out a book of matches. "No. It proves I haven't met her yet."
"But you still trust Kate to find her?"
He swiped the match and struck a flame. Then began lighting the candles. "Yes. I've met many incredible women and enjoyed the dates. All owned traits I want, but none had the spark I'm looking for."
She leaned forward, intrigued. "What spark?"
"The spark of connection. That unknown quality that screams in your gut when something's wrong and something's right. I can usually tell from the first date, so I don't waste their time."
Riley shook her head in amazement. "No. Way. Dating services hook you up by determining similar interests that fit. You're telling me the most important thing to you for picking your life mate is an unknown, mystical, magical spark?"
Dylan replaced the vase of flowers with the candles. He took the chair on the opposite end of the table and picked up his sandwich. "Correct."
Annoyance surged. He couldn't do that. It was a ridiculous way to decide on marrying somebody and made no sense. Of course, Dylan McCray never made sense. Why should she expect anything else?
But a strange longing curled in her belly and bloomed heat beyond. What was wrong with her? Yes, he was hot as Hades and oozed sex like a weapon. Yes, he was funny and witty and intelligent. But he would never fit in her box.
Ever.
"Why are you lighting candles like we're about to welcome more guests? A bit much, don't you think?"
"Let's just say we'll probably need it."
She sighed and dug into the turkey. The moistness of the meat on thick rye bread held the perfect texture and taste. He'd used just
enough salt to create a nice bite. So good. Eating turkey sandwiches in such a formal room, with the fire crackling, snow falling, and flickering candlelight was kind of cool. Romantic, even. She bet the woman Dylan picked would have a life full of surprises, sharp turns, and excitement. Exactly what she didn't want.
Exactly.
As if he heard her thoughts, he spoke up. "Why do you think we're so different?"
Riley snorted and rolled her eyes for double effect. "Duh. Don't you remember Cornell? We drove each other nuts. I'm a planner. I'd be early to class, you were late. I did all my homework, you got people to do it for you."
"I object."
"Overruled. You partied. I studied. You messed up the dorm and made it disgusting. I cleaned it up. Opposites."
As usual, the air charged and energy surged between them. It reminded her of a hurricane wind: warm, seductive, but insanely brutal and strong.
"I think we're the same but approach our goals differently," Dylan said. "You're more of a take-charge, steam-ahead type. You use fact gathering, drive, and sheer will to race ahead of the pack and stay there. Contrary to your low opinion of me, I never inherited McCray Tech. My father told me straight out I wouldn't get a piece of the company just because I had his name. To do that, I needed to carry my weight. That's why I enrolled in Cornell. At graduation, I started from the bottom and worked my way up, which took many years. Only recently have I been officially put on as a legal partner."
Another assumption blown to crap. How was this possible? "But you never studied in college! You never cared about impressing teachers, or acing exams. Partying was your real major. I saw you!"
"Did you?" He dropped his voice. "Maybe you weren't looking too hard."
"I never had to look, Dylan. You made it obvious to the entire campus you weren't interested in academics."
"Yet I got the same GPA as you."
She clenched her wineglass and took another slug. The fact always pissed her off. "I never understood how you managed that."
"I intended to enjoy myself at Cornell, because I knew once I stepped into the business the real partying was over. But I was as serious about my grades as you. I just hid it better."
"How?" she demanded.
His lips twitched. "I don't need much sleep--never have. Four hours is my maximum, I'm just built that way. I studied at night. I also have a photographic memory, so remembering facts and figures is easy. Lucky, I know, but I used it to my advantage."
She wanted to challenge him but he told the truth. She could tell. He'd always been smart, but had she really thought he'd be able to pull off a 4.0 by doing nothing? From one executive to another, she grudgingly had to admit he built his success on his own. Would his father really let him inherit his company if he didn't trust Dylan to run it? Probably not. And she bet he deserved it by working his ass off.
Just like her.
Ah, crap. She'd been kind of a bitch. Riley placed her glass down and met his gaze. "I'm sorry, Dylan. I never knew. You hid it so well."
She waited for his sarcastic retort, but instead he dipped his head, as if bestowing his forgiveness. A stray white-blond strand fell over his brow. His lips curved in a smile. "Apology accepted. I did love my man whore, party animal reputation."
She smiled back. Warmth traveled from between her thighs, up her belly, and flushed her neck. Damn, the fire was getting hot. How was the man able to steal the oxygen in a room just by his sexiness?
They stared at one another for a few moments until finally, he bit into his pickle with straight white teeth. She imagined those teeth nibbling on parts of her body, so she had to down more wine.
"Now that we solved that issue, what other things don't we have in common?" he asked.
She shrugged. "We fight, of course. Fighting is definitely not in my box. I want my spouse to respect my opinions, be calm in all situations, and have patience to think things through a logical sequence before making a decision." She was quite proud of her speech, so when he burst into laughter she wanted to climb over the table and hit him.
"Couples fight, Riley. Life would be pretty dull and boring if no one stood up for their opinions, or completely succumbed to their partner."
"Oh, please. Have you ever been trapped at dinner with a couple who fights? They pick at everything the other does, and you're so uncomfortable you want to die. Last time that happened I had to skip dessert, and I never skip dessert. I don't want that type of tension in my marriage."
"We're talking about a different type of fighting. Take us, for example."
"What about us? We fight all the time."
He reached for his wine and swirled it around, as if contemplating the burgundy liquid gave him all the answers. "It's different," he said again. "You challenged me in school. Forced me to defend my beliefs. Made me reach deeper to really examine things, whether it be a business solution or an ethical issue or an opinion. You also pushed me to do better. I have respect for you. I enjoy the fighting, because there's something going on beneath it. Make sense?"
Wow. The words brought a warm glow, but she shook her head. "I disagree. Can you imagine if we were together and had a difference of opinion on everything? That's exhausting and detrimental to a healthy relationship."
"After one of our fights, did you ever feel damaged by my words? Disrespected? Undermined?"
"No. Just majorly pissed off."
He grinned. "Me, too. I'm just saying there's different levels of fighting, and ours is more of a part of communicating. Sure, we each got in a jibe now and then, but I never wanted to hurt you."
Riley went over the endless incidents, battles, and arguments that made up her years at Cornell. Funny, she never really thought of it like that. But when she stormed off, she was more aggravated he wouldn't do what she wanted. He never took potshots, or bullied, or ever made her cry. Huh. Weird. In a way, it was almost like . . .
Foreplay.
Her eyes widened.
She couldn't stop looking at those lips, wondering if they'd feel the same or she'd be in for a huge disappointment. After all, it was a decade ago, and she'd changed. So had he. Innocence and illusions were gone. The kiss had probably been blown up in her memory as something untouchable. Right?
"Do you believe me, Riley?" His voice caressed her name in a low, deep rumble. Her breath hitched, and suddenly she was burning up in her chair, desperate to touch him.
"Yes."
"Good." Those beastly erotic eyes burned across the table and held her captive. "You know a lot of fighting is well documented to be an indicator of repressed sexual attraction."
Usually she'd treat him to a withering remark, or a derisive snort. Instead, her tongue remained glued to the roof of her mouth. She sat helplessly still in her chair, unable to move.
Because he was right.
There was some type of attraction between them. Maybe lust. He may not be suited to be her husband, or fit in her box, but Dylan McCray made her want. Bad things. Dirty things.
They were stuck together overnight, while a blizzard raged outside. She was a bit tipsy from the wine. They dined in a gorgeous room with a cozy fire. All the pieces slid together, and in that one blinding instant, she wanted to give herself this one night. If she offered, would he take her up on it? Was every step of banter up to now leading to this?
One night of reckless passion and abandonment. Her skin tingled from the thought. Did she dare? Her mind spun with the possibilities, caught on the precipice of impulse and reasoning, and then the final, irrevocable element locked in her decision.
The lights went out.
chapter 5
Something was happening.
The lights snuffed out and Dylan was left in the dark, sporting a mental fog and a massive erection. She completely entranced him with her quick-witted dialogue, more intoxicating than whiskey and more of a turn-on than a Sports Illustrated cover model.
The memory of her as a young girl was a faint shimmer of the woman she'd become. Magnificent.
How many dates had he been on and been disappointed? Too many to count. Always needing more . . . wanting more . . . yet not able to figure out what the elusive element was.
Until now.
Riley was spit and vinegar, smart and sassy, and he wanted her. Under him. Over him. In his house, and his bed.
Tonight.
Dylan finally managed to speak. "Guess those candles were a good idea after all."
Her husky laugh stroked his ears and other places. Shadows fell on the wall and played. Her silhouette from the fire and candlelight illuminated her in a fiery glow. The thoughts of what he wanted to do with her, to her, made his gut clench and his dick stretch uncomfortably against his jeans. Now he just had to convince her to play.
Dylan rose, taking one of the candelabras to the other end of the table. "Are you okay?"
She tilted her head. God, she was beautiful. The burgundy in her hair, the soft violet of her eyes, the redness of her lips. The deep V neck of her sweater tempted him to taste the tender flesh there, pull down her sweater to bare her breasts. Suck and bite her nipples until she grabbed his shoulders and cried out his name.
She seemed to catch the vibe in the air and trembled. So close. Her barriers were shifting, opening, allowing just a tiny access point where he intended to jump right in. Timing was everything.
Yes, she was just as aware of him as he was of her. They'd always had a strange physical chemistry that battled with their verbal and mental clashes. Maybe that's what made it so damn hot.
"For being trapped in spook mansion with no lights in a blizzard? I'm peachy."
"I have a backup generator. Need to go put it on."
She stretched out her legs with a languorous air and propped one elbow on the table. "I don't know. It sets the mood."
Dylan stiffened. Was she flirting? He'd planned on trying to seduce her, but Riley Fox always seemed to switch things up. He got off on trying to anticipate her next move. "Mood, huh? We spoke about everything else. Maybe it's time we talked about the kiss."
Ah, he'd managed to surprise her. His skin tingled with anticipation. They'd been dancing around each other all night, and it was finally time to get honest. The tension tightened a notch. Her scent enveloped him in a mix of exotic musk and a touch of jasmine--kick-ass and powerful--and not the least bit subtle. Just how he liked it.