She wanted him. The steamy looks he’d cast her way, the heavy-lidded stares, said he wanted her, too. No doubt, he had no idea she was the woman in those pink sweats. She barely knew that woman herself right now. Didn’t want to know her. That woman would be logical and prim; that woman would not blatantly flirt with Baxter Remington, even from a distance, as she had done often this evening.“The economy is not improving. I think…”
Caron blinked, realizing she was involved in a conversation she had forgotten. A short, balding man named Lou, a commercial real estate agent of some sort, was rambling on about office space rates.
She nodded, made a lame comment, her gaze flickering again to the man standing at the bar in the corner, to the Hunter. God, the man was hot. Tall. Dark. Suave in all ways, masculine and sexy.
Her eyes locked with his, her body heating, skin tingling. She could feel her nipples pebble beneath the sheer fabric. Another time, another day, she would have covered herself and been shy rather than boldly female. But she had become the game, become Marilyn. And she was loving every second, embracing the freedom, the power of being “woman.”
The flirtation had become an alluring distraction as had the game of control. She was having fun with the sexy bombshell image that she would leave at the door at the end of the enchanting evening. For now, she reveled in the freedom that came with the role she was playing. Once she’d pressed past her nerves, once she’d embraced Marilyn, she’d found the experience quite absorbing, found it alluringly sexy. But the most alluring part of all was knowing he was watching. Knowing she had the ability to make him watch.
A tiny ache budded between her thighs with a discomfort that demanded attention. Caron sipped her champagne, the bubbles floating down her throat. She had a buzz that delivered courage. A buzz that sizzled with a cry for satisfaction. That called out for action. It was time to escalate this flirtation, to find out exactly how far it would travel.
She shifted her attention to the conversation, nodded and exchanged a few words before excusing herself. She didn’t look toward her Hunter. Didn’t have to. She could feel him staring at her, feel him as surely as she could the tingling of her skin, the sizzle of her sensitized nerve endings. How long had it been since she had felt the touch of a man’s hand, felt the pleasure of intimately joined bodies? She needed that feeling, needed it as surely as she needed her next breath.
Caron weaved through the thinning crowd; the hour was growing late, near midnight. Her destination was the courtyard at the rear of the elegant entertainment room, as she murmured a few greetings along the way.
She pushed open the double-paned doors and exited, the cool air sweeping her hot skin, enveloping her with temporary relief. Fancy stone benches and fragrant sweet flowers lined the red brick trail, ground lights illuminating the colors of red, yellow and white. Caron didn’t linger, pressing forward, down the path, into the shadows. The click of the door sounded behind her, and a shiver tingled its way down her spine. He was there. He followed.
BAXTER STEPPED INTO the night air, the wind lifting around him, his eyes catching on the silky swirl of material a second before it disappeared down the fork to the left, hidden by decorative foliage. He smiled, the Hunter in him on the prowl. For her, his little contradiction. The woman beneath the seductive Marilyn Monroe persona, who was also his little brunette butterfly. Innocence and seduction. The contrast intrigued him. But what really intrigued him was what he felt deep in his gut when he peered across the room at her, the deep swirl of desire that tightened his groin and maddened him with need.
He inhaled, took in the night air, tasted it—savoring the flavor of passion and perfume thick on his tongue—her perfume, her passion. He stepped forward, tension in his muscles, desire in his blood. Long strides took him down the path—slow, steady strides that defied the urgency pulsing within his groin. Control was a talent, a game-winning tool in all aspects of life, certainly in the art of pleasure. The more anticipation, the more wanting, the more relish in the ultimate moment of release.He turned the corner, cut back through the darkness illuminated with little lights dangling above the brick path, teetering on black steel poles. His nostrils flared as the sweet smell of floral-scented passion thickened. One more step, two. Three. And then he paused at the end of the path, the vision before him breathtaking. A glorious view of the San Francisco Bridge opened up to him, the moon shining in the deep black sky, framing a vision of one single, blonde goddess.
She leaned against the railing, the breeze gently blowing, exposing creamy white skin. Would it be as soft as he thought it would be? Would she taste of sugar or spice? Would she purr like a kitten or scream like a cat? A kitten, he thought. He couldn’t wait to find out for sure. Still, he didn’t rush, didn’t push forward. Baxter lingered to enjoy the vision of pure female loveliness before him. Enjoyed considering all the erotic possibilities the two of them could share. Enjoyed trailing his eyes along the zipper of her dress, imagining drawing it downward, moments before he tugged away the silky material. Moments before he exposed bare skin and full, high breasts. His eyes traveled the long line of her silhouette one last time, the tapered, tiny waist, the curves of her lush hips. She didn’t turn, didn’t move, yet somehow he felt her awareness of his presence.
His lips lifted slightly, the thrum of excitement roused by the coyness of her keeping her back to him. With slow precision, he closed the distance between himself and the blonde seductress, his pace a part of retaining his mandatory, ironclad control—control that defied the demands of his body. Just as slowly, Caron turned and faced him, presenting him with further reason for urgency. He stopped mere steps from touching her. His gaze rasped along the low-cut dress, caressing her breasts, noting the taut nipples pressed against the thin, white silk.
His eyes lifted to her full, red lips, parted with anticipation, with invitation. The bright color contrasted with her pale skin as perfectly as did her dark, full lashes. He wanted to kiss those lips. He wanted to taste her, to please her. He wanted to tell her everything he longed to do to her, intended to do to her. But something in her eyes kept him from speaking. A flash of fear, a split second where she was a doe in the headlights. Insecure. Nervous. He didn’t remember the last time he’d seen such things in a woman. Had he ever? Those things touched him deeply, aroused him profoundly.
Silence became his weapon of seduction. Silence held no demands; it came without questions, without consequence, without reasons to think rather than to feel. He could see those needs in her eyes, see that she was acting out of character, acting out the fantasy of the costume, against the more sensible decisions of her true self. And the fact that she’d chosen to step outside her own personal boundaries and do so with him only served to ignite a primal possessiveness in him. A desire to make her his—if only for one night. A desire that urged him to reach for her, but he did not, yet.
Instinct told him he had a choice to make. He could wait and allow her to act—but did he dare risk her running, risk her darting away? Perhaps he should press forward, take what he wanted—take her pleasure and take her passion—take her on a ride to satisfaction she would never forget. He considered a moment, the deep thrum of desire pulsing through his veins, primal fire pumping with each beat of his heart.
The hunt was over but the game had only just begun.
CARON HAD SET THE STAGE for the courtyard seduction, yet she could barely breathe as Baxter Remington leaned on the railing next to her, smelling like cinnamon and spice, and oh, yes, everything nice. The man simply oozed sex appeal, the confident playboy and millionaire. “Caron logic” said she was way over her head, a lamb playing a wolf’s game. The buzz of champagne, gel bra and a successful walk down that runway, said she was empowered, living a fantasy where she owned the game.
“It’s a city made for lovers,” he said softly, the heaviness of his attentive stare caressing her bare skin as she slid into position beside him, her hands dangling over the railing.“And a night made for fantasies,” she re
plied, staring out at the magnificence of the San Francisco Bridge, its structure seeming to float atop the endless mass of dark water. She tilted her chin to her left, met Baxter’s expression, the depths of passion she found there stripping away any and all barriers in a tantalizingly sensual way.
“Is that what this is?” he asked, facing her, casually leaning on the rail, though there was nothing casual about the tension crackling in the air, nor the lavish promise of pleasure that lifted in the midst of that crackle. “A fantasy?”
Caron eased around to face him, the moon and the stars shadowing the chiseled angles of his face, adding mystery to his suave allure. Her mouth watered as she took in his hotness factor. He was one of those rare men who made a tux sexy, rather than the opposite.
“You have a problem with fantasies?” she challenged softly, her voice somewhere between confident and uncertain.
His lips lifted in a barely perceivable, ultrasexy way. “No problem with fantasies whatsoever.”
“Good,” she said and ran her teeth over her bottom lip, nerve endings she didn’t know existed, raw and tingling. “Because I’m—”
A gust of wind blew through the thin material of her dress, and Caron lost her thought, curling into herself, and shivering in the process.
As would be expected of a gallant knight in a fantasy—and Baxter was most certainly that—he quickly shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, using the lapels to pull her close. His body sheltered her, warmed her in intimate places.
“A city made for lovers,” he said, repeating his earlier words. “Sometimes I think it’s alive. That it lives and breathes romance and seduction. That well-timed breeze did, after all, give me the perfect excuse to pull you closer.”
A new shiver chased a path down her spine, and this one had nothing to do with the cool night. “I wouldn’t think a man like Baxter Remington needs an excuse to take what he wants.”
He arched a brow. “And why is that?”
“Rich, successful owner of a major coffee company,” she replied without hesitation—after all, she was stating pure fact. “You didn’t get there by waiting for an excuse to act.”
Sultry, attentive eyes met hers. Oh, yes. She wanted to lick this man from head to toe. She swallowed hard, realizing how out of character her thinking was. Actually, she should expect Baxter to do the licking, not the opposite. Maybe there would be time for both? She bit her lip. Perhaps she should settle for another glass of champagne. Yes. That was probably the more appropriate response. Than licking him. All over. Right. Champagne.
She blinked up at him, realizing Baxter had said something, and tried to disguise the blatant desire, no doubt ablaze in her eyes. “I’m sorry. What?”
Amusement lit his handsome features, as if he knew she’d been in naughty fantasyland instead of listening. He gently tugged the lapels of his coat with enough force to insist she step closer. So close they were almost touching. Their legs, their hips. Her chin tilted upward, seeking confirmation that he felt the charge tingling along her nerve endings. Her attention focused on his mouth. Firm. Sexy. She wanted to kiss him.
“It hardly seems fair that you know so much more about me than I know about you,” he commented softly.
It was an obvious nudge to reveal the woman beneath the costume, but Caron wasn’t a fool. She recognized that too much Caron in this equation meant bye-bye fantasy and a chance to enjoy this hunk of a man. Caron wasn’t letting that happen. She smiled coyly.
“I like it that way,” she replied, flattening her hand on the warm, solid wall of his chest to keep from melting against him. Muscles flexed beneath her fingers. Somehow she managed to find her voice again. “Yes,” she murmured, repeating her words. “I like it that way. Me knowing more about you than you about me.”
His hand covered hers, holding her palm over his heart. “Is that so?”
She nodded slowly. “It is,” she assured him. “After all, tonight I’m Cinderella, or rather Marilyn. It’s my fantasy, which means I set the rules.”
“And who says it’s your fantasy?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Why can’t it be mine?”
“I’m the one in costume,” she quickly reminded him. “If you go put on a nice pirate costume, I’ll let it be your fantasy.”
A sexy rumble of deep laughter followed. “I’ll keep that in mind for future reference,” he said. “But for the record, I have a variety of fantasies forming that I might well feel compelled to make come true—none of which involve a pirate’s costume.” His lips lifted. “Though I’m not ruling out anything.” His eyes danced with mischief. “But in light of these fantasies, I’ll have to request you be up-front about my boundaries—‘the rules,’ as you called them,” his seductive voice whispered. “That way I don’t forget myself and say…kiss you, when you might prefer I simply do this.” He slid his hands to her waist and began nuzzling her neck. “Hmm,” he murmured next to her ear. “You smell like roses.” His hands caressed a path up her back.
Caron embraced the solid wall of muscle in a tidal wave of sensation.
“Kissing me would definitely be out of line.” She pressed her hands to his powerful shoulders, and slid them slowly downward, absorbing every flex and line with slow intent. “I can’t have my lipstick messed up when I have to go back inside.”
He smiled against her neck. “We couldn’t have that, now could we?”
“Excuse me, Miss, well, Ms. Monroe,” came a gentle female voice that jerked Caron backward as her gaze skittered and landed on a petite brunette she recognized as one of the event organizers.
“Hi,” Caron replied, more than a little flustered. She started to push away from Baxter but quickly caught herself. What had happened to her confidence, her allure? She’d just been caught with the sexiest man in the building. Instead of fleeing, she rotated in Baxter’s arms, held the jacket in place, while he wrapped a possessive arm around her waist beneath it. “Did you need me?”
Appearing nervous, the woman’s gaze skittered from Baxter to Caron. “I do apologize for the interruption and for not having your given name handy,” the woman said, wringing her fingers together. “But the last dance of the night is about to start and it’s televised. There’s quite the panic to find you.”
Caron offered a reassuring smile. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
The woman nodded and rushed away in a frenzied half run. Baxter returned to nuzzling Caron’s neck, the touch of his lips on the sensitive flesh. She pressed her hands on his chest, to put at least some distance between them. She wasn’t about to be an easy catch, no matter how much she longed for this man. This wasn’t about falling at this guy’s feet. She could do that any day. This was about the high of having him fall at hers. About enjoying the power of her newfound sexuality before this night ended.
She peered up at him through her lashes, those sultry bedroom eyes inviting her back into a world of silk sheets and naked bodies—their naked bodies. “The final dance of the night is always the best, you know,” she said, hardly believing what she was about to say. Did she dare?
One dark brow arched. “And why exactly is that?”
Caron’s throat thickened at the cue for her reply and silently inhaled, channeling her new persona and forcefully shoving aside her nerves. Be daring, Caron, she told herself. She ran her hands down his tie—she liked that he’d chosen a conventional tie over a bow tie. Liked the sprinkle of gray at his sideburns. She liked a lot about this man, she thought.
Finally she said, “Everyone knows the guy who gets the last dance takes the girl home.” Her voice was soft, sexy. The challenge in the words unfamiliar, yet surprisingly comfortable. She rather enjoyed the freedom to say what she was thinking.
Baxter rewarded her lack of reserve by tugging her closer, thighs aligned with hers, warmth radiating through her limbs despite a sudden gust of evening wind.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “As honored as I would be to be your last dance, the last thing yo
u want is to be photographed as my latest conquest and splashed all over the papers.”
Caron’s eyes went wide at the unexpected, and not-so-satisfying bite of those words. She was no born Marilyn, but she was woman enough to know Baxter Remington had just earned himself a justified smack-down in the name of every woman in this place. And she intended to give it to him.
A slow, confident smile slid onto red-painted lips. “Ah now, darling,” she purred. “The only one in danger of being a conquest this night is you.” She pushed to her toes and brought her lips a breath from his, teasing him with the potential kiss. “And that is still up for debate.”
She pulled back, denying him her mouth, pleased at the stunned look gracing his chiseled features. She slid off his coat and pressed it into his hands, leaning into him as she did and allowing a nice view of her gel-induced, ogleworthy cleavage, while she still had it.
“Thanks for the jacket,” she told him, her lips pursing ever so slightly. “And the company.” Desire flared in his eyes, and he reached for her. She took a fast step backward, then two.
“Final dance to attend,” she reminded him, wiggling her fingers in a sultry wave, and then she turned and started walking—no, strutting—just as she had on the runway. A sexy, empowered sort of walk she’d never even attempted before tonight but found to be liberating.
Caron could feel the heat of Baxter’s stare, the way he watched every sway of her hips, every slow, calculated step. Oh, yeah. She’d taught him a lesson. He was going to have to work to be her arm candy. And she had no doubt, he would. She’d seen the shocked look on his face, the flare of renewed desire that had followed—she would be seeing more of Baxter Remington before this night of Marilyn ended.