Page 17 of Sweet Talk (Buchanan-Renard 10)

  He stood in the doorway, waiting. She pointed the spoon at him and said, “Yes, I worry about you, but I don’t want to. Besides, what’s the point? Worrying is wasted energy. What will happen will happen no matter if I worry or not, and when it does, it’s usually bad.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “All this time I thought you were an optimist.”

  “I don’t live in the clouds.”

  He crossed the kitchen and backed her into the corner. “Here now, gone tomorrow. Is that your attitude?”

  She waved the spoon in front of his face and tried to push him away. “Something like that,” she said defiantly.

  “You’re always optimistic with kids, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about your friends, Jane and Samantha and Collins? Are they as pessimistic as you are about their futures?”

  She was taken aback. “I know you’ve met Jane, but how do you know about Samantha and Collins?”

  “Emma told me about them.” He took the Jell-O and spoon from her and put them on the counter. Then he put her hands around his neck.

  “She shouldn’t have . . . What are you doing?”

  “Kissing you,” he answered. He tugged on her earlobe with his teeth and knew she liked that. He felt her tremble.

  “Stop it.” She tried to sound irritated instead of breathless.

  “You like it.”

  Since she’d tilted her head to the side to give him better access to her neck, she couldn’t tell him he was wrong. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “I’m keeping my distance.” His fingers slid through her silky hair, and he gently turned her to look up at him. His mouth came down on top of hers. She never wanted the wet and hot sensation to end. As he made love to her with his tongue, she clung to him, and when he tried to end the kiss, she pulled him back to kiss her again.

  He was shaking with desire when he finally backed away. “Olivia, it happens so fast with you,” he whispered. “All I have to do is get near you, and I want it all. I thought it was your perfume that was such a turn-on, but it isn’t. It’s you.”

  She understood. When she got close to him, all she could think about was making love to him. She tucked her head under his chin so she wouldn’t be distracted and asked, “What did you mean about keeping your distance?”

  His chin dropped down and he rubbed it lightly across the top of her head. “I’m keeping my distance from you until we make an arrest.”

  “This is your idea of keeping your distance?”

  He hugged her. “Apparently so.”

  He let go of her and walked out of the kitchen. She followed. “Where are you going?”

  “To bed.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Grayson took her hand and started toward the bedroom.

  “We have to have sex,” he said very matter-of-factly.

  “Why?”

  “You know why. You’re here now, but you could be gone tomorrow. We need to take advantage of the time we have.”

  “That’s not funny,” she snapped, pulling on his hand.

  “Yeah, it kinda is.”

  She was furious with him. “I could die tomorrow,” she argued.

  “Yes, you could.” He’d removed his tie and was now working on his shirt. His smile was tender. “But you’re here now.”

  “You’re being cruel, Grayson.”

  “No, I’m not. Take your clothes off, sweetheart.”

  She couldn’t believe his gall. Did he think that all he had to do was snap his fingers and she’d strip for him? she wondered, even as she removed her blouse and reached for the zipper on her skirt.

  “This is just lust.” She made the statement as her skirt dropped to the floor. She pulled the silky camisole over her head and tossed it behind her. Her bra and panties followed. “Sex is a way to release pent-up tension . . . you know, anxiety. But it’s primarily lust. That’s all it is.”

  Saying it out loud didn’t make it true. Olivia was already emotionally invested. She wanted Grayson to touch her, yes, but there was another reason besides the physical. Her feelings for him were growing.

  Grayson was watching her expressions. In the past minute she’d looked happy, then angry, and now . . . disgruntled. He was pretty sure he knew what was going on in that stubborn mind of hers. He was pushing her and she was pushing back.

  He had already undressed. He dropped down on the bed, and before she realized what he was going to do, he’d pulled her down until she was straddling him.

  “No, it isn’t just lust. It’s much more.”

  She acted as though she hadn’t heard what he’d said and tried to kiss him. He wouldn’t let her. “Admit it.”

  “No.”

  If this was a game of who was more stubborn, she would win hands-down. She brushed her lips over his and whispered, “No,” once again.

  His mouth covered hers, and he kissed her hard, thoroughly. He fell back on the bed, forcing her to stretch out on top of him, then rolled over until he’d pinned her beneath him.

  Her fingers spread upward through his hair as she kissed his chin, then lower, until her lips were pressed against the pulse at the base of his throat. She could feel his heartbeat under her lips. She rubbed her pelvis against his in an attempt to drive him out of his mind. She wanted him to beg her to stop the erotic torment and come to him. Oh yes, she would make him beg.

  The plan backfired. Five minutes later she was begging him. When it came to sex, how could she have thought she was superior to him? My God, he was a master. He knew what she liked, where to touch and stroke and how to make her respond. He made her burn with passion. She was writhing in his arms as she pleaded with him to come to her.

  Grayson was determined to make her admit the truth to him before he let her climax. The effort nearly killed him. He used his last shred of discipline as his hands and his mouth moved over her sweet body. His forehead was beaded with perspiration, and he was aching with his need, yet he continued to hold back.

  “It’s a hell of a lot more than lust between us, isn’t it?” he demanded.

  His hand slid between her thighs. She relented. “Yes,” she cried out. “Happy now?”

  “Damn right,” he whispered gruffly. He lifted up and looked at her. Her eyes were misty, and it was his undoing.

  “Grayson,” she groaned. “Gloat later.”

  He moved between her thighs and thrust inside her. She arched up against him, taking him deeper. He wanted to make it last, this glorious rapture, but he couldn’t control his body any longer. Or his desire. Olivia was as wild to find fulfillment as he was, and both climaxed together.

  Long minutes passed while they tried to regain their senses. Olivia couldn’t understand how something that was so wonderful could keep getting better.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he tried to find the energy to roll away from her.

  She nodded against his shoulder. He moved onto his back and pulled her with him. She felt like a rag doll, a very content rag doll. She probably looked like one, too, with her hair hanging over her face.

  “Did you enjoy hearing me plead?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, I did.”

  She rolled on top of him, stacked her hands on his chest, and stared at him. He looked arrogantly pleased with himself. And why wouldn’t he? She’d caved and given him a little hint of the truth. She hadn’t told him she loved him, but she’d come close.

  “I’ll get even with you,” she whispered. “I’ll make you beg.”

  He laughed. “I look forward to it.”

  He caressed her back, his touch gentle now, sending shivers down her arms and legs. “I love your scent.”

  “I thought you loved my mouth.”

  “That too.”

; She tried to roll off him, but he wouldn’t let her, so she laid her head on his chest and rested her hands on his arms. His biceps were firm and taut, and she marveled at him. He was so powerful, so protective. She had never been this uninhibited with anyone. Yet, when she was with him, all she wanted to do was melt into him and let his courage and strength enfold her. He made her feel safe.

  With a contentment she’d never experienced before, she lay quietly, feeling his rhythmic breathing against her cheek.

  After a few minutes passed, she said, “Why does Henry live with you?”

  The unexpected question jarred him. “His mother died several years ago, and Henry moved in with his grandfather. Then, when he became ill, Henry came to live with me.”

  “What happened to Henry’s father?”

  “His father is my brother, Devin. After his wife died, he went a little crazy. She . . . stabilized him, helped him focus. Now he travels a great deal. I guess you could say he’s become somewhat of a jet-setter these days.”

  “Does he love Henry?”

  “Yes, he does. He just doesn’t like being a father. Since he’s out of the country so often, I’ve gained full custody.”

  She rolled to her side and her fingertips moved over his skin in feather-light strokes. She circled his navel and moved lower.

  “Henry has to come first,” she said.

  “I know,” he said. He grabbed her hand to stop her from tormenting him, then pulled her into his arms. “I’m hungry,” he told her.

  “Me too,” she whispered. “What would you like?”

  He tilted her face up toward him, kissed her brow, then her cheek. “You,” he answered.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. I want you.”

  No other words were necessary.

  SEVENTEEN

  What started out to be a lovely, thoroughly satisfying evening ended up in a fight.

  They reluctantly left her bed, and because Grayson didn’t want the intimacy to end, he followed her into the shower. Olivia was shocked by how quickly she could want him again, and though she was a little clumsy and in jeopardy of drowning, she did get him to beg her to come to him. By the time he gave in, she could barely stand. Grayson lifted her up, wrapped her legs around him, and made love to her again.

  The man had far more stamina than she did. He had already dressed and was in the kitchen looking for something to eat before she had dried her hair. She put on jeans and one of her favorite T-shirts. It was old, a little frayed around the bottom, and a little too tight across her breasts, but she loved the feel of the soft fabric against her skin. Besides, after what she’d done in bed and on her knees in the shower, being self-conscious about a tight T-shirt was ridiculous.

  Grayson was guzzling a bottle of water, leaning against the kitchen island when she joined him. His gaze was locked on her as he slowly put the bottle down.

  “You’re beautiful. You know that?”

  She shook her head. “Not a lick of makeup on and I’m beautiful. You’ve overdosed on sex.”

  He laughed. “That’s not possible. I can never get enough of you.”

  The way he was looking at her, the intensity in his expression as he watched her, indicated he meant what he said. He looked as though he was thinking about dragging her back to bed. She was suddenly embarrassed and didn’t have any idea why.

  He noticed she was blushing and thought that was hilarious.

  “Sweetheart, considering what you just did with that sweet mouth of yours . . .”

  She interrupted. “I’d rather not discuss what we did.”

  She nudged him out of her way so she could open the refrigerator. “Would you like chicken parmesan with pasta?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  She handed him the casserole dish. He lifted the lid and said, “Did you make this?”

  “Oh God, no. My aunt’s cook, Mary, brings meals over. She thinks I’m wasting away.”

  “You’ve got a great body,” he remarked, and before she could react to the compliment, he asked, “What can I do to help? I’m starving.”

  She put him to work making a salad. It didn’t take any time at all to warm the chicken and pasta. She sliced hot French bread, and dinner was ready. They sat at the small table in the alcove overlooking the street. Grayson turned the plantation shutters so no one could look in.

  He ate like a starving linebacker. “Does your aunt’s cook . . .”

  “Mary,” she supplied.

  “Does Mary bring food every day?”

  “Sometimes, or she’ll bring a week’s worth of dinners. She puts all of them in the freezer with instructions on each, and all I have to do is slip one into the oven or the microwave, and dinner’s ready. I keep telling her she doesn’t need to continue cooking for me, but she’s like my aunt Emma. Neither one of them will listen.”

  “When did she start cooking for you?”

  Olivia stared at her plate while she thought about it, twisting the pasta around and around her fork, barely aware of what she was doing.

  “When I was finally released from the unit . . . the hospital unit,” she explained. “I moved in with Aunt Emma and Uncle Daniel. They’d purchased a house in D.C. about eight months before.”

  “Why didn’t you go back home to San Francisco?”

  “I had to continue to see Dr. Pardieu, and I would never leave Jane and Collins and Sam. They were still undergoing treatment.”

  He nodded to let her know he understood. “You’re very loyal.”

  “They’re my sisters.” Her voice was emphatic. “We protected one another.”

  “From what? The outside world?”

  She shrugged. “Something like that. Mary had just started working for Emma. At the time I was released, I was weak and thin, and from Mary’s horrified expression, I assumed I looked bad. I was suddenly encased in a bear hug, and Mary told me she was going to fatten me up. I remember thinking of the story Hansel and Gretel.”

  “The witch was going to fatten them up before she cooked them.”

  She nodded. “Mary wasn’t a witch, though. She was and is an angel. Unfortunately, I’m still not fattened up enough to suit her.”

  “Emma moved here for you, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.” She put her fork down and pushed her plate aside. “I thought when I went off to university and later when Uncle Daniel died, she would move back to San Francisco, but she loves it here, and she doesn’t want to move.”

  “Mary has a key to your apartment?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Who else has a key?”

  “Jane and Collins. Neither one of them has ever used her key, though.”

  “What about Samantha?”

  “Jane and Collins live here, and in an emergency they know they can come stay with me. That’s why they have keys. Emma’s house is always open to all of us, too,” she added. “But Sam’s in Iceland or somewhere thereabout. She doesn’t need a key.”

  Olivia carried her dishes to the sink. Grayson followed and nudged her out of his way. “I’ve got this.”

  She was happy to let him clean up. She sat on a stool at the island watching him. His back was to her so she could stare at him. He could easily overwhelm her, she thought. Can’t let that happen. But he was so . . . bigger than life. So wonderful and sweet and sexy and . . . She suddenly wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold tight.

  Snap out of it, she told herself.

  He turned and saw her watching him. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “You’re frowning.”

  Fortunately, her cell phone rang, and she didn’t have to come up with a suitable answer. She wasn’t going to tell him the truth, that he scared the hell out of her, making her want things she could never have.

  She didn’t r

ecognize the phone number, but as soon as she heard the voice, she knew exactly who was calling.

  “Olivia, this is Eric Jorguson. Now, don’t hang up on me, please. Hear me out.”

  “What do you want?” she asked quietly. She tapped Grayson on his shoulder, and when he turned to her, she whispered Jorguson’s name.

  Jorguson continued, “I want to apologize for my behavior at the restaurant.”

  “That happened some time ago.”

  “And you’re wondering why I’m apologizing now? Is that it? I know it’s long overdue. I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I should have reasoned it through. You’re Robert MacKenzie’s daughter, and if I can trust him with my money, I can certainly trust that you wouldn’t be part of anything so underhanded as wearing a wire. I completely overreacted.” He paused and then said, “The other reason I’m calling is to offer you a position.”

  She nearly dropped the phone. “You want me to come work for you?” She shivered with repulsion over the possibility. At least she didn’t gag.

  “Yes, I most certainly do. Once I understood you weren’t working for the FBI, I realized what a catch you would be. I really want you to consider working for me.”

  He then explained in great detail what the position would be, and when he casually mentioned the starting salary, she nearly dropped the phone again.

  Grayson was leaning against the sink, a dish towel in hand, watching her intently. He looked like he was about to grab the phone and throw it against the wall.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Olivia,” Jorguson went on, “but I did have a look at your financials.”

  “My financials?” she repeated, dumbfounded by his temerity.

  He either didn’t hear how strained her voice was, or he didn’t care. “And I noticed you have never accepted any money from your relatives. You’re making your own way on your own terms, and I admire that. Yes, I do,” he insisted. “I also found out what your annual salary is, working for the IRS. In one year with me, Olivia, you’ll make more than five times that amount.