"Nonsense. I feel swell. In a numb, tingly sort of way. I'm not sure about the numb, but the tingly is definitely all your fault."
Feeling wonderfully free and uninhibited, and unable to remember why she shouldn't, Melanie stood on tiptoe and kissed his neck. "Yum. You smell good." She pressed herself against him, running a series of tiny kisses up his jaw. "Would you, by any chance, be dessert?"
A choking sound came from his throat. "Melanie…"
She gently bit his earlobe. "Hmmmm?"
"Let's get you in the car. I think I'd better take you home."
Home? No, she didn't want to go home. She wanted to stay right here. Where they could get comfortable and he could put out the fire he'd started inside her.
But if he wanted to go to her place, that was okay. Nana would be out all night with Bernie.
Too languid to argue, Melanie gathered her purse and let Chris lead her to the Mercedes. She spent the fifteen-minute drive to her house in a hazy daydream, imagining making love to Chris.
She wanted him. There was no point in denying it any longer. It had been so long since she'd wanted a man… since a man had wanted her. She'd fought this attraction, but she was ready to admit defeat.
Without warning, an idea popped into her mind with such clarity, she imagined a lightbulb bursting to life above her head. Since she didn't want a relationship, she'd just use him for sex!
Her heart could stay in another room altogether. What a perfect plan! Why hadn't she thought of that in the first place? He wasn't interested in a long-term relationship, so as long as she remembered the rules-no strings, no commitments, no emotional attachments-she wouldn't risk a broken heart. They'd just enjoy hot, feverish sex. Am I a genius or what?
When he pulled up in front of her house, he said, "C'mon, princess. We're home." He walked her to the porch, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist. By the time they stood in front of the door, Melanie's heart was pounding. If he didn't kiss her in the next ten seconds, she was going to jump him.
"Do you have your key?" he asked in an amused tone.
"Key? Of course I have my key." She stared at him, waiting for him to kiss her. A good minute went by. Nothing.
A smile quirked his lips. "Do you need help finding it?"
"Finding what?"
"Your key."
"Shertainly not." Melanie dug around in her purse and came up with the key. "Ta-da!"
Chris took it and opened the door. The moment they stepped into the darkened foyer, Melanie turned, pushed the door closed, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Are you going to kiss me, or what?"
A strangled sound passed his lips. "I'm going home. Now. While I still can."
Melanie slowly pulled his Polo shirt from his jeans. "I don't want you to leave," she whispered. "I want to touch you. I want your hands on me." She pushed her hands under his shirt and ran her palms up his smooth back. "I want to make love with you."
Groaning, he tunneled his fingers through her hair and looked into her eyes. "Melanie. Jeez. You're killing me." He dropped his head until their foreheads touched. "This is so ironic. You've finally said the words I've wanted to hear, and you probably won't remember saying them in the morning."
Melanie leaned back and glared at him. "Are you insinuating that I'm tipsy?"
"Does the expression 'three sheets to the wind' mean anything to you?"
"I am not three sheets to the wind."
"You're right. You're four sheets to the wind. Completely snookered."
Insulted, she drew herself up. "I've never been snookered in my life." A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. "Snockered, maybe. Snookered never."
"Oh, yeah? How are your knees?"
She concentrated for a moment. "Missing in action."
"Eyebrows?"
"Gone." She hiccuped. "But not forgotten."
He sighed and cupped her face between his hands. "Listen to me, Melanie. When we make love, I want you to remember every single second. I want you completely aware every time I touch you. Everywhere I touch you. As much as I'm literally aching to stay here and take you up on your offer, I can't. Tonight is not the night."
Melanie stared at him-both of him-and frowned. "In other words, you're leaving."
"Yeah. But I'll be back."
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. Wait, better make it eleven. You're going to need the extra hour's sleep."
"What are we doing tomorrow?"
He kissed the tip of her nose and opened the door. "Canoeing. Better rest up. And you might want to take a couple of aspirin."
"Canoeing? Aspirin? What do you mean?"
"Canoeing because it's on the things-to-do-before-you-die list, and aspirin for your headache. Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow." He left, closing the door behind him.
Melanie started for the stairs, lurching a bit. Damn it, how was a person supposed to walk when the floor kept shifting? She huffed out a breath and held on to the banister.
Canoeing? She didn't want to go canoeing. Didn't know the first thing about it. And what was that about aspirin? What headache?
By the time she'd staggered into her bedroom and undressed, her temples were pounding like the hammers of hell.
Oh. That headache.
Chapter 10
Chris stopped at the bakery for cinnamon rolls on his way to Melanie's the next morning. The place was packed, as it always was on weekend mornings. He pulled a paper number from the machine and glanced at it. Forty-eight. A lighted sign indicated number thirty-two was being served. That was the problem with this bakery-they made the best doughnuts and pastries in Atlanta and everyone knew it.
Resigned to the lengthy wait, he snagged a copy of the morning newspaper from the stack by the door and skimmed the headlines. He was halfway through the sports page when a snippet of conversation from the people behind him caught his attention.
One of them said "Pampered Palate."
Discreetly turning his head, Chris saw two men about his own age, one dressed in running shorts and an Atlanta Braves T-shirt, the other wearing a ratty sweatsuit. Both sported sweat-flattened hair and the faint aroma of gym socks.
"My client is scheduled to close on the property early next month," Running Shorts said. "Mark my words, it's going to be the hottest eatery in Atlanta once it's up and running."
"What kind of food?" asked Ratty Sweatsuit.
"A combination of Italian and Mexican. Eclectic decor, live music, patio bar. They're calling it Spaghetti Loco and believe me, there's nothing else like it."
"Sounds great. When's it scheduled to open?" asked Ratty Sweatsuit.
"In about six months."
"Your client isn't worried about the established restaurant right across the street?"
Running Shorts chuckled. "The Pampered Palate? Hell no. That's not even a restaurant. They're a small takeout place. We'll put them out of business within a year."
"Hey, don't do that," Ratty Sweatsuit protested. "I order from there at least once a week. The food's good, and the owner's not bad either."
"Yeah?" Running Shorts dropped his voice, and Chris leaned back to catch his words. "Hot body?"
"Very."
"You gettin' any?"
"Not yet," Ratty said, "but she's definitely on my 'list of things to do.'" They both chuckled.
Chris fisted the newspaper into a tight ball and attempted to hold his temper in check. Hot jealousy and outrage slammed into him at the thought of that creep ogling Melanie. It was all he could do not to drag the bastard outside and firmly disabuse him of his amorous plans, then shove his "things to do list" down his throat.
If Ratty Sweatsuit thinks he'll get within fifty feet of my woman, he's in for a big surprise. Turning fully around, Chris glared at the two men, memorizing their faces. If he ever saw either one of them anywhere near Melanie, he'd have to hurt them. And Ratty was just going to have to start ordering lunch from Taco Bell.