Besides, how do you tell a woman something like that? Just blurt it out? Damned if I know. He'd never told a woman he loved her-except his mother and sisters, and they didn't count.
Do you just tell her? Open your mouth and let the words flop out? Yeah. Let 'em flop out. Simple was best.
But he had to wait until she was ready. He'd give her another week. Nodding to himself, he decided that was fair. She could have one more week to realize they were meant to be together. Then he'd tell her that he loved her, she'd tell him the same thing, and that would be that.
A sobering thought burst through his reverie. What if she doesn't love me? A shudder ran through him, and he swatted the disturbing idea aside.
She does. She has to. And if she doesn't yet, she will. I'm not going to marry someone who doesn't love me. Since I'm going to marry her, she just has to love me. Period. That's the bottom line. End of discussion.
He was about to dip his finger into the frosting again when his hand froze. Did I just think what I think I thought?
Sure did, buddy, his inner voice replied. You just thought the dreaded M word.
Marriage. He was thinking about marriage.
Lifelong commitment. House in the suburbs. Kids.
He sat perfectly still, waiting for panic to seize him.
Only panic never came.
Instead, a warmth unlike anything he'd ever felt suffused him. Like bachelors everywhere, he'd always avoided the M word like it harbored E. coli. The thought of spending the rest of his life with one woman gave him hives.
But not anymore. Not since he'd met Melanie. In fact-
"Are you okay?" Her voice penetrated his musings.
He looked at her, feeling dazed. "Huh?"
She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "I asked if you're okay. You look like a piano just fell on your head."
He laughed and wondered just what his expression looked like. "Squashed and half an inch high?"
"No. Kinda shocked, surprised, and"-she peered at him-"green around the gills." She grabbed the bowl of frosting from him and set it on the nightstand. "You've eaten enough of that. You're obviously suffering from sugar-induced dementia."
A slow smile eased over his face. He leaned over her and licked her bottom lip. "On the contrary, I haven't had nearly enough."
She leaned back and sighed. "You'll get a tummy ache."
"It's not my tummy that's aching."
"Think of all those cavities."
"I have a great dental plan," he whispered against her lips. "Any more arguments?"
She arched against him. "Would there be any point?"
"Nope."
"Very well. Carry on."
He settled himself between her thighs. "Okay. If you insist."
At ten o'clock Sunday evening, Melanie sat in the Mercedes, her thoughts in turmoil. They would arrive at her house in less than five minutes, and she had no idea what to say to the man with whom she'd just spent the last thirty-six hours. Naked.
An offhand "Thanks, it's been great" didn't really seem appropriate, but neither did "I love you madly, please don't make me go home."
In fact, Chris had asked her to stay, but Melanie had somehow found the strength to say no. After spending only one night in his arms, she was addicted to the feel of him. The taste of him. If she stayed another night, her heart would suffer a fatal attack of the love-sickies.
Oh, who am I kidding? She already had the love-sickies so bad she was ready for the intensive care unit.
And boy, have I done it this time. Falling head-over-heels, ass-over-backwards in love. And with a confirmed bachelor, no less. That was certainly brilliant.
She looked out the window and cursed her stupidity at letting her hormones get her into this mess. It was entirely their fault. She should have shot those suckers dead the minute they started acting up. Bang! Death, followed by a hormone funeral and a brief period of mourning. Then back to her orderly life.
But nooooo. She had to meet Mr. Gorgeous. One look at him and all her plans had hopped out the window and plunged forty stories to their demise.
She sneaked a peek at him from the corner of her eyes. There he sat, calm, cool, collected, humming off-key to the radio, while she was suffering. He'd probably already forgotten about their time together. No doubt the minute he left her, he'd forget her name. She bet he'd come up with some excuse to not see her for the rest of the week, then conveniently "forget" to ever call her again.
Well, that was fine. Who needed him anyway? They'd spent their time together, now it was finished. She'd go on with her life, he with his. Two ships that pass in the night, make love several times-okay, several dozen times-then say adios.
She needed to nip this now. She knew firsthand where falling in love left a person-in a big, dark, painful hole with your skin ripped off. It had taken her a long time to climb out of that dungeon once before, and she didn't ever want to do it again.
She'd had her fun; now it was time to end it.
Before it was really too late.
"You're a million miles away, Mel Gibson."
She blinked at the sound of his voice and realized they were parked in front of her house. The porch lamps blazed cheerfully and the kitchen light glowed, announcing Nana's presence.
Melanie stared at him, unable to look away. She wanted to say something, anything, but she couldn't force any sound past the lump lodged in her throat. God help her, she didn't want to go inside and leave him. But she needed to end this before he did and left her in tatters.
He touched her cheek with a single, gentle finger. "I'm sort of at a loss for words," he said, a sheepish smile tilting one corner of his mouth.
Melanie swallowed. "Yeah. Me, too." Say good-bye. Say have a nice life. Get out of the car. Her mouth and feet refused to cooperate with her brain. She remained silent and motionless.
Taking her hands, he entwined their fingers. "This was the most incredible weekend of my life," he said in that soft, husky voice that sent chills up her spine.
Melanie nodded. She wanted to agree with him, but she couldn't speak. Tears were on their way, and it took all her concentration to hold them at bay.
"I'm leaving on a business trip tomorrow afternoon," he said, "and I won't get back until late Friday night." He squeezed her hands. "How about I pick you up Saturday morning and take you out for breakfast?"
"Chris, I-"
"I want you to spend the night again. The whole weekend." A sexy grin touched his lips. "We still have some skinny-dipping to do."
"I can't." There. She'd said it.
"Why not?"
Good question. "I, ah, can't sleep over."
"Sleeping wasn't exactly what I had in mind."
The tears hovering close to the surface threatened to spill over. Sure, that was fine. He had nothing to lose. A few weeks of sexual fun and games, then he'd move on to the next woman.
And that was the way it was supposed to be for her, but her heart was involved, damn it. Even though she'd firmly ordered it not to, her heart had jumped into love faster than ice melted in July.
"Listen," she said, "last night was fun, but-"
"No buts. As I recall, you owe me a cooking lesson. You're not trying to welsh on your promise, are you?"
"I never promised-"
"Because I deal with promise-welshers very harshly." His tongue traced a warm path up her palm, and a legion of pleasurable tingles skittered up her arm. "You'd find yourself on the receiving end of a severe tongue-lashing."
"Oh, my." Clearly his definition of a tongue-lashing was not the one that appeared in Webster's Dictionary. The mere thought evaporated her concentration like a puddle in the Sahara.