Satisfied with the plan, Max got up. He'd pack most of his things tonight, maybe go down afterward for a nightcap, then try to sleep off the feelings for her that were building much too quickly and much too inappropriately inside him.
The knock on the door distracted him. They'd already done the turndown, little chocolate mints on the pillows included. He half expected to see an envelope sliding under the door. Though he preferred all communications via e-mail, his clients often insisted on a hard copy fax for instructions.
When nothing appeared, he walked over, glanced through the peep. And came within a breath of swallowing his own tongue.
What the hell was she doing at his door? And what was she wearing?
Jesus Christ.
He backed up, rubbed a hand over his face, his heart. Professional instinct kicked in enough to have him hurrying back to the desk, shutting down his files, burying any hard paperwork, then doing a quick visual sweep for anything that might blow his cover.
He'd get her downstairs to the lounge, that's what he'd do. Get her down, in a public place, tell her he'd been called back, have a quick drink with her.
And move out. Move along. Move away.
He dragged a hand through his hair a couple of times, shook off the nerves. He worked up what he considered an easy, mildly surprised, mildly pleased expression and opened the door.
The full impact of her hadn't come through the peephole. Now the tongue he'd nearly swallowed rolled out again and all but plopped at his feet.
He couldn't quite focus on what she was wearing other than noticing it was black, it was short, and it displayed more curves than a Formula One race. Her legs were longer than he'd imagined, and ended in very high, very thin black heels.
All that fiery hair was scooped up somehow or other, and her eyes seemed bluer, brighter than ever. She'd slicked something dark and glossy and tantalizingly wet over her lips.
God help him.
"I woke up."
"You did. You certainly did."
"Can I come in?"
"Ah. Um." It was as coherent as he could manage, so he just stepped back. And when she walked by him, the scent of her wrapped around his glands, and squeezed.
"I didn't get a chance to thank you, so I thought I would."
"Thank you. Thank me," he corrected, and felt like an imbecile.
She smiled and, holding up the bottle of wine, wagged it slowly side to side. "How do you feel about Merlot?"
"I feel pretty good about it."
It took all her willpower not to laugh. Was there anything that made a woman feel more of a woman than having a man stare at her as if he'd been bewitched? She took a step toward him and was wonderfully flattered when he took one in retreat. "Good enough to share?" she asked him.
"Share?"
"The wine."
"Oh." He'd had a couple of concussions in his day. They often gave the victim the same fuzzy, out-of-body sensation he was experiencing now. "Sure." He took the bottle she held out. "Sure. Sure."
"Well then."
"Well?" There seemed to be some sort of time lag between his brain and his mouth. "Oh, right. Ah, corkscrew." He glanced toward the mini-bar, but she reached in her purse.
"Try this." She offered him a corkscrew. One half of the handle was a naked woman, head to torso. The other was all leg.
"Cute," he managed.
"Kitschy," she corrected. "I have a small collection. Nice room," she added. "A lot of bed." She wandered to the window, eased the drapes apart a few inches. "I bet the view's wonderful."
"Oh yeah."
Perfectly aware his gaze was on her, she continued to look out the window and slowly peeled off the thin sweater. She heard the abrupt clunk of the wine bottle against wood and was satisfied the dress had done its job. From his viewpoint, there wasn't much of it, just a lot of her naked back framed by a bit of snug black.
She wandered away, toward the bed, and plucked one of the mints from the pillow. "Mmm, chocolate. Do you mind?"
The best he could do was a slow shake of his head. The cork came out of the bottle with a surprised pop and the words "Oh my God" rushed into his mind as she unwrapped the little mint, bit slowly into it.
She gave a sexy little moan, licked her lips. "I heard somewhere that money talks but chocolate sings. I like that." She walked to him, held the second half of the mint to his lips. "I'll share, too."
"You're killing me."
"Let's have some wine then, so you can die happy." She sat on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs. "Did I interrupt your work?"
"Reports. I'll get back to it." When I find my sanity, he decided. He poured wine, handed her a glass. And watched her watch him as she took the first, slow sip.
"It's been a while since anyone's tucked me in. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you, Max."
"You had a rough night, a hard day."
"Not as hard a day as I'd expected, thanks to you."
"Laine—"
"Let me thank you. It was easier doing what needed to be done with you there. I like spending time with you." She took another, longer sip. "I like wanting you, and speculating that you want me."
"Wanting you's squeezing the breath out of my throat, cutting off the oxygen to my brain. That wasn't the plan."
"Ever want to say screw the plan and go with impulse?"
"All the time."
She did laugh now, downed the wine and rose to pour another glass. After another sip, she walked to the door. "I don't. Or rarely do. But you have to respect the exceptions that make the rule."
She opened the door, hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside knob. She closed the door, locked it, leaned back against it. "If you don't like where this is going, better speak up."
He took a deep gulp of wine himself. "I have absolutely nothing to say."
"That's good because I was prepared to get rough."
He imagined the grin that split his face was big, and stupid. He didn't give a damn. "Really?"
She started back toward him. "I wasn't sure I'd be able to fight fair."
"That dress isn't fighting fair."
"Oh?" She took a last sip of wine, then set the glass aside. "Then I should just take it off."
"Let me. Please." He trailed a fingertip along the milky white skin edged with black. "Let me."
"Help yourself."
He forgot about practicality, professionalism. He forgot about the emotional and physical distance he'd decided would best suit his needs. He forgot about everything but the reality of her, the water-soft texture of her skin, the heady scent, the hot, ripe taste of her mouth when he gripped her hips, pulled her close and kissed her.
She enveloped him—those textures, that scent, that taste until they were—she was—everything he could want or need or imagine.
It was a mistake. Taking her now, like this, was a mistake and edged very close to the forbidden. Knowing that only added an irresistible element of danger to the whole.
He tugged the dress away from her shoulder, set his teeth on flesh. And when her head fell back, he worked his way back toward the little purr in her throat.
"Something to be said about plans though," he murmured, and bared her other shoulder. "I've got all sorts of plans for you."
"I was hoping." She fumbled her hand back to where she'd dropped her purse on the bed. "You're going to need this," she said, and pulled out a condom.
"At some point, we're also going to need a defibrillator and a fire extinguisher."
"Promises, promises."
He grinned. "I could go seriously crazy over you." He laid his lips on hers again, rubbed. "Is this one of those peel-out-of-it deals? The dress, I mean."
"Pretty much."
"Hot damn, a personal favorite." He worked slowly, drawing out the process with his mouth on hers until they were both ready to shudder. Then he drew back, took her hand so she could step out of the dress that pooled at her feet. And just looked at her.