“The furniture’s the pits,” Emma said ruefully.
Garrett was checking out every window view. “Spoken like a woman,” he teased. “There’s a couch and a chair. What more do I need?”
“Some lamps. Some pictures. Some rugs,” she fussed.
“It’s got a decent desk.” He motioned to the relic that may-may-have been a teacher’s desk in some century past. Emma loved antiques, but in this case she thought someone should have had the sense to throw it out-in that same century past.
“I guess I just assumed there’d be a separate bedroom.” Instead a double bed was tucked in a side alcove, slanted under the eaves.
“This way there’ll be lots of airflow. Ideal in the summer.”
She checked out the kitchen, since he didn’t seem interested in opening drawers and cupboards there. “It’s ultraclean. Which is good. But there isn’t a single plate or dish. No pans. Not even a single set of silverware.”
“Dishes. Who wants dishes? The place has outlets. Lots of outlets.” He bounced back to his feet after examining the location of all the electrical plugs. “No sweat setting up a system here. And the windows are great. Lots of light.”
She shook her head. There was lots of light because the windows were bald of any curtains or shades-but Garrett was happier than a kid at the circus. Who could fathom men? He was used to money. Big money. Nice things, conveniences. “Well, it wouldn’t take too much to make it at least livable. And it really is pretty nice for the price-”
“Nice? Nice? I was prepared to pitch a tent. This is better than a dream.”
The lunatic jogged over to her, making her laugh…until she saw something unexpected in his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t given in to a foolish, exuberant impulse in so long that he’d forgotten what it was like. She wasn’t absolutely positive he even knew he was going to kiss her.
But she knew before he was halfway across the room. High-powered men had high-powered drives. Sometimes the release valve slipped open when it shouldn’t. And debutantes raised in Eastwick weren’t soft; they only looked that way. Emma knew what was happening, knew how to get out of a problem like this gracefully.
And that was what she intended-to carefully duck away from him. But he swooped down on her with none of the finesse and skill and technique she remembered. He was just a guy high on life for that instant. Just a guy with a goofy smile on his face, swinging his girl around in a circle to make her squeal…just a little happiness letting loose, nothing dangerous, nothing wicked.
The feeling of his long, strong arms wrapping around her triggered…something. A stillness deep inside her. She suddenly wasn’t laughing-or squealing. Instead her lips tilted up to meet his, as if that were the only choice she had. The only choice she’d ever had.
Suddenly the only sound in the room was the sweet June wind whispering in the open window. He took her mouth as if he were desperate for the taste of her. She molded close, as if she were desperate to be held, not by someone, not by a man, but specifically, oh so specifically, by him. The taste of him created a fierce, strong pull deep in her belly.
She lost her balance. He found it. She lost her senses, and he stole those, too, lifting his head, searching her eyes with one long, still moment…and then going back for another kiss. This time with the gloves off.
Tongue found tongue. Teeth found teeth. His hands held her head still, then, impatient, pulled at the clip trapping her hair. Her hair spilled free, through his fingers. She wrapped her hands around his wrist, but it didn’t slow him down, didn’t stop him. Didn’t seem to stop her either.
As if her breasts had never known a man, their tips tightened and hardened, yet she pressed closer. They both began a dance of intimacy-a dance without music yet so about rhythm, so about the sway of breast to muscle, of soft pelvis to turgid erection. The drift of her scent waltzed to the scent of his soap, his skin, him. Another dip, another kiss, and her heart picked up a faster rhythm now, as if he’d suddenly spun her into a tango until she couldn’t catch her breath. His breath, his kisses, the strength of his hips, pressed against hers, enticed her to move with him, to want him.
Want.
What a word for a woman who’d had no time for sex, who was impatient at the whole idea of how much importance everyone else put on sex. Who just wanted to live her life with passion for all the wonderful things life offered but not for passion.
Okay, she kept telling herself. Okay. This is some kind of aberration. Ghosts aren’t real. Hallucinations aren’t real. He was terribly stressed, she figured. That was all this was really about. He’d always been a workaholic beyond all sanity, so then he’d come home and been terribly worried about his sister-and he’d never been a guy who tolerated frustration well.
Yeah. That was it. He was just letting off steam with these kisses.
Only she wasn’t. She didn’t have steam to let off. This…clinging to him. This wildly, fiercely kissing him back. This teasing him, rubbing against him…none of this made sense. It wasn’t her.
This wasn’t sex. This was heart-altering. This wasn’t passion. It was touching at some other level. Down, down, down at the deep, sad loneliness level. Damn it, she hadn’t been lonely in all this time. She hadn’t.
Yet he made her feel that way.
As if she’d been alone since they’d last kissed as teenagers. As if she’d needed no one until this moment. As if she’d been coping fine-which she had, she had-until Garrett came home and took her mouth this way and made it all come crumbling down.
She felt his hands soothing down her back, seducing with every rub, every caress. His mouth still took more kisses, took ownership of her senses. He spun her around, pressed her against a honey-pine wall. The rough pine felt good against her spine, a relief after that dangerous silk mouth of his. His hands roamed her arms now, then whispered between them, reaching for her blouse buttons.
Her eyes shot open.
He hadn’t felt her bare breasts yet. They hadn’t removed any clothes. But a couple minutes more of this, and Emma would have peeled down without his asking. Without any talk. Without her thinking even once of her fiancé.
She broke away, slid out from under his arms, looked at him-stricken-and then shot out the door and down the stairs.
Four
At first the sky only dribbled down, but in a matter of minutes the rain turned into a flushing downpour. Emma flicked the windshield wipers on high, but they couldn’t keep up. The windows started to steam. Thankfully Reed’s place was only a few more miles, because she could barely see.
Her nerves echoed the snap of lightning as she finally reached the sign for Rosedale Farms.
She had to see her fiancé. Now. This afternoon.
The embrace she’d shared with Garrett was still glued on her mind-and heart. It was wrong in every way to have kissed another man when she was engaged. And worse than that-much, much worse-was realizing she’d responded to Garrett more honestly and passionately than she’d ever responded to Reed.
She’d assumed the old sizzle she’d once felt for Garrett was the stuff of young hormones and first love-the kind of thing a woman outgrew. She honestly didn’t know she had that kind of sexuality or sensuality in her. Didn’t know life even held that possibility for her. And she had no idea what all these feelings for Garrett meant, if anything. But right now wasn’t the time to deal with that.