Rebecca Winters - A Groom For The Taking

A whisper of cool air tickled at her feet. And at her conscience. She curled up tighter and rubbed them together.

Everything was fine. Gorgeous, even. Had been from the moment Bradley had opened his beautiful mouth and said the magic words, ‘Whatever happens in Tasmania stays in Tasmania.’

The second he’d uttered those words the fantasies that had niggled at the corner of her mind since she’d known him had been given free rein. Within limits. Limits that meant she had no choice but to put a stop to any hope this might become more. Limits that gave her the comfort that in the aftermath Bradley wanted things to go back to normal too.

And once they got back to town—to real life, to work—they could both count on the fact that everything that had happened that weekend would be over. Niggling desires satisfied. Blissfully, beautifully, erotically satisfied.

Bradley could go back to being aloof and cool and stubborn and untouchable.

And she could happily continue …

What? Not dating? Ignoring the sensual side of herself so as to concentrate on her serious side? While hoping to one day magically find herself a man who could give her the love and loyalty and romance and openness that she refused to settle without? A man who would somehow manage to live up to what had happened to her last night. Who could make her feel wanton and cherished and beautiful and sexual, as she did when Bradley’s lips were on hers. When his teeth scraped over her hipbone. When his tongue slid around her breast. So far, in the first twenty-five years of her life, she’d never even come close to feeling that way with any other man.

Hell.

The crackle of oil popping on a frying pan sizzled through the ajar door. Breakfast! The desire to stick her head under the pillow and stay there for ever had to wait. It turned out she was beyond hungry. Stomach-rumblingly, mind-numbingly famished. And the man of the moment had ordered Room Service.

She wrapped a massive king-sized sheet around herself, and made a quick stop to check herself in the bathroom mirror.

‘Wow,’ she said again.

Her eyes were huge wells of liquid green, surrounded by smudges of leftover make-up. Her lips were puffy. Her cheeks pink and warm. She looked ruffled, tousled, and well-ravaged.

She glanced towards the door. Well, he was the one who’d done that too her. And brilliantly too. What was the point of pretending nothing had happened when it most certainly had? Without fixing a hair on her head, she swept up her makeshift toga and headed towards the delicious smell.

Halfway to the über-modern, stainless steel and Caesar stone kitchenette, Hannah pulled up short.

Bradley was cooking. And he was cooking what looked and smelled a heck of a lot like eggs Benedict with extra bacon. Her favourite meal on the entire planet. She was ninety-nine percent sure she’d told him as much. A few dozen times.

He’d remembered. Just as he’d remembered her favourite drink. While seeming intent on nothing more than working her to the bone, he’d paid attention. Her stomach felt as if it had been inhabited by a chorus line doing fan kicks.

He looked up, his quicksilver eyes grazing her naked shoulders before moving down the massive expanse of white sheet trailing behind her. It felt as if his hands had followed the same path.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘Oh, so it is still morning?’

‘Just.’

‘How long have you been up?’

‘A while.’ He glanced at the empty coffee cup and open newspaper on the glass-topped breakfast table.

With a yawn, and an inelegant hitch of her sheet, she said, ‘You should have woken me.’

His mouth hooked into the kind of half-smile that made the chorus line in her stomach start bumping into one another in blissful confusion.

‘I could have,’ he said. ‘But I thought you might need the rest.’ He didn’t need to add, After last night’s marathon efforts.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. Unfortunately another yawn cut off her declaration halfway through.

Bradley laughed softly, then turned away as a pair of English muffin-halves popped up from a toaster.

Hannah and her sheet managed to curl up on a gilded, beautifully adorned, wrought-iron dining chair. ‘This place does have Room Service, you know.’

‘Where do you think I got the eggs and muffins?’

‘Good point. So, it appears as if the man can cook.’ And sing. And dance. And create amazing television that changes people’s lives. And make love like no man I’ve ever known.

A warm glow began to fill her. A glow the likes of which she’d never felt before, but her deepest feminine instincts understood all too well. She pulled her sheet tighter in an effort to suffocate it, to forcibly remind herself: what happens in Tassie stays in Tassie.

That’s your only lifeline here, hon. Hang on tight!

Bradley said, ‘A person can’t survive on café food and Chinese takeaway alone.’

Hannah flicked the newspaper before closing it. She could beg to differ.

‘I am a single man,’ Bradley continued, ‘living alone. It was learn to cook or starve. You don’t cook?’

She shook her head.

‘So Sonja cooks?’

Hannah laughed so hard she all but pulled a muscle.

‘What do you live on?’ he asked.

‘Fresh air, hard work, and as many eggs Benedict with extra bacon as I can stomach.’

He laughed again—only this time a small frown creased his forehead. As if he was trying to figure her out. Really trying. She couldn’t remember her boss ever doing anything but taking her at face value. The glow inside her began to pulse.

It didn’t help that every few seconds images kept springing unbidden into her head. The sensation of hot water lapping against her thrumming naked body as she watched Bradley strip. His mouth becoming more intimate with parts of her than she had herself. The feel of all that hot muscle bunching under her fingernails as she bucked beneath him …

‘So, what’s the plan for today?’

Bradley’s voice cut into her daydreams. She glanced at her wrist, and then rubbed at the naked spot. She must have put her dad’s watch somewhere during the night.

‘Today’s grand plan? Well, I’m sorry to say we missed the practice releasing of the doves. But no matter. Just after lunch there’s a sewing class for the girls. And burping contests for the boys.’

She contemplated adding something that involved the entire wedding party getting together to decorate the chapel. But he was making her breakfast.

‘You are kidding?’ he said.

‘Am I?’

She looked up to find Bradley’s eyes had finally contacted fully with hers. Deep, dark, smoky, beautiful grey. Perhaps more distant than they had been hours earlier. But that was forgivable. She was feeling a little tender and unsure herself.

‘God, you’re easy,’ she said. ‘There’s a day-long movie marathon in the ballroom. Beanbags and blankets to snuggle into as you watch Tim and Elyse’s favourite romantic films, one after the other. And this time I’m not kidding.’

His eye twitched at the thought.

‘Relax,’ she said. ‘Since you’ve been so nice as to make me breakfast, I’m letting you off the hook.’

‘Whatever will we do instead?’ He licked a blob of hollandaise sauce from his finger, switched off the stove, and moved around the counter. Her body responded like a heat lamp on a chilled lizard—it stretched and unfurled and curved towards the source of heat.

She held on tight to her sheet and put her bare feet flat on the ground. She realised she needed a little time to fully come to terms with what had happened. What was still happening. What Bradley was imagining would happen. At least till Tuesday. And jumping back into bed with Bradley was not going to help.