Gena Showalter - The One You Want

She latched on to his wrist. “But, bay-bee.”

He hated when she drew out the word like that. Added an intimacy to their relationship that wasn’t really there. Yes, they’d slept together. Yes, they would sleep together again. But that’s all they had, all he wanted.

“I’m here to spend time with you,” she said. “No other reason. I’m ready for us to get closer, reach the next level.”

Scratch that. They wouldn’t be sleeping together again. Wanting more had always been, and would always be, the final nail in any of his romantic involvements. He’d be ending things with Jada tonight.

He pried her loose and with a muttered, “Stay,” took off, closing in on Kenna.

Along the way, person after person stepped into his path. At first, he was polite. Chatted a bit before excusing himself, all the while watching the object of his fascination. She’d been uncomfortable and distant most of the night, but now, as she spoke with a beautiful blonde server, different emotions played over her features. Amusement. Delight. Irritation. Longing.

The longing made his chest ache.

Why?

By the fifth interruption, he was downright rude, snapping, “I don’t care,” and stalking away with determination. Anyone who’d ever spent any time with him knew about his volatile temper, and expected it.

Finally he reached his prey. Close enough to smell the sweetness of her perfume. He breathed in deeply, savoring the scent of vanilla and sugar; some primitive part of him seemed to stretch and wake up, insisting he grab her and cart her away. To bed. Now. Before she got away.

To bed? Hell, no. Where had that come from?

Get this over with. She’d moved on from the server and was now speaking with Bart Chumley, the middle-aged, recently divorced owner of the two biggest gas stations in Strawberry Valley.

“—so kind of you to offer, but I have to work,” she said. “Not to mention school.”

She was a student? What did she study? And why wasn’t she done? She was...twenty-three now, he thought.

Chumley had trouble looking higher than her succulent chest. “You’re breaking my heart here, Kenna. Surely there’s a day that you’re free.”

“I’m scouring my mental calendar,” she said, “but I’m telling you, all the dates are full.”

“Kenna, honey,” Dane said, his low, intimate tone at odds with the murderous glare he directed at Bart. She’s going to be a part of my family, and I protect what’s mine—don’t make another play for her.

The male must not have understood the implied threat, because he brightened. “Mr. Michaelson! It’s an honor, sir. I’ve been hoping for a chance to talk with you. You see, I’ve got this idea, and I knew you’d be perfect for...”

His voice faded from Dane’s awareness. Kenna had stiffened the moment he’d spoken, and now she slowly turned to face him. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, her cheeks flushed a deep rose. A flush that traveled past the bustline of her dress and—damn it! He was as bad as Chumley.

“I’d like a moment of your time,” he said.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then took a step away from him. He got the distinct impression she meant to refuse him, which amazed him. Women more often than not did whatever he asked. Of course, they either worked for him, so he was paying them, or they were dating him, so he was screwing them.

“Please,” he added, and the word felt foreign on his tongue.

Her shoulders slumped just a little. “Oh, all right.”

He almost grinned. Almost. “Your enthusiasm is heartwarming.”

They made it out of the overly crowded sitting room without interruption, Chumley forgotten, and stepped into the library blocked off from guests. It had been so long since he’d been inside this room, and he had mixed feelings about being there now. A bittersweetness. As a child, it had been his favorite place to play, but also where his world had crumbled.

He and his younger brother, Daniel, used to build forts in here while their dad worked, but when Daniel had died about six months before Thomas and Roanne began their affair, Dane had come in here to cry. To be alone with his shame and guilt.

He was surprised to discover nothing had changed. Same oak paneling on the walls, the shelves stacked with countless books. Same paintings by Lucas Cranach the Elder, Pieter Brueghel the Younger and Van Goyen. The triptych above the door still depicted the biblical story of Abraham and the holy sacrifice of his son Isaac.

“Sit,” Dane said to Kenna, and motioned to the couch. At the wet bar, he poured himself three fingers of whiskey. When he turned, Kenna was standing just where he’d left her, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. Wasn’t going to trust him or relax. Okay, then. He leaned against the edge of the desk, unwillingly snared by her loveliness. “I want to apologize for my behavior the last time you were here.”

“Okay. Wow. I kind of expected to be ice picked.” She toyed with the top of her scarf, causing it to shift, revealing even more of that freckled cleavage. “But an apology? Not even a blip.”

He felt as if he was falling back into that oven. He was hot, sweat suddenly trickling between his shoulder blades. His heart pounded erratically, as if trying to escape his chest. His hands itched, and damn if his slacks didn’t tighten, nearly choking the life out of his favorite appendage.

“If you can forgive me—” he began.

“Which I haven’t,” she interjected.

“But if you did—”

“Though I probably won’t.”

“Yeah, but if you did, I would—” The teasing glint in her gorgeous green eyes shut him up. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Only a little.” A smile lifted the corners of her lips, brightening her entire face. Suddenly she glowed, and he realized he wasn’t just falling back into the oven, but rather he’d already been cooked.

Stick a fork in me. I’m done. Charred all the way to the bone.

He must have been radiating heat, because the air between them began to sizzle. She lost her smile, her features dimming. He cursed the loss. Other women must have glowed like that, surely, but as he racked his brain, he came up empty.

“Sorry,” she said after clearing her throat. “I couldn’t help myself. You were just so...intent. And really, there’s no need for you to apologize, Mr. Michaelson.”

“Dane.”

“You were a kid,” she continued. “You were reacting to the horror of the situation.”

“ You didn’t react to the situation.”

Her next smile was slower to come but no less bright. “That just means I’ve always been more intelligent than you.”

Smart mouth.

Gorgeous mouth. How did it taste?

Stop. Stop!

What kind of rare creature continuously teased the big, bad ruler of the Michaelson fortune? A golden unicorn at the end of a rainbow? It was new to him. But...he liked it, he realized.

Was this how she’d stolen the hearts of all her lovers?

He stiffened, hating the thought. Earlier, he’d convinced himself that West was right...that Kenna was just a sweet girl caught up in the falsity of rumor. He suspected, perhaps, that he hadn’t wanted to believe it, that he hadn’t wanted her to be just like her mother. But here she was, charming the uncharmable, stoking fires of a jealousy he’d never before experienced.

“Do you have a kid?” The question left him before he could stop it.

Her features shuttered, hiding all emotion. “Yes.”

Well, then. If one rumor was true...

“She’s six,” Kenna added. “But don’t strain yourself doing the math. I’ll just tell you. I got pregnant at sixteen and had her at seventeen.”