Maureen Child - His Unexpected Heir

“Even better.” He cupped her face in his palm and held her there as he bent his head to kiss her.

Rita held her breath and closed her eyes. Once, twice, his mouth brushed hers, gently, as if waiting for her response to know if there should be more.

And she wanted more. She wanted it all. Never had she felt for a man what Jack made her feel. Just talking with him stirred everything inside her and now that she knew the taste of his mouth, she hungered for him.

Rita answered his unasked question by wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning in to him. Her breasts pressed against his chest and her nipples ached as her body hummed. He actually growled and that sound sent her head spinning as he grabbed hold of her and deepened the kiss. Devouring her, his tongue tangled with hers, his breath mingled with hers and Rita felt as if their souls were touching, merging. Every inch of her body lit up and awakened as if she’d been in a coma all of her life and was only now truly living.

Neither of them cared about who might be watching, they were too lost in the fire enveloping them. Light-headed, loving the feel of his big strong hands sliding up and down her back, Rita could only think how badly she wanted him, but she wasn’t a one-night stand kind of woman and didn’t think she could pretend she was, even for Jack.

When finally she thought she might never breathe again, he broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers while they both fought to steady themselves.

“You are a dangerous woman,” he whispered, a half smile curving his mouth.

“I never thought so, but okay.”

His grin flashed. “Trust me.”

She smiled back at him and felt her equilibrium disintegrate even further. Honestly, he didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was a lethal weapon on a woman’s defenses. Her mouth was still tingling from his kiss and the taste of him was flooding her system.

“Looking into those brown eyes of yours makes me feel like I’m diving into good, aged whiskey,” he murmured, reaching out to smooth his fingers over her face. “Makes me a little drunk just losing myself in them.”

“Your eyes remind me of the color of the sky after a mountain storm,” she said, “clear, bright, with just a hint of shadow.”

His smile faded then and Rita wished she could pull her words back. She hadn’t meant to say anything about the darkness she saw in his eyes, but her urge to ease those shadows was nearly overwhelming.

“I’ve shadows enough, I guess,” he admitted, letting his hand drop to his side. “But when I’m with you, I don’t notice them.”

“I’m glad,” she said and went up on her toes to kiss him again.

Putting both hands on her shoulders, he held her in place and took a long step back. He shook his head and said, “If I kiss you again, I’m not going to be able to let you go.”

That sounded pretty good to Rita, but she knew it wasn’t smart to go to bed with a man she just met no matter how much she wanted to.

“So,” he continued, “I’m going to leave while I still can.”

“Probably a good idea,” Rita said though, inside, her mind was whimpering, demanding that she beg him to stay.

“You keep looking at me with those whiskey eyes and I’m not going to be able to walk away.” His voice was wry, his eyes flashing with heat.

“Then I will,” she said, reaching out to punch the elevator call button.

“I do like a strong woman,” he told her.

“Not so strong at the moment,” Rita admitted when she looked at him again and felt a rush of heat settle and pool at her core. “But I will be. So, good night. I guess I’ll see you at eight.”

“Seven,” he said.

“Even better,” she said, throwing his own words from earlier back at him. The elevator dinged and the doors swished open. She stepped inside, then turned to look at him again. “Seven. I’ll be ready.”

“Good,” he said as the doors slid shut on a whisper of sound, “because I’m ready now.”

Alone, Rita leaned against the wall of the car, smiled to herself and lifted one hand to her mouth as if she could capture his taste and hold on to it forever. As the elevator rose to her floor, she told herself she wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, but her morning was going to be wonderful.

“Rita?” Casey’s voice and an insistent shake of her arm. “Hey, Rita? You okay?”

“What?” she tore her gaze from Jack’s and looked at her friend. Coming up out of that memory that had been so filled with sensation and sound was like breaking the surface of the water when you were near drowning. You were back in reality but still too stunned to accept it easily. “Sure,” she said, nodding for emphasis. “Yes. I’m fine. Really. Just...tired.”

And sexually frustrated and angry and hurt and confused and far too many other emotions to even name.

“You sure?” Casey tried to steer Rita toward a stool. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“No.” Rita shook off all those unwelcome emotions and smiled. “I’m fine. Really. Um, will you keep an eye on the front while I go in the back to restock the cannoli tray?”

“Absolutely,” Casey said, “as long as you call out if you need me.”

“Don’t be such a worrier,” Rita told her with a pat on the arm.

Hurrying through the swinging door into the kitchen where she could get a couple of minutes to herself, Rita gave a sigh of relief to be on her own. She needed a little time to settle. Do the ahooom thing until she could breathe without feeling like she was going to shake apart at the seams.

“Get a grip, Rita,” she mumbled as she snatched an apron off the hook by the door. Slipping it on over her head, she drew the string ties around her ever-expanding belly then tied it down. The simple, familiar task helped her get steady again.

She scrubbed her hands in the kitchen sink, dried them on a fresh towel, then turned to survey her domain. She might have chefs come in to help her, but this bakery was all hers, right down to the last cookie.

She was most comfortable in the kitchen. Rita and her brothers and sister had grown up working in their parents’ Italian bakery in Ogden. From the time she was a little girl, barely tall enough to reach the mixing table, Rita had been helping the bakers. Even if it was just sprinkling flour on the cool white marble so dough could be rolled out. She loved the scent of baking cookies, cakes, pastries. She loved the feel of getting her hands into a huge bowl of dough to knead it. She’d worked off a lot of temper by working bread dough into shape.

“But there’s not enough dough in the world to help me through this,” she whispered, laying out paper doilies on a stainless steel tray. Then she moved to the end of the counter and carefully set fresh cannoli, some draped in shiny chocolate, on each doily. To her, presentation was as important as taste so before it went out to the shop, it would be perfect.

Once she was satisfied that all of her cannoli were lined up like soldiers, Rita checked on two more bowls of rising dough, punched them down, then covered them again, so they could do a second rise.

She’d be making bread before the bakery closed because her customers liked picking up a fresh loaf on the way home from work. Then she checked the meticulously aligned steel racks against one wall and made a note to have Casey get someone back there to box up the maple-nut biscotti.

“And I’m stalling,” she said aloud to the empty room.

“Question is, why?”

Her eyes closed on a sigh as Jack’s deep voice echoed all around her. Of course he wouldn’t be ignored. He was the kind of man who got exactly what he wanted when he wanted it. A trait that was both sexy and annoying.

“You shouldn’t be back here, Jack.”