Susan Crosby - Almost A Honeymoon

And she didn’t recognize the person inside of her who just wanted to be taken care of.

Rye hung up the phone and stretched hugely. A glance at his watch confirmed what his stomach announced—that it was time for lunch. His gaze settled on Paige as she hunched over the too-high table her laptop sat on. She shifted her shoulders and rolled her head, easing unseen tension. Or was it really so unseen? As little as he had observed her, he was already able to pick up on her moods.

She would undoubtedly deny she had moods, of course, but he’d already seen several. Of them all, he most liked the playfulness he’d seen when she’d commented on his socks last night. He liked her belligerent side pretty well, too. Both made him laugh. He scrutinized her a little longer, pushed himself up from the couch and moved behind her.

When he settled his hands on her shoulders, she nearly jumped out of her seat.

“Don’t sneak up on me,” she ordered as she tugged herself forward.

He pushed his thumbs into the knotted muscle at the base of her neck and smiled at the involuntary groan he drew from her. “Should I stop?” he asked.

“No.”

He grinned, deepening the massage, adding his fingers and palms. Her fragility startled him, making him ease the pressure. Her head drooped forward. “Hang tight a sec,” he said. He swept up a pillow, instructing her to stand. Spinning the chair around, he laid the pillow over the chair back.

“Sit backward,” he said. “Lay your head on the pillow.”

She eyed her skirt, then the chair. Cautiously, she straddled the seat, but for every inch she lowered her body, her skirt raised an inch. She started to back off. “I don’t think—”

“Harry, I’ve seen my share of female leg. It won’t bother me.”

“But—”

“Trust me.”

Her skirt rode up, exposing the tops of nude-tone stockings, garters attached to strips of midnight blue satin and a few mouth-watering inches of skin. She plucked ineffectually at her hem while shifting her bottom, only succeeding in hiking her skirt higher.

“Leave it,” he ordered, an unfamiliar hoarseness scraping the words along his throat.

Stiffly, she leaned forward, until she could lay her head against the pillow.

“Close your eyes. Relax.” In other words, don’t watch me drool over you, he thought with little humor. He settled his hands on her shoulders again, finding them even more tense than a few minutes earlier. Involuntary little sounds filtered from her mouth as he attended her, making him wonder if she moaned during climax. Damn. He shouldn’t think about it.

But how could he not think about it when his fingers itched to slide under the edge of her stockings and tease her skin, when he wanted to tug the hem of her skirt higher and see if her underwear matched the satin of her garter belt.

He trapped a groan of his own and tried to focus on her back. How delicate it was, how slender. The scent of her perfume drifted around and through him. She wasn’t wearing a bra under her top, but a lacy sliplike thing. What was it called? He couldn’t remember, but he wanted to see it. He wanted to pull the skimpy blouse over her head and feast his eyes on the skin and silk beneath, slide the straps down, cover her breasts with his hands...his mouth.

A new scent reached him—arousal. He let go of the effort to restrain his own, knowing she felt the same. Welcoming the heat and the swelling, he closed his eyes and slowed his hands, letting his fingers glide over her shoulders to press against her collarbone, feeling her push herself into the pressure in unspoken invitation. Did he dare let his fingers drift farther, touch the nipples he’d earlier watched tighten enticingly? Could he pull her back against him and let her feel the strength of his desire as he ran his hands down the front of her body?

This was crazy. He’d been hired to protect her, not seduce her. Ignoring the ache in his loins, he concentrated only on her shoulders. Her eyes opened for a few seconds, as if she was about to say something, then they shut again, allowing her retreat.

Paige jerked upright as the jangle of the phone sliced into the tense quiet. Pushing herself off the chair, she stood and straightened her clothes as she listened to his end of the conversation, deciding Lloyd was on the other end. Rye had his back to her, but she saw him attempt to unobtrusively adjust his jeans. She didn’t know whether to crow or cower.

She glanced at the holstered gun cradled under his arm. His strength scared her a little. His pure maleness was a hundred times more potent than she’d ever attempted to handle. He could crush her so easily. She was inordinately pleased that he was attracted, especially given their adversarial relationship, but knew she was a fool to think he’d risk letting down his guard.

Then there was the matter of the woman he had spoken to so tenderly on the phone. Who was she? And how did she fit into his life? Where would she fit? A brief fling in a moment out of time? What the other woman didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her?

No. Paige thought more of herself than that. Still, it might be interesting to see how far she could push him and what he’d do about it.

“Harry.”

She blinked and looked at him, deciding it wasn’t the first time he’d called her name.

“Talk to Lloyd. Tell him what you need.”

She forced her legs to move. “Good afternoon, Lloyd. I hope you caught up on your rest.”

“I did, thank you, miss.”

She rattled off the brand and model printer she needed. Hesitantly she asked if he might be willing to pick up something casual for her to wear, a sweat suit or something.

“Of course, miss.”

“I don’t need much. I might be going home today, for all I know, so don’t spend a fortune. As for sizes—”

“Unnecessary, miss. I’ll be there within the hour.”

“But—”

He hung up. Paige held the phone out and stared at it, then shook her head as she set it down. Rye came out of the bathroom as she did so, his hairline damp, as if he’d splashed his face with water.

“What side of the bed do you sleep on?” he asked.

She straightened, surprised. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to lie down until Lloyd gets here, and I don’t want to sleep on your side.”

“To be honest, I kind of roll around.”

“Oh. Well—”

“But don’t let that stop you,” she rushed to assure him. Anything to get him out of sight for an hour and let her think clearly. “I don’t mind.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Positive. Please. Be my guest.”

He closed the door between the rooms halfway, enough so that she couldn’t see what he was doing, but could hear. Boots falling to the floor, the shift of fabric as he slid under the comforter. Lord. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Why now, when she was at her most susceptible to temptation? Was she having a mid-life crisis at age twenty-eight?

She stretched out on the couch to think. Her eyes drifted shut. It took too much effort to open them.

The sound of a key being fitted into the lock brought her awake. Lloyd entered, his arms loaded with packages. He nodded at Paige as she yawned and stretched. An hour had passed.

“Warner’s asleep,” she whispered, taking a couple of the bags from his hands.

“No, I’m not.” He emerged from the other room, tucking his shirt in.

“Pasta salad for Miss O’Halloran and a submarine sandwich for you, sir,” Lloyd said as he placed two bags on the coffee table. “I’ll put your dinners in the refrigerator. Pop them in the microwave for five minutes or so when you’re ready.”

“Pasta salad...my favorite!” Paige said. “How did you know?”