Susan Connell - How To Succeed At Love

“In the meantime, you’re going to have to do exactly as I say. You’re not to go downstairs without me. You’re not to speak to anyone without me. And—”

“Nice place,” Spencer said, cutting her off with enough over-the-top enthusiasm to let her know he was not talking about the Hotel Maxwell.

Pointedly ignoring him, she went on. “And if I can figure out a good excuse for you to eat dinner up here, you’re going to—”

She froze in her tracks when he let loose with a long, spirited whistle. “What is it now?”

“Did you do that?” he asked, as he removed his wallet and tossed it on the bedside table.

Her annoyance was building with each heartbeat. If Spencer Madison was running for the Most Aggravating Person of the Year Award, she’d vote twice for him. She took a labored breath then let it out through her nose. “Did I do what?”

Shaking his head with genuine appreciation, he stared up at the hand-painted bluebirds and pink ribbons on the ceiling. “The mural.”

“And what if I did?”

“It’s damn good.”

“Oh.” She squinted upward and then at him. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely. The gold on the ribbons and the clouds in the background give it a kind of surrealistic feel. ”When did you paint it?”

“The summer I turned sixteen.” Recalling that carefree period in her life, she laughed softly. “I was heavily influenced by Disney cartoons back then. And anything remotely French and romantic—” She stopped in midsentence when she realized he was trying to steer her off the subject of getting rid of him. Scowling, she clamped both hands on her hips.

Controlling Spencer Madison for the next twelve hours wasn’t going to be easy, but she wasn’t giving up. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

Carefully removing several shirts from his suitcase, Spencer set the stack on the bed. “I haven’t missed a word.”

“Okay,” she said, challenging him with a jut of her chin. “What did I say?”

He reached for his shaving kit. “Let’s see,” he said, tossing it back and forth between his hands before pausing thoughtfully. “You’ve been heavily influenced by anything remotely French and romantic—”

“Before that.”

“You mean, downstairs just now with your parents? Don’t worry. You were very good,” he said, winking at her.

“What was that wink for?”

“I think they like me.”

Jade flew across the room. “Obviously you have not been listening. You’re here for one night and one night only so there’ll be no need to unpack,” she said, scooping up his shirts then dropping the armload back into his suitcase. She was on home ground now. In a place where she felt safe and confident, and he was not going to change that with a wink, that chipper talk or his good ol’ boy attitude.

Rezipping the luggage, she shoved it off the bed. “And just because my parents offered you good brandy, doesn’t mean they like you. They do that to everyone I bring home.”

When he looked as if he was going to reach for the phone, she lunged to push it to the other side of the night table. “You have not lucked into a meal ticket here so don’t even think about canceling your reservations at the Maxwell.”

He studied her for a moment then slipped his hands in his pockets and nonchalantly leaned around her for a look at the balcony doors. She took that opportunity to snatch his wallet from the night table.

“Look at me,” she said, shaking the leather trifold at him. “I’m locking this in my father’s office safe downstairs, so don’t get any crazy ideas about robbing us then sneaking out. And I’m counting the silver and checking your bags before you leave here, too.”

As his roving gaze landed on her again, he took a step closer, bumping the toes of his loafers against her pumps. His towering height caused her to look up instead of down. One deep breath and his chest would be pressing against her breasts. She swallowed carefully.

He lowered his chin. “You mean you’d like to go through my personal possessions?”

Suddenly the spacious room she’d spent her childhood in felt claustrophobically small. She had all she could do not to cup her fingers over his stubbly beard and hold him...back. Along with his serious expression, his masculine stance took her breath away. Maybe that terrorist-cum-movie star look wasn’t as repulsive as she once thought. “I—I didn’t say that.”

He moved closer. “You didn’t have to,” he said, his voice rumbling through her like soft thunder on a sultry afternoon.

Her eyelids fluttered shut. He was going to kiss her. The kind of hot and thorough kiss that left you breathless and achy. The kind that made you moan for more. The kind she’d read about but never experienced Tingling sensations were scattering through her body like blind butterflies on too much caffeine. Lifting her chin, she allowed her lips to flower open. Any second now he was—

She heard him sit down on the bed.

Of course he wasn’t going to kiss her. Dropping her chin, she kept her eyelids tightly shut as the words from a popular serenity prayer rolled through her mind. After a moment she opened her eyes, slapped his wallet on the table and looked down at him with condescension worthy of royalty. “I know what this is about now.”

He gave the mattress a few test bounces without bothering to look up at her. “What?”

“You’re trying to turn this side trip into a research experiment for that novel you’re writing, aren’t you?” Before he could answer, she went on. “Well, you won’t be around here long enough to get anywhere with that idea, so don’t bother fluffing the pillows. And stop that bouncing! This sleigh bed’s an antique. Did you hear me?”

When she grabbed his knees to steady him, their noses brushed. Startled by the playful yet intimate contact with him, she stopped moving.

He smiled. “This was your bed when you were little, right?”

Letting go of his knees, she pulled back. “How do you know that?”

“Easy. Quality piece,” he said, running his hand along an inviting turn of wood. “Nice, solid curves.” Dropping back on the white-on-white, pin-striped comforter, he opened his arms and wriggled his hips. “Makes a little noise when it’s shaken...kinda reminds me of you.”

She brought her fists straight down to her sides. “I am not laughing.”

He kicked off his shoes, swung his legs onto the bed and folded his arms behind his head. “I know, but I am a patient man,” he said, easing back onto the bank of ruffly, white eyelet pillow shams.

Avoiding his out-there-and-in-your-face expression, Jade dropped her frosty gaze over all six feet plus of him. Stretching, sprawling...standing, breathing; it didn’t matter. She’d never met anyone more comfortable with his own body. From the short time she’d known him, she was certain that Spencer Madison would be just as comfortable stretched out on that bed in his birthday suit.

The breath-stealing image appeared out of nowhere, bolting her to the floor. All those strong lines and angles of inviting masculinity contrasting with the soft, white comforter...her soft, white comforter. A wave of body heat swept through her, singeing her flesh. If her face was half as red as the rest of her body felt, he was going to know in an instant what she was thinking. She willed her eyes to look away, but when that didn’t happen she rubbed at her forehead.

“Headache?”

She slowly lowered her hands. Something ached, but it wasn’t her head.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, curling his torso up and toward her. Leaning on his elbow, he patted the mattress. “Did you want to sleep here tonight?”

There? She swallowed. Right there in that warm spot? Where you rested your head on the pillow? Where you opened your arms and wriggled your hips? Where I pictured your naked body? “Not anymore,” she said, as she headed for the connecting door to the next room.