When he reached four-twelve, he knocked quietly. No answer. He knocked again, louder, hoping the occupants in the nearby rooms were not light sleepers. “Come on, Monica, I know you’re awake,” he growled at the closed door.
She was taking this too far, forcing him to use the key. A big part of him was tempted to forget about it, deal with her histrionics in the morning when he had a clear head. But he wanted it done. For some odd reason, though he wasn’t even involved with Monica Winchester, he felt the need to get this situation resolved before he set out to find—and seduce—the red-haired angel he’d met two hours before in the kitchen.
Against his better judgment, he slipped the key into the lock and pushed into the darkened room. Darkened wasn’t quite the right adjective. The place was nearly pitch-black and he had to stand in the doorway to let his eyes adjust. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the elevator doors slide open, so he quickly entered and shut the door behind him. “Monica?” he whispered, his voice painfully loud in the silence.
A mumbling sound emanated from the left side of the room, and Robert was finally able to make out what appeared to be a bed. A very large bed. “Who…?” the woman said.
“It’s Robert,” he said, stepping closer. Asleep? She’d fallen asleep? Though relieved that she was obviously not expecting him to show up, his masculine pride took a hit.
“Bobby?” she said, her voice muffled, heavy with sleep and grogginess. “You came. You used the key.”
Bobby? No one had ever called him that—a miracle, given his southern upbringing. He didn’t like it. “Yes, but not for the reason you think,” he said as he crossed to the bed. He set the key on the bedside table. “I’ll leave this here, and we’ll forget about this whole thing.”
She whimpered. “No.”
Something, the pleading sound? The raw need? Something in her voice, in that single word, made him stop from turning around and leaving the room. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t want to be alone,” she murmured on a sigh. “I’m so tired of being alone.”
Something wasn’t right. As far as he knew, Monica Winchester had spent very few nights alone in her adult life. Curious, he leaned closer and caught a whiff of two sweet, unmistakable scents. Chocolate. And champagne.
RUTHIE WAS IN the midst of a lovely dream. Somehow, in the strange way dreams have of seeming so real, she imagined he really had come into her room. It’s Robert, he’d said. How quaint of Bobby to use his full name, she’d thought dreamily. But the fantasy quickly shifted.
She didn’t want him to come to her. Not anymore. It wasn’t Bobby she wanted in her room, and as she floated along, experiencing the strangely real scene, she pictured another man. The dark-haired man from the kitchen. The one with the eyes that devoured her and the lips she’d wanted to taste from the moment she’d seen them. The one who’d laughed with her, teased her, listened to her silliness and made her wish they’d met under different circumstances.
Though no one was supposed to have control over her dreams, for some reason, Ruthie did, for suddenly the man standing beside her bed, talking to her, was the man from the kitchen.
“Better,” she murmured, and she smiled.
“Ruthie?” the dream man asked, with perhaps more surprise than she’d expect from a fantasy lover.
She sighed, twisted and kicked at the covers which had become too hot, too confining, wanting to free her body of their cumbersome weight. She heard him groan, her fantasy man, then somehow saw him reach to tug apart the curtains at the nearby window to bathe the room in the gentle glow of the full moon.
“Oh, God, Ruthie,” he said, this time his voice taut and hoarse, full of something—a sound she was unfamiliar with, but could identify as need, desire. That was better. Now he sounded the way any dream lover should sound. Like he couldn’t get enough of her, though he hadn’t even touched her yet.
But he would. Oh yes, the night was long, and her dreams promised to be rich…and fulfilling.
EVERY OUNCE of decency in Robert Kendall’s being urged him to turn around, leave the key on the table, and lock the door behind him. Every lesson his mama had taught him about how to be a gentleman screamed at him. She called him Bobby, probably her boyfriend’s name! She didn’t know who he was. She was obviously suffering the effects of too much champagne and a stressful night. Get the hell out now!
But, louse that he was, he couldn’t make himself walk away.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured hoarsely, almost wishing he hadn’t pulled aside the curtain. With her pale body bathed in the golden glow of moonlight, she was too damned tempting.
She was dressed for seduction, for pleasure. The ivory satin lingerie she wore clung to the ripe curves of her body, hugging her hips, caught coyly between her pale thighs. Those legs—still encased in the white stockings—were not hard, not muscular, not firm. They were soft, rounded, meant to be touched and stroked. Kissed. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Until he noticed the thinness of her silky camisole. It had slipped down, revealing only the tiniest, most minuscule bit of lacy bra he’d ever seen. It was too small, made for a less endowed woman, and Ruthie’s lush breasts nearly spilled free of it. Even in the shadows he saw the dusky highlight of her nipples, not even an inch below the top of the lace, and his mouth went dry, his breathing became labored.
“Ruthie,” he muttered, trying to find the will to turn away, “I’m not who you think I am.”
“You are,” she whispered. “You are, and you came, and I’m so glad.”
Before he knew what was happening, she’d reached up, sliding her hand over his shoulder, tugging him down until he toppled onto the bed, on top of her. Then she was kissing him, and oh, sweet heaven, her mouth, her lovely, smiling mouth, that had driven him mad from the moment he’d seen her licking the chocolate icing off her fork, made him forget everything but sensation. She nibbled, slid her lips on his, licked hungrily at him until he couldn’t restrain himself and drew her entire body up tightly against his, so he could deepen the kiss. Then he was drowning in her, lost in her taste and smell, the champagne, the chocolate, the essence of her sweetness.
He moved lower, dropping kisses below her jaw, to the softness of her neck, the tender spot at the base of her ear. She writhed gently against him, pressing her silk-clad body even closer.
“I am so glad you found me,” she whispered as he placed a kiss at the base of her throat. “I didn’t want to be alone.”
She didn’t want to be alone. So she’d invited another man to spend the night with her.
The realization shocked him back into reality, forcing Robert to pull away. She sighed in disappointment, reaching for him again. Giving his head a few hard shakes, Robert struggled to slow his ragged breathing, tried to control his body’s reaction to her embrace. “Ruthie, this isn’t right. I’m not the one you want.”
In the soft light, he saw that, though her eyes remained closed, a smile crossed her face. “Of course you’re the one I want. Especially now.”
“Why now?” he asked, curious about this odd conversation he was having with a woman who was practically asleep.
“Now that I know we have more than chocolate.”
Her words hit him hard, like individual bolts of lightning. They struck, sunk in, hit home. She knew who he was.
Robert felt like chortling with glee.
It made sense. She’d been no more than tipsy downstairs an hour ago. Her mood now was obviously languorous, seductive, not groggy as he’d first thought.
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