No Holding Back. Isabel Sharpe

to experience the lifestyle of the elusive Jack Brattle was his bait. Lure hungry journalist with promises of the interview of a lifetime, then make her the most “highbrow” meal he could whip up, secretly document her enjoyment, and in his last column before he left Philadelphia for good, skewer her as a closet gourmet. Anyone with taste buds as unerring as hers would be an easy mark.

      Hannah had shown up, Derek played the Suspicious Heir act apparently convincingly and she’d gone down without a fight—though he wished he could have captured photographic evidence of her shoving in the foie gras and washing it down ecstatically with Pol Roger Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill 1985.

      After the “impromptu” meal, perfectly poised for a wrap to the ultimate checkmate, what did he do? He asked her to dance. Nice one. What did he think, he’d have her gorgeous body pressed against his and remain completely impassive, then Hey, thanks for the dance, I’m off to bed, choose a room, and see you in the morning? He’d immediately started getting ideas involving a lot more than dancing, fueled wilder when it became apparent she was getting the same ones.

      Now…with this beautiful, sexy, willing woman stranded in his house, to say that things had gotten out of hand was like saying winter got chilly in Antarctica. Lure her, yes, feed her, yes, dance with her…okay. Kiss her? Bad idea. Succumb to the sexual promise of her blue eyes, rose lips and slender body?

      He’d already said he was screwed.

      Worse, he was leading her upstairs, unsatisfied lust driving out common sense. Once she got into his bedroom…

      Well, she’d be screwed. He didn’t want to think about how low this was for him to go. He might be fascinated by Hannah way beyond the typical male interest in boobs and a great ass, but nothing he could say would convince her of that if she knew who he was and why she was here.

      His only hope of going through with the rest of the night without feeling like total scum was to ditch the idea of the article. At least she hadn’t admitted yet that she was a reporter, so he wasn’t the only one holding back truths. Granted, she’d dipped a cautious toe in honesty, but quickly gave up total immersion when he pretended to think she was joking.

      What a pair. I’ll lie to you, you lie to me, come into bed, and we’ll lie together.

      He got to the end of the hall, pushed open the dark door—so much dark in this house to accompany the dark memories—pulled her into the room and into his arms. She nestled against him; he lowered his chin onto her hair, inhaling her light perfume, more tropical and exotic than he would have expected on a woman whose face could be in an Ivory soap commercial…and whose body could be in an X-rated movie—okay, the perfume made sense.

      Either way, Ivory or triple X, she was driving him wild. Watching her come…He was going to have to do some serious soul-searching if he wanted his ego to regain control of his id.

      Did he? He wasn’t sure. Because the alternative would be very, very sweet.

      “So…” She drew back, keeping her hands linked lightly behind his neck. “What’s not going to happen now?”

      Oh, the choice of words. If he had any sense of honor, he’d tell her everything wasn’t going to happen now, he was D. G. Jackson, he’d set her up for this entire evening, though he hadn’t planned the sexual part, and—

      “Hmm?” She started rotating her pelvis seductively against his erection.

      “Hannah.”

      “Ye-e-es?”

      “I can’t think while you’re doing that.”