Simon placed his camera and equipment on the floor next to the cupboard with more care and consideration than many mothers with babies. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Absolutely.”
Earth to Tawny. She should stop admiring the way his black T-shirt hugged his shoulders and the lean line of his back. She should also stop eyeing the fit of his jeans over his very fine—make that extra fine—ass.
He stood, pivoting to face her in one fluid movement. He arched a questioning brow. “Need any help?”
Don’t mind me. I was just checking out your eye candy. “No. Going right now.” She indicated the sofa with a flick of her wrist. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
She fled the room, silently urging Elliott to arrive soon. Those dreams were seriously messing with her head. She’d felt as if his gaze, hot and consuming, had licked across her shoulders bared by her halter top and across her buttocks snugged into her shorts.
She leaned against the counter and dragged in a calming breath, dismissing her ridiculous notions. Simon had been his usual remote self since he’d arrived. The only heat she’d felt from him had been a product of her own twisted, overactive, inappropriate imagination.
She reached past Peaches to the small wine rack atop the fridge and pulled out a bottle of cabernet. Peaches, who spent most of his time on top of the refrigerator, offered her a lazy slit-eyed look.
Tawny uncorked the bottle. “You know, normal cats curl up on a bed or in the corner of the sofa or drape themselves across a chair back. Why do you camp out on top of the refrigerator?”
Of course, the cat didn’t deign to answer. Tawny pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet. She personally thought Peaches liked to render himself inaccessible. And what did it say about her that she loved that damn cat? “Don’t mind me. I’m leaving now.”
She went back into the den.
Simon sat on her purple chenille sofa studying the room. Self-consciousness surged through her, knowing he was seeing her personal space through the eyes of an artist. Her taste tended toward eclectic. She favored reproduction art, the occasional antique and furniture more comfortable than stylish.
She placed the wine and glasses on the bamboo chest that doubled as a coffee table. Simon focused his attention on her, and she wished contrarily that he was eying her apartment once again instead. The glow from a stained-glass floor lamp at the corner of the sofa backlit him. Dark hair, dark slashing eyebrows above dark eyes, unsmiling visage, black T-shirt and jeans. He was a dark angel come to torment her.
His eyes snared her. The room shrank to just the few feet separating them. If this was one of her dreams, she’d join him on the couch, where she’d nibble and lick her way past his perpetual reserve until they were both getting naked….
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
“Thanks, I’ve got it.” Don’t mind me while I stand here like some whacked-out nympho and fantasize about taking your clothes off while we wait on Elliott to show up. She disgusted herself. “Glass of wine coming right up.”
She managed to pour two glasses. She handed him one, taking care not to touch him in the exchange.
“Were you talking to someone in the kitchen?” he asked. Surely that wasn’t amusement lurking in the austere Simon’s eyes.
She sat in the armchair on her side of the coffee table, the farthermost point away from him in the confines of her tiny den. Avoiding even the most casual physical contact seemed a good plan. “My cat.”
“And does it talk back?”
Whaddaya know? Simon actually owned a sense of humor. “No. He’s a typical male. Selective hearing. He only talks if it concerns his empty belly. Or the remote.”
“My kind of cat.” Simon’s spontaneous grin did crazy things to her insides. He silently held his glass up in a toast and then sipped.
His fingers, long and lean, wrapped around the glass stem and reminded her of her afternoon dream and where his fingers had been then.
Simply thinking about it left her wet and wanton again. Great. She’d sit here across from him, drinking wine, waiting on her future husband to show up, and wind up with a wet spot. Stop. She would not sit around fantasizing about this man. It was wrong. Guilt churned in her gut. Thinking about Simon turned her on faster and hotter than Elliott’s actual touch.
She only had to make it through the evening. A few short hours. And next week she was signing up for therapy. Alison, one of the executive secretaries, saw a therapist weekly. First thing Monday morning she’d ask Alison for a referral. This thing for Simon was getting out of hand. God knows what would happen if he’d offered a smidgen of interest or encouragement. What kind of woman ran around in perpetual lust for her fiancé’s best friend? And it had actually started her thinking, quite hard, as to exactly how she felt about Elliott and whether marrying him was such a good idea. She and Elliott were good together. They got along well. They had fun. But it was nothing like the dark passion with Simon that haunted her dreams. Toss in a vague sense of discontent with her bedroom time with Elliott….
Did she break it off with someone based on hot dreams about someone else? Which came first? Her discontent with Elliott or this dark sexual attraction to Simon? Was she truly attracted or just scared of commitment? Definitely time for a therapist.
“Good wine. Thanks,” Simon said.
“Sure.” Nervous, she swigged her wine instead of sipping and promptly choked. Then choked some more. Dammit, she couldn’t catch her breath.
Simon skirted the chest and took her wineglass from her. He knelt down and, as if conditioned by her dreams, she automatically spread her legs to accommodate him. He grabbed her shoulders. “Can you breathe? Nod your head.”
She nodded yes. But he didn’t take his hands from her bare skin. Finally the choking fit ended. She was left with him kneeling between her thighs, his fingers curled around the curves of her shoulders, her face hot with humiliation, her body hotter still at his proximity.
“I’m…fine,” she said, her voice wavering. Not from her choking spell but from his touch, the brush of his body against her bare legs. The reality of his touch was a thousand times more potent than a mere dream. Did his hand tremble against her shoulder or was it her own reaction?
Simon released her and stood abruptly. Still between her legs, he looked down at her. “You might want to save the chugging for Kool-Aid or beer,” he drawled. He turned on his heel and picked up his own wineglass to sit once again on the sofa.
Bite me. Tawny hated him at that moment. How could he be so concerned and considerate one minute and then snide and nasty the next? She ignored his comment and focused instead on Elliott. She glanced at her watch. Almost nine-fifteen.
“Elliott should be here soon. I hope so. I’m starving,” she said. Yeah. Simon had just spent the day photographing one of the skin-’n’-bones set and she’d just presented her well-padded ass as starving. “Well, not starving, obviously, but hungry.” She simply couldn’t say or do anything right in front of him.
And then it didn’t matter because she wasn’t in front of Simon. She was in utter pitch-black darkness and sudden silence.
“What the hell?” Simon said.
Her sentiments exactly.
“SIMON?” PANIC FILLED HER voice.
“I’m right here,” he said. He stood, blind in the dark. He bumped his shins against the chest. Cautiously he put his wineglass down.
Damn good thing he did because Tawny grabbed onto his arm, startling him, the uncustomary tremor in her voice reflected in her fingers. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a thing about the dark.”