Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 6

Wrong.

She stared at her damp towel. Why couldn't it have been a bath sheet, something that she could have wrapped very securely round her, sarong-style, and it would have covered her from her armpits to the bottom of her calves? But no. It was an ordinary-sized bath towel. One that, given her curves, would only just wrap round her. And which came well above her knees.

It was that or nothing.

Short of telling Max to close his eyes and turn off the lights...No. She wasn't going to make an issue of it. She was going to be cool about it. Really cool.

And she nearly made it. Until she walked out of the bathroom and saw Max sitting on the bed. He'd shed his suit jacket and tie, and his white s.h.i.+rt was completely undone, revealing a washboard stomach and a muscular chest with a light sprinkling of hair. Not too much to be off-putting; just enough to make her want to run her fingers across his pecs. But it was the s.h.i.+rt that did it. Who was it who said something about 'a sweet disorder in the dress'? Half dressed was definitely s.e.xy. s.e.xy, because it hinted at all sorts of possibilities.

She hoped she wasn't drooling. She really, really hoped she wasn't drooling. Making an effort to look casual, she sauntered into the room. 'Bathroom's all yours,' she said.

'Thanks.'

There was a pause. A long, long pause. Then she made the mistake of actually looking at him. His pupils were huge. Wasn't that meant to be a sign of desire? And the way he ran just the tip of his tongue along his lower lip: as if he were tasting something. Tasting someone. Tasting her.

The thought made her knees melt again.

So what now? Was he going to make her drop the towel? Was he going to take her back into the shower with him? Was he going to forget the shower completely and tumble her onto the bed? From the look on his face, all three were distinct options.

She wanted to run-to him and from him at the same time.

'Cyn.' Was it her imagination, or had his voice dropped a few tones? Slightly husky. s.e.xy. Turned on. 'Which side of the bed do you want?' he asked.

The one you're on.

Nope, she couldn't say that. She tried aiming for cool and sophisticated. 'Whatever.'

Brilliant! She sounded as if sharing a bed with a man she barely knew was something she'd done so many times before, not something that frightened the h.e.l.l out of her.

'I usually sleep on the left,' he said.

Ouch. She'd let herself forget that this was a man who was used to sharing his bed. With lots of different women. And if he gave them come-to-bed looks like the one he was giving her right now, it was hardly surprising.

'Whatever,' she said again, faking nonchalance.

Concentrating on every step-please, please don't let her fall flat on her face in front of him-she walked over to the bed. The one thing she couldn't do was to drop her towel in front of him. She couldn't get into bed wearing the towel, either; that would make her look like a frightened virgin. She'd stopped being a virgin during her first year at university, but she wasn't even going to think about the frightened bit.

'Would you mind turning away?' she asked.

'Sure.'

To her relief, Max did the gentlemanly thing. Just in case he was tempted to peek, she turned her back. And dropped the towel.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE only thing was, turning his back meant Max could see Cyn's reflection. And what he saw was curves. Soft and full and just waiting for him to explore them. His fingertips tingled at the idea of touching her, learning the texture of her skin. And his mouth tingled even more at the idea of finding out exactly how her skin tasted.

But no way would he force her into doing anything she didn't want to do. He wasn't that type of guy. All the same, he knew how fragile his self-control was going to be. So he made sure that his shower was tepid, and then cold. And very, very long. And to spare Cyn's embarra.s.sment he wrapped a towel round his hips before walking back into the bedroom.

She'd already turned her lamp off. He did the same before dropping his towel and climbing into bed.

The body beside him was absolutely rigid. Tension was coming off her in waves. Did she think he expected her to have s.e.x with him, or something?

He wanted to-especially after he'd discovered that her curves were exactly as he'd guessed they'd be. But she was clearly scared. She'd responded to him on the dance floor, but that had been safe...in public, where he wouldn't have gone too far.

Lisa's words echoed in his head-you don't have a hope in h.e.l.l of getting past her defences anyway-and he sighed. 'Relax, Cyn. I'm not going to make any demands on you.' Even though he wanted to.

'Sorry,' she mumbled back.

He was half tempted to put the light on again, so she could see for herself that he was being sincere. But he'd heard that little noise of relief she'd made when he'd switched the light off. Cyn was embarra.s.sed. Big time. She wouldn't appreciate him seeing that embarra.s.sment for himself.

What he didn't understand was why she felt embarra.s.sed. Just as he was working out how to ask her without making her feel even more awkward and self-conscious, she broke the silence again. 'Max? We need to talk.'

Uh-oh. He didn't like the sound of this.

'It's a bit...well...delicate.'

That sounded even more worrying. Now he was nearly as tense as the woman lying beside him. 'What is?' he asked carefully.

'Tonight. The cost of the room, and all of that. I'll reimburse you.'

She'd what? Stunned, he said nothing.

'I don't expect you to pay for this. It's not part of the deal.'

'Deal?'

'Being Trophy Boyfriend for the night. We weren't supposed to be staying over. So it's my bill, okay?'

'It's not a problem, Cyn. Forget it and go to sleep.'

Except she couldn't. She couldn't stop worrying about things. 'I'm sorry,' she muttered.

'What for?'

'Everything. Dragging you here, your car getting crunched...'

'It wasn't all bad.' There was a pause. 'You did a great Baby.'

'Baby?'

He hummed 'I've Had The Time of My Life', and she suddenly twigged. Baby, as in Baby Houseman, the character who'd danced with Patrick Swayze's in Dirty Dancing. 'You did a pretty good Johnny Castle.'

'That's called teamwork.'

Yeah. And they'd made a brilliant team. They'd totally wiped the smugness off the faces of Mich.e.l.le Wilson and her cronies. 'I'm still sorry about your car.'

'It'll mend.' He paused. 'Maybe I should make you be my chauffeur until it's fixed.'

Was that how he was planning to make her repay the favour she owed him? Fine. She could deal with that. 'All right. But I should warn you now, my car isn't in the same league as yours. It's small and practical.'

'Does it have a stereo?'

'Well, yeah.'

'Wheels and music. That's all I need. Though I'd want my CDs in the deck, not your girly stuff.'

Hang on. Was he being serious? Or was he teasing her? She couldn't tell. And she didn't dare put the light on so she could check his expression. Not when her face felt as if it were the colour and texture of a squashy, overripe tomato. 'Mmm-hmm,' she said carefully.

Silence.

'Cyn?'

'Yeah?'

'Relax.' She could hear laughter in his voice, now. 'I was teasing you. I'm not going to make you drive me around. I'm perfectly capable of getting a taxi if I need one. And London has a good public-transport system.'

'Sorry,' she mumbled. For a man who'd managed to make her feel like a dancing queen for the first time in her life, he was very good at wrong-footing her.

'Cyn.'

'What?'

'Just stop worrying and go to sleep.'

How? How could she possibly go to sleep, with six feet of naked, drop-dead gorgeous male lying there next to her?

But, somehow, she did. And she surfaced the next morning feeling warm and comfortable and at peace with the world. Except...This didn't feel like her bed. And her face was virtually plastered to someone else's chest. A male chest.

The previous day snapped back into her head and she almost groaned aloud. Why couldn't she have stayed on her side of the bed instead of hogging his?

Though there was an even more pressing question. How the h.e.l.l was she going to extract herself from this position without waking Max? Because their bodies were very, very tangled. She was lying on her left side, with her face buried in his chest and her head resting on his right arm.

Her face burned when she realised where her hands were. Her left hand was flat, sandwiched palm-down between his thighs, and her right hand was curved over his bottom. Possessively.

He was doing his share of the possessive bit, too. His right hand was resting on her shoulder, holding her close to him, and his left hand was curved over her hip.

It was intimate in the extreme. There was only one way they could possibly get closer...and her face burned even more at the thought. She really ought to move. Now.

But he was still asleep. At least, his breathing was deep and slow and regular. Unlike hers, which was fast and shallow.

One touch wouldn't hurt. One little touch-and then she'd wriggle out of his embrace. He wouldn't know a thing about it. One little touch...

She gave into temptation, and stroked the curve of his bottom.

Wow. She hadn't dared look, last night. The second she'd heard the bathroom door open, she'd closed her eyes tightly and turned her back to his side of the bed. She'd heard his towel hit the floor, but she hadn't dared to peek. Hadn't seen for herself if he looked as good out of the suit as he did in it. Or-her heart slammed harder against her ribs-as good as he'd looked half undressed.

He certainly felt good. Taut muscles, soft skin-the perfect combination. She couldn't resist gliding her fingertips along his gluteus maximus again. In tight jeans, she thought, Max Taylor would have women fainting.

He was an architect. Did that mean he sat behind a desk in a suit? Or did it mean he went on site dressed in a T-s.h.i.+rt, jeans, steel-capped boots and a hard hat? If it was the latter, she'd bet every woman whose office was in view of the sites he worked on would take a coffee break when he turned up-just so they could watch him.

And then she froze in horror. Because the hand resting on her hip moved. Just one finger. A slow, deliberate movement. Echoing what she'd just done to him, on a smaller patch of skin.

Max had just stroked her naked skin.

She couldn't breathe. Panic oozed from every pore. He was supposed to be asleep. No way could her touch have woken him. She hadn't squeezed, hadn't pressed hard. Just the lightest, softest glide of her fingertips against his skin.

Maybe he'd been awake all along. Just waiting to see what she would do.

Oh, G.o.d. What she should have done was to creep out of bed and get showered and dressed without waking him, then leave him a note to say she'd see him at breakfast. But no. She'd had to touch him. Stroke him. Incite him.

And now she was faced with one awake, aroused male. Literally facing him. Because her face was still pressed against his hard chest. And other parts of his body weren't shy in telling her that they were awake.

Worse, her own body was responding to the signals. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s felt heavy, and she knew he'd feel her nipples pressing against his chest. He'd know that she was turned on, too.

This was bad!

'Good morning,' he said softly.

Say it. Come on. It's not that difficult, she told herself. Two little words. Say it. 'Good morning.'

Nope. She hadn't said it. She'd squeaked it. How embarra.s.sing could she get?

The hand resting on her hip explored a little more.

'Your skin's so soft.' His voice was like a purr.

She couldn't make a coherent response. Not when he'd s.h.i.+fted slightly and pushed one leg between hers.

'Cyn.' His lips touched her forehead. Lightly, playfully. And her skin felt as if it had been burned.

She panicked. This couldn't be happening. They couldn't make love. They hardly knew each other. She hadn't cleaned her teeth. Her hair was a mess. Thank goodness the curtains were thick and it was still too dark for him to see her properly. There were a million and one reasons why she should stop this right now.

But he was stroking her skin. Nuzzling his mouth against her face. She couldn't think straight.

'Cinnamon,' he whispered, his breath fanning her ear. 'Your name makes me think of cinnamon. Cinnamon and apple pie. Cinnamon rolls. And I'm hungry.'

That was her get-out. They had to be downstairs for breakfast. Come on, mouth, open! Tell him we have to stop. Tell him we have to- He stroked her skin again and she stopped thinking at all.

'I'm so hungry for you,' he told her, his voice husky. His hand skimmed up over her bottom. The curve of her waist. The soft swell of her belly.

When Lisa had played fairy G.o.dmother, why hadn't she magicked Cyn a washboard stomach as well?