Harlequin Desire September 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Claimed\Maid for a Magnate\Only on His Terms (9 page)

“I thought I'd buy you dinner,” he said. “The hotel has a pretty good restaurant, and the Coppermine Café across the street has great fried chicken.”

“Actually, I'm kind of tired. I didn't get much sleep last—” She broke off in the middle of the familiar excuse as a wicked grin split his face. Of course he knew she hadn't gotten much sleep the night before—he'd been the one who'd kept waking her up to make love, over and over again, until now, hours later and thousands of miles away from her small beach cottage, she still couldn't get the scent of him off her skin.

“We can make it quick,” he suggested. “We'll put our bags in the room and then—”

“No!” The word came out more forcefully—and more panicked—than she'd intended. But she wasn't stupid. She knew her weaknesses, knew that if Marc kept smiling at her, kept touching her, she'd end up in bed with him despite her resolution to keep her distance. And no matter how good he was in bed, no matter how much she enjoyed making love to him, she just couldn't go there again. Not if she wanted to come out of this situation with some semblance of her heart, and her life, intact.

Six years ago, she'd loved Marc desperately. She'd been caught between him and her father—between a rock and the hardest place possible—and she'd made the only choice she could make. But that didn't mean she hadn't loved Marc, didn't mean she hadn't grieved for him even after he'd ripped her out of his life without a backward glance.

She understood what last night was for him—a chance to exorcise her once and for all—and she needed to remember that. More, she needed to let the way he'd touched her and kissed her—the way he'd loved her—last night be enough.

It
was
enough, she told herself as she took another stumbling step backward. It had to be. She would pay her debt and then she would walk away, conscience clear and heart whole.

Or at least, that was the plan. A plan that would be totally derailed if she had dinner with him, followed by a glass of wine in his room and another night of the most amazing lovemaking a woman could imagine. Oh, he'd only asked her for dinner, but she knew him. She knew the look in his eyes, knew the way his mind worked, and she had no doubt that if she didn't run now, she'd find herself flat on her back under him before the night was out.

“I think I'll just get a snack from room service and then turn in,” she told him. “I'm beat.”

He didn't look happy now, his eyes clouded with obvious displeasure. But short of wrestling her into the restaurant, there was nothing he could do.

Except, it seemed, drive her absolutely crazy in the few minutes he had left with her tonight.

“All right,” he said. “I guess I'll have to settle for taking you to breakfast in the morning.” He reached past her to press the up button on the elevator, and though there was plenty of room, he made sure that his hand brushed against her side as he did so.

She bit back a gasp, telling herself the sudden shock of heat radiating from his touch was only because he was hot and not because he heated her up. She didn't believe it, but then, she didn't have to. She just had to pretend.

Fake it till you make it.

That was the motto she'd learned growing up. She might not be much of a liar, but she was a hell of an actress. Growing up the daughter—and accomplice—of the most renowned jewel thief in the world, she'd had to be.

Fake it till you make it.

And that was the same motto she'd lived by when Marc had kicked her out six years ago. For weeks, months, she'd been so morose that most days it had taken every ounce of energy she had just to climb out of bed. But her father was dying and she'd needed to be there for him even if she couldn't be there for herself. Which was why she'd pasted on a smile and pretended that everything was okay even as she was shattering into so many pieces she didn't think she'd ever put them back together again.

But she
had
put the pieces back together, she reminded herself as she stepped onto the elevator. And gorgeous smile or not, sexy eyebrow raise or not, she wasn't going to give Marc Durand the chance to change that. He'd broken her once—or, more accurately, they'd broken each other.

This time around, she'd forego the pleasure. And in doing so also forego the pain. In her mind, it was more than an equal trade-off.

Eleven

H
e didn't know what was going on with Isa, but whatever it was, he didn't like it. Marc glanced around the Snow River Diamond Mine, owned and operated exclusively by and for Bijoux, and did his best not to scowl with displeasure. Not at the mine, or at the questions Isa was asking, but at the way she had spent the entire day barely acknowledging that he existed. After yesterday, he'd hoped things would be different between them.

Oh, he was the first to admit that yesterday had not gotten off to a good start—how could it have when he'd rolled out of bed with Isa only to tell her that he'd slept with her to banish the ghosts of their shared past? And then he'd blackmailed her into helping him. Definitely not a good move in anyone's book. She'd been furious and had every right to her anger.

But on the plane, she'd seemed to soften. She'd remembered the fact that he was a nervous flyer and had tried to comfort him through the turbulence. She'd even smiled at him, let him touch her as they'd gotten off the plane. As the day had worn on, he'd seen her move from being an angry ex-lover to a consummate professional determined to do her job—even if doing that job meant helping the man causing her anger.

Her kindness had made him feel terrible, had made him determined to apologize for the way he'd treated her—and to make it up to her. She'd let him apologize, had even seemed to take it in the spirit he'd intended it. But then, when he'd wanted to take her to dinner as a kind of peace offering—and to continue the conversation they'd started earlier in the day—she'd frozen him out. Had, in fact, gone so far as to all but slam the door of her hotel room in his face. And since he'd made it a policy never to lie to himself, he had to admit that the rejection had stung.

Which was absurd. He was okay with her rejection piquing his pride, okay with it annoying him. But to actually be hurt by it? That he didn't understand. Because he didn't love Isa anymore, hadn't loved her in a long time. He'd made certain of that.

Sure, he wanted her, but what red-blooded man wouldn't? She was gorgeous, smart, kind, with a killer body and a wicked sense of humor. But just because he desired her, just because he respected the professional life she'd built for herself, didn't mean he was falling for her again. And it sure as hell didn't mean that he
loved
her.

She was doing him a huge favor and being absolutely incredible about it, but that didn't mean he would ever be stupid enough to fully trust her again. And he sure as hell wouldn't be stupid enough to fall for her, no matter how much his body craved hers.

He watched as she charmed his general manager, a grizzly old man by the name of Pete Jenkins. Until now, Marc had pretty much considered Pete completely uncharmable, but somehow Isa had managed it within an hour of meeting him. A couple smiles, a few well-placed questions and she had the diamond industry veteran eating out of her hand.

Marc would be lying if he said the knowledge didn't make him wary—especially since it hadn't taken much more effort on her part to have Marc wrapped around her finger all those years ago. But his wariness wasn't enough to make him keep his distance, especially when she once again gave him a wide berth as she said her goodbyes and made her way back to the helicopter that would take them to the airport, where his plane waited.

He almost hurried to catch up with her, almost grabbed her hand and spun her around so they could have it out right there, and to hell with who was around to witness it. He probably would have done just that—had actually started up the path to the helipad after her—when Pete called his name.

Tamping down the annoyance that was quickly turning to fury, Marc turned back to his GM with the closest thing to a smile he could muster. “What's up, Pete?”

“I was wondering if you'd had time to look at the expansion plans yet? We've got about eighteen months before the surface dries up, but we've got to get started building the underground tunnels if we don't want the mine to come to a screeching halt in the not so distant future.”

“I have looked at the plans,” Marc told him. “And there are a few things I'm not happy with, so I sent the architects back to take a second try. They're supposed to have them ready for me in a couple weeks—I figured we'd talk about it then.”

Pete scratched his chin, nodding thoughtfully. “It's the block caving measurements, right?”

Marc nodded, not the least bit surprised that Pete had picked up on the same problem he had. “The spacing is way off for this mine. It would work over at Ekaori or some of the other mines, but the veins of kimberlite are very different in this part of the Northwest Territory.”

“The pattern they wanted to dig for those tunnels was going to end up costing a lot more than it needed to.”

“It was. My geologist and I were also concerned about the maze of them based on the mineral composite of the land. Things are different up here than they are at Ekaori. The last thing I want is a cave-in—you know worker safety is the most important thing to me.”

“I do. It's why I wanted to speak with you. I figured we'd be on the same page, but it never hurts to check.”

“No,” Marc agreed. “It never hurts to check.”

He bid goodbye to Pete and headed back to the helicopter, even as he ran the GM's parting words around in his head. No, it never hurt to make sure both parties were on the same page. Especially when one of those parties was a stubborn redhead with a sharp mind and a curvy-as-hell body.

Isa continued to give him the cold shoulder on the helicopter ride to the airport, and though it grated, he took it. It was a short ride and not very private, considering they were in the same cabin as the pilot. He would wait until they were on the plane, where he'd have plenty of privacy and plenty of time to ferret out why she'd started avoiding him when he thought they'd been making progress.

He figured he'd start subtly, ask her questions that would force her to talk to him. After all, if it was business related, she couldn't very well refuse to share her thoughts. This was a business trip, after all.

Except...best laid plans and all that. By the time they were onboard his plane, luggage stowed and seat belts fastened for takeoff, he was seething. And when she took the seat farthest away from him and refused to so much as glance his way, his temper exploded.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, unfastening his seat belt and stalking toward her just as the plane hurtled into the air.

“What are you doing? You need to sit down!”

“What I need is for you to stop treating me like I'm a cross between Jack the Ripper and Attila the Hun.”

At that moment the plane hit some turbulence and it was sheer will alone that kept him standing, legs locked and arms crossed over his chest as he stared her down. They hit another bump a few seconds later, and he ignored that one, too—refusing to give in to the turbulence, or his uneasiness with flying, now that he had Isa cornered.

“I'm serious, Marc. You're going to get hurt—”

“I'm serious, too, Isa. And I find it rich that you're concerned with me getting hurt when you've spent the last day doing your best to pretend I don't exist.”

“That's not true—”

“It's absolutely true and I want to know why. If you're mad at me, I get that. You have every right to be. But don't freeze me out. Yell at me. Call me a bastard again if that's what you want to do. But don't ignore me.”

“I'm not mad at you.”

“Oh, yeah?” He lifted a brow. “Because it sure feels like that from where I'm sitting.”

“You're not sitting. That's the whole point.”

They hit more turbulence on their way up and the plane bounced a little, shimmied. At the same time, the pilot came over the intercom reminding them to stay seated with their seat belts fastened until they reached cruising altitude.

“Do you hear that?” Isa demanded. “You need to sit down!”

He moved closer, bending over so that he rested a hand on the armrests on either side of her and his face was in hers. “You need to talk to me.”

“Damn it, Marc.” She reached out a hand, splayed it over his chest, as if she planned to push him into a seat if she had to. But the moment she touched him, heat shot through him. Covering her hand with his own, he tried to ignore the fact that he'd gotten hard from just the warmth of her hand on his chest.

It might have been harder to ignore if Isa's breath hadn't hitched in her own chest—and if her pupils hadn't been completely blown out. Add to that the fact that her skin was flushed. Her hand trembled where it rested against his heart, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that she was as turned on by the contact as he was.

“Isa.” Her name was ripped from him as he threaded his fingers through hers. “Talk to me.”

She turned her head away, looked out the window at the blue sky where they were breaking through the clouds. It was late, nearly ten o'clock at night, but here, near the Arctic Circle, it was as bright as if it was the middle of the day.

She contemplated the sky for long seconds and though he wanted to push for an answer, wanted to push her in general, he waited for her to find the words she needed. It had always been like this when they fought—him shoving at her verbally and her responding by pulling into herself until she had the perfect argument figured out in her mind.

This time, it didn't seem to work, though, because when she spoke it was in little more than a whisper. “I don't want to do this.”

“Don't want to do what? Talk to me?” He should probably move back, but he moved closer instead, until his face was only inches from her. “I thought we were getting somewhere yesterday, thought we could be—”

“What? Friends? After everything that's happened between us, you thought you'd just apologize and then we could be friends?”

The virulence in her voice had him rearing back. Maybe he'd read her wrong—maybe the signs he'd taken for arousal had really been nothing more than anger. That didn't make sense, though. Not when she gasped at his touch. And not when she responded so beautifully when they were in bed together.

“Friends might be a stretch,” he admitted after several long seconds passed in silence. “But I thought, maybe—”

The pilot chose that moment to interrupt, announcing that they had reached their cruising altitude and that they were now free to move to the more comfortable sofas at the back of the plane.

Isa sprang out of her chair like a jack-in-the-box, nearly knocking into him in her haste to get away.

Except he wasn't letting her go that easily, not when he was so close to getting answers. And not, he admitted, when he was so hard that walking was going to be a problem.

“Where do you think you're going?” he demanded, grabbing her wrist and spinning her around.

“Away from you,” she muttered.

“It's a little late for that, isn't it?” He started walking, bumping her breasts with his chest, her abdomen with his erection, her thighs with his.

She backed up a step for each one he advanced, through the narrow row of seats and across the aisle, until her back was pressed against the plane wall and her front was pressed tightly against his own.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice broken, breathless.

He might have felt bad, might have retreated, if his leg wasn't between her thighs and if her hips weren't moving restlessly against the thigh he had pressed against her sex.

“Because I've never stopped wanting you.” The answer slipped out of his lust-clouded brain. “Because I don't think I ever will.”

“It's not enough,” she said, even as she arched her back and pressed her breasts more firmly against his chest.

He could feel her nipples, peaked and diamond hard, through the thin fabric of her blouse and his T-shirt. He groaned, rubbed his chest against her breasts once, twice, then again and again as her breathing turned from shallow to ragged in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

“It's more than enough,” he told her, bending his head so his mouth was right against hers. Each one of her trembling exhales left her mouth and entered his. “It always has been. Always will be.”

“Marc.” This time when she said his name it was more plea than protest.

“I've got you, Isa. I've got you, baby,” he muttered right before he took her mouth in a kiss it felt like he'd been waiting years for instead of mere hours.