Slammed (7 page)

She sucked in badly needed air and quickly looked away as he rose.

“Well,” he said. “I can check later after I work out, but I don’t have patience for standing around in line down there, I gotta tell you.”

She didn’t blame him. She wouldn’t be too happy about that either.

“You coming?” he said. She risked a look at him as he pulled the T-shirt over his head and swallowed a sigh. “You said you could work out too.”

Maybe that would be a good thing to do. She could run on a treadmill or something and burn off this…excitement. Or whatever. “I’ll meet you down there,” she croaked.

He grinned. “Clucked, aren’t you?”

“Uh…what?”

“Clucked. Chicken. Afraid. You don’t want to change in front of me.”

Heat swept from her hairline to her toes. “I have no intention of undressing in front of you,” she said coolly. She made no move from the bed and waved her hand in a “go on” gesture.

Still smiling, he shoved his feet into a pair of Nikes and strode for the door. “See you down there.”

When the door closed behind him, she fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Dear sweet Jesus. The man was having too much of an effect on her girl parts. And her heart, which was pumping as if she’d already done a few miles on the treadmill. She blew out a long breath.

After another peek outside at the raging storm, she sighed and pulled her workout gear from her suitcase. She’d optimistically packed it but hadn’t really thought she’d need it. Once changed into the snug black shorts, sky blue tank top and her own running shoes, she grabbed her iPod and key card and left the room.

She found the gym and Dylan there, alone, on his back on a weight bench, pressing huge weights.

“Something seems wrong about working out when there’s a natural disaster occurring outside,” she said to him as she climbed on the treadmill and studied the buttons.

“What are we going to do about it?” he asked.

She could easily sit and worry and fret in an effort to control the weather. But he made a good point. She couldn’t really control it.

She poked at a button. Nothing happened. Then another. The belt started moving. She adjusted the speed until she was at a comfortable pace. She worked out regularly at the gym in San Amaro. Staying fit was important to her. Not as important as it was to a professional athlete, obviously.

Funny, before this she hadn’t really made that “athlete” connection. It sounded stupid, because of course she knew he was a professional athlete, but “surfer” didn’t sound the same as “Olympic athlete” or even pro football player or hockey player. Why was that?

She knew only too well how big pro surfing was. She’d grown up in San Amaro, a surfing city that hosted a major pro surfing event every year. She’d done the research when they were signing Dylan. She lived in a city where surfing was a major pastime and she’d done it herself, many times, though she was far from accomplished at it. So why hadn’t she taken his athleticism seriously?

Seeing him go through his workout, which she was sure was somewhat adapted to the hotel gym facilities, made her appreciate the work he must put into staying in shape. She watched him finish the chest presses with the dumbbells, then do some jump squats, a further series of one-armed dumbbell exercises, more squats on one leg, biceps curls—done while sitting on a large stability ball—some triceps presses and then a series of demanding crunches that made her own abs ache.

He said something to her. She pulled the earbuds out and let them hang. “Sorry, what?”

He grinned. “Sorry. I said how often do you work out?”

“I go to the gym a couple of times a week, and I run a couple of times a week. And swim.”

“Cool. Which gym?”

“Power House.”

“Ha. That’s where I worked out last year when I was there.”

“It’s a good place. How about you? How often do you work out?”

“I work out six days and then take a day off. I do some pretty intense circuits, but I change it up a lot so I challenge myself and don’t get bored. For cardio, I run, bike, swim or paddle.”

“Paddle?”

“Standing on a surfboard and paddling.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve done that at the beach. Wouldn’t that be kind of easy for you?”

He grinned. “It helps me work on my balance. And variety is good. And on top of all that, I try to surf seven days a week, if I can.” He grimaced. After a few more crunches, he said, “You surf?”

“Sure. I’m not that great.”

“Like I am.” He grinned and relaxed onto the mat, hands behind his head.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, not like you, Mr. Modesty.”

“Oh come on. I know I’m good. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

She had to chuckle, the twinkle in his eye making light of his boasting. “I suppose.”

“I’m sure you’re good at your job too.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” If only Barrett would acknowledge that. Oh well. “I’m glad to hear you say that actually.”

“What? That you’re good at your job?”

“You said, ‘at your job
too
’. Which means you consider surfing your job.”

“Of course it’s my job.”

Breathing was getting harder, but she continued. “Yes, it is. And that’s why you need to be more serious about it. Obviously, you take the physical part of it seriously.” She gave a short gesture to the gym. “You take your workouts seriously and you try to eat right.”

“Yeah.” He lifted his head and eyed her. “I do take it seriously.”

“You need to take the business part of it seriously too, though.”

“Fuuuuuck. Another lecture.” His head fell back to the mat.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry.”

He began to stretch and they finished their workouts amiably, but when they returned to her room together, she suddenly realized that she needed a shower, and probably so did he. And he had no room to go back to. Shit.

Inside her room, he appeared to have the same realization. He’d already stripped his damp T-shirt over his head when he paused. “Uh…you going to let me use your shower?”

She held back her smile. “You’ll owe me.”

He gave a slow sexy smile in return. “Oh yeah? Owe you what?” He moved closer.

“No more pushback about going back to San Amaro. As soon as the airport opens,” she added.

He rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“I know. Go on.”

“Wanna come too? We could be efficient…conserve water…”

She laughed. “No.”

“Fine.” He disappeared into the bathroom and she heard the shower start. She turned on the television to try to check for some kind of weather update, but all she got was a blank screen. Great. No TV now either. They’d have to go down to the lobby and check with hotel staff about what was happening with the storm.

He emerged from the bathroom a short time later in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around his lean hips, dangerously low and not concealing the bulge at his groin. She dragged her gaze away and bolted into the bathroom for her own shower, locking the door behind her. How on earth had this happened? Here she was sharing a hotel room with Dylan Schell. This was nuts.

Her eyes fell on the small black toiletry bag sitting unzipped on the counter. With one finger, she tugged it open and peeked inside. Razor, antiperspirant, hairbrush…and a small bottle with a white plastic lid. Nibbling her lower lip, she carefully poked at it until she could see the label. Pantoloc. Probably what he said it was. That sounded familiar, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t a narcotic or something. But there was another bottle beneath it. Hating herself, she slipped the Pantoloc out of the way to read the other label. Effexor. Both bottles were nearly full, but the date on the Effexor was from almost a year ago whereas the Pantoloc was brand new. She’d need to do a Google search.

Guiltily, she pushed the bag back the way she’d found it. She showered as quickly as she could then cursed herself for not bringing her clothes into the bathroom with her. Now she had to either get dressed in her sweaty workout gear or go out there in a towel. Shit! She opted for the towel rather than struggle back into spandex while still damp.

Dylan was seated in a chair he’d pulled up to the window, staring outside at the storm, water still pouring down from the sky, wind still pummeling everything out there. He glanced up when she came out then did a double take at seeing her with only a towel wrapped around her, and his smile was wicked.

She held up a hand. “Don’t even start. I just need my clothes.”

He wasn’t shy about watching, unlike her, and she felt his gaze like a touch on her body as she found the dress she’d had on earlier. Despite the storm, it was still warm and humid. Her nipples tingled and tightened under his scrutiny and her pussy squeezed. God. Once more she carried her clothing back into the bathroom to dress.

They went down to the lobby, where Dylan managed to get some information on the storm, but did not, she noticed, even try to get himself a room. And even though she noticed, she said nothing. And she wasn’t sure why that was.

“It should be blown over by tomorrow,” he said. “But it’s causing a lot of damage. Nobody knows when the airport will reopen. And there’s no Internet access.”

“Great.” She couldn’t even email the office to let them know what was going on. She sighed.

“I know you’re frustrated,” he said, taking her hand. His big warm fingers curled around hers and…it felt good. “But there’s nothing we can do about it but ride it out.”

“I know.”

“Just be thankful we’re in a safe place.”

“I am.”

“We’ll get some dinner. After, maybe I can start reading some of the stuff you brought for me.”

Why was he being so nice? She studied him. Probably because he was getting his way and they weren’t leaving for San Amaro right away. “So that means you’re coming with me? That you’ll participate in all the things we have planned?”

“Do I have any choice?” His smile was crooked, giving him a vulnerable air that tugged at something inside her.

“Well, of course you do,” she said. “But there are consequences to the choices you make.”

“Yeah. There are always consequences.”

After dinner, this time beers and hamburgers eaten in a corner of the lounge, they returned to her room and spent the evening sprawled out on her bed, reading. They both had magazines to flip through and Brooke gave him the information packages she’d put together on the various charitable groups they’d considered for Dylan. She kept glancing at him as he looked at them, wondering what he was thinking, what his reaction was. He didn’t say much but did seem quite intent in his study of them.

“Did you know there’s really only one ocean?” he said suddenly.

“Um. No. I thought there were like, five oceans.”

“I know. That’s what they teach you in school. But according to this, all the oceans are actually connected. There really is only one global ocean. So what happens to one ocean affects all the oceans, potentially.”

“Huh. I did not know that.” She hid a smile at his interest.

Her eyes started drooping at only about nine o’clock. “I must be jet-lagged,” she said tiredly, rolling off the bed. Then she paused. “Where are you planning to sleep?”

He looked up from a brochure. He smiled and patted the bed. “Right here, babe.”

She sighed. “Fine. But you sleep on top of the sheets.”

He laughed. “If I decide to molest you, a sheet’s not going to stop me.”

Heat sliding through her, she turned to go into the bathroom. Just as she neared the door, a long, loud cracking noise split the silence in the room. She jumped a foot off the floor and whirled to face the doors to the balcony, where the noise had come from. “Jesus Christ!” she gasped, her hand flying to her throat.

Dylan surged to his feet and strode to the doors to peer outside. “It’s hard to see anything,” he said. “But it looks like a tree came down.”

“Oh God.”

“It’s okay. There are probably a lot of trees down from this storm.”

“But what if it fell on this hotel? Or the balcony?” It could have smashed the glass doors.

“It didn’t. It’s okay, Brooke.”

Still trembling a little, she washed her face and changed into her pajamas. For a moment she actually considered sleeping with her clothes on, since Dylan would be sleeping in the same bed. Hell, that wouldn’t be comfortable. She abandoned that thought.

Dylan had resumed his prone position on the bed and had turned out all the lights except the one lamp beside the bed, which shone on his reading materials. She crossed to the windows and tugged the curtain aside, once more staring out into the stormy night.

Weariness dragged her down and yet there was a jumpy excitement inside her, a fluttery sensation that she knew was because of the storm, but more so because of Dylan. She turned back to the bed and pulled down the puffy white duvet cover. The sheets slid cool and smooth over her skin as she climbed in.

“Will the light bother you if I read for a while longer?” he asked.

“No.” She turned onto her side, facing away from the light. She closed her eyes.

Her body buzzed and hummed. She willed herself to relax. The workout had fatigued her body, the jet lag was clouding her mind, and yet still she couldn’t go to sleep. She adjusted the pillow beneath her head. She fixed her tank top where it bunched under her ribs. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow, flipped onto her back, and then rolled to her side again.

She jumped when a hand landed on her back.

“Hey,” Dylan said softly. “What’s wrong? Can’t get to sleep?”

“No.”

His hand rubbed over her cotton top in small, slow circles. “Are you worried about the storm?”

“A little.”

“Worried about me?”

“What do you mean?” She kept her face averted and nibbled her bottom lip.

“I’m not really going to molest you.”

“I know that.” Some of the tension released from her muscles at his gentle touch on her back.

“It’ll all be fine,” he said.

She nodded. A slow lethargy began stealing over her and she sank into the bed. She rolled to her stomach again and he broadened his strokes, rubbing her back from her nape to the small of her back. Her buttocks tingled and then suddenly she was tense again. Geez! She wanted him to touch her butt! What was wrong with her? He was nice enough to give her a sweet, gentle, completely non-sexual back rub and she was getting turned on.