Tamed by You (8 page)

He wouldn't mind sex though
—
but only if Valentine was volunteering herself.

He tried not to picture her naked,
in
nothing but her heels and those pearls she
always
wore. He tried not to imagine messing up her hair—messing up her tidy outfit. He didn't want to imagine kissing her, tasting her, pushing into her deep.

He wasn't successful.
It'd been pretty much the only thing on his mind since she'd accosted him in the coffee shop.

Inconvenient. He didn't have time for this. Every second ticking by made a boxing comeback more unlikely. He didn't have the luxury to mess around.

The door to her place opened, and Valentine stepped out. The weak winter sun cast a halo around her red hair, and the gold buttons on her suit winked at him, as if daring him to undo them.

The pale skin of her forehead furrowed, and her lips puckered in disapproval. "Aren't you coming in?"

Her pursed rosy mouth wiped his mind clear of all the arguments he'd been planning to make
. She was so little
,
but
she
pushed him around like she was twice his size.
It was cute, even if it was annoying.

"You need to come in. Now.
" She peered left and right, as if she expected someone to jump out at her. Then she waved him inside.

Curious, he followed her.

"Lock the door," she whispered loudly as he stepped inside.

"Are we being spied on?"

"It's totally likely." She grimaced. "My mother is visiting."

The pained look on her face said it all, and for the first time in the year since he stopped fighting he smiled.

S
h
e blinked her gorgeous eyes at him. "Oh."

"What?"

She shook her head and turned away, looking in her purse. "My mother may come down for a second. I'm just warning you."

He wondered what the blush creeping up the back of her neck meant. "
To make sure I don't eat you up?
"

"
Of course not. She's my boss. She
wants to
make sure I'm on track
."
She peered at him curiously. "Are you likely to eat me up?"

"No," he lied as he visualized pushing her down on that uncomfortable looking couch and finding out what she wore under her fussy clothes.

"Oh."

Did she sound disappointed? He thought so, but when she
perched properly on a chair
,
pointed to the one across from her
, and said "Sit," he knew he just imagined it.

He sat
despite himself.
"Look, I don't—"

Valentine leaned forward, looking like a demented wood sprite in businesswoman's clothing. "Do you have a mother?"

"Yes."

"Imagine her staying with you."

He winced. He loved his mom, but she'd driven him crazy after he'd awakened from his coma. She was the reason he'd gone to Bull's to recover. "Ouch."

"Exactly. Worse, because she's not feeling well and it's up to me to help her get better."

"Why is it up to you?"

She looked puzzled by the question at first. "Because, I work with her, unfortunately."

"
Unfortunately?
If
you don't like it
, why don't you branch out on your own?"

A wistful expression
swept across
her face so quickly he was sure he imagined that
, too
. S
h
e shook her head firmly. "The firstborn daughter in each generation of my family is a matchmaker. I'd break the line if I did anything else."

"
Y
ou could branch out with your own matchmaking business." He gazed at her steadily, studying her for tells. "But you'd do something else
,
"
he realized.

She blushed but quickly shook her head. "Don't be ridiculous. Matchmaking is my destiny."

"You don't sound convinced about that."

S
h
e frowned. "When did you learn to talk?"

"I always knew how. M
o
st people just don't warrant it."

"A
n
d I'm the lucky one who does." S
he grinned
. "
I must be a masochist, but
I like that."

H
e
must have been a masochist, too, because he
liked her smile. A lot. He shifted and cleared his throat.
"I was thinking about this, and—"

"You were thinking about this?" She blinked her big blue eyes. "That's super."

"No, I mean—"

"Because this next part of the process is going to be a little more difficult." She took out her phone and began poking at it. "The questions I asked took a little time but were pretty easy. I have a good idea of what type of woman would be suited to you—"

"I already know what type I want." The type with freckles, who plays dress-up, and was within grabbing distance.

"Then we can discuss that," she said in that prim, schoolteacher way that turned him on. "But first we need to assess your skills."

"Skills?" He was afraid to ask what that meant.

She nodded. "It's not hard to find people you'd be attracted to, but keeping them and developing a relationship require more work. So part of our matchmaking process is to determine which areas you excel in and give you lessons in the areas that you might not."

"What areas are we talking about?" he asked suspiciously.

"Usually things like clothing and grooming." She looked at his head but didn't say what she was obviously thinking. "And other things, like dating etiquette."

It must have been because he'd been distracted by her mouth that made him ask, "What about kissing?"

"Kissing?" Her gaze fell to his mouth.

"Kissing is important, isn't it?" The devil on his shoulder prodded him to move his chair next to hers. "Do you give
lessons in that
,
too
?"

"No." She licked her lips. "Not normally."

"E
ven in an emergency?
"

"
Is this an emergency?
" she whispered.

His heart was racing like it was. He brushed her cheek and lifted her face. "
Yes.
"

He knew better, but he couldn't stop himself from closing the gap and lowering his lips to hers.

The kiss was the most erotic moment of his life. Valentine may have been prim and proper on the outside, but on the inside she was a love goddess.
She gave herself to him, melting against him in a way that was so pure and uncalculated it made him want her more.

He ate at her, savoring her and her little mewling cries. He wasn't sure he'd have stopped if her phone hadn't rung.

She lifted her head. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips red and shiny. "I need to get that."

"Don't." He wanted more, and he leaned in to take it.

"Here." She slapped a card against his chest.

He stared at it, not sure where it'd come from. "What's this?"

"It's for a stylist." Valentine moved her chair away from him as she smoothed back her hair. "
Before you growl at me, she's excellent. I've already talked to her. She's waiting for you.
N
ow.
"

For some reason, he felt a deep disappointment in his chest. "
You aren't going with me?
" he finally asked.

"
I have another client.
"

Ethan
pictured another guy touching her
, kissing her,
and
he
want
ed
to punch a wall. "You aren't giving
your other client
kissing lessons. Y
o
u aren't giving
anyone
kissing lessons."

"It's a she, and no, I'm not." She lifted her proper chin. "I'm sorry that got out of control. T
h
at was unprofessional of me. It won't happen again."

The hell it wouldn't. He glared at her
as he got up to leave.

"Ethan?"

Hand on the doorknob, he turned around.

Valentine cleared her throat. "For the record, you don't need kissing lessons. That's one of the areas you excel at, obviously."

He was torn between charging back to kiss her again and running long and far away. Annoyed, frustrated, angry, and turned on beyond belief, he glared. "Next time, maybe I'll show you another thing I'm really good at."

She blushed as she realized what he meant, but—damn it all—she looked interested in finding out.

Let her wonder. He pushed the door open and walked outside. No way in hell was it going to happen. He assured himself of that all the way to the stylist.

If only he believed it.

Chapter Eight

Sophie leaned her forearms on the edge of the Jacuzzi, floating on her stomach. Her journal lay propped open on a towel, to protect it, and she tapped her pen against her lips. Something was wrong with her scene.

And she knew exactly what it was: In this scene, her heroine talked to the big-shot director remaking
Gone with the Wind
, asking him to consider casting her as Scarlett O'Hara, and he was less than enthusiastic.

The problem was that she was basing the scene on real life
: the conversation she had with Pal Greenland.

She'd finally gotten a hold of him today, and he'd agreed to consider her for the role. It'd taken all her wiles to get him to agree, even though he himself said the non-obvious choice could be brilliant, but since all her experience was in romantic comedies he wasn't sure she had the range to pull off the role. She'd had to do some fast talking to get him to agree to a screen test.

She hadn't done a screen test in ten years. She knew everyone expected Sophie Martineau to be too much of a diva to do a screen test, but that wasn't the reason she balked at doing it. She was scared. What if she bombed?

Nerves coiled tight in her belly. She needed this role. She wasn't sure what she'd do if she didn't get it.

Refocusing on her scene, Sophie would have frowned at it except she wasn't going to give Pal Greenland the satisfaction of causing her wrinkles. He was an ass, but he was the ass who was remaking
Doctor Zhivago
, and Sophie wanted the part of Lara, Zhivago's
ill-fated lover.

What s
he needed to
do was
bring an element of levity into the scene. She scratched through the two pages she'd written and started fresh, giving her heroine Desiree figurative balls. Big ones. Desiree would enter the interview wearing a
frothy
Southern-belle gown
with a parasol and
h
uge
confident smile.

"What are you doing in here?" a manly voice asked over the rumble of the Jacuzzi.

Tony's voice.

Sophie froze, startled, aware that her butt was probably very visible in the water, even with the jets going. She took her time turning around, composing herself enough to say, "If it's not obvious, you should get your eyes checked."

Tony leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his gaze hooded. "I think my vision is pretty accurate."

Good God, she hoped not. He was probably like the other men in Hollywood, who dated women half their age. She worked hard for her body but even she couldn't compete with a girl.

"You haven't told me what you're doing in my bathtub," he said. He wore a suit, still as immaculate as he'd been when he'd left the house that morning. I
t
was intimidating
, actually.

She shrugged, playing nonchalant even though her heart was pounding. She felt like Goldilocks caught by the big bear. Only she was naked and wet, and she wouldn't have minded if the bear ate her all up. She swallowed. "I'm taking a bath."

"I see that. Why
my
bath?"

She shrugged, waving her arms casually over the top of the water to obscure the view of her body. "Have you seen the tiny bathtub in my room?"

"It's a two-person tub." He loosened his tie as he entered the bathroom and closed the door.

"But yours has a view." She liked his bathroom best, even if it was gaudier than a bordello. The Jacuzzi was outstanding—even better than the one she had in her LA house. He didn't know it, but she'd been sneaking in here to use it for the past two weeks since she'd discovered it while snooping.

"The view has a price." He dropped his tie on the gold-flecked marble countertop and shrugged out of his coat.

She swallowed, trying not to gawk at the sight of his manly shoulders. If he looked like this in clothing, she was pretty sure she'd hyperventilate if he stripped. "What are you doing?"

"Joining you."

Fear and desire—and longing that she didn't want to feel—rushed through her. She pretended she was on stage and lifted her head as though she were already Lara. "I haven't invited you to join me."

"You better invite me quick, then." He tugged his dress shirt out and undid his slacks, holding her gaze the entire time, as if daring her to shy away.

As if. She was agitated because she hadn't felt this way in—well,
ever
. She wasn't stupid enough to shy away from it.

It was more than just sex. She hadn't had sex in a long time. A
really
long time. Jeremy had been eye candy, and he'd wanted her, but somehow it wasn't very satisfying. Something had been missing.

Tony wasn't missing anything.

But she wasn't going to think of him like that. She wasn't one of those women who lusted after a man who didn't want her. She was great, and she knew she deserved the best.

Although as he
undressed,
she wondered if he wasn't one of the best. She didn't know how old he was, but he had years on Jeremy, who was twenty-six, and he looked better than the young actor. His shoulders were muscular, his abs were defined, and he had just the right amount of hair on his pecs to make him manly.