In Shady Grove: About That Night Part 6

The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside. Chose the top floor. Mooning over him was complete idiocy of course. And a total waste of time. She'd given him the brush-off, and he'd respected that. Despite his initial persistence, he hadn't pushed. Hadn't attempted to talk to her again.

She'd figured that would be the end of it. That one of those too many times she'd glanced his way, he'd be pulling out the charm for some other woman. Men. Such fickle, sensitive creatures. She was sure that, after her rejection, he'd move on. Forget all about her.

He hadn't. He'd watched her, just as much as she'd watched him. Throughout the night, she'd felt his gaze on her, warm as a flame, insistent as a touch. And when she'd made the mistake of meeting his eyes, even from across the room, those d.a.m.n sparks she'd felt when he'd grasped her shoulders were still there.

The elevator dinged as it opened on her floor, and she walked down the empty hallway, her footsteps m.u.f.fled by the thick carpet. She stopped at room 801, stared at the door. Biting her lower lip, she realized she'd forgotten to reapply her lipstick. Hadn't even taken the time to check her hair. c.r.a.p. If those weren't signs that she should turn her little self around and get back in the elevator, she didn't know what was.

Except her body didn't seem to be getting the message. Instead of turning, she raised her hand, curled her fingers into a fist. Instead of walking away, she knocked softly on that door.

He'd sent her running. And that would not do. It was demoralizing to realize she'd been such a coward. He was just a man. A gorgeous, confident, s.e.xy man who was obviously interested in her. The day she couldn't handle a man was the day they needed to take away her high heels and shove her into a pair of mom jeans.

She knocked again, louder this time. s.h.i.+fted her weight from her right side to her left. The attraction between them was undeniable and mutual. There was nothing to be afraid of.

As long as she was the one in control.

The door opened and there he stood, in all his six-feet-plus glory. And my, my, my, what glory it was. Heaven had blessed the man, that was for sure. His shoes, coat, tie and hat were gone, the sleeves of his s.h.i.+rt rolled up, the top three b.u.t.tons undone. His hair was shorter than she'd realized, the conservative cut highlighting the strong line of his jaw.

She missed the hat. Wondered if she could talk him into putting it back on.

He skimmed his cool, green gaze over her, his lips curving into a c.o.c.ky smirk. It took all her willpower not to bolt down the hall as if the hounds of h.e.l.l were chasing her.

But then his lips flattened, his gaze lingered-not on her b.o.o.bs or her hips, but on her mouth-before he raised his eyes to hers.

Not so cool, not so disinterested, after all.

Silly man. Did he really think he could one-up her?

She smiled. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

"I didn't order room service," he said, nodding toward the champagne in her hand.

"On the house. Looks like it's your lucky day, cowboy."

"That so?" he murmured, the huskiness in his voice causing her scalp to p.r.i.c.kle. "Funny, but it doesn't feel that way."

Ivy waved her free hand in the air. "All of that is changing. You, my friend, are about to have a reversal of fortune and in the very best way possible."

"Because I get free champagne?"

"Even better." She tipped her head to the side, her lips curving in an unspoken invitation. "You get to have a drink with me, after all."

"Just you?" he asked drily. "Or you and that healthy ego you're carrying around?"

Her smile was quick and appreciative and completely unembarra.s.sed. "We're a package deal."

But when she stepped forward, he leaned against the door frame, all casual grace and stubbornness, blocking her. "To what do I owe this reversal of fortune?"

"Good karma?" She shrugged, didn't miss the way he glanced at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s before yanking his focus back to her face. "Clean living, perhaps?"

He studied her. Looking for whatever answer he needed to hear to let himself get over her earlier rejection. Let him look. She kept her thoughts and her secrets well hidden.

"If you're waiting for me to beg," she said, her tone threaded with humor and a hint of nerves she prayed he couldn't detect, "you're going to be very disappointed."

"I've never been into making people beg," he told her. "For any reason. I'm waiting for you to tell me why you changed your mind."

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I'm afraid it does."

"Most men wouldn't question their good fortune. They'd either accept it as their due or run with it before that luck turned again."

"Well, now, darlin', here's the thing." Leaning toward her, he spoke directly into her ear, his words quiet, his breath warm against her skin. "I'm not most men."

"I guess you're not. But since it's not enough for you that I'm here, that I've changed my mind, which is a woman's prerogative as I'm sure you know, maybe I should just...change it again."

A dare. A challenge. One meant to inspire him to let her off the hook. To accept what she was willing to give, no matter what her reasons.

Or watch her walk away again.

He s.h.i.+fted, bringing their bodies close but not touching. The urge to move back was as strong as the one to step forward. Doing neither, she tipped her head to maintain eye contact.

"I'm not asking for a lot," he said. "Just the truth."

Her laugh was part snort of disbelief, part oh-you-simple-man-you. "Ah, but the truth is the most powerful thing out there."

Their gazes locked. She didn't know whether to laugh or shout in frustration. They were at an obvious impa.s.se. And how had that happened? Men didn't argue with her, for G.o.d's sake. They didn't question her motives. Didn't care about those motives, as long as they got what they wanted in the end.

I'm not most men.

That was why she was here, she reminded herself. What attracted her to him.

And wasn't that coming back to bite her in the a.s.s?

It didn't matter what he decided, she told herself. Didn't matter that she was holding her breath waiting, that her palms were growing damp. If she walked away, he'd be the one kicking himself for letting her go.

Her pride nudged her to get moving already. Reminded her that she wasn't some pathetic woman in need of a man's approval or his attention. She was strong. Independent. Brave enough to go after what she wanted.

Of course, her pride was also what had pushed her to come to his room in the first place.

Stupid pride.

"Your loss, cowboy," she said, though she wondered if she wasn't losing, as well. She turned, but before she could take a step, he s.n.a.t.c.hed her wrist, held it loosely.

"Don't."

It wasn't an entreaty, more like a command.

Looked as if she wasn't the only one who refused to beg.

Ducking her head, she indulged in a small, triumphant grin before facing him. She flicked a glance to his hand on her, then back up to his eyes. "You have a choice here, cowboy. A very simple one. You can spend the night alone, holding on to your grudge. Or," she continued, sliding closer until her knee b.u.mped his leg, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s inches from his chest, "you could spend the night holding on to me." She lowered her voice to a soft, seductive whisper. "What's it going to be?"

Her breath was caught in her chest. Antic.i.p.ation and nerves warred inside her. His mouth was a grim line, his chest rising and falling steadily as if he were completely unaffected by her nearness. Her words. The image she'd invoked of them together.

As if he really was going to send her on her way.

She needed to leave. To make her exit with as much dignity as possible.

To make it before he took the choice away from her.

But when she tried to tug her wrist free, his grip tightened. She swallowed. Her hand trembled.

He stepped aside and pulled her into his room.

THE WAITRESS SMILED, a small, self-satisfied grin that was incredibly s.e.xy, as she brushed past him. "I guess your mama didn't raise any fools, after all."

C.J. forced himself to let go of her. Shut the door.

He didn't compromise. Didn't negotiate. And he sure as h.e.l.l didn't give in.

And yet, the fact that she was standing here said otherwise.

"My mother would punch me in the throat if I dared call her mama," he said. "Plus, she helped raise my brother, and he's an idiot."

The waitress tipped her head to the side, making all that abundant hair slide over her shoulder. "Ah, yes, the groom-to-be."

"You know Kane?" He wasn't sure if that was a point in her favor. Or against it.

"We're not acquainted, if that's what you're asking. Although I did go to school with Charlotte."

"Then how did you know he's my brother?" Another thought occurred to him, one he would have considered much earlier had she not scrambled his thoughts so easily. Too easily. "How did you know which room is mine?"

"Oh, I have my ways," she said with a wink. Then she turned and walked farther into the suite, as if expecting him to trail after her like some sort of puppy, eager for her time. A pat on the head.

His eyes dropped to the sway of her hips, the way her skirt hugged her a.s.s.

And he followed.

Not his fault. He was, underneath the wealth, a simple man.

"When I stay at a hotel," he said as she set the champagne on the wooden bar next to the window, "I expect my privacy to be respected."

"Not much privacy in Shady Grove, I'm afraid. Or, I'd guess, in small towns in general. Pretty much everyone knows everyone else. If you don't, you can still get the information want. You just need to pay attention." She bent, searched under the bar for a moment, then straightened with a cloth napkin in her hand. Unwrapped the foil from around the bottle and loosened the wire cage. "People say all sorts of things in front of-as your mother so charmingly described me-the help. When a guest needs something or has a complaint, we get all the attention. But most of the time, we're invisible, just ghosts delivering drinks and cleaning up messes."

She didn't sound bothered by it, more as though she was stating a fact.

He skimmed his gaze over her face. No hards.h.i.+p there. He'd spent the greater part of his evening wanting to get another close-up look at her. He wasn't going to waste one moment of it. Not when he'd given up hope of seeing her again.

"You could never be invisible," he told her, his voice gruff. "And you know it."

A small smile playing on her lips, she inclined her head as if in thanks. Or agreement. "Either way, I hear plenty. Probably more than people realize. And you, Clinton Bartasavich Jr., were a hot topic of conversation."

"Is that so?"

He got enough gossip in Houston. He sure as h.e.l.l didn't need it following him to this Podunk town.

"Now, don't be getting all sensitive," she said, obviously detecting the irritation in his tone. She covered the cork with the napkin, pressed the bottom of the bottle against her hip and neatly twisted until there was a soft pop. "If you hadn't wanted people to talk about you, you probably shouldn't have worn that hat."

"I like my Stetson," he said easily.

She made a humming sound. Pulled out two winegla.s.ses from the shelf. "Yes. So did plenty of the women at the party. Trista Macken's grandmother wondered what you would look like in it...and nothing else."

The back of his neck warmed with embarra.s.sment. He glanced at his hat, sitting on the desk next to his open laptop. "Someone's grandmother imagined me naked? I might never wear the d.a.m.ned thing again."

"If it helps, I think the only reason she said it was because all the chardonnay she was guzzling loosened her tongue and her inhibitions."

Frowning, he considered it. Shook his head. "Nope. Doesn't help."

"Don't be too hard on Mrs. Macken. She was actually the one I overheard say you were Kane's brother." The waitress poured champagne into the gla.s.ses. Picked them up and sashayed toward him, a siren in high heels and tiny skirt, certain of her appeal, confident of the effect she had on a man. "Though I'd already guessed you two were related, given the resemblance between you."

"That still doesn't explain how you knew which room was mine."

"Now, that's where my amazing deductive skills come into play." Stopping in front of him, she offered him a gla.s.s. After he took it, she sat on the sofa and crossed those long legs, her foot swinging idly. "It's obvious no regular room would do for someone like you-"

"Someone like me?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

She vaguely waved a hand at him. "The designer suit, diamond cuff links and that air of privilege and ent.i.tlement surrounding you make it clear you only accept the best. The best suites at King's Crossing are all on this floor, the top floor. The best rooms, the best views of the river... It was all pretty simple, really."

"And you knocked on every door on this floor until you found me?"

"Not quite. Come," she said, patting the spot next to her. "Have a seat and I'll tell you a secret. You can keep a secret, can't you?"

He sat, his thigh pressed against hers. Let his gaze drop to her mouth for one long minute before meeting her gaze again. "If the price is right, I can."

"I asked a coworker who works the front desk to find your room number."

"Which coworker?" It had to have been a man. What warm-blooded, heteros.e.xual male could refuse her anything?

"So you can get him fired?" She shook her head. "I don't think so."

He set aside his untouched champagne. "Maybe I want to thank him."

She laughed, a slow, s.e.xy sound, which did nothing to help his already screwed-up equilibrium. "You don't. You want to march down there and hand him his a.s.s."

"More of your deductive skills at work?"

"More like good, old-fas.h.i.+oned common sense. It's clear you're a man used to getting what you want. You don't ask for anything. You demand it. And when you don't get it, there's h.e.l.l to pay."