She didn’t want to, but she did.
“Well, we can’t have that Saturday.”
“I know.”
He then turned and began going through her drawers, searching for what, she had no idea. “What are you looking for?”
“Something that’ll substitute for the dress you’ll be wearing.”
“You already have the dress?”
“Yes.”
Sarita had a thousand questions, but he was focused on his search. He closed the drawer and opened another. She watched him consider and discard nightgown after nightgown. He then went to the closet. Shaking her head at his intensity, she strolled to the edge of the closet and leaned against the jamb to watch. He pulled another nightgown down from the rack, studied it for a moment, then handed it to her.
Sarita looked skeptically at the slinky, navy silk gown, or was it a slip? Suffice it to say it was more forties diva wear. It had spaghetti straps, a triangle-cut bodice, and a very low back. The discreet slit up the side would run from her ankle to midthigh. Surely he didn’t believe she was going to wear it to dance in. “Why do you want me to wear this?”
“Because it’s something like the dress you’ll be wearing to the reception.”
“I think I’ll stick to the sweats,” she declared, holding out the gown so he could take it back.
He ignored the offering. Walking past her, he said instead, “Get dressed. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Chandler—”
“Ten minutes,” he repeated quietly at the door. He opened it and stepped out. As it closed, Sarita let out a soft, irritated sigh.
True to his word, he came back ten minutes later. Sarita had put on the gown, but she wasn’t at all happy about it.
Myk on the other hand was standing in the doorway, trying not to stare openly at the midnight blue silk flowing smoothly around the delicate lines and curves of her body as only silk can. Her bare shoulders were bisected by the thin straps. His ring hung from her throat, and the soft swells of her breasts rose provocatively above the unadorned bodice. The issues Myk had with her faded into the distance. Right there, right then, the only thing that mattered was feasting his eyes on the brown sugar beauty across the room. From the queenly sweep of her short-cut hair to the slim ankles above her bare feet in the short strappy black sandals, she was luscious, ripe, and damned if he didn’t want her. In light of the circumstances forcing them together, desiring her made no sense, but the male in Myk didn’t care. She piqued his interest the very first time he’d laid eyes on her.
Because he’d been staring at her for so long Sarita felt compelled to ask, “Is this better?”
Myk ran his eyes over her hungrily. “Yes.” In reality it was way more than better. Lord, she was lovely.
Sarita was very conscious of everything; the feel of the silk against her skin; the way his eyes traveled over the bareness of her shoulders and throat. Even though she didn’t know what he was thinking, his intense gaze touched her like a flame. “Are we going to dance in here?” she asked, needing to say something, anything.
“No. Let’s go downstairs.”
He led her to a shadow-filled room she’d not been in before. It was long and wide and had huge floor-to-ceiling windows running the length of one wall. The thick pulled-back drapes with their soft pleats were graceful and elegant. The flames in the fireplace lit the room with a soft hush.
He walked over to a large wooden armoire and opened its double doors to reveal the impressive display of audio and video components inside. “The original owner of the house used this room as a ballroom,” he explained to her while looking through the CDs. “When my brother forces me to have dinner parties, it becomes my dining room. The table’s over there beneath the tarp.”
Her eyes brushed the long green tarp shrouding the table. Other than a pool table down at the far end of the room and the huge flat-screen TV on the wall, the room had few other furnishings. “What do you use it for in the meantime?”
“Recreation.”
Music drifted into the room then, a quiet hypnotic sax, and Sarita’s nervousness returned full force. He walked over to her and held out his arms. “Well, let’s try this.” Sarita didn’t really want to, but, gathering her courage, she walked to where he stood, then stopped a short step away. He wordlessly took her hand in his, then raised it slightly while his other arm circled her waist, coming to rest just above the crown of her hips. Even though the room was awash in shadows, his eyes were brilliant as the sun. There was a reasonable amount of space between their bodies, but she was trembling just the same.
On the beat, they began to slow dance—old-school style; he led, and she was supposed to follow, but she was so nervous she couldn’t relax enough to let herself be guided by the music’s languid notes, and so her steps were awkward and clumsy. When she stumbled over his foot, his skeptical eyes met hers, and she winced in embarrassment.
“Relax,” he whispered.
She tried, but she was so overwhelmed by his closeness, a few steps later, she tripped again.
“I thought you said you could dance?”
“I can.”
“My feet think otherwise.”
“It’s not like I can hurt you in these thin shoes, Chandler.”
He gazed down at the painted toes peeking out of the expensive little sandals, but didn’t comment.
Sarita was determined to get through this. “Okay, I’m ready now.”
He looked skeptical, but began again. She concentrated on matching his short steps and flowing movement, willing herself to take deep breaths. His hand holding hers was warm; the arm around her waist gentle but firm. Sarita made it to the end of the song without any further stumbling, but just barely.
When the music faded away, she backed out of his arms so she could regain her composure. Her reprieve was short. The beautiful and familiar strains of “Creepin’”—Luther’s version—came out of the speakers. The song, about a woman creeping into a man’s dreams, was originally written and recorded by Stevie Wonder, and was one of Sarita’s all-time favorites. She was quite surprised to hear the tune coming out of Chandler’s speakers, though.
Her reaction must have shown on her face because he asked, “What, I’m not supposed to listen to Luther?”
She was embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think a man like you…”
“Liked music?”
Her embarrassment soared. “Maybe it’s because I associate jazz with men your age.”
Myk’s eyebrow rose. “Men my age? I’m forty, Sarita, not seventy-five.”
Sarita decided she’d said enough. To keep the hole from becoming any deeper, she told him apologetically, “It’s not as if I know a lot about you.”
Myk searched her face in the shadows and said quietly, “Well, now you know that I like Luther.” He held out his arms, “Let’s try again.”
With Luther’s sweet voice singing softly, Myk eased her close and let the music guide his feet. In spite of the need to keep her at arm’s length, he found himself savoring her scent, her nearness, and the tantalizing feel of her body moving in tandem with his own. He was careful to keep a respectful distance between them though. He didn’t want to alarm her or have her think this was just a cheap way for him to take advantage of her, but the perfumed heat of her leaping across the gap was undermining his control.
Sarita didn’t know if the spell of Luther’s voice was responsible, but she felt more relaxed, more comfortable. Her shaking had all but subsided, and she was actually enjoying dancing with him. She followed his steps as if they’d been partners for years.
In a tone that matched the hush in the room, he said to her, “For a lady under forty, you slow dance well.”
The words pleased her. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” His eyes drank her in, and the soft smile she offered up made his heart clang in his chest. The uncharacteristic reaction caught him by surprise. Suppressing the contradictory emotions, he redirected his
attention to the matter at hand. “If we’re going to be convincing newlyweds, we should be dancing closer,” he pointed out.
Sarita knew he was right, but having just gotten comfortable enough to stop trembling, she wasn’t sure she could handle it. “Closer is fine,” she tossed back, more bravely than she felt.
Wordlessly, he eased them closer and when his hard frame met her soft skin, she was sure her clothes were going to catch fire. His body touched her everywhere it seemed; hardening her nipples, making her feel the warm male pressure of his thighs against her own. She wanted to swoon but pretended she wasn’t affected.
She sensed he was pretending, too. The blaze in his eyes made her heart do tiny flip-flops. Their steps slowed, then stopped.
“The groom will be expected to kiss the bride.”
Sarita swallowed dryly.
“Think you can handle that?” His voice was as dark as his gaze.
She tried to form words, but no sound emerged.
He cocked his head at her. “Speechless?” He smiled softly. “That’s different, coming from you. May I?”
She nodded.
With his finger he coaxed her chin up, then lowered his lips to hers. She drew back nervously. He paused, gave her a moment to collect herself, then resumed his journey to her lips. He found the target closed tight as a childproof bottle.
Myk drew himself back up to his full height and chuckled sarcastically, “Oh, yeah. You’re going to do just fine at the reception.”
Sarita’s eyes fled. Truthfully, she was afraid to kiss him because she knew how good it was going to be. To him, this was a game, but she’d never played at love before and didn’t know the rules.
He asked, “Is it me or just inexperience?”
Silence.
“Sarita?” He gently raised her chin so their eyes could meet. “Talk to me.”
“This is just so strange, that’s all. I’m okay now.”
He studied her for a moment. “You sure?”
“Yes,” she lied.
Myk’s reports on her said that she had no special male friend, but he wanted to hear it from her lips. “Am I going to have an irate boyfriend on my hands because of this marriage?”
The question elicited a soft bitter chuckle. “No.”
“Not one?”
“Would it make a difference it there were?” she asked quietly, feeling the attraction between them beginning to sweep her away like a flood.
“No,” Myk replied. It wouldn’t. She was his wife, pretend or not. “Why no man?”
“I don’t have time for a man.” It was the truth; the few boyfriends in her past would all testify to that.
He asked, “All work and no play make Jill a dull girl?”
She gave him a small smile in response. “Something like that.”
The CD player had switched to another cut. Teddy. “Turn Out the Lights.” Sarita took in a deep breath.
He said, “Suppose we forget the kiss for now and just go back to dancing?”
Sarita nodded, glad he wasn’t going to force the issue.
He said to her then, “Okay, all I want you to do is relax. Lean in…let’s see if we can’t thaw you out, ice princess.”
She shot him a look of warning.
“Don’t worry, I won’t touch any parts that will get me slapped. Just dance.”
They began to move again, but as Teddy began to sing so seductively, and the music slid into her bones, Sarita became less concerned with what Chandler meant by “thawing her out” and just danced. His sweater felt soft beneath her cheek, his chest hard yet cushioning. His heart sounded strong and rhythmic against her ear, and the faint scent of his expensive cologne whispered to her nose.
Even though she was more relaxed, and they were moving easily together, her trembling returned, a normal reaction under the circumstances, she guessed, but she wanted to show him her control; show him that it didn’t matter that he was holding her close enough to meld their heartbeats or that she could feel his strong thighs through the thin silk of her gown. She very much wanted to be the ice princess he’d alluded to earlier—but it was hard to maintain that front.
He whispered against her forehead, “I’m going to touch you, now…”
True to his word, his hand came up and slowly began to move up and over the skin of her back. The flaring sensations that resulted closed her eyes.
“Keep dancing…” he instructed heatedly.
His finger traced the sensitive flesh on the back of her neck, then slid down to trail across her bare shoulder blades. As he brushed a fingertip over the soft small bone of her jaw, she knew she was one degree away from melting into a puddle on the floor. Even a woman with Sarita’s limited sexual experience knew expertise when she encountered it, and this man was no amateur. She could feel her shakes fading only to be replaced by a response far more complex. Next, he bent to brush his lips ever so gently against her jaw, and her breathing sounded jet-engine loud in her ears. She wanted to back away for a moment so she could catch her breath, but the urge dissolved under the caresses murmuring their way to the shell of her ear.
He whispered, “Now…”
This time, when his lips found hers, they were soft, yielding. Sparks flared. In fact, Myk found the experience so blood firing, he had to draw away or drown. He stared down into her passion-lidded eyes and knew this woman was capable of making him lose sight of all he was supposed to be; NIA be damned. That truth made him mentally shake himself. He’d thawed her out. He’d have to settle for that. “I think you’ll be okay tomorrow,” he said, turning her loose. “Good night.”
He exited, leaving Sarita breathless and alone.
Back in his room, Myk poured him a shot of Remy XO and took a seat on his love seat. He sipped at the fine cognac and thought about his new wife. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run from a woman, but he had just now. Had the kiss lasted one second longer, he would’ve been looking for a place to lay her down so he could coax her into letting him make slow, sweet love to her. He’d wanted her from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. She’d softened beneath his kiss so completely he could still taste her. Myk took another draw of the cognac. This is not good.
Lying in bed in the dark, Sarita stared at the ceiling. She touched her lips. They were still tingling. Was this really only a game for him, or was their marriage of convenience morphing into something more? Because of this night, she would forever link “Creepin’” with Chandler. But how could she keep him from creeping into her dreams?
Seven
The next morning, Sarita headed out of her bedroom intent upon breakfast when the smell of something burning made her pause on the steps. She sniffed the air curiously. A second later the wail of an activated smoke detector filled the house. Alarmed, she hustled down the stairs and ran to investigate.
In the kitchen she found Chandler walking a smoke-filled skillet to the sink. He’d protected his hand with a pot holder, but nothing had protected whatever he’d burned in the skillet.
Over the sound of the still-screaming alarm, she yelled drolly, “Cook often?”
He turned and glared.
“It was a joke, Chandler, goodness.”
Ignoring his mood, she grabbed a dish towel from the island counter and began to fan it up under the smoke detector. She shouted, “You might want to open those doors,” and pointed to the curtain-covered French doors that led to the deck outside.
Once he complied, the wind off the river floated in and thinned the smoke somewhat. The mess in the skillet was no longer a threat, but the scent of burned bacon permeated the air.
A frowning Myk looked over at her standing against the counter and decided she was sass personified. He wondered if she brought that spiritedness to a brother’s bed. “Good morning,” he said coolly.
“Didn’t look that good a morning when I first got here,” she tossed back with a straight face. “We have cooking classes at the center you know.”
He shot her a l
ook that let her know she was on the edge, so she cut the jokes. “All right, I’ll stop. It’s just nice knowing you’re human like the rest of us.”
She walked over to the fridge and opened the door. The interior shelves and niches were stocked well enough to feed twenty Chandlers. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Why?”
She looked his way. “I assume you want something to eat, and since it looks like I’m the only cook available…”
“Scrambled.”
She smiled inwardly and took out the container of eggs.
They shared a breakfast of scrambled eggs, grits, toast, and unburned bacon. Myk had to admit she was a much better cook than he, but then so was most of the free world. Myk couldn’t boil water. When he’d eaten his fill, he said to her genuinely, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
A silence fell between them then, and soon both were remembering last night’s dance. She remembered the way he’d kissed her, and he could still taste the sweetness of her lips.
Myk turned his thoughts to saner issues. “We have bank business at ten.”
She looked at her watch. It was eight-forty. “When do you want to leave?”
“How soon can you be ready?”
“Twenty, thirty minutes. Let me clean up in here first.”
“Don’t worry about it. You go and get dressed.”
The skillet and the pot that had held the grits were still sitting on the stove. Sarita knew Lily would want everything cleaned up and put away, but since Lily was in Atlanta and this was Chandler’s house, Sarita excused herself from the table and went back up to her room.
When she returned twenty-five minutes later, dressed in a new pair of jeans, a red cardigan sweater set, and a pair of low-heeled black boots, the kitchen was deserted. It was clean, however, and the dishwasher was running quietly. Since she was sure he hadn’t hired a housekeeper in her absence, she assumed he’d done the work himself. She was impressed. As she’d told him earlier, she was pleased to learn he was human. The way he carried himself gave the impression that he was bigger than life and that there was nothing he could not do. Well, he couldn’t fry bacon. Smiling to herself, she went to find him.