An hour later, she waited behind the door of her office, dressed, accessorized and perfumed, feeling like her old self. Cool, calm Suzanne Barron, staid interior decorator whose idea of excitement was matching plaid and stripes. And not Suzanne Barron, out of control sexpot.
She felt perfectly capable of dealing with John Huntington now, but she listened carefully at the door, just the same. It’s not like she was trying to avoid him or anything, but eight o’clock was pretty early for anyone to start moving into a new office, wasn’t it? He’d said his former office was off Pioneer Square, which wasn’t close. He’d probably start moving in around ten, when she had an appointment with Todd Armstrong, her sometime business partner, and before that she had an appointment with a new fabric designer to look at swatches, so she was probably off the hook for this morning. And Marissa Carson would take all afternoon, so she wouldn’t be home until late.
Maybe she wouldn’t see John at all until tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better. Oh, yes. Tomorrow she’d be all rested up and feeling normal and not like—like she was going to jump out of her skin.
Yes, she’d talk to John tomorrow.
Her shoulders relaxed at the thought as she put her ear to the door again to listen for noises. She listened for another minute to the complete silence on the other side of the door and with a sigh of relief pulled the door open. And froze.
The door to the rental apartment was wide open and the big room across the hallway was already stacked with what looked like a depot’s worth of electronic gear. Four large men—four very large men—were marching in single file with big cardboard boxes balanced on one shoulder. John Huntington followed them, carrying a huge thin-screen computer monitor.
None of them was making a sound. Not even a whisper.
John turned at the sound of the door opening and stopped. Just stopped in his tracks and looked at her, face set. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
The effects of that pep talk to herself about how she was going to be cool, calm and collected when meeting John Huntington disappeared in a tidal wave of heat coursing through her.
God, please don’t let me blush. She desperately sent up a silent prayer, but knew it was too late. She could feel the blush all the way down to her breasts, the blood pumping from her suddenly pounding heart. It rattled against her rib cage.
How could she be calm and collected when the mere sight of the man sent the blood in a hot rush through her veins?
This wasn’t the first time her heart had ever pounded. Her heart rate increased nicely after a hard workout at the gym. She loved horror movies and the Walking Dead could get her heart knocking.
But this was different.
The instant she’d seen John, her whole system started throbbing. Her heart set up a jungle beat. Hot and hard. Primeval, primitive. It would have been almost…exciting if it didn’t scare her so much.
Her clothes, ripped and torn, hung from the doorknob and Suzanne felt her face flame even harder. Remnants of her pretty pink lace La Perla bra hung limply on top. She snatched the clothes, bundled them quickly and tossed them back into her office, shutting the door firmly behind her. But her cool resolve was gone completely.
John advanced as quietly as he always did, dark eyes inspecting her carefully. The odd color gleamed as his eyes narrowed, the color of an ancient sword reflecting sunlight.
He was just as tall, just as broad as she remembered. The effect he had on her was worse then the first time she’d seen him, because now she knew how he kissed, how rough the skin of his hands was, how it felt to have his…
No! Don’t think like that or you’ll implode.
“Good morning.” She tried to keep her voice remote and businesslike. Landlady to tenant. Completely impersonal. She tilted her head up, aware all over again of how tall he was, how big. “You’re starting early.”
“Yeah. I don’t like to waste time.” His eyes never left hers. She was the one to look away.
The four men had deposited their burdens in the first room, gone outside, and come back in with more boxes. Still without making a sound.
“Men.” John’s deep voice was soft but it got results. He had his back to them, but the four men stopped in their tracks, put down their burdens, and stood stiffly to attention. “Meet our new landlady, Suzanne Barron.”
“Ma’am,” four bass voices said in unison.
John clamped a big hand around her upper arm, turned around and nudged her forward. Not particularly gently.
“Suzanne, let me introduce my men. You’ll be seeing them around a lot. Pete, Steve, Les and Jacko.” As he said their names, each man stepped forward, took her hand in his much larger one and squeezed, very carefully, for two seconds. Through all of it, John didn’t release her left arm.
How foolish she’d been to think that John looked like a biker. These men looked like bikers, with torn jeans, earrings and sweatshirts with the sleeves ripped off. The last one—Jacko?—was truly frightening, broader even than John, with a shaved head—probably to make up for Les, with his waist-length French braid—sloping weight-lifter shoulders, biceps as big as footballs, pierced nostrils, and barbed wire tattos around his wrists. But he said “ma’am” politely, just like the others, and gently squeezed her hand with a shy smile.
“Inside, men.” John said, never taking his eyes or his hand from her. “Door locked.”
Just like that, they picked up their burdens and disappeared silently into John’s office. The sound of the lock engaging was loud in the silent, empty hallway.
John immediately moved forward, invading her personal space. Lover-close. She stepped back, alarmed.
That was supposed to be his cue to back off, but he didn’t take it. She retreated and he advanced until her back hit the wall. She closed her eyes for a second, remembering that wall. What he had done to her against that wall. How much she had loved it while he was doing it to her and how much she hoped it wouldn’t happen again.
Once was quite enough.
Closing her eyes wasn’t much help because she could smell him. Rain and leather and man, a smell that would forever be etched into the deepest recesses of her brain, the reptilian animal part of the brain that never, ever forgets. That smell would be associated until the end of time with the kind of wild sex no woman should ever have, for her own peace of mind. His scent enveloped her and her entire body quivered.
“Look at me. Talk to me. Are you all right?” John’s voice was harsh, his hand shaking her a little, as if she’d fallen asleep. “Did I hurt you last night?”
Her eyes popped open. If she breathed deeply, her breasts would touch his chest. She laid a hand against his leather jacket. It was wet from outdoors. She pushed slightly and he stepped back just enough for her to feel a little less crowded.
“Of course I’m all right.” She bit her lip. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because I was rough, and you were tight,” he answered bluntly.
She blinked, his hard words evoking memories she couldn’t handle. I can’t do this, she thought, slithering sideways.
“No, um, no, I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’m…fine. Just fine. Don’t worry about it, I was…I’m…” If she said fine again she’d scream. He was looking down at her intently. How to deal with this man? She had no idea and started walking briskly toward the door, hoping to make a quick escape. He fell right into step beside her.
This wasn’t going at all like the scenario she’d imagined in her head—the one where they politely said hello, how are you, wished each other good day and went their separate ways—though it very much felt like a John Huntington scenario. The one where she was kept off her guard constantly.
“I didn’t use a rubber last night,” he said and she stopped and closed her eyes again.
The feel of him hard and hot inside her, erupting. Afterwards, the unmistakable wetness.
Her thighs quivered. She might be trying to erase the memory of the rough, exciting sex from her mind but her body remembered. Oh, how it remembered.