The Bedroom Business

“I do not dress to look sexy, Mr. McBride.”

“No.” Jake’s smile tilted as his eyes locked on hers. “You most certainly don’t, Miss Taylor. But you should. That’s going to be at the top of today’s agenda. Lesson one—How To Dress For A Man.”

“There is no agenda, today or any day. No lessons. I phoned to tell you that, but you’d already left your... What are you doing?”

It was a dumb question. What he was doing was curling his hand around the back of her neck, threading his fingers into her hair, moving closer to her, so close that she could smell the cold and the promise of snow on his skin.

“Jake.” Emily cleared her throat. “Didn’t you hear me? I’ve decided against your—your proposal. If I meet men, I’ll do it on my own, and my own way. I don’t want you to—”

Jake bent his head, brushed his lips gently over hers. Emily caught her breath. The touch of his mouth was light, so light she might have imagined it, but oh, she hadn’t. She’d felt the kiss, the electricity, straight down to her toes.

“Jake.” Her voice was shaky. “Please...”

“Please, what?”

His arms went around her. One hand slid under her pajama top and pressed gently against her naked back.

“Stop,” she said, or tried to say, but Jake was tugging her closer, smoothing his hand up and down her spine.

“I’m just demonstrating,” he whispered, his mouth soft against her ear. “Think of it as lesson one. How To Say Good Morning.”

“You said...” Emily bit back a moan. “You said lesson one would be—would be How To Dress For A...”

Oh. Oh, he had to stop doing that. He had to let her go. Or maybe she had to let him go because somehow, her hands had stolen up his chest; her fingers had danced into his hair; she was drawing his head down to hers, his mouth to hers...

Jake clasped her shoulders and stepped back.

“Coffee,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll have coffee while you get some clothes on.”

Emily swayed unsteadily. “Yes. Good. You have coffee while I...”

She turned, fled for the safety of the bedroom. Jake watched her go, told himself not to be an ass, not to go after her...

The door swung shut. He swallowed hard, felt for a chair, and sank into it.

So much for all his good intentions. He’d spent the night telling himself he’d done the right thing, when he’d walked away from Emily. That he was wrong for her. That she was wrong for him. He’d even gone through his address book, searching for the names of guys she might like. He had the list right here, in his jacket pocket.

And then he’d seen Emily standing in the doorway wear­ing an outfit that not even Marilyn Monroe in her heyday could have turned into something sexy, with her hair un­combed and her eyes a little puffy from sleep, and he’d had to work at not sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to bed.

Jake popped the lid off one of the cardboard containers, dumped in half a dozen packets of sugar, stirred the resultant mess and gulped a mouthful. Caffeine, a sugar high and whatever the cardboard residue might add to the mix was just what he needed. Either that, or a cold shower.

He groaned, downed the rest of his coffee, grabbed one of the bagels and bit into it. He’d bought plain bagels, not the garlic ones that were his favorites. Big mistake. All those old movies on late night TV about werewolves and vampires... Wasn’t it garlic that was supposed to keep them away?

Maybe it did the same thing when it came to keeping a man away from a woman he knew he shouldn’t want.

Jake gave a soft, unhappy laugh. Where was a garlic neck­lace, when you need one? And how in hell was he going to make it through the day?

He paced, paced some more. He could hear the shower running. Not a cold one. A warm one. And Emily was in that shower. She was naked, waiting for him...

Jake grabbed the paper, buried his face in it and went through the motions of reading, but he’d given up the pre­tence by the time Emily entered the kitchen again. He was standing at the window, his back to her, and her breath caught at the sight of him.

He’d taken off his leather jacket; he was wearing a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled midway up his mus­cled forearms. His hands were tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. His shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow, his legs long and slightly spread. It was the posture of a man who was self-assured and just a little dangerous.

Emily’s throat tightened. She’d thought about Jake, while she was showering. There was no lock on her bedroom door, or on the adjoining bathroom. And she’d shut her eyes, while the water beat down, and imagined the shower door opening and Jake, a naked Jake, stepping into the shower with her. She’d imagined the strength of his arms, the feel of his mouth...