The Heiress Takes A Husband

At first his lips, tasting of raindrops and honey, were motionless, absolutely still, beneath hers. She registered, in slow motion, how soft they felt, when they looked so hard.

Have some pride, she ordered herself, pull away.

But her lips mutinied and did exactly as they pleased. The beast howled happily within her. She wanted to taste Mitch, could not get enough of the taste of him, would forgo champagne forever in favor of this much headier blend. Her lips nudged his, slid across them, coerced, begged.

And when his lips answered, her world exploded, was annihilated. Her whole world became sensation, the touch of his lips on hers. Everything and everyone else faded.

They were alone, their world only this.

The kiss was like a rocket ignited, that soared heavenward and exploded into tiny fragments of delight. She could feel the fragments of that kiss float through her, until not one part of her was left untingling. Her whole body seemed to shake and shimmer, to take on an almost iridescent quality.

He pulled away first, and she stared up at him, dazed, shell-shocked from the abrupt transition from one world to the other. His blue eyes were dark and unreadable, but she could feel the faintest tremor, desire leashed, where his hand rested on the small of her back.

She laughed, shakily. She’d blown it. How could he remain unaware that he affected her after that?

He did not return her smile.

Lightly, she said, “How much do you know about the gifts my sisters and I are receiving?”

“Enough.”

You’re playing with fire, her mind warned her, but the champagne kept her going.

Why not him? She needed a husband, and he could kiss like a house on fire. That could certainly make up for his lack of a sense of humor. She could ask carelessly, she could appear not to be the least concerned about his answer.

“You might want to think about the conditions of my receiving my gift.”

“Conditions?” he asked, his voice smooth and unperturbed, those ocean foam eyes unsettling in their steadiness on her face.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Living in Miracle Harbor for a year?”

“No,” she said.

“Oh, the other condition.”

She inclined her head slightly, waited.

He smiled, so slow and sexy it felt like it could make her bones melt. He leaned close to her.

And said, quietly, his breath tickling the nape of her neck, “Not if you were the last woman on earth.”

Chapter Two

For a moment, Mitch thought he’d gone too far.

His “not if you were the last woman on earth” hung in the sudden silence between them.

For a moment, she didn’t seem like some glorious goddess of light and fire and passion. But then all that confidence seemed to crumple, as if it had been an illusion.

In the blink of an eye, she looked young and vulnerable, and like a child who had had her hand slapped for reaching for the candy. Him. Candy?

He must have been kidding himself, because the look left her eyes almost instantly, if it had been there at all.

Then she smiled brilliantly, and said, “Isn’t it a good thing for me, I have a Plan B?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

She tossed her hair and leaned toward him. “I’m putting an ad in the newspaper.”

“For a husband?” Too late he realized she wanted to shock him.

She nodded cheerfully.

“I don’t think that’s a very wise thing to do.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to take her by her slender shoulders, give her a shake and tell her not to be so bloody stupid.

But he didn’t want to touch her again. Her skin had been like silk under his fingertips, and touching her had made him feel a helpless and nameless longing. It had made him feel weak, almost defenseless against her, and he hated that feeling enough that he intended to fight it with everything he had. And that was before she had kissed him.

Which is why he had told her he wouldn’t marry her if she was the last woman on earth. He wasn’t surrendering to her power. No doubt every man she had ever met had capitulated to her potent brand of charm, but he wasn’t going to.

He should mind his own business about her ad, too. He didn’t want to look like he cared about what foolishness she got into. Dammit. He did not care.

How could he care? He knew nothing about her beyond the few details in her case file. The adopted only child of Mr. and Mrs. Conroy Patterson, aging California jet-setters. Brit Patterson up close and personal appeared to be all that the file had implied: a spoiled, self-centered rich girl who was getting an unwelcome taste of real life.

Okay, so she happened to be so beautiful he felt like he couldn’t breathe around her.

And she happened to pack a kiss with more punch than a trainload full of TNT.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Farley Houser, another lawyer from his firm, cutting in. Cutting in. Mitch didn’t even know that happened in real life. He thought it only happened in movies, which probably said all that needed saying about his social life.

Why did he feel so annoyed? He should be glad to be out of her clutches.

He stood there for a moment, watching her laugh up into Farley’s handsome, if somewhat sun-damaged face. What if she thought wrinkles were distinguished?

What did he care what she thought? Farley, who seemed to work for amusement and not because he needed money, would probably be a perfect match for her. Meeting him here could save her some money on her newspaper ad. Farley loved getting married. That’s why he had done it three times.

Still, Mitch had to ask himself if he sincerely wished Brit and Farley well, why was he gauging how Farley held her, ready to intervene in an instant if the space between their bodies closed, as if he were a chaperone at the high school dance?

Mitch joined his father and Angela Pondergrove at their table. But if he had hoped his father would talk business with him, and therefore take his mind off the intoxicating kiss he had just shared with Brittany Patterson, he was wrong.

Jordan Hamilton was embarrassingly enamored with the aging Angela. He spared Mitch only a few words before he turned his full attention back to his companion. When he leaned close and called her “Angel,” Mitch had no choice but to find something else to do with his eyes. He watched with relief as the music changed tempo from a waltz to some rock tune he recognized only vaguely.

He glanced around. Every male eye was on Brittany. His relief died. The girl could dance. She moved with grace and a subtle promise of sensuality. Her laughter floated on the air, like the tinkling of fairy bells. Farley, Mitch noted glumly, was an exceptional dancer, as well. The music died, and Farley, regret all over his face, gave her up to the Higgins boy who roasted hotdogs at the Piggy-in-A-Blanket stand during the day, and looked surprisingly like John Travolta by night.

After several dances it occurred to Mitch she was not going to return to their table. The local guys were around her three thick, like bees around honey.

What now? Could he go home? He didn’t think Jordan would approve of him abandoning his duties as her escort. The truth was Jordan didn’t ask many favors of him. And yet Mitch owed this man everything. Maybe he could look at sitting here at this dance, steam threatening to come out his ears, as part of his repayment to a man who had taken a wild, angry boy off the streets and given him a home, a life, a career.