The Invitation (Matchmaker Trilogy) (8 page)

Unable to resist, he hunkered down by the side of the bed. Her lashes were like dark flames above her cheekbones. Free now of tension, her nose looked small and pert. Her cheeks were the lightest shade of a very natural pink that should have clashed with her hair but didn’t. And that hair—he wondered if it were as soft as it looked, or as hot. His fingers curled into his palms, resisting the urge to touch, and he forced his eyes away.

It was a major mistake. The thin T-shirt, while gathered loosely in front, clung to her slender side and the gentle flare of her hip, leaving just enough to the imagination to make him ache. And edging beneath the hem of the shirt was a slash of the softest, sweetest apricot-colored silk. His gaze jumped convulsively to the far side of the bed, where she’d left the clothes she’d discarded. There, lying atop the slacks and T-shirt she’d been wearing earlier, was a lacy bra of the same apricot hue.

With a hard swallow, he flicked his gaze back to her face. Stern, stiff-backed and fussy—was that the image she chose to convey to the world? Her underthings told a different story, one that was enhanced by her sleeping form. It was interesting, he mused, interesting and puzzling.

Image making was his business. He enjoyed it, was good at it. Moreover, knowing precisely what went into the shaping of public images, he prided himself on being able to see through them. He hadn’t managed to this time, though, and he wondered why. Was Shaye that good, or had his perceptiveness been muddled?

He suspected it was a little of both, and there was meager comfort in the thought. If Shaye was that good, she was far stronger and more complex than he’d imagined. If his perceptiveness had been muddled, it was either because he was tired … or because she did something to his mind.

He feared it was the latter. He’d been ornery because he hadn’t wanted her along, but that orneriness had been out of proportion. He didn’t normally goad people the way he had her. But Shaye—she brought out the rawest of his instincts.

In every respect. Looking at her now, all soft and enticing, he felt the heat rise in his body as it hadn’t done in years. How could he possibly be attracted to as prickly a woman? Was it her softness his body sensed and responded to? Or her hidden fire?

His insides tensed in a different way when her lashes fluttered, then it was too late to escape. Not that he would have, he told himself. He’d never run from a woman, and he wasn’t about to now. But he’d be damned if he’d let her know how she affected him. Retrieving his mask of insolence, he met her startled gaze.

Shaye didn’t move a muscle. She simply stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you. Samson thought you might be sick.”

“I’m not.”

“Not
violently
seasick?”

“… No.”

His gaze idly scored her body. “Did you lie about anything else?”

Why, she asked herself, did he sound as though he knew something he shouldn’t? Victoria would never have betrayed her. And there was no way he could see through her T-shirt, though she almost imagined he had. She’d have given anything to reach for the sheet and cover herself, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his wandering eye made her nervous. “No,” she finally answered.

“Mmm.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re a contradiction,” he said without hesitation.

He’d obviously been thinking about her—or crouching here, watching her—for some time. The last thought made her doubly nervous, and the explanation he offered didn’t help.

“Cactus-prickly when you’re awake, sweet woman when you’re asleep. It makes me wonder which is the real you.”

“You’ll never know,” she informed him. Her poise was fragile; there was something debilitating about lying on a bed near Noah, wearing not much more than an old T-shirt.

His gray eyes glittered. “It’d be a challenge for me to find out. Mmm, maybe I’ll make it my goal. I’ll have two full weeks with not much else to do.”

Shaye didn’t like the sound of that at all. “And what about the treasure you’re supposedly seeking?” she demanded.

“Samson’s doing the seeking. As far as I’m concerned, there are many different kinds of treasure.” He surveyed her body more lazily. “Could be that the one you’re hiding is worth more than the one my uncle seeks.”

“As though I could hide anything this way,” she mumbled.

“Precisely.”

“Look, I was sleeping. I happen to be exhausted. Do you think you could find a tiny bit of compassion within that stone-hard soul of yours to leave me be?”

He grinned, wondering what she’d have said if she’d known something else had been close to stone-hard moments before. No doubt she’d have used far more potent words to describe his character. Come to think of it, he wondered how many of those potent words she knew.

“You’re really very appealing like this,” he said softly. “Much more approachable than before. I like your hair.”

“Go away.”

“I hadn’t realized it was so long. Or so thick. The color comes alive when you let it down like that. Why do you bother to tack it up?”

“To avoid comments like the ones you just made.”

“I’d think you’d be flattered.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t like me,” he said with a pout.

“Now you’re getting there.”

“Is it something I said, something I did?”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a minute, then, unable to bear the feeling of exposure any longer, bolted up and reached for the sheet.

Noah looked as though he’d lost his best friend. “What did you do that for? I wouldn’t have touched you.”

There was touching and there was touching. He could touch her with his hands, or with his eyes. Or he could touch her with the innocent little expressions he sent her way from time to time. She knew not to trust those little expressions, but, still, they did something to her. Far better that he should be growling and scowling.

“It’s your eyes,” she accused as she pressed her back to the wall. “I don’t like them.”

This time his innocence seemed more genuine. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

“They creep.”

“They explore,” he corrected, “and when they find something they like, they take a closer look.” He shrugged. “Can you blame them? Your legs are stunning.”

She quickly tucked her legs under her. “Please. Just leave and let me sleep.”

Since the path had been cleared for him, he hopped up and sat on the bed.

“Noah…” she warned.

“That’s the first time you’ve called me by name. I like it when you say it, though you could soften the tone a little.”

“Leave this cabin now!”

He made himself more comfortable, extending an arm, propping his weight on his palm. “You never answered me when I asked about boyfriends. Do you have any back home? Where is home, by the way?”

“Philadelphia,” she growled. “There, you’ve gotten some information. Now you can leave.”

“A little more. I want a little more. Is there a boyfriend?”

In a bid for dignity, she drew herself up as straight as she could. Unfortunately he was sitting on the sheet, which ended up stretched taut. And even with the extra inches she felt dwarfed. Why did he have to be so
big?
Why couldn’t he be of average height like her lawyer friend, or the stockbroker? For that matter, why couldn’t he be malleable, like they were? They’d have left the instant she’d asked
if
they ever made it to her room at all.

“Boyfriends?” he prompted.

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’ll tell you about me if you tell me about you,” he cajoled.

“I don’t want to know about you.”

Bemused, he tipped his dark head to the side. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you knew what you faced?”

“I’m not facing anything,” she argued, but there was a note of desperation in her voice.

“Two weeks, Shaye. We’re going to be together for two long weeks.”

“Miss Burke, to you.”

For a split second he looked chastised, then spoiled it with a helpless spurt of laughter.

“All right,” she grumbled quickly. “Call me Shaye.”

“Shaye.” He tempered his grin. “Do you have any boyfriends?”

She knew she’d lost a little ground on the Miss Burke bit, which even to her own ears had sounded inane. But she was supposed to be prissy. And as far as boyfriends were concerned, a few white lies wouldn’t hurt.

“I don’t date.”

His eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No.”

“With a body like yours?”

“For your information, there’s more to life than sex.” She wondered if she was sounding
too
prissy. She didn’t want to overdo it.

“Really?”

“I’m too busy to date. I have a very demanding job, and I love it. My life is complete.”

He shook his head. “Whew! You’re something else.” He didn’t believe her for a minute, but if she wanted to play games, he could match her. “I have a demanding job myself, but I couldn’t make it through life without steady helpings of sex. Women’s liberation has its up side, in that sense.”

“Then what are you doing on this trip?” she asked through gritted teeth. “How could you drag yourself away from all those warm beds and passionate arms?”

“And legs,” he added quickly. “Don’t forget legs. I’m a leg man, remember?”

She was getting nowhere, she realized. He looked as though he had no intention of budging, and she didn’t think she had the physical strength to make him. “Please,” she said, deliberately wilting a little, “I really am tired. I don’t want to fight you, and I don’t want to be on guard every minute of this trip. If you just leave me alone, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Please, Noah.”

“Please, Noah.”

Her meekness was too much, he decided. When she was meek, there was no fire in her eyes, and he rather liked that fire. “Well, I have learned something new about you.”

“What’s that?”

His eyes slid over the moistness of her skin. “You sweat.”

“Of course I sweat! It’s damn hot in here!”

He grinned. So much for meekness. “The question,” he ventured in a deep, smooth voice, “is whether you smell as good like this as you did before.” He leaned closer.

Shaye put up here hands to hold him off, losing her grip on the sheet in the process. But she’d been right; she was no match for his strength. Her palms were ineffective levers against his chest, and despite her efforts, she felt his face against her neck.

His nose nuzzled her. His lips slid to the underside of her jaw. He opened his mouth and dragged it across her cheek to her ear.

And all the while, Shaye was dying a thousand little deaths because she liked the feel of his mouth on her, she liked it!

“Even … better,” he whispered hoarsely. His lips nipped at her earlobe, and the hoarse whisper came again. “You smell … even better.”

Her eyes were shut and her breathing had grown erratic. “Please, stop,” she gasped brokenly. “Please, Noah…”

He was dizzy with pleasure at the contact, and would have gone on nuzzling her forever had he not caught the trace of fear in her voice. He hadn’t heard that before, not fear, and he knew instinctively that there was nothing put on about it. Slowly and with a certain amount of puzzlement, he drew back and searched her eyes. They were wide with fear, yes, but with other things as well. And he knew then, without a doubt, what he was going to do.

He’d leave her now, but he’d be true to his word. He’d spend the next two weeks shadowing her, learning what made her tick. She might in fact be the prissy lady she wanted him to believe she was. Or she might be the woman of passion he suspected she was. In either case, he stirred her. That was what he read in her eyes, and though he wasn’t sure why, it was what he wanted.

“Go back to sleep,” he said gently as he rose from the bed. He was halfway to the door when he heard her snort.

“Fat chance of that! Can I really believe you won’t invade my privacy again? And if I were to fall asleep, I’d have nightmares. Hmph. So much for a lovely vacation. Stuck on a stinking pirate ship with a man who thinks he’s God’s gift to women—”

Noah closed the door on the last of her tirade and, smiling, sauntered off through the salon.

4

“A
HH
, mes belles amies. Notre dîner nous attend sur le pont. Suivez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”

Shaye, who’d been curled in an easy chair in the salon, darted a disbelieving glance at Victoria before refocusing her eyes on Samson. She’d known he’d been busily working in the galley and that he’d refused their offers of help. But she hadn’t expected to be called to the table in flawless French—he was a professor of
Latin,
wasn’t he?—much less by a man sporting a bright red, side-knotted silk scarf and a cockily set black beret.

Victoria thought he was precious; eccentric was the word Shaye would choose. But he was harmless, certainly more so than his nephew, she mused, and at the moment she was in need of a little comic relief.

It had been a long afternoon. She hadn’t been able to fall back to sleep after Noah had left her cabin, though she’d tried her best. After cursing the sheets, the mattress, the heat and everything else in the room, she’d dressed, reknotted her hair and gone on deck.

Noah hadn’t been there—he was sleeping, Samson told her, which had irritated her no end.
He
was sleeping, after he’d ruined her own! She’d seethed for a while, then been gently, gradually, helplessly lulled by the rocking of the boat into a better frame of mind.

And now Samson had called them to dinner. The table, it turned out, was a low, folding one covered by a checkered cloth, and the seats were cushions they carried up from the salon. Noah had lowered the jibs and secured the wheel, dashing Shaye’s hope that he’d be too busy sailing to join them. To make matters worse, he crossed his long legs and fluidly lowered himself to the cushion immediately on her left.

The meal consisted of a hearty bouillabaisse, served with a Muscadet wine, crusty French bread and, for dessert, a raspberry tart topped with thick whipped cream. Other than complimenting the chef on his work, Shaye mostly stayed out of the conversation, which involved Samson and Victoria and the other unlikely trips each had taken.