She intended to say no, had intended to say no since she’d dressed for the evening.Too soon, too much, too risky.

She opened the door, held out her hand.“Come in, Malcolm.”

He took her hand, shoved the door closed behind him. His gaze stayed on hers, compelling, the only contact but palm to palm.

“Ask me upstairs. Ask me into your bed.”

She felt her heart beat, rapid kicks at the base of her throat. Be sensible, she ordered herself. Be careful.

Instead she moved into him this time, took for herself this time by laying her lips on his.

“Come upstairs, Malcolm. I want you in my bed.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT WAS A LONG WAY UP, HE THOUGHT, LONG ENOUGH FOR HIM TO sense her nerves. She was skilled at hiding them, but he’d learned how to read her. Especially now when he was aware of her every move, her every breath.

They climbed the graceful stairs to her wing where the quiet was so absolute he swore he could hear his own heartbeat. And hers.

She stepped into the bedroom—big, filled with quiet colors, art, photographs, the soft gleam of furniture he imagined had served generations.

She locked the door, caught his raised brow.

“Ah . . . it’s not usual, but Laurel or Del could . . . Anyway, I’ll take your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“I’ll hang up your jacket.”

Of course she’d hang up his jacket. It was perfectly Parker. Quietly amused, he stripped it off and handed it to her.When she crossed to a door, went inside, curiosity had him following.

Closet wasn’t a big enough or fancy enough term. None of the closets he’d ever owned or seen held curvy little chairs, lamps, or an entire wall of shoes. In an alcove—and closets didn’t generally run to alcoves—a lighted mirror ranged above some sort of desk or kneehole cabinet where he assumed she fussed with her hair and face, but the only thing on it was a vase of little flowers.

“So is this everybody’s closet?”

“Just mine.” She tossed her hair as she glanced back. “I like clothes.”

As with closet, he didn’t think like was a big or fancy enough word for Parker Brown’s relationship with clothes. “You’ve got them color coordinated.” Fascinated, he skimmed a finger over a section of white tops. “Even, what do you call it, graduated, like a paint fan.”

“It’s more efficient. Don’t you keep your tools in order?”

“I thought I did.There’s a phone in here.”

“It’s a house phone.” She took her own out of the purse she set on a drawer-filled counter.

“Need to make a call?”

“It needs to charge,” she said, walked by him and out.

She could give tours in this closet, he thought, taking another moment. Have cocktail parties. Hold board meetings.

When he went out, she’d set the phone on the charger on the nightstand closest to the terrace doors.And to his continued fascination began to fold down the bedspread—comforter—whatever it was.

He just leaned on the wall and watched her. Brisk and graceful, he noted, as she smoothed out, folded, smoothed. Parker Brown would never just fall into bed.

No wonder he’d never felt about any other woman the way he felt about her.There was no other woman remotely like her.

“I don’t make a habit of this.” She set the folded cover on the bench at the foot of the bed.

“Folding down the bedspread?”

“Bringing men here. If and when I do—”

“I’m only interested in you and me.You’re nervous.”

She turned to walk to the dresser. Her gaze met his in the mirror as she unfastened her earrings. “You’re not.”

“I want you too much to be nervous. It doesn’t leave any room.” He walked to her now. “Are you finished?”

“What?”

“Overthinking, second-guessing.”

“Nearly.”

“Let me help you with that.”

He took her shoulders, jerked her against him. The hard, hot demand of his mouth helped. Quite a bit.

Even as she lifted her arms to circle his neck, he tugged her sweater up and off in one quick, impatient move. He tossed it on a chair.

“You can hang it up later.”

“You don’t hang sweaters.”

“Why not?”

“It—” Her breath sucked in when he skimmed his hands over the thin chemise, over her. “It ruins the shape.”

“I like yours.” He pulled off the chemise, tossed it on the sweater. “Nice.” He trailed his fingers over the lacy cups of her plum-colored bra. “It’s the kind of color coordination I can get behind.”

Her laugh ended on a shaky gasp as his hands slid down, his lips roamed down. As he knelt down. “Malcolm.”

“Better take off the shoes.” He tugged the short, inside zipper on the boots. “Wouldn’t want you to forget yourself and wear them to bed.”

“Are you making fun of me or seducing me?”

“I can do both.You’re not the only multitasker in the room.”

Once he’d pulled off her boots, he ran his hands up her legs. “Now these are the Holy Grail.”

“You’ve seen my legs before.”

“Not like this.” He unhooked her pants, slid the zipper down, then guided her pants down her legs with his hands. “No, not like this.” He lifted them one at a time to free them from the pool around her feet.

He ran his hands up, calf to thigh to tease the edges of plum-colored lace.

Her phone rang.

He looked up, his eyes sharply green, almost feral. “Not this time.”

She shook her head. “No, not this time.”

He sprang. His movement so quick both her vision and her mind blurred. His mouth didn’t merely take but possessed while those rough-palmed hands raced over her, setting off charges under her skin. The nerves that had ridden there exploded into pure, primitive need.

She tugged at the buttons of his shirt. Her hands wanted flesh, too.Wanted to take it, to own it.When she had it, the muscles, the ridges, the rough and the smooth, need leaped to craving.

She tried to satisfy it, her mouth on his throat where the blood beat hot, her teeth on his shoulder where muscles tensed like wires. But the claws of it only sharpened.

He could have taken her there and then, hard and fast. She wanted him to, heard herself tell him to, to feed and sate that craving before it ate her alive.