Double Exposure. Vicki Thompson Lewis

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      “It’ll be a wonderful wedding. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of the Newport mansions.”

      He shook his head.

      “They date back to the Gilded Age, when people like the Rockefellers and John Jacob Astor had homes here. We lucked out, because a bride who’d booked Belcourt Castle two years ago canceled at the last minute. We not only got it, but they gave us a deal.” She used her hands when she talked, which made her bracelets tinkle merrily.

      She was so animated, so appealing, so downright sexy. He could sit and listen to her all night. Well, maybe not. Eventually he’d have to heed the call to action that was making his groin tighten and his pulse rate climb. “Sounds as if everything fell into place for Stuart and Kim,” he said.

      She laughed. “Once they figured out they were meant for each other, it did. Before that, it was rough going.”

      He’d never believed that people were meant for each other. If he had, he might be in more trouble than he already was.

      As she described Kim and Stuart’s rocky courtship, he kept searching for that deal-breaking flaw. Sometimes he discovered that a woman’s voice grated on his ears, but Kate’s was low-pitched and melodious. He could imagine that in some situations her voice would be soothing. This was not that kind of situation. The sound of her voice made him think of cool sheets and warm bodies.

      And with that voice she’d offered to give him a massage. She made it sound like a neighborly gesture, but he didn’t think it would end up that way. Before he agreed to this massage, he needed to have his game plan. At the moment, he had none, and they were finished with their meal.

      She balled up her sandwich wrapper and tossed it in the bag with a jingle of bracelets. “Well, I guess we should get started on that massage.” The color in her cheeks deepened.

      “I guess so.” A surge of adrenaline caught him by surprise. He usually felt this way before performing a particularly difficult stunt. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way the moment he was alone with a woman. His chest was tight with anticipation.

      She rattled the ice in her cup. “Are you finished with your Coke? I didn’t mean to rush you.”

      “I’m finished. The sandwiches were great. Thanks again.” He crumpled his wrapper and aimed a shot at the open bag. Ordinarily he would have sunk the basket, no problem. He missed.

      “Air ball.” With a smile, she retrieved the crumpled wrapper and tucked it in the bag.

      “I must not have my head in the game.”

      “I’m sure you don’t. You’ve been through a lot. I promised not to talk about it anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.” She leaned down and pulled a small box from the second bag she’d brought in. “I bought a tube of antiseptic ointment, too. I want to put that on your scratches. Are there any others besides the one on your forehead and the one on your arm?”

      “I don’t think so.” He’d forgotten all about the scratches. Having her notice them and go to the trouble and expense of getting something to put on them touched him. He wasn’t used to having someone fuss over him. Correction—he’d never wanted anyone to fuss over him. He’d gone to great lengths to make sure everyone he worked with thought of him as indestructible and oblivious to pain.

      Because Kate wasn’t part of that world she didn’t know the drill. And come to find out, he liked knowing she was concerned about his minor injuries. Besides, he could allow her to tend his wounds because no one would know about it and his image as an iron man wouldn’t be tarnished.

      She took the tube out of the box and tossed the box in the sandwich bag. “I should probably wash those scratches before I put this on. Come on into the bathroom with me. We can do both things in there.” She stood and put on a good show of nonchalance as she walked past him toward the bathroom.

      He didn’t buy it. If he had to guess, he’d say she was as keyed up as he was. He followed her through the bedroom and into the bathroom. As they passed the canopy bed, he controlled the urge to reach for her and draw her down onto the mattress. Forget the scratches, forget the massage. He wanted to feel her body against his. He wondered what she’d do.

      She turned at the doorway to the bathroom, her gaze straightforward, as if she had no thought whatsoever of getting cozy on that big bed. “Coming?”

      “Um, sure.” If Kate had been in the movie business she would have intended her question as sexual innuendo and foreplay. But she wasn’t from Hollywood. He needed to remember that.

      To the right of the doorway stretched a marble counter with two sinks, and on the left was another counter which served as a vanity. The walls behind both counters were mirrored. Hugh’s shaving mug and razor lay where he’d left them when she’d rapped on the cottage door. The large oval hot tub beckoned.

      Kate set the tube of ointment on the vanity counter and gestured to a velvet cushioned stool positioned in front of it. “This’ll be easier if you sit there.”

      He did as he was told and watched while she ran warm water over a washcloth before lathering it with soap. Then she soaked another washcloth with plain water and laid it on the counter. Her back was to him, but he could see in the mirror, too. As she worked, her breasts shimmied slightly under the tight T-shirt.

      Visually tracing the seams of her bra, he located the puckered evidence of hooks and eyes in the middle of her back. As snug as the T-shirt was, he’d be able to unfasten her bra through the shirt without stripping it off. Of course, that might never happen. There were no guarantees here, only possibilities.

      When she leaned over, he got a glimpse of her cleavage in the mirror. Cleavage should be no big deal for him anymore. He’d seen the best Tinsel Town had to offer. Yet the gentle rise of Kate’s breasts beneath her shirt made his mouth water.

      Her shirt rode up in back again, giving him his second view of bare skin above the waistband of her jeans. He was close enough to reach over and touch her there as he’d fantasized while she was checking him in. He gripped his knees, instead. She should set the pace.

      She squeezed excess water out of the soapy wash-cloth and turned to him. “I’ll do the one on your forehead first.”

      “Okay.” He sat very still as she combed her fingers through his hair and held it back, exposing the scratch little Dillon had accidentally given him as he flailed in the water. Somebody had forgotten to trim the kid’s fingernails.

      But Hugh didn’t have much time to think about Dillon now. Kate’s breasts rose and fell mere inches from his face as she dabbed the soapy cloth over the scratch. The soap smelled like vanilla, but mingled with that was the spicy aroma of her perfume and an undertone of her basic scent.

      Sure enough, that last was his favorite. He’d read about pheromones and had dismissed the idea because he’d never experienced that moth-to-the-flame effect the researchers talked about. He was experiencing it now. He wanted to bury his nose between her breasts and take a deep breath.

      As she worked he listened to the soft music of her bracelets and the rhythm of her breathing. Her breathing was uneven, and that gave him hope that this encounter would evolve into an outstanding experience before the night was over. He wondered if pheromones worked both ways. What a bummer if he wanted to inhale her scent from top to bottom and she had no such urges.

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