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  He was suddenly very, very thirsty.

  “You know this one?” he said, tilting the bottle back toward her.

  Ana scanned the label carefully, her eyes wide with innocence.

  “Hmm, I’ve never seen her before, but I do like her fashion sense.”

  More than once during the leisurely preparation of dinner, Jack had reason to believe that he and Ana were speaking the same language, but with entirely different meaning. As he rubbed the steaks with garlic and olive oil and directed her in the proper way to stir polenta until it was creamy and smooth, they chatted about everything and nothing. She was entirely noncommittal on topics like politics and religion and seemed ignorant of sports and pop culture outside of Disney movies and fantasy literature. She did like talking about art, so by the time he pulled the ribeyes off the grill and served them up with a crisp salad, polenta seasoned with smoky mushrooms and a second bottle of wine, it was nearly eight o’clock and he had the sinking suspicion that he now knew her very well, even though he hardly knew her at all.

  “So, about this tutoring thing,” he said, finally ready to broach the subject. He refilled her wineglass, this time with a red that he’d chosen—one that wasn’t named anything suggestive.

  “You seem reluctant,” she said instantly, taking a bite of the creamy Italian grits and showing her appreciation by closing her eyes and moaning.

  He dropped his fork.

  Her eyes flashed open. “You okay?”

  Another swallow of wine calmed his rapidly beating heart. The sound was familiar—too familiar. He may not know Ana’s opinions on the current economic status of the banking industry, but he knew her more intimately than he would ever admit. You didn’t listen to a woman pleasure herself without learning a few things.

  Things that could be useful.

  If the circumstances were different.

  Which they weren’t.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your meal.”

  “I like a man who knows his way around a kitchen,” she said. “I never learned to cook, but working with you was fun. You made it fun.”

  The warmth spawned by the cabernet sauvignon spread lower than his stomach. He couldn’t deny it anymore—Ana Starling was beautiful, funny and knew how to deliver a compliment in a way that made him believe she was entirely sincere. How long had it been since a woman had come into his life, however accidentally, and made him feel not like a repressive big brother or a skillful investment broker, but just a man?

  An attractive man. A fun guy. One worth listening to. One, perhaps, worth kissing?

  Her choice of wine earlier could not have been an accident. Of course, her audioerotic performance last night might have been on purpose, too. But if she’d come to the bayou specifically to seduce him, why had she spent the entire day staying out of his way?

  So many questions.

  “How do you know French?” he asked.

  “Studied it my entire life,” she replied. “Well, since I was seventeen. One of my job requirements.”

  “You were a teacher?”

  She grinned, her eyes twinkling, as if she possessed some sort of secret she wasn’t yet willing to share. “I’ve worked with a lot of young people, imparting my knowledge in very effective ways.”

  He leaned his elbow on the table and cradled his chin on his palm. “How would you approach helping Harper?”

  She chewed her mouthful of salad, took another sip of wine and thought about her answer. “I think I’d start with focusing on words that have meanings that apply to her life. Words about music and theater and—”

  “No,” he declared. “She gets enough of that.”

  “Why do you hate the arts so much?”

  “I don’t hate the arts. I appreciate music and theater more than most. How could I not, considering my parents’ careers?”

  “I know about your mother from Harper, but she didn’t mention that your father was in the entertainment industry.”

  “He was a producer. A money man, like me. And one of his favorite investments was art. He collected Monet, Degas, Van Gogh. Even a Renoir or two. He sat on the board of several museums.”

  She nodded, but not as if she actually understood the magnitude of what he’d said. Bartholomew St. Cloud hadn’t exactly been a man’s man. He’d been suave and sophisticated, tall and broad, but completely unimpressed by athletics unless it was tennis, squash or polo.

  Jack, now that he was older, guessed that his own initial interest in football had been a means of rebellion. Funny how things worked out, though. Because as soon as Bart had witnessed his eight-year-old son’s first peewee league game, the sophisticated man had become the biggest fan of the sport Jack had ever seen.

  He’d even been buried with Jack’s college jersey.

  The memory demanded another sip of wine.

  “And your mother was an actress,” Ana supplied, seeming to sense his sudden discomfort.

  “A famous one,” he volunteered. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of her.”

  “Who says I haven’t? As I recall, she played in the West End version of Once Upon a Mattress, am I right?”

  Her eyes, which he noticed were a particularly dark and mesmerizing shade of sapphire blue, brightened. She slid another forkful of polenta into her mouth, letting her lashes flutter down against her cheeks while she expressed, yet again, her flavorful delight.

  Full of surprises, this one. She knew more than she let on—dropping information like penalty flags. If only he hadn’t been alone for so long, he might have gathered the strength to block her allure. But he was a man who’d been without any available, beautiful women for quite a long time.

  And he couldn’t resist her—not even if he tried.

  Resisting, however, was suddenly the last thing on his mind.

  8

  THE WINE was making her woozy.

  This was a surprising development, since in her world, wine was the drink of choice. Fermented grape juice flowed from jugs at every dinner, ball or party she’d ever attended and she’d never once felt as if thin layers of skin were the only thing keeping her insides contained. The feeling made it hard for her to stand beside Jack as they cleared off dishes and placed them in a remarkable invention called a dishwasher. Like a kitchen maid, but without the back talk.

  “It’s late. Ready for bed?” Jack asked as he shut the door to the marvelous appliance.

  She turned and rested back on her hands, which gripped the edge of the sink.

  “Am I ever,” she replied, sounding breathless, which was appropriate, since her lungs suddenly weren’t working as effortlessly as usual.

  “I guess that sounded like a come-on,” he commented, one eyebrow tilting upward.

  He had gorgeous brown eyes. Dark and rich and expressive. She leaned forward, interested to see how his pupils reacted when she neared.

  “Did it?” she asked.

  The brown irises darkened to almost black. She might not be experienced with men on a personal level, but she was a quick study.

  According to the plan dictated to her this morning before Harper left for her sleepover, Tatiana was supposed to spend the day buttering Jack up so he would agree to Harper’s audition in New York—or at the very least, to securing her position as a French tutor so she’d have more time to convince him that Harper possessed a rare talent that shouldn’t be locked away. But once Tatiana had fully awakened, she’d decided on a different tack.

  First, she’d given him space, to prove she wouldn’t be a distraction to his comfortable, ordered life. She’d spent the entire day outdoors, exploring the landscape, napping in a hammock and trying not to replay the erotic dreams that had haunted her all night—the ones where Jack’s hands, rather than her own, were pleasuring her body.

  So far, her plan seemed to be working nicely. Since she’d reentered the house, he’d given her his undivided attention. He’d wanted to know everything about her. She realized he was testi
ng to see if she was worthy of contact with his sister, but she also hoped that some of his questions were personal.

  “Do you often flirt with men you barely know?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I never do.”

  He lifted the other eyebrow. “Never?”

  “Never,” she repeated, meeting his gaze straight on.

  “So why now?”

  She wasn’t certain he was aware of it, but he’d invaded her personal space deeply enough for her to finally identify the mystery scent mingling with dizzying amber and heady musk.

  “Do you paint?”

  He retreated just as unconsciously as he’d advanced. She snagged him by his shirt, tugged him forward and buried her nose in the fabric.

  “That’s definitely paint. Oils.” She peered upward, but did not release him. “You’re a man with secrets.”

  “Everyone has secrets,” he whispered, his breath teasing the wisps of hair on her forehead.

  “True, but I don’t think it’s any big secret that I’m attracted to you. And unless I’m reading the signs wrong,” she said, fully aware of how her belly brushed against his erection, “you want me, too.”

  He wrapped his hands around hers and disengaged her fingers from his shirt. She had no idea she’d been holding him so tightly until she saw the wrinkled fabric.

  “As I’ve told my sister many times, we can’t always get what we want.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because what we want may not be the best thing for us.”

  “That’s a reasonable argument,” she said, recognizing that Jack St. Cloud was a man whose mind demanded just as much exercise as his body. “But what could be wrong about us?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but she held up her hand.

  “Nothing beyond tonight,” she said. “I totally get you need to be a role model for your sister and that you have to look out for her best interests above all else, which is why I want to tutor her and help show you how bright and determined she is. But she’s not here now, Jack. It’s just you and me. I’ve never felt an attraction this powerful before.”

  “You use that word a lot,” Jack said.

  “What word?”

  “Never.”

  “Up until I came to your bayou, my life was pretty simple. Filled with absolutes.” She moved closer to him with each word, finally splaying her hands over his chest as if to smooth out the crinkles she’d put in his shirt, but in reality, to caress the rock-hard muscles underneath. “For instance, I’ve never had a man excite me so much. And with only one exception, I’ve always gotten everything I want.”

  “What’s the one exception?”

  “Can’t say,” she replied, snaking her fingers up to his collar, then to his chin where she swiped her thumbs across his lips. His mouth was suddenly very moist and very appealing.

  Just the thought of kissing him made her waver.

  Luckily, he grabbed her by the elbows and held her steady.

  “Why can’t you tell me?” he whispered, lowering his head one inch, then one more.

  “You’d never believe me.”

  “You could convince me,” he murmured.

  “I intend to—”

  But her objective was cut off mid-sentence when his lips pressed so tentatively against hers, she wondered if the kiss was real or just an alcohol-induced dream. She forced her eyes open just as he spread his hands on her waist and tugged her closer. Suddenly, he wasn’t playing games. His tongue slipped into her mouth and did such delicious things with hers that she couldn’t help moaning in sheer appreciation.

  His shoulders were broad and steady under her exploring fingers. His neck tightened with what she imagined to be restraint, though his lips were giving no quarter. The swirl of his tongue, the nip of his teeth, the skillful way he turned his head so he could deepen the kiss nearly caused her to forget to breathe. When he pulled away, she stumbled a little.

  “Wow,” she said.

  A corner of his lips quirked upward. “Like that, huh?”

  “Do you always ask questions where the answer is obvious?”

  “I haven’t asked you enough questions,” he countered, self-reproach in his tone.

  She narrowed her eyes, grabbed his shirt again and lifted herself so they were as close to eye-to-eye as she could get with a man who was a good eight inches taller than she was. “I haven’t told you everything about myself yet, but I swear that there is nothing in my past, present or future that could hurt you or your sister. Can you say the same?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then shut up and kiss me.”

  He took direction very, very well. In an instant, he’d swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, kissing her wildly even as he kicked open the door to his bedroom. She might have lost her wings when she crossed the barrier between her world and his, but she was flying nonetheless.

  The door rebounded off the wall and shut with a thud just as he laid her on the bed and held his body over hers. Touching, but not touching—except for his lips.

  She worked the buttons of his shirt, her fingers shaking with anticipation. He untied the straps on her dress and, after she yanked his shirt off, he lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth so that an explosion of sensation rocked her to her core.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed.

  He chuckled against her skin and the vibration sent another flutter of delight scurrying across her flesh. He cupped her breasts with his hands and laved the sensitive skin until she was tossing her head back and forth against the pillows, denying the flood of ecstasy that threatened to drown her. She’d touched herself last night, yes. But she’d experienced nothing like this.

  “You’re so sensitive,” he said, flicking his stiff tongue across her nipple.

  “I can hardly—”

  He took her fully into his mouth and sucked hard, using his hand to attend to the other breast while he created spirals of electricity with his tongue.

  “Jack, don’t—” she said.

  He looked up, his dark eyes befuddled.

  “I’ll come,” she explained.

  His confusion turned to pure, wicked intent.

  “That’s the idea.”

  He switched to the other breast. His fingers plucked as his mouth pulled. She jammed her hands into his hair, unable to resist the pleasure flooding through her body. And yet, it wasn’t enough. She needed more. So much more. She rocked her pelvis upward to press against the hardness in his groin.

  Then, before she could think, his hands were beneath her hem. Past her panties. He parted the flesh at the juncture of her thighs and he inserted a finger into her moist passage. She nearly bucked off the bed, soaring again. Before she landed, he drove a second finger inside her. Then a third, curving the tips to touch her so that she rocketed even higher.

  “Jack,” she begged. “Please. Stop. I’ll—”

  “Come on, sweetheart. Take it. Enjoy it. Let me watch you come before I’ve even taken off my clothes.”

  She had no strength and no desire to deny him. She spread her legs and in seconds, she was flying above her body. A sizzling cloud of ecstasy blinded her to anything except the swirls of sensation coursing around her, through her, within her.

  When the spasms started to subside, so did the intensity of his kiss until a tiny brush of his lips over her nose left her utterly breathless.

  9

  JACK COULD NOT tear his gaze from Ana’s, mesmerized by the way her pupils had expanded until he was certain he’d blinded her with pleasure. Although he’d made love with many women, particularly in his younger days, he’d never watched a lover orgasm without taking some of the gratification for himself. But after hearing her come last night, he’d had to see for himself if she was as captivating in ecstasy as he’d imagined.

  She was.

  And then some.

  He took care to smooth her skirt down, but could not find the power to cover her spectacular breasts. Her nipples weren�
��t quite as taut as they had been at the height of pleasure, but they were puckered and red and a little raw. His mouth watered for another taste, but instead of giving in to temptation, he pushed off the bed, shrugged out of the rest of his clothes, and then dashed into the bathroom to retrieve the condoms.

  When he returned, he found her curled toward him, her eyes wide and hungry as her gaze swept down his naked body. When she spied his erection, she licked her lips.

  “Thank you,” she said, her tone shy but her stare brazen.

  He chuckled. “My pleasure, believe me.”

  She shook her head, her expression almost serious as he slid onto the bed beside her. “What do you like?” she asked.

  Lovers had asked him that question before, but never without the sly, seductive lilt of a woman who knew precisely how to do whatever wild thing he requested. Ana’s voice hinted at an innocent and yet innate curiosity that suddenly made him wonder just how much she knew about men. Or about lovemaking.

  “I’m a guy. We pretty much like everything.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, that much I gathered. But, if I were, to say, touch you like this,” she said, softly sweeping her hand over his erection, “would that be enough?”

  “No,” he answered.

  She ringed her fingers around him, squeezing tightly. “How about this?”

  He swallowed thickly. “Better.”

  She drew the circle of pressure upward, stopping only when her grip met the ridge of his head. “Is this too slow?”

  This time, he could only nod.

  She slid her hand down to the base of his dick and then pulled up hard. He winced.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ve got it now.”

  And boy, did she. Ten seconds later and he was lost in the hand job of all hand jobs. She found a rhythm almost instantly, one that pushed him to the brink with sheer precision. And she wasn’t quiet about her excitement at witnessing how his cock got longer and thicker. She practically squealed with delight when a drop of semen oozed from the tiny hole at the tip.