Love Letters Volume 4: Travel to Temptation Read online

  “Just help me find a restaurant, Zane.” She let him slide the list from her fingers, but he didn’t step back. He started to read, and that rolling lilt in his voice was fraying her will to stay annoyed with him.

  “Ishmael’s. Says it’s a café here in Fornalutx. Sounds pretty good, but maybe we should try this one—El Olivo. Says they have great wine.”

  Tara didn’t miss the twitch at the corner of his mouth that gave away that he was making fun of her. Instead of feeling irritated, though, she somehow found herself starting to smile back. “I’m not feeling the need for more wine.” Surprisingly, that was true. Maybe she had successfully drowned her sorrows. “Ishmael’s it is. Looked like you were trying to make an omelet earlier, maybe I could just buy you one. You know, for being so chivalrous and willing to share my villa with me.”

  “Oh, yours? Hmmm. What do you do to afford such a luxurious getaway spot, Miss Curtis? Actress? Bank Mogul? Lingerie Heiress?” A sparkle warmed his eyes and Tara actually laughed.

  “Advertising. How do you know Randy, again?”

  “We went to medical school together.” Zane picked a light leather jacket up from another of the living room chairs. “I’ll let you buy me dinner, since you’re unwilling to cook.” The grin that made those laugh lines even deeper also made Tara catch her breath a little.

  “You’re a doctor?” Tara let herself admire his shoulders as he shrugged into the garment. He nodded.

  “By degree, yes, but I’m in medical research.”

  “Research—like on bunnies and chimps?”

  “Like on Petri dishes and in test tubes. Don’t worry, the only living things I like to experiment on are strange women who stay alone in villas.” His dramatic eyebrow waggle drew a mock-disapproving frown from Tara.

  “Hey, I could have defended myself.” She followed him to the front door. She watched as he refolded Kit’s list and slid it into his own back pocket. Not a bad process to be audience to.

  “Sure, love, if I wanted to be scanty laced and bubblied to death, you would have been formidable.” He was going to kill her with that accent.

  “You’re a smartass.” They stopped close to the door. She wanted to ask him about the reason he was in Majorca, but if his answer really was that he was escaping a woman, Tara wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She also wasn’t sure if she wanted to share her sordid reason for being dressed in undies, alone, in a friend’s villa.

  “And you’ll feel chilled unless you grab a sweater or something. Go on. Nothing with lace, I want to eat without distraction. I’ll wait here.” He leaned against the wall by the front door.

  Tara found another smile coming unbidden to her lips. She turned back to the stairs, bemused by the thought that quarreling with Zane Harrison was proving to be more fun than the anticipation of sex with ol’ what’s-his-name.

  *

  Zane watched the sway of Tara’s hips as she disappeared around the corner of the sitting room. What a woman. First she was an Amazon in scanty knickers, wielding a champagne bottle. Then she was a pasty-faced damsel in distress. Two hours later, she was a demure tourist in well-worn jeans and loose top, with her hair—all that hair—defying gravity at the top of her head.

  No. No no no. No women. He had to get rid of her over dinner, convince her to leave the villa for someplace else. Or he’d leave, although he didn’t see why he should have to.

  His phone pinged. A text from Randy: Get there OK? Forecast looks gd—shd have nice weather, perfect 4 relaxing.

  Zane tapped out a reply. Except for Tropical Depression Tara. Kit gave her a key? She nrly conked me w/ a bottle of champers.

  Tara appeared with a sweater over her arm. Zane turned off his phone and moved aside so she could precede him out the door.

  They climbed quaint cobbled steps that lined a street so narrow he suspected no cars would fit. The houses were much like Randy and Kit’s—packed close together, built tall. Despite the tight quarters, the village was refreshing. The air was clear and cool, a welcome change after Palma’s chaotic, oppressive airport. As they got closer to the cafe, Zane could smell the tang of tomatoes and garlic.

  Ishmael’s was a small restaurant at the top of the village. They had their choice of sitting indoors or outside on a small patio that overlooked a lush hillside of vegetation. Olive trees and conifers and foliage that Zane couldn’t begin to identify. A dozen shades of dusty green, all surrounding them with beguiling spell of the Mediterranean.

  “Outside, por favor,” Tara said, with a huge smile for the young man waiting on them.

  See? She could be charming when she wasn’t in attack mode.

  Thinking of his failed efforts in the kitchen, Zane nearly burst out laughing when he opened the menu. Ishmael’s speciality, it appeared, was omelets. All different kinds, with all manner of fillings. There was even the choice to put chips—Tara would call them French fries, he supposed—in an omelet.

  After they’d ordered, Zane tried to get the conversation back to the one thing they needed to settle tonight.

  “I agree that neither of us can leave this evening, but we can’t both stay at the villa.”

  She smiled at him. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Where are you planning to go, then?”

  Zane grimaced. “Why do you presume that I have to leave?”

  Tara cocked her head, causing that bundle of shiny hair to list slightly to the right. “I got there first, I’ve come the farthest, I have a nonrefundable, nontransferable plane ticket, and…and—” she threw up her hands, “—because I’ve had a wretched two days. This was supposed to have been a sexy getaway for me and—oh, never mind.”

  She looked hurt and angry and disgusted. Maybe even a little bit lost. He softened a little.

  And haven’t we seen that expression on a woman’s face before? Zane’s heart hardened at the thought of Michelle’s manipulations.

  “Okay, maybe all that’s true. But the only thing I want to do is kick back, read a few novels and relax. You probably want to go clubbing in Palma, sunbathing in Port de Sóller, get dressed up and go out to dinner at as many of the places on Kit’s list as possible. This village is a terrible place to stay. You have to take the bus to Sóller to catch the train to get anywhere. Why not book a room at a resort that has excursions? Or stay in Palma?”

  She pulled herself up, clearly outraged. “How can you assume that I’m here only for the nightlife? Or…or for sunbathing? I want what you say you want, peace and quiet.”

  “Dressed in those undies? Hardly.”

  Tara’s mouth opened but nothing came out at first. “I…” she began. Then nothing again. Finally she shook her head. “Men!”

  Zane grinned. He was starting to get the picture. She’d planned to come with some guy, get dressed—well, undressed, really—in that lingerie and do what couples do in a sexy, exotic location. Hah! As if. Had Michelle come with him, Zane could have predicted they’d have spent the entire two weeks quarreling.

  And it wouldn’t have been fun quarreling with Michelle. Not like this. Zane hid his smile as their food arrived. Silence as they took their first bites.

  “Oh, God, this is the best omelet ever,” Tara said.

  “Why do you Yanks say things like that?”

  She looked up, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Like what?”

  “That something is the best you’ve ever had. I dated an American woman once and every movie, song, book, meal, dress—everything was the best of its kind. I had this image of an endless stack of stuff, with each new item topping what had come before.”

  He expected her to be offended but instead she just laughed. “It’s called puffery.”

  “What is?”

  She put her fork down. “I’m in advertising. I can’t say that my client’s product is better than its competitor because that’s a measurable comparison. It’s either true or it isn’t, so if I use that in an ad I’d better have the data to back it up. But I can say the product is the very best. I’ve implied it�
�s better than its competitor, but I haven’t stated it, so it can’t be proved.”

  Zane shook his head. “Wonderful. Even your adverts support the absurd.”

  Tara’s lips twitched. “Yes, but you know what?”

  “What?”

  “This actually is the best omelet I’ve ever eaten.”

  They both laughed.

  He couldn’t deny it. He liked this woman. Which was okay. She’d be leaving the villa, off for a sun-and-fun filled holiday. She’d meet some sexy Spaniard and go home with cheeks pink from beard-burn and a satisfied smile on her face—Zane frowned at the image. He wanted her gone, but he wasn’t sure he wanted her to fall into bed with the first Latin lover she encountered. Tara deserved better. A man who would look past the gorgeous body and killer hair and see the wit and vulnerability that Zane could see.

  He encouraged her to talk during dinner so he could watch her spark of animation. He didn’t know the details of her troubles, but he wouldn’t push—just as she gracefully avoided asking him about why he was on holiday alone.

  On the way back to the villa she slipped a little on the cobbled road. Without even thinking, Zane took her hand in his. Her fingers were cool as she wrapped them around the side of his hand, and her skin was soft. He could smell her scent. Not the perfume she’d been wearing when he’d arrived—this was subtler, simpler. Nicer. He moved closer for a clearer whiff.

  Her shoulder brushed his. There had to be three or four layers of clothing between his skin and hers, but Zane remembered how she’d looked wearing only those midnight blue satin knickers with her hair tumbling over her shoulders. Oh, God, and that thing she did when she lifted her arms and he’d thought her breasts would tumble out of her low-cut cups.

  Zane’s mouth went dry. Worse yet, he was aroused and getting harder by the minute. By the time he unlocked the villa door, all he could think about was what she looked like under those jeans and that sweater.

  “Right,” he said stupidly. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

  He meant to walk away, escape to his room at the top of the house.

  She turned to face him, effectively blocking his exit. “But we haven’t decided who’s staying and who’s leaving.”

  “Tomorrow. Soon enough,” he babbled. “Best to decide in the light of day, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t reply. She stared at his eyes, then his mouth, then back up at his eyes.

  “Okay,” she said.

  His brain knew she was referring to the conversation they’d have in the morning, but his libido interpreted the word in a completely different way. Before he could stop himself, Zane bent down to kiss those lips.

  She stretched up to press her mouth tighter to his. Then their lips parted and they were officially kissing, her lips soft and welcoming against his. They pressed against each other.

  Zane forgot Michelle, forgot that this woman was a stranger, knew nothing but the exquisitely perfect tilt of Tara’s lips over his.

  She ventured the tip of her tongue forward and traced his lower lip. Just as suddenly, the kiss was urgent, hard, insistent. Don’t stop.

  His arms wrapped around her and he reached up to cup a hand to the back of her head, his fingertips catching in her hair.

  His aggression seemed to fuel hers, and Tara moaned. Zane’s other hand pressed her bottom against him.

  They broke apart, panting. She opened her mouth to say something, but that just made Zane need to kiss her again. So he did.

  And he needed her hair down, so he tugged on the hair clip until it gave way and the inky-softness fell over the back of his hand and tickled his wrist.

  His cock was tight and hard. He hadn’t brought condoms, but surely Tara had some coordinated to all that sexy lingerie. He could ignore how crazy all of this was, because obviously this was fallout sex—passion in the wake of personal disaster.

  It wouldn’t mean anything to either of them. It would be an outlet, a throwaway encounter, a release from whatever each of them was running from.

  Why did that sound so wrong? They were both consenting adults. He lost his doubts in another scorching play of lips and tongue.

  “Your room,” he whispered against her lips.

  “Yes.”

  For the second time, Zane scooped her up into his arms and headed for the stairs.

  In the master bedroom, the shutters were closed, so he elbowed the light switch on. They kissed again as he laid her on the bed. Her mouth was hot, and she was a hell of a good kisser. He could only imagine how amazing she was with those lips elsewhere. He so needed those condoms.

  He slid her sweater off her shoulders, and then started on the buttons down the front of her top. She’d changed into a virginal white lace bra that was even sexier than the blue set, if that were possible. Zane kissed her mouth, then the edge of her jaw, her neck, the skin over her clavicle, and down to the frilly edge covering her breasts. He undid the front clasp, and then peeled back the cups.

  “So pretty.” He kissed the slope of one breast.

  “Zane,” she cried out.

  “Got it.” He began to lavish a nipple, using his tongue to toy with it.

  “Zane!”

  Her nipple was taut and full in his mouth. He didn’t want to stop, but Tara’s tone was insistent.

  He pulled away, looking up at her face. He’d stop, of course he’d stop, if that was what she wanted. But good Lord, he hoped she didn’t want that.

  “I’m trapped,” she said. She waggled her shoulders to demonstrate.

  He’d pushed her cardigan back but not off, so it effectively kept her arms behind her back.

  “Sorry.” He kissed her again as he tugged the sleeves down and off, followed by the blouse. Once free, she shrugged out of her bra and pulled him closer on the bed.

  “Wait.” He pulled back. “Tell me you have condoms?”

  He stood up to strip off his own clothes, still watching her. She looked drugged, her eyes lidded, her lips plump from their kissing.

  “Condoms. Right. Where—oh, right, I remember.” She slid off the bed and shucked off her jeans, which made him clench his teeth with impatience. She went over to the open suitcase under the window and came back with a strip of condoms in her hand.

  Zane wasn’t sure they’d need that many in one night, but better safe than sorry.

  She dropped them on the bedside table and pushed him back onto the mattress.

  “My turn,” she said as she leaned in to kiss his jaw, neck and chest the way he had hers.

  Zane flopped back and stared at the ceiling while her mouth played with his nipple, sending neural shock waves to his cock. He grabbed one of her hands and put it on his erection—it was either her hand or his own, and after a few toe-curling moments, he found that he preferred the deft softness of her fingers. He was lost, his hips lifting into her touch, his eyes softly rolling, the muscles of his stomach clenching and unclenching. He encouraged her with half-words and moans. Then, her fingers slipped away.

  His eyes flew open. He glanced over to see her peeling her knickers down, one delicious millimeter at a time.

  She had indeed looked damned good in her undies, but she looked even better naked. It put him into overdrive, on the edge of too much stimulation—the feel of her, the taste of her, and now, the sight…

  He leaned over and grabbed a condom. Frankly, he needed the latex to blunt his urge to come.

  “I’ll do it.” Tara reached for the plastic wrapper. The way she unrolled the condom on his cock was hardly the cooling-off he’d been hoping for.

  “Slower,” he groaned. She moved her hands slower, which wasn’t quite what he wanted.

  “I want to drive you crazy.” There was a note of revenge in her voice.

  “Not. Happening.” He turned on his side and brought her down to face him. He ran a hand up between her legs, past her knees, along the velvet softness of her inner thighs, until his fingertips parted her curls. She was wet and hot.

  Za
ne’s jaw went slack.

  He pressed her down until she was flat on the mattress. Her legs opened as he insinuated first one finger then the other into her heat. It wasn’t enough. She wasn’t quite as undone as he’d like. He slid down and applied his lips and tongue to the task.

  We’ll see who’s driven crazy.

  From the breathy sounds she made and the writhing motions of her hips, Zane was pretty sure he was winning this particular contest. Sliding two fingers inside her, he concentrated his attention on her clit and G-spot.

  Soon, she was coming, her body arched against the bed. Her hands scrabbled for something to hold on to. She screamed his name. He felt superhuman. Had he felt this way in bed before?

  When Tara had relaxed, he untangled himself from her, relishing the languid look on her face. Satisfied. He stretched out on the bed beside her, noting with some degree of pride that they’d been so eager for each other they hadn’t even pulled back the comforter.

  They stared at each other for a long time. Zane was still rock-hard, but he didn’t mind. Another first for him.

  Tara reached her hand out to the curve of his hip, along his leg, tugging on the back of his knee until it was draped over her leg.

  “Wait,” he said, stilling her, as unbelievably, agonizingly difficult as it was.

  She stopped, her eyes flying to his, questioning.

  “I want to be sure,” he said, feeling awkward and bumbling, marveling that he was stopping to ask. “The man that you were supposed to be here with—are you, I mean, are you and he…”

  Her smile was soft and a little sad, and he mentally cursed himself for bringing it up.

  “He’s not in the picture anymore.” Her voice was almost a whisper.

  “I’m sorry.” He winced right after he said it. Mood killer.

  “I’m not,” she said, tipping her head back to look at him, starting up that soft, steady rhythm of her fingertips around the head of his cock again. “You’re sure you’re not married?”

  He laughed and leaned into her, the sound ending on a groan. “Lord, no, but I may be falling in love.”

  “Dirty words.” She smiled when she said it, but Zane had a feeling that there was more behind the reply than he knew. She reached between them to guide his cock. Zane’s instincts kicked in.