The Inconvenient Bride Page 7

  Fair enough, Sierra thought. If he could brand her as his, she could do the same to him.

  So, shutting her eyes, she returned his kiss with all the fervor, passion and hunger that had been growing inside her all day. She looped her arms around his neck and plastered her body against his—and felt an instant response.

  His possessiveness became desire. His passion became hunger. And hers was equal to it. What had started out as a simple branding fire had turned into a full-fledged conflagration. And when they finally pulled apart, it was to stare at each other in wide-eyed astonishment.

  “Wow,” Toby said, which just about summed it up as far as Sierra was concerned.

  Dominic exhaled sharply and grabbed her hand. “We’re going home,” he said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IF SHE’D had to guess what Dominic’s apartment would look like, she’d have imagined acres of polished teak, furniture of chrome and leather and steel, white walls and the perfectly positioned piece of abstract art.

  She would have missed by a mile.

  His apartment, she knew, was in an elegant pre-war Fifth Avenue building. They were greeted by a doorman who said, “Good evening, Mr. Wolfe,” and whose eyes widened only momentarily at his purple-haired companion. They crossed a spacious marble-tiled lobby and walked beneath crystal chandeliers. They rode up five floors in an elevator with exquisite inlaid wood paneling on every wall. They stepped into a graciously appointed vestibule with carpet so thick Sierra felt as if they were standing on a cloud. There were only four doors besides the elevator on the floor. Dominic opened the one facing Fifth and stood back to let her enter first.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “You live in a tree house!”

  Dominic laughed. “Yeah. More or less.” He sounded somewhere between boyish and sheepish and he seemed to be watching her closely.

  She couldn’t contain her delight at the apartment with its nearly floor-to-ceiling windows that looked right out over the treetops of Central Park. The living room walls weren’t white at all, but the soft blue of a spring sky, and the paintings on them were not abstract either. There were several, all almost primitive representational pieces.

  The largest was one of a large cottage by a broad sand beach that reminded Sierra of Dominic’s house out on Long Island where she had given Mariah a baby shower. Two more were various aspects of a low-slung peach-colored house with white shuttered French doors. The house was set amongst almost jungly foliage and overlooking a tropical turquoise sea. Two more were beach scenes with children playing in the surf. Sierra didn’t know the artist, but she felt an immediate kinship.

  “This is your house!” She indicated the painting of the cottage. “How did you get an artist to come and paint your house?”

  “My mother painted them all when I was a kid. She wasn’t really an artist.” There was both pride and defensiveness in his voice.

  “She certainly was,” Sierra said warmly. “They’re all wonderful. I don’t know about the others, of course. But she’s really captured the spirit of your house.”

  In fact she could almost feel the love of the Wolfe family home emanating from the painting. It was a feeling she remembered associating with the house the only time she’d visited it. At the time it had seemed odd. Not the sort of feelings she’d ever have expected to get from anything connected to high-powered, hard-edged Dominic Wolfe.

  It was, perhaps, one of the things that had made her think there might be more to him than she’d guessed. She remembered she’d come home from the shower even more curious and aware of him than ever.

  “Where were the others done?” she asked.

  Dominic’s expression grew shuttered. “Our family place in the Bahamas.”

  “It’s gorgeous. I love the Bahamas. I’ve been there on photo shoots. You must go there every chance you get.”

  “Not anymore.” He turned away and she felt as if a wall had crashed down between them.

  Too late she remembered Mariah telling her that a long time ago he’d been going to get married in the Bahamas and something had happened. She hadn’t been listening then. She’d been telling herself she didn’t want to know anything about Dominic Wolfe. Now she wished she’d paid more attention. Clearly it was still a sore point.

  “Well, it’s nice to have it because it’s your mother’s work,” she said after a moment. “And you must enjoy remembering that.”

  He turned back from staring out the window and his smile was only a little strained. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So,” she said brightly. “Show me the rest.”

  He showed her a state-of-the-art kitchen, a dining area that was comfortable rather than grand. Then he led her into behind the kitchen to what had once been servants’ quarters. One room he had turned into a den with a comfortable sofa, stereo, television and pool table. The other was, he said, “The gear room.”

  Sports gear, he meant. There was a bin full of soccer balls, footballs, basketballs and baseballs. The walls were lined with racks containing fishing rods, tennis racquets, baseball bats, hockey and lacrosse sticks—all looking well used. There was a serious-looking backpack hanging from a hook on the wall, and beneath it was a row of cleats, skates, both ice and in-line, tennis shoes and hiking boots.

  She remembered a profusion of sports gear at the house on Long Island, too, now that she thought about it. But she’d assumed it was left over from childhood or from his brothers, Rhys and Nathan. She’d never imagined Dominic would take time for it.

  “You can put your gear in here, too,” he said. “Or you can leave it with your stuff upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?” Sierra echoed as he flipped off the light and led the way back to the living room.

  “Mmm. I had it moved.” He picked up her tackle box of styling tools and started up the spiral staircase.

  It reminded her of Frankie and she knew he would love it. He would love the whole apartment. It looked like it had been designed by a nine-year-old boy. But she barely stopped to think about that now.

  She was trying to bend her mind around the “I had it moved” bit.

  “I didn’t know where you’d want things,” Dominic was saying as he led the way up the stairs, “so I just told them for now to put everything in here.”

  He went into the room directly across from the stairs and flipped another switch. As light spilled into the room, Sierra stopped dead.

  It was as if her apartment had been recreated right here. Her futon with its faded striped madras bedspread was against one wall. Against the other was her fish tank, complete with Buster and Gomer.

  “Hi, guys,” she said in an oddly breathless voice to the imperturbable goldfish swimming around just as if they’d always been here.

  Her own bookcase, hand-painted blue, complete with clouds, and filled with her most loved books, was tucked next to the fish tank. She spied her tiny television, her portable stereo. Everything. Even the rather rickety old oak table that she loved—the one that had been in her grandparents’ house when she was a child—the one that everyone else she knew was always threatening to throw out.

  Dominic hadn’t had it thrown out.

  He set her tackle box full of makeup gear on it now. “Okay?”

  Sierra was still walking around touching it all, wondering at it, awed that, with one wave of Dominic’s checkbook her whole life seemed to have moved uptown.

  “Did they forget anything?” he asked. “They said they left the stove and refrigerator there, but that your neighbor said they stayed with the apartment.”

  “They do,” Sierra said absently. Then she realized what he’d said. “They asked Pam?”

  Dominic shrugged. “They asked a neighbor. Someone who came to see what was going on.”

  “Pam,” Sierra said. She’d seen Pam at lunch and her friend hadn’t said anything about it. She must have been amazed that Sierra hadn’t said anything either. “When did they do all this?”

  “This afternoon.”

  How c
ould they have done it so fast?

  As if he’d read her mind, Dominic said, “It didn’t take long. There wasn’t that much. You can go through it and decide what you want to keep. I told them to bring everything that was yours.”

  And they’d set it up exactly as it had been in her apartment. Amazing.

  Sierra grinned. “So we can come in here anytime and recreate our wedding night?”

  He actually blushed, and the heat of the kiss they’d exchanged at Gibson’s—which had been burning gently but persistently ever since—flamed suddenly once more to life.

  Dominic grabbed her hand and towed her to the door. “Not on your life, sweetheart,” he said. “I have a lot bigger bed right this way.”

  His bedroom was vast. Simple. Almost, but not quite, stark. Unlike the other rooms in his apartment, it had a thick plush carpet on the floor. She could feel her boots sinking into the pile as she stood and stared at the bed.

  It was approximately twice the size of her whole apartment. With its hunter-green duvet, it didn’t look so much like a bed as a playing field.

  And that thought made her blush. It sat against the far wall on a raised black lacquer platform. And against the matching black lacquer headboard was a scattering of pillows in toning colors. For an instant Sierra’s gaze flickered upward, just to be sure there were no mirrors on the ceiling.

  Dominic caught the movement and grinned. “Wishing?”

  “No!” She blushed hotly again.

  “I always thought it was tacky. But there might be times…” His voice trailed off suggestively, speculatively, and their gazes locked together so fiercely it seemed to Sierra they were almost welded by the heat of the exchange.

  After a long moment she cleared her throat. “There might be times,” she agreed.

  His eyes widened for an instant, and the color in his cheeks deepened. He hesitated just for a second, then he took both her hands in his and drew her close. “I imagine we can manage without.”

  He knew he shouldn’t be so eager.

  They hadn’t even had dinner yet. And it wasn’t like he was going to have to take her home, for God’s sake!

  She was home. In his home. Permanently.

  But telling himself so made no difference.

  He tried to think, to be rational, but he couldn’t. It was impossible to think when he had Sierra Kelly—Wolfe!—in his bedroom.

  There would be plenty of time to be rational—and have dinner—later.

  He slid his hands up her arms, then down her back. Then he hooked his fingers under her tube top and peeled it over her head. Her bare breasts brushed against his chest.

  He swallowed hard. Then he bent his head and kissed first one and then the other, felt her shiver beneath the cool wet touch of his tongue, and laughed softly.

  Her fingers clutched at his hair. “You think you’re so hot,” she said gruffly, that smoky edge of desire in her voice sending him closer than ever to the edge.

  “Mmm,” he said and made the sound vibrate against her breast. “Real hot.”

  Sierra’s fingernails dug into his scalp. “Brave man.”

  He nuzzled her. “You bet.” Then he set to work on the leather jeans she was wearing. They were harder to dispose of than her skirts. His fingers felt like thumbs. He fiddled, he wrestled, he groaned.

  Sierra grinned. “Thought you might like a bit of challenge.”

  He steered her back to the bed and toppled her onto it. “I love a challenge.” He straddled her and, tongue caught between his teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration, at last he got the button undone and the zip tugged down. Peeling them off was another challenge. They hugged her long legs like a second skin. But finally he smoothed them off and stepped back.

  She lay bare before him—but for the merest scrap of lace.

  Sierra ran her tongue over her lips and the sight made his hormones jump, made his clothes feel too tight. He tugged at his tie.

  “No!” Sierra sat up. “Mine.” And she scrambled forward, then knelt on the bed, slid her hands up his shirtfront and unknotted his tie. Then, one by one, she popped open the buttons on his shirt and peeled it slowly away from his chest and down his arms. She was so close that he could feel her breath stirring the hair on his chest. It made him shudder. She smiled and tossed his shirt aside.

  “Very nice,” she said, her voice a throaty purr. And then her hands were on him again, rubbing up across the crisp hair of his chest, the smooth skin of his shoulders and down his arms. Their fingers locked together, clenched.

  And then their lips touched.

  That kiss at the studio had been a first course. An appetizer. Heady and passionate, hot and zingy, but insubstantial. This one rocked him back on his heels.

  She tasted so good. Ripe and full and warm, as if it wasn’t just her mouth kissing him but her whole being, body and soul. She kissed him the way no other woman ever had—as if just doing that was the most important thing in the world, as if she wanted only that—only him.

  Her kisses were long and hot, then quick and short. They were nips and nibbles, tastes and teases. She kissed him on the mouth, on the jaw, on the neck, on the chest. She loosed his hands to knot her fingers in his hair. And he kissed his way down across her chin and her neck. He pressed light kisses once more along the slope of her breasts, then laved her heated skin with his tongue.

  “Wolfe!”

  “What?”

  She wrapped her arms around him and they tumbled together onto the bed. Their bodies tangled, wrestled, squirmed. Her fingers went to his belt and made quick work of it. He let her because he wanted her fingers on him. He yanked off her panties, then held still above her, as she lowered his zipper, knowing she would soon be touching him, flesh to flesh, where he needed her most.

  But not yet. Not yet. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Slow, he told himself. Go slow.

  Then her fingers were at his waist and she hooked her fingers inside his waistband and in one tug, slid both his trousers and his boxers right down to his knees.

  “Ah, look what I found,” Sierra said softly. Her fingers found him, wrapped him.

  He shuddered at her touch. It was exquisite, mind-blowing. He clenched his toes, his fingers, every muscle he owned. He held himself absolutely rigid and prayed to keep his control.

  “Si-eeeeeerr-ah!” Her name whistled through his gritted teeth.

  “Yes, Wolfe?” Her fingers rubbed him lightly.

  He swallowed hard. Trembled. Quivered. “Don’t. Stop.”

  His breath came in quick, harsh gasps. And as much as he wanted to go slow, to draw it out, to make her as crazy as she made him, he knew it wasn’t going to happen this time.

  But he would, he vowed. Later. Later!

  God!

  “Don’t?” She smiled against his chest. “Stop? Or, don’t stop?”

  Her fingers were stroking him, making his body break out in a sweat. Then she followed her fingers with her tongue, licking him, and he was almost gone.

  Desperate, he parted her thighs, sought the slick hot center of her, and plunged in, thanking heaven she was as ready as he was.

  If she hadn’t been, he’d have hurt her or made a fool of himself.

  But she was, and she embraced him. “Ah, Wolfe,” she whispered, her breath hot against his cheek as she shifted, settling him in.

  Dominic’s eyes squeezed shut against the overpowering sensation and clung desperately to the last shreds of control. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

  Not if he wanted it to be good for her, too. Not if he wanted to shatter her the way she could so easily shatter him.

  He took a careful breath and held it. Held it. Held it.

  Sierra went still, too. Silent. Her body wriggled. He bit his lip. Hung on.

  A finger touched the small of his back. “Wolfe?”

  “What?” He said the word without moving, without breathing.

  Muffled laugh. “You are still alive. I thought you were dead!”

&
nbsp; “Dead!” He reared up, outraged.

  But Sierra held him fast. She wrapped her arms around him, giggling, as she wriggled beneath him, then pressing her heels against the backs of his thighs, urging him closer, seating even him deeper inside her.

  And that was all it took.

  That small movement. That slight friction—and he was a goner. He surged against her, once, twice—and came with a shuddering, shattering climax that left him weak and wrung out and feeling like a fumbling teenager instead of a thirty-six-year-old man.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

  He tried to pull away, to come to grips. But Sierra hung on. She kissed his sweat-slick shoulders. She caressed the damp skin of his back. Her fingers kneaded his buttocks. And Dominic felt small shudders course through him at the same time they seemed to ripple through her.

  Was she?

  Her fingers clenched. Her nails dug into his butt. Her heels pressed hard against the backs of his thighs.

  Had she?

  Lord, what kind of moron was he that he couldn’t tell? Didn’t know?

  “Ahhhhh,” she breathed. “Yessssss.” And then she gave a long sigh and her fingers relaxed. She rubbed her foot down his leg, then nuzzled his neck. Her body seemed to settle and soften beneath him. And then he realized that the weight of his body was resting on hers and quickly he rolled away.

  This time Sierra let him go. But not far. Just far enough so that she could turn onto her side and snuggle into him. He felt her lips graze one of his nipples and his hand came up involuntarily and stroked her hair.

  “Dominic?”

  That surprised him as she rarely called him anything but Wolfe. His hand stilled. “What?” he asked warily.

  Her eyes were still closed, but he felt her smile against his chest. “That was very nice.”

  Nice!? As a lover he was “nice”?

  Actually he supposed he was lucky she thought that highly of him. He certainly hadn’t taken much trouble seeing that her needs were met.

  “It will be better,” he muttered.

  “No.” She shook her head slightly. “Couldn’t be.” She kissed him.