What I Did for Love (Wynette, Texas #5)(112)

Then her purse slipped from her lap, and as she bent over to retrieve it, she bumped her forehead against the glove compartment, and his plan dissolved. “Laura, I’m falling in love with you.”

He was so stunned to hear himself say it aloud that her burst of laughter barely registered. “I know it’s crazy,” he said, “and I don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s the truth.”

Her laughter grew brighter. “I never knew you were such a player. You don’t really think I’m going to fall for a line like that.” Still laughing, she rubbed her forehead and gazed into his eyes. She took her time, paying attention as she always did. Tilting her head. Taking him in. Gradually her laughter faded, and her lips parted ever so slightly. Then she did something that truly shocked him. She read his mind. “My God,” she said. “You’re serious.”

He nodded, unable to speak. Long seconds ticked by. He gave her the time she needed. Her bra strap slipped off her shoulder. She blinked.

“I’m not in love with you,” she said. “How could I be? I’m only getting to know you.” She pinned him with those brandy eyes. “But ohmygod, am I ever in lust, and I swear to God, if this doesn’t work out, and you even think about firing me”—she unsnapped her seat belt—“I will blackball you with every casting agent in town. Is that understood?”

“Understood,” he said, just before she attacked.

It was glorious. She cupped his jaw in both her hands and let their mouths play. As she offered him the sweet tip of her tongue, a wash of tenderness made his arousal all the more powerful. He slid far enough out from beneath the steering wheel for her to slip a knee over his thigh. Her flyaway hair brushed his cheek. Their kiss grew more urgent. He had to touch her, feel her. He curled his palms around her sides. Beneath the thin silk of her dress, her flesh was a poem of sensuality.

“I love you,” he whispered, no longer caring about his game plan.

“You’re a lunatic.”

“And you’re a delight.”

He hadn’t done anything like this in a car since he was seventeen, and it was no more comfortable. He fumbled for her zipper and managed not to make a muddle of lowering it. His hands slid inside her dress. He touched her bra.

“This is insane.” She groaned against his mouth as he peeled her bra down far enough to suckle her. Her fingers plowed through his hair, and her head fell back.

The car had become their enemy. She pulled at his shirt, scratching him with her ring. Somehow he lifted her far enough so he could slide beneath her into the passenger seat, but not before he caught an elbow in the jaw and her knee jabbed his side. Finally, she straddled him. With their mouths still joined, he reached under her skirt…

Their caresses grew hotter. Her hand, bawdy and wise…Clothes in the way. Another lush kiss, and then he was inside her. Loving her. Filling her. Pleasuring her. Claiming her as his own. The sounds of their groans, their breath, their melding bodies, rushed in his ears. She clutched him. Went rigid. They hung…suspended…flying…dissolving.



Afterward he stepped out of the car to decompress and surreptitiously eased a kink from his back. She joined him a moment later.

“That,” she said matter-of-factly, “was crazy-ridiculous. Let’s pretend it never happened.”

He gazed up at the stars. “Perfect. Then we can look forward to our first time.”

Her toughness slipped away, leaving concern behind. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Yep.” He put his arm around her. “And I’m just as shocked as you.”

“Amazing. You’re an amazing man, Paul York. I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

He turned his lips into her soft hair. “Is it still only lust for you?”

She rested her cheek against his shoulder. “Give me a couple of months to get back to you on that.”



Georgie couldn’t find her moorings. She lay on a teak chaise as the late-afternoon sun slanted over the white stone patio. It was Tuesday afternoon, exactly sixteen days since she’d arrived in Mexico. She would force herself to go back to L.A. before the end of the week instead of staying here forever as she wanted to. Stay here until she figured out what new form her life should take. Unless she was in front of the computer she’d bought a few days ago, she couldn’t concentrate on anything. She hurt too much.

A pair of geckos scurried into the shade. Boats bobbed in the distance, their windshields flashing like strobes in the sun. It was too hot for her to lie out any longer, but she didn’t move. Last night she’d dreamed she was a bride. She’d stood by a window in her gown, wisps of white ribbon in her hair, and watched Bram approach through a gossamer lace curtain.

The gate creaked on its hinges. She looked up, and there he was, sauntering onto her patio as if she’d conjured him, but the romantic bridegroom of her dream now wore gunmetal gray aviators and a surly expression. She hated the way her stomach dipped. He was lean, tall, and healthy, the years of dissipation long behind him. Her self-absorbed, self-destructive bad boy had stopped being a bad boy years ago, only no one had noticed. The constriction in her throat made words impossible.

Through the lenses of his sunglasses, he took her in from her sweat-damp hair to her purple bikini bottom and then to her bare breasts. The patio was private and she hadn’t expected a visitor, especially this visitor, so here she was, topless when she least wanted to be.