Anything But Love Page 9

  “You’ll get cold,” she objected.

  “No, it’s a warm night. I’ll be fine.”

  “Well . . . all right. I’ll be quick.”

  “Take your time, Jess. I’m fine out here.”

  The truth was, he wanted a chance to recover his composure a little bit. Seeing Jessica come out of the water like a mermaid, her dress clinging to her like a second skin, he’d gotten so hard so fast he was glad for the darkness and a bundle of clothes he could hold in front of himself.

  Once Jessica was safely behind the closed door, Ben sank down onto one of the patio chairs and ran his hands through his wet hair.

  That kiss. That kiss.

  It had been the most surprising, electric, erotic kiss of his life.

  He’d always known there was more to Jessica than what most people saw, but even he would never have expected that.

  The way she’d surged into him . . . He’d experienced some good kisses in his life, but nothing like that. The rain, the ocean . . . and Jessica, so unexpectedly passionate that he still couldn’t believe he’d been able to control himself.

  His wet shirt was starting to feel clammy. He unbuttoned it and pulled it off.

  He’d done the right thing. She’d had even more alcohol than he’d thought at first, and she was vulnerable. So he’d made his offer: if she still felt the same way in the morning, they could do something about it.

  It was an empty offer. He was one hundred percent certain that when Jessica woke up tomorrow, she wouldn’t feel the same way. Which, in itself, was a reason to rein in his libido.

  If he needed another reason, well . . . there was the fact that this was Jessica.

  Jessica.

  He’d made his share of mistakes with women, including a few one-night stands that had been the result of too much alcohol and too little judgment.

  But Jessica wasn’t some woman he’d met at a bar or a party. She was . . .

  What the hell was she?

  Not a friend, exactly. Not an enemy, either—not anymore.

  He shook his head slowly. Whatever she was, he knew what she wasn’t: a woman he could sleep with casually.

  He scrubbed his face with his hands, leaned back, and shut his eyes.

  Unfortunately, with his eyes closed, he was free to remember exactly how sexy Jessica had looked in that ocean tonight.

  “You can’t stargaze with your eyes shut.”

  He jerked upright. How in the hell had he missed the sound of the doorknob turning?

  Jessica smiled at him from the doorway. She was wearing silky pajamas that clung to her slim curves as lovingly—if not quite as dramatically—as her soaking wet dress had. Her hair had been blown dry until it was silkier than her pjs, and her face was free of makeup.

  And damn if he wasn’t getting hard again.

  But the fastest way to deal with that problem—and to put this night behind him—was to take a shower himself and go to bed. So he surged to his feet, grabbed his wet clothes, and went through the door Jess was holding open for him. Careful not to let himself look at her, he dropped his wet things in a pile by the closet, grabbed the sweats and T-shirt he planned to wear to bed, and headed for the bathroom.

  The hot water felt good. He stood under the spray for longer than he needed to get clean, reminding himself of all the reasons to leave Jess alone tonight. He toweled himself off, pulled on his clothes, and went out into the bedroom as though wild animals might be lying in wait for him.

  No wild animals, but there was definitely danger in the form of Jessica Bullock, all of five foot four and a hundred and ten pounds, lying in bed curled up on her side. It was a big bed and she was at the extreme right side of it, but the prospect of sliding under the covers with her—even if he was on the extreme left side—was too much for his peace of mind.

  The light on her nightstand was off, but she’d left his on. Her eyes were closed, so he moved softly to turn off the light before heading for the sitting area.

  “Where are you going?”

  He froze. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet, so he couldn’t see Jessica’s expression—only the fact that she was sitting up in bed.

  “I’m going to sleep on the floor tonight,” he said.

  “That’s silly. Are you afraid I’m going to ravish you or something?”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “No.”

  “Well, good. Because I have to wait for tomorrow morning to do that, so you don’t have anything to worry about tonight. And this is a really big bed, so why don’t you sleep here?”

  She was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could see her a little more clearly.

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. But don’t forget that come daybreak, you’ll be at my mercy.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” he said, coming back to the bed and getting under the covers.

  They lay in silence for a few minutes. He was on his back, but he could see Jessica out of the corner of his eye. She’d slid back under the covers herself and was lying on her side again, facing away from him.

  He’d gotten up way too early that morning, and he was more than ready to fall asleep. So why was he keeping himself awake?

  After a while he realized why. Because once he let himself slip into oblivion, it would be the end of this moment.

  This moment when Jessica Bullock, whether because of alcohol or emotional vulnerability or a combination of the two, actually wanted to sleep with him.

  He frowned up at the ceiling. Why would he want to hang on to that moment? Was it possible that he—

  Suddenly frustrated with himself, he turned onto his left side and closed his eyes.

  It took him less than a minute to fall asleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The sun was way too bright—like supernova bright. Was it possible the earth’s star was expanding and would shortly explode?

  Jessica rolled away from the glare and found herself face-to-face with Ben.

  He was asleep, lying on his back with his head turned toward her, and for a moment all she could do was stare at him.

  The shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, giving him a faintly piratical air. Without the warmth of his brown eyes to provide an intriguing contrast, the rough planes of his face seemed harsher than when he was awake.

  His craggy features and well-muscled body projected hardness, power, and uncompromising determination. If you saw only what was on the outside, you’d think you were looking at a man who would take what he wanted without asking permission first. Only a glimpse of the soul behind that rough exterior would reveal the true story.

  Ben Taggart was a gentleman.

  Jessica squeezed her eyes shut, as though that could make the last twelve hours disappear.

  Ben was a gentleman, all right. He’d proved it last night when she’d thrown herself at him . . . and he’d turned her down.

  The more she tried not to remember, the more she remembered.

  The two of them walking out into the ocean. The glory of the sea and the rain and the feeling of freedom surging through her veins.

  And stronger than all of that, the pull she felt toward Ben.

  He’d gone along with her crazy plan without hesitation, walking beside her through the pouring rain like a cheerful lunatic, and then following her into the ocean. His vigor and vitality seemed to flow into her until she felt as strong and fearless as he was.

  Fearless enough to kiss him.

  There’d been a time when she’d fantasized about kissing Ben Taggart. It came back to her now: the nights she’d lain awake thinking about him after days spent staying as far from him as she could.

  You would have assumed from her behavior in school that she never wasted a thought on him. But at night she’d imagined his lips on hers, wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

  Now, years later, she knew.

  An explosion. Fireworks. A thousand sensations at once
.

  In the moments before he had pushed her away, she’d felt a wealth of carnal knowledge in his unerring touch. His mouth had fastened on hers with raw hunger.

  When she felt the thick ridge of his erection pressed against her stomach, a thrill of excitement had set her nerve endings on fire. After spending the last few years thinking she was frigid and cold—maybe even asexual—the rush of erotic fire had been like a revelation.

  Sober now and in the harsh light of day, she could hardly recognize the woman she’d been last night. She’d wrapped herself around Ben’s hard body and kissed him as though the world might end at any moment.

  If it had been up to her, they would have done the deed. Instead of lying here fully clothed, the two of them could be tangled up together in sweaty, sex-smelling sheets.

  She sat up, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her forehead on her knees.

  A rogue part of her wished—oh, how she wished—that Ben wasn’t such a gentleman. That she could have experienced, just once, honest-to-God passion in bed. It had been years since she’d dated, and none of her boyfriends had ever made her a feel a fraction of what Ben did.

  Last night something inside her had broken free. But it was back in its cage now—and it was impossible to imagine setting it loose again.

  That was why she almost wished Ben had taken advantage of the situation. But the bigger part of her—the sane part—was grateful that he was who he was.

  “Morning.”

  She jerked her head up. Ben was on his side facing her, propped up on one elbow. His expression was quizzical, and he wore a slight smile.

  Her mouth opened but she couldn’t seem to speak. After a moment Ben’s smile faded, replaced by a frown of concern.

  “Are you okay?”

  She had to answer. She couldn’t go on staring at him like an imbecile.

  “I’m fine,” she managed to say, though her voice came out a little raspy. Dehydration from the hangover, no doubt.

  Deciding she could better cope with the situation if she weren’t in bed with him, she swung her legs toward the floor and started to get up. Unfortunately, her feet tangled in the covers and she went down on her butt.

  “Jess?”

  “I’m fine,” she said again, her face beet red. She started to rise, tripped herself up again, and this time carefully unwound the blanket from her left foot. Then, with what shreds of dignity she could muster, she managed to stand.

  Ben was sitting up, his expression carefully neutral—but there was a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth that told a different story.

  “Everything good?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she replied stiffly. “Do you want the bathroom before me?”

  “No, you can go first. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  The grin came out as Ben folded his arms behind his head and leaned back against his pillows. “I did promise that if you still lusted after me this morning, I’d do my best to satisfy you. How’s your libido? Anything you’d like me to take care of before you start your day?”

  Okay, so he wasn’t a perfect gentleman. A perfect gentleman would have pretended last night had never happened.

  “I’m all set, thanks,” she said primly. She glanced at the clock. “It’s after nine, so we should get a move on if we want breakfast. The buffet closes at ten.”

  Then she fled into the bathroom.

  She’d been half afraid Ben would tease her at breakfast, but he kept the conversation light. By the time she’d finished her coffee and egg-white omelet, order had been restored in the form of a mutual decision to put last night behind them.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as they left the buffet room.

  “What are your plans for the day?” Ben asked.

  “My plans?”

  “That’s right. You know, plans? The stuff you do in lieu of playing solitaire or staring off into space.”

  “I just . . . I mean . . . you said my plans. As in, my plans without you.”

  They pushed through the lobby doors to the porch, which reminded her of last night. This was where she’d stood watching the rain come down. Today, by contrast, was postcard beautiful—clean blue skies and a few puffy white clouds.

  Ben grinned down at her. “Are you saying you want to spend the day with me?”

  “I don’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .” She took a breath, wondering if her aplomb had deserted her forever or if it was a Ben-specific thing. “Of course you don’t have to spend the day with me. I just wondered if you had plans of your own? It sounded like maybe you did.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Since I’m deprived my regular sports, I thought I’d go check out some cricket.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Why not? Apparently today and tomorrow are the Bermuda World Series of cricket. And the game—”

  “It’s called a match.”

  “—the match lasts all day, with food and rum and gambling and music. I’m definitely up for that.”

  Jessica had dated an Australian businessman once who loved cricket, and who had persuaded her to sit through something he’d called the Ashes.

  “Cricket makes no sense. Nothing at all happens for a long time, and then a ball gets hit and someone runs back and forth for no apparent reason. After three hours or so the score is 195 to zero and you think that’s it, stick a fork in it, but then the team that was at zero goes on to win. I don’t think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Are you kidding? It sounds great. Let’s go.”

  The sun was in her eyes, and she lifted a hand to shade them as she looked up at Ben. “Let’s go? As in, both of us?”

  “Unless you’ve got something else going on. It’s not dolphin day, is it?”

  She shook her head. “That’s tomorrow.”

  “Well, then, there you go. Why not come with me? It’s a gorgeous day, and it sounds like the cricket match is just an excuse for a big party. Let’s go check it out. The best way to learn about a culture is at its favorite sporting event. What do you say?”

  “Well . . .”

  He grinned. “Great. I’ll meet you out front in a few minutes, okay? There’s something I want to pick up at the gift shop.”

  Should she go back to the room? She was wearing a pair of blue capri pants and a white shirt with spaghetti straps. Did she need to change? No—a cricket match wouldn’t require anything more formal.

  She wandered back through the lobby, stopping at the cricket display the hotel staff had helpfully set up. Shaking her head at the oddly shaped bat and ball, it occurred to her that she could have opted to do something else—shop in Hamilton’s boutique district, wander through the four-hundred-year-old town of St. George, sit by the pool or swim in the ocean or—well, anything. But for some reason, in spite of last night’s embarrassing debacle, she still wanted to spend time with Ben more than she wanted to do any of those things.

  Which, today, meant going to a cricket match.

  She went out through the front doors and waited for Ben. He came out a few minutes later, carrying a bag from the gift shop.

  “Here,” he said, pulling out two T-shirts. “Pick a team.”

  “A team?”

  “Somerset or St. George.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Those are the two teams playing today,” he explained patiently. “The St. George players are from the east side of the island, and the Somerset players are from the west. They play each other once a year.”

  She looked at the T-shirts he was holding up. “Let me get this straight. You want us to wear the T-shirts of the two cricket teams?”

  “Sure. The staff here at the hotel seem equally divided between the two, so they told me it was good that we’d be representing both sides.”

  “The locals don’t mind when tourists wear these things? I mean, I know Yankees fans would absolutely hate it if a bunch of tourists from another country showed up at a game wearing pinstripes.”


  “It happens all the time, and yeah, New Yorkers hate that. But in case you haven’t noticed, Bermudians are a lot more friendly. It’ll be fine, Jess. Just pick a shirt.”

  The St. George colors were light blue and dark blue; the Somerset colors were dark blue and red.

  “I guess I’ll go with this one,” she said, reaching for the St. George shirt.

  “Perfect,” Ben said, exchanging his plain tee for the Somerset one.

  Jessica pulled her new T-shirt on over what she was wearing. It was enormous, the sleeves down nearly to her elbows and the hem falling to the middle of her thighs.

  “I can’t wear this,” she said. “I look ridiculous.”

  “You look fine,” Ben said firmly, steering her across the driveway toward the main road. “They’re running low on shirts, and there aren’t any smaller sizes in stock.”

  “You passed the taxi stand,” Jessica said, trying to stop.

  Ben shook his head and kept going. “We’re taking the bus.”

  “The bus?”

  “Yep. It’ll be more fun.”

  “What’ll be fun about it?”

  That question was answered a few minutes later when they took their seats among the raucous locals riding to the cricket stadium.

  Jessica had never seen such a happy group of people in her life. Most of them were wearing the dark blue and light blue of St. George, and they seemed to regard Jessica as a long-lost cousin.

  “St. George!” they cried out when they saw her.

  “Sit here by me,” an elderly woman said, patting the seat next to her. “Your husband can stand, since he’s for the wrong team.”

  “He’s not my husband, and I’m not really a fan,” she said anxiously, feeling like she was receiving friendliness under false pretenses. “He only bought these shirts for us this morning. I don’t know anything about the team.”

  The woman, who was dressed head to toe in the St. George colors—including an enormous straw hat bedecked in light and dark blue ribbons—just laughed. “Well, then. At least you’ve started by picking the right side.”

  The bus ride took twenty minutes, which gave Jessica time to listen to the chatter of the people around her. They were engaged in passionate discussions about the minutiae of the match they were about to attend. Whenever she caught Ben’s eye, he was smiling, which made her realize she was smiling, too.