links are definitely out.”
He managed the links while she saw to his dress shirt studs. When the last button was released, her touch fanned the steely ruts of his naked abdomen then arced up through the dark, coarse hair on his chest. She let out a sigh as her nails trailed his pecs before catching the shirt and peeling the sleeves slowly down.
Anticipating the moment, she quivered inside as she lightly pressed her lips below the hollow of his throat; the pulse she found there matched the throb tripping a delicious beat at her core. A cord ran down one side of his tanned neck. When the tip of her tongue tasted a trail up the salty ridge, his erection, behind its zipper, grew and pushed against her belly. Growing warmer by the second, she blew a gentle stream of air against the trail her tongue had left.
“Do you remember what we were wearing on the balcony that night on the ship?”
His hands were kneading her behind, rotating her hips to fit against his as he attentively nipped the shell of her ear.
“I remember what we weren’t wearing.” Cooler air brushed her back as he tugged on a ribboned bow and her bodice loosened. “Would you like to slow dance on this balcony tonight?”
Sighing, she ground against him. “I thought you’d never ask.”
A knock sounded at the door, then a call. “Room service!”
Laura’s stomach jumped while Bishop’s chin went down. He searched her eyes.
“We haven’t ordered anything, have we?”
“It’s a mistake.” Slipping back into the mood, she wove a hand up over the hot dome of one shoulder. “Ignore it.”
“It might be important.”
“Not as important as this.”
Falling back into the magic, she drew his head down and kissed him more thoroughly than the first time.
But the call came again. “Mr. Bishop, room service, sir.”
Groaning, Bishop unraveled her arms and headed for the door. “Remind me to hang the sign up as soon as he’s gone. Do. Not. Disturb.”
A bellboy with a sun-bleached surfer’s mop stood behind the door. He didn’t raise a brow at Bishop’s state of half dress but merely handed over a shiny silver bucket, its sides frosty and the well filled with an impressive-looking bottle as well as two chilling glasses.
“Compliments of the house, sir,” the young man said, then spun on his spit-polished heel with a cheerful, “Good night.”
As Bishop hung the sign then closed the door, Laura crossed over and read the note, penned on hotel stationery.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Bishop.” She shook off a laugh. “I was here just a couple of weeks ago, and a week before that.” Staring at the note, she cast her mind back then set the note down on the teak hallstand ledge. “We should send this back. They’ve made some sort of mistake.”
“Have they?”
She shot him a questioning look then shrugged. “There’s no other explanation.”
“Maybe there is.”
As he held her gaze, she sent him a dry grin. “Then I’d like to hear it.”
“Would you?”
Her jaw tightened and she crossed her arms. “Don’t do that, Bishop.”
“Do what?”
“That. Answer everything with a question.”
As Bishop’s eyes hardened—or was that glazed over?—an icy shiver chased up her spine. Feeling bad, foolish, she pressed her lips together. Her tone had been brittle. She hadn’t meant it to be. It was just that …
Well, first there’d been that Robert Harrington and his odd comment, then the concierge’s almost surprised reaction at seeing them, now this offering from the hotel management as if she’d been gone for years.
It didn’t make sense.
But she was aware of the look on Bishop’s face. Removed? Concerned? He thought she’d overreacted and he was right. Management had sent champagne. He was suggesting there was some good reason. Which was feasible. And unimportant. She was making more of this than she needed to. She was curious—puzzled—that’s all.
Pasting on a smile, willing the flush from her cheeks, she nodded at the bottle.
“Either way, it’s a nice gesture. We should thank them in the morning.”
Bishop moved past and carefully set the bucket on the coffee table. If Laura thought she was confused, he hadn’t a clue what he was doing or what he planned to do next.
Every step he’d taken since Friday afternoon had led to precisely this moment. Logical steps. Steps that had made sense at the time. Even making love last night. In his defense, he could put up a good argument for that. What man in his right mind could’ve refused? Particularly when it was this man with that woman.
When she’d waxed on tonight about how unbelievable their honeymoon had been, recreating all those images and feelings while they’d nibbled on cake, she’d accomplished something he would never have dreamed possible. She’d taken him back—really back—in time. He’d looked into her eyes, so animated and thirsty for life—for him—and, God help him, he’d only wanted to stay.
And that awareness made this situation—where they stood now—different than it had been last night, or this morning.
He hadn’t wanted to force any recollections back too fast, too soon. He’d tread lightly, initially, because he hadn’t known how to go about it, then because he’d liked to see her happy. Ultimately he’d liked feeling happy again, too.
He’d been very happy tonight.
Before the champagne had arrived, they’d been on the brink, about to make love again, and yet when she’d looked so frustrated and confused just now, he’d tried to force that memory door open again, and more than a crack. He’d pushed to try to make her remember. And he’d done it for a reason. A selfish reason.
If this happened—if they had sex, made love, came apart in each other’s arms—he wanted it to be real. Maybe if she remembered the past, the ugly breakup, while she was feeling the way she did about him now, the anger and pain would pale enough for them to be able to work something out. That’s all he’d ever wanted.
To work things out.
He folded down into the circular leather lounge, smoothed back his hair with both hands then found her eyes again.
“Laura, come here. We need to talk.”
“About what?” She crossed and sat close to him, her beautiful face wan, her emerald eyes glistening with questions.
“We need to make an appointment.”
“An appointment
