His senses shot to life, his blood practically humming through his veins.
She tasted warm and sweet and feminine. Maggie. The woman he intended to make his own. And while his own needy reaction to their closeness didn’t surprise him, Maggie’s did.
She shivered. There was no denying that she recognized the connection between them. She couldn’t hide the surprise in her wide eyes, the goose bumps that rippled along her skin.
He smiled, pleased. They’d be magic together, as good as lovers as they were everywhere else in their lives.
Maggie blinked, visibly coming to her senses, and Sam let her hand slip away. He would let her go. For now.
This would be his best Valentine yet, because by the time their weekend was over, Sam vowed to have discovered every creamy nook where Maggie dabbed that orange blossom perfume.
3
“WELCOME TO Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast, ma’am.”
Maggie handed the car keys to the valet, estimated him to be around eighteen or nineteen. He probably parked cars on holidays to pay his college tuition. Or maybe to afford one of the romance-themed suites inside.
Did he get an employee discount?
The less analytical part of her brain wondered if he thought she’d come to the superclub to have sex. She felt an absurd urge to explain she was here to observe, not participate, but suspected this young man couldn’t have cared less. His mind was probably engaged elsewhere.
Like on what he might do inside one of those romance-themed suites with his own girlfriend.
As far as superclubs went, Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast appeared as picturesque as the brochure had led her to believe. Clearly a tribute to the Northeast style of architecture with its steep roofs and canted bay windows, the superclub also had a wraparound veranda that would make gazing out over the park surrounding the Falls an incredible experience in any season.
Her original impression of the superclub had been right. The hotel and grounds combined looked like a movie set come to life. Or perhaps she’d stepped through the movie screen into another era. When the valet drove off in Sam’s car, Maggie had the odd sensation that the twenty-first century had disappeared into an unseen parking garage right along with it. Or maybe it was her last link to reality that sped away.
A recent snowfall had enameled the grounds beneath a glaze of white and Maggie knew Sam would have insisted she fly if he’d suspected a storm. Luckily, she’d bypassed any difficult weather and her trip had been uneventful.
But Niagara was definitely a winter wonderland. Snow embossed the landscaping, creating glistening tiers of the frozen bushes and flower beds below. Lawn lights became icy rosettes that marked the walkway, and with the icicles hanging from the gingerbread trim along the eaves, Maggie thought the superclub looked like a giant wedding cake.
The air was filmy with moisture, the sky the color of pebbles, a combination, she supposed, of stormy weather and mist from the nearby Falls. Each exhalation formed smoky tendrils of breath, but it wasn’t the cold that made her breathless. It was the atmosphere of the place. The aura of romance was tangible.
She made her way up the steps while a mature bellhop with grizzled hair wheeled her bags up a tastefully hidden access ramp. Bitter wind nipped at her cheeks, and somehow, the moment seemed symbolic, as if each step brought her closer to an unknown and uncertain future.
The doors ahead swung open, held wide by a smiling, well-bundled doorman. “Welcome to Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast.”
Sweeping across the veranda, Maggie inclined her head at the doorman, firmly tamping down any last-minute doubts that dared to surface. She’d just spent the past nine hours and five hundred miles driving to give herself a chance to come to grips with what she had to do.
She had couples to observe and a knowledge base to build. She would not be obsessing about sharing a romance-themed suite with Sam.
Though it would have made sense for her to fly into Niagara with him, Maggie had needed the long drive to formulate her game plan. Sam hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of her making the trip alone and had offered to cancel his meetings and drive with her. But just the thought of sitting sandwiched together in the cramped interior of a car for so long was too much forced closeness for Maggie to deal with.
At least until she had a firm grip on her imagination.
Truth was, she’d had sex on the brain ever since Sam had agreed to help her. When she’d met him in their hallway for a trip to the grocery store, their lovely polished-wood foyer had seemed to shrink to the dimensions of a peanut shell. Though she’d stood in that foyer with Sam a thousand times, Maggie never once remembered almost strangling from the lack of air.
When they’d bumped into each other at her twice weekly workout at the ice-skating rink, she couldn’t help imagining what he would look like divested of all that bulky hockey gear. And when she’d glanced up to find him watching her from the bleachers, she’d been so rattled that she’d tripped on her toe pick and skidded across the ice.
While at work, her overactive imagination had been sufficiently occupied, but Maggie had spent the rest of her days staving off guilt for all the erotic pImages** she’d conjured up during the nights.
Oh, the nights. They’d been the worst. Lying awake with Sam in the apartment below, imagining him in his bed, wondering what he was dreaming about.
Of course, she would never admit any of this to him, but after several barely lucid, and very lame excuses, he’d gotten the hint and backed off, giving her the time she needed to put all errant thoughts of sex out of her mind. His compromise had been that she drive his late-model, reliable car and allow him to make the return trip with her.
“I’ll take your bags to your suite, ma’am,” said a voice deep with the unmistakable burr of Scotland, when the bellhop reappeared by her side.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, making eye contact with the man whose nose and cheeks had caught the bad end of the bitter cold, judging by their reddened tips.
The gold-trimmed sable uniform jacket sat stiffly on the bellhop’s shoulders, as though he spent more time shrugging out of it than wearing it. A glance at his name badge revealed why—he was the maintenance supervisor. Why he was doubling as the bellhop, Maggie could only guess, but she smiled in greeting.
“I haven’t checked in yet, Mr. Longmuir, but my…” How should she refer to Sam? Pretend lover, boyfriend, gigolo? “My friend should be here. Sam Masters. Just take them to his suite.” She would head that way herself soon.
“Just call me Dougray, lassie,” he said with a toothy grin that revealed a good bit of silver in those very same teeth. “I’m the jack-of-all-trades around here. If you have a trouble, with anything mind, press 19 on any house phone, and I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
“Thank you, Dougray.”
“Now, they’re getting antsy for you at the front desk, lassie. You’d best get over before they accuse me of gibbering with the guests.” Abundant gray brows dipped together in a scowl that bisected the older man’s forehead and reminded Maggie of what Sam always jokingly referred to as a unibrow.
She followed Dougray’s gaze
