style="font-size:15px;"> After a few minutes, he returned to the living room. He didn’t talk, just unplugged her CD player and gathered up the two compact speakers. He popped out U2 and replaced it with Norah Jones.
Then he was back to the bathroom.
Curiosity finally got the better of her, and she wandered in to find her tub full of steaming, foamy water, and three cinnamon-scented candles flickering at the base of the tub. They’d been a Christmas gift from somebody at the office. But she’d never used them.
“I never have baths,” she admitted.
“Why not?”
“Showers are more efficient.”
“But baths are more fun.”
“You have baths, do you?” she couldn’t help but tease.
He faced her in the tiny room. “Guys don’t take baths. They want girls to take them. It makes them all soft and warm, and in the mood to get beautiful.”
She gave a mock sigh. “It’s time-consuming being all girly.”
He grinned. “Piece of cake being a guy.”
“Double standard.”
“You know it.”
“Still.” She glanced down at the steaming water. “It does look inviting.”
“That’s because it is.” He reached across her shoulder and flicked off the light.
“Time to take off your clothes,” he rumbled.
A sensual shiver ran through her, and she reflexively reached for the hem of her T-shirt.
But his large hands closed over hers to stop them. “I mean after I leave.”
“You’re leaving?”
He kissed her forehead. “I didn’t come here to seduce you, Sinclair.”
Suddenly, she wished he had.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m going to paint for a while, or we’ll never finish.”
“I can paint later.”
His finger brushed over her lips to silence her. “The price of being a guy. Your mission is to get all glammed up and frou frou. My mission is to give you the time to do that.”
Then he winked, and left the room, clicking the door shut behind him. And Sinclair shifted her attention to the deep, claw-footed tub.
It looked decadently wonderful. He’d set out the shampoo, bath gel and lotion. And he’d obviously poured some of the Luscious Lavender foaming oil into the water. She’d spent the last six months thinking about the artsy labels, the expensive magazine ads, the stuffed sample gift baskets for the ball, and the retail locations that needed some extra attention promotions-wise. Funny, that she’d never thought much about the products themselves.
The water steamed, and the lavender scent filled the room, and the anticipation of that luxurious heat on her aching shoulders was more than tempting.
She peeled off her T-shirt, unzipped her jeans, then slipped out of her underwear. She eased, toe-first, into the scorching bathwater, dipping in her foot, her calf, her knee. Then she slowly brought in her other foot, bracing her hands on the edges of the tub to lower her body into the hot water.
After her skin grew accustomed to the temperature, and her shoulders and neck began to sigh in pleasure, her thoughts made their way to Hunter. He was on the other side of that thin wall. And she was naked. And he knew she was naked.
She pictured him opening the door, wearing nothing but a smile, a glass of wine in each hand. He’d cross the black and white tiles, bend to kiss her, maybe on the neck, maybe on the lips. He’d set down their glasses. Then he’d draw her to her feet, dripping wet, the scented oil slick on her skin. His hands would roam over her stomach, her breasts, her buttocks, pulling her tight against his body, lifting her—
Something banged outside and Hunter swore in frustration. Clearly, he wasn’t out there stripping off his clothes and popping the wine cork. She was naked, not twenty feet away, and he was dutifully painting.
She sucked in a breath and ducked her head under the water.
Four
By the time Sinclair emerged from her bathroom, wrapped in a thick, terry robe, her face glowing, her wet hair combed back from her face, Hunter had cleaned up the paint and ordered a pizza. The smell of tomatoes and cheese wafted up from the cardboard box on the breakfast bar while he popped the cork from his housewarming bottle of wine.
“How did you know sausage and mushroom is my favorite?” she asked as she padded across the paint splattered tarps.
“I’m psychic.” He retrieved two stools from beneath the tarp, then opened the top of the pizza box.
“How’d it go in there?” he asked her, watching her climb up on one stool.
She arranged the robe so that it covered her from head to toe, and he tried not to think about what was under there.
She smiled in a way that did his heart good. “I’m a whole new woman.”
“Not completely new, I hope,” he teased as he took the stool facing her. The covered breakfast bar was at their elbows.
She grinned. “Don’t worry. I saved the best parts.”
“Oh, good.” He poured them each a glass of the pinot. “So, are you ready to move on to makeup?”
She reached for a slice of pizza. “You planning to help me with that, too?”
He took in her straggled hair, squeaky clean face and oversized robe. If he had his way, he’d keep her exactly as she was. But this wasn’t about him.
“I don’t think you want to arm me with a mascara wand.”
“But you’ve done such a good job so far.” She blinked her thick lashes ingenuously.
“We could call one of the Bergdorf ladies.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
She hit him with an impatient stare. “It’s not that I can’t put on a lot of makeup. It’s that I don’t put on a lot of makeup.”
“Oh.”
She chewed on her slice of pizza, and he followed suit. After a while, she slipped her bare feet off the stool’s crossbar and swung them in the air while they ate in companionable silence.
“What about clothes?” he asked.
“I’ll call Kristy and get some suggestions.”
He
