Not Quite Married by Christine Rimmer Page B

his and clasped it, moving it to where she felt the kick. “Yeah.” She smiled in spite of herself. “That’s it.”
    “I feel it,” he agreed as the baby poked at his palm, then poked again. He was watching their hands, all his attention on the movement beneath them. And then he lifted his gaze and met her eyes. His were the clearest, most beautiful blue right then. “Clara...” His voice was rougher now, even lower than usual.
    She just stared up at him, still annoyed with him for not even telling her about Mrs. Scruggs, and at the same time swept up in the moment, in the intimacy of it—their baby kicking, her hand over his. She should have glanced away.
    But she didn’t.
    And he saw it, saw the yearning in her eyes. She knew he saw it by the way he said her name. Again. “Clara...”
    Step back , her wiser self commanded. But she didn’t listen to her wiser self. It felt too wonderful, to be so close, so...connected. It made her forget that she was pissed off at him, forget the hurt that still lingered between them, forget that if she was going to kiss him, first she wanted to talk to him.
    Really talk to him. For a long time, in detail. She wanted to know all the things he’d never told her on the island. About his parents and his childhood, about his work—did he actually like being a banker?—about his marriage to Astrid and what had gone wrong with it. About why he sometimes seemed like two different people: the domineering, oh-so-well-bred banker on one hand. The sexy, adventurous charmer from the island on the other.
    Who was he, really?
    But his hand was on her belly, and his eyes were holding hers. His briefcase dropped from his other hand and hit the floor with a definite thunk .
    And when he lowered his mouth to hers, well, there only seemed one thing to do in response to that.
    Lift it up and take it.
     

Chapter Six
    D amn. It’s good to be home , Dalton thought as Clara swayed toward him.
    Her lips—softer even than he remembered—met his. He breathed in the sweet, unforgettable scent of her skin. She let out a tiny moan.
    And broke the kiss.
    Too soon.
    But he wasn’t deterred. He let the hand on her stomach slide on around to clasp her lower back, bringing her belly, so full with their baby, to press against him. It felt good, that hard roundness pushing at him. Insistent, undeniable, this new life that they had made.
    He lifted his other hand to cradle her face. “Ah, Clara...”
    She scowled up at him. “I don’t know why I just kissed you. I shouldn’t have. It’s wrong.”
    “Uh-uh. Not wrong. Very, very right.”
    “You piss me off. And we should talk first. There’s so much to say.”
    “Shh.”
    “See?” She pouted up at him. “Now you shush me.”
    “Shh...”
    He dipped his head and their mouths touched again, brushing. So sweet, the scent of her, Ivory soap and apples, all clean and fresh and crisp.
    This time, she didn’t jerk away.
    Instead she opened on a sigh. He deepened the contact—not too much. Enough to run his tongue along the edges of her upper teeth. On the island, sometimes they would kiss for the longest time, sitting on the white sand beach under the shade of a big umbrella, or in bed, their bodies joined, holding out against the rising wave of pleasure, making it last.
    Kissing and kissing until he knew he couldn’t hang on one second longer. He was going to go over the edge and there was no way he could stop it...
    She always tasted so good, like sunshine and sugar cookies. And freedom, somehow. All the freedom and ease and fun he’d never allowed himself.
    Oh, there had been women. Lots of them. Before Astrid. Before he’d decided it was time to find the right wife, before he’d finally accepted that the thrill of being wanted by a stranger never seemed to last beyond the first encounter.
    So he’d given up on one-night thrills. He’d pursued and married Astrid. And had it all gone to hell.
    Only to meet Clara, on the island, while he was