Chapter One
“Sam, I’ve been waiting for you.”
I froze at the sound of that smooth, caffè latte voice. I
hated it. It rasped over my already edgy nerves and dragged me back ten years
in time, to the last time I’d spoken with Simon Pierce, here in this very
building.
On the last day of school, the final hour actually, he’d
cornered me in the narrow corridor outside the hall. He’d crowded me with his
larger body and touched my breast. In distraught confusion, I’d thought he was
going to kiss me goodbye. I’d wanted him to. But with a knowing look
he’d pulled away and left me flushing with embarrassed disappointment and a
message in black marker pen on my breast. Next Time, Simon .
I’d felt that touch every day for the last ten years, my
breath hitching in my throat, my nipple contracting under his hand. I still had
the shirt too, because many of my friends had signed it and I couldn’t throw it
away just because he’d spoiled it.
I turned to face him now, hoping he hadn’t noticed me
falter, and my gaze slammed into his winter-sky-blue eyes.
Holy crap, he’d grown up in the last ten years, and what a
job he’d done of it! He lounged indolently against a balloon- and
streamer-festooned pillar, like a devil under a cherry tree. He was a
devil—temptation and damnation in one fine package. His face, which held that
perfect mixture of symmetry, hardness and sensuality, topped by sexy, curling
dark hair, was the stuff that fantasies were made of—mine anyway. He’d been
tall and lanky in high school, now he was tall and ripped. My eyes dropped to
his throat, which, in my three-inch heels, was level with my face. His white
dress shirt was unbuttoned and the loose ends of his bow tie hung on either
side of the collar, framing a very masculine patch of tanned skin stretched
over the powerful tendons of his neck. I registered the top of a tattoo peeking
out, a hint of something dark, just above the second loose button, and my
thought processes stuttered as every cell in my body responded to his
fundamental sex appeal. Unfortunately I hated Simon Pierce.
I’d been staring too long. I stepped back abruptly, trying
to gather my wits, so that I wouldn’t have to look up so sharply to see his
face. I was flushing and feeling like a fool. He’d always made me feel like a
fool. But I really hadn’t expected to see him here. I wouldn’t have come if I
hadn’t thought it was safe.
“Simon,” I said, forcing my voice to come out cool and low.
Oh God, it was my sexy phone voice! What was I doing? “How unexpected.”
He smirked, one side of his thin-lipped, mobile mouth
twisting downward—who the hell smiled by pulling their lips downward?—and
answered my unvoiced question.
“I didn’t RSVP on Facebook. I phoned Jeanette last night to
let her know that I was coming.”
Damn, and I thought I’d been so clever, checking the RSVP
list on Facebook and only posting my own reply late yesterday afternoon, when I
was absolutely sure he wasn’t coming. I frowned. His statement implied that he
somehow knew I’d been watching the posts. I hastily brushed aside that
disturbing notion.
“Last night? That’s very impulsive of you.” I tried to sound
dismissive and maybe slightly mocking.
“It wasn’t impulsive. I was waiting for some information.”
He was studying me closely, intently, as if looking for some hidden meaning in
my words.
I felt a vague sense of unease at his quietly spoken reply.
I took another step back, seeking a bit of distance from his disturbing gaze,
and took a more careful look at him. He was an eyeful, literally. He was
wearing an austere black waistcoat over his shirt, the snug fit of the vest
molding his muscular torso, and his thighs were thickly outlined under the
expensive cut of his tux pants as he stood with one foot crossed over the
opposite ankle. I suddenly thought with shocking vividness of those thighs
pushing in between mine, forcing me to spread so that he
“Sam, I’ve been waiting for you.”
I froze at the sound of that smooth, caffè latte voice. I
hated it. It rasped over my already edgy nerves and dragged me back ten years
in time, to the last time I’d spoken with Simon Pierce, here in this very
building.
On the last day of school, the final hour actually, he’d
cornered me in the narrow corridor outside the hall. He’d crowded me with his
larger body and touched my breast. In distraught confusion, I’d thought he was
going to kiss me goodbye. I’d wanted him to. But with a knowing look
he’d pulled away and left me flushing with embarrassed disappointment and a
message in black marker pen on my breast. Next Time, Simon .
I’d felt that touch every day for the last ten years, my
breath hitching in my throat, my nipple contracting under his hand. I still had
the shirt too, because many of my friends had signed it and I couldn’t throw it
away just because he’d spoiled it.
I turned to face him now, hoping he hadn’t noticed me
falter, and my gaze slammed into his winter-sky-blue eyes.
Holy crap, he’d grown up in the last ten years, and what a
job he’d done of it! He lounged indolently against a balloon- and
streamer-festooned pillar, like a devil under a cherry tree. He was a
devil—temptation and damnation in one fine package. His face, which held that
perfect mixture of symmetry, hardness and sensuality, topped by sexy, curling
dark hair, was the stuff that fantasies were made of—mine anyway. He’d been
tall and lanky in high school, now he was tall and ripped. My eyes dropped to
his throat, which, in my three-inch heels, was level with my face. His white
dress shirt was unbuttoned and the loose ends of his bow tie hung on either
side of the collar, framing a very masculine patch of tanned skin stretched
over the powerful tendons of his neck. I registered the top of a tattoo peeking
out, a hint of something dark, just above the second loose button, and my
thought processes stuttered as every cell in my body responded to his
fundamental sex appeal. Unfortunately I hated Simon Pierce.
I’d been staring too long. I stepped back abruptly, trying
to gather my wits, so that I wouldn’t have to look up so sharply to see his
face. I was flushing and feeling like a fool. He’d always made me feel like a
fool. But I really hadn’t expected to see him here. I wouldn’t have come if I
hadn’t thought it was safe.
“Simon,” I said, forcing my voice to come out cool and low.
Oh God, it was my sexy phone voice! What was I doing? “How unexpected.”
He smirked, one side of his thin-lipped, mobile mouth
twisting downward—who the hell smiled by pulling their lips downward?—and
answered my unvoiced question.
“I didn’t RSVP on Facebook. I phoned Jeanette last night to
let her know that I was coming.”
Damn, and I thought I’d been so clever, checking the RSVP
list on Facebook and only posting my own reply late yesterday afternoon, when I
was absolutely sure he wasn’t coming. I frowned. His statement implied that he
somehow knew I’d been watching the posts. I hastily brushed aside that
disturbing notion.
“Last night? That’s very impulsive of you.” I tried to sound
dismissive and maybe slightly mocking.
“It wasn’t impulsive. I was waiting for some information.”
He was studying me closely, intently, as if looking for some hidden meaning in
my words.
I felt a vague sense of unease at his quietly spoken reply.
I took another step back, seeking a bit of distance from his disturbing gaze,
and took a more careful look at him. He was an eyeful, literally. He was
wearing an austere black waistcoat over his shirt, the snug fit of the vest
molding his muscular torso, and his thighs were thickly outlined under the
expensive cut of his tux pants as he stood with one foot crossed over the
opposite ankle. I suddenly thought with shocking vividness of those thighs
pushing in between mine, forcing me to spread so that he
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