Desire and the Deep Blue Sea Read online

  Instead, she’d pressed back against the seat, as if trapping his hand. Increasing the intensity of the contact.

  So he should have comprehended the disastrous nature of the situation then. Or if not then, when the crew had arrived too, and he and Callie strode into the hotel lobby on camera, the boom mic overhead, and saw the statuary.

  Her cheeks had gone ruddy, but for the first time on their trip, she’d seemed to forget about the crew. No, she’d been too busy studying the various configurations of marble humans in congress with other marble humans—interspersed with a few marble satyrs and other similar creatures—to pay attention to Gladys or anyone else.

  To be fair, filming had largely come to a halt, because HATV was meant to be a family-friendly network. But Callie hadn’t even appeared to notice the moment when the cameras lowered to the floor and the boom mic guy wandered off toward the lobby’s tray of chocolate-covered strawberries.

  “I’d dislocate a hip,” he’d heard her mumble at one erotic display.

  He hadn’t said a word. Even attempts to remember colonial tax policy couldn’t help him under this sort of strain. So in lieu of saying something he shouldn’t, he simply followed her without a word, like a lust-struck shadow.

  At another tableau composed of gleaming stone flesh, she’d spent some time eyeing the scene’s participants. Her mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.

  “Where would he even put his…” A pause. “Oh. I forget about that option.”

  Dear Lord.

  “Why don’t we check in?” he’d suggested at that point, hoarse desperation in every syllable he managed to utter. “We have dinner reservations soon.”

  “He’s right.” Gladys had sounded a bit stressed too. “We need time to set up in the restaurant before then. Hopefully someplace without so many marble dongs on display.”

  Thank goodness for Gladys, voice of sanity.

  “And we reserved you a VIP booth at Club Carnal for your after-dinner activity,” she’d continued, “so wear the sexiest clothes you brought. Within network-standards reason.”

  Gladys, you foul betrayer.

  They’d checked in. The crew had followed them down hallways papered with textured cherry-red brocade and filmed a few quick shots of the suite, some of which might even be suitable for children. And then the HATV people had left, abandoning Thomas to his torment like the traitors they were.

  Callie had stopped fondling the headboard, thank goodness, but she was eyeing him closely, her thick brows drawn.

  “You’ve been very quiet.” She took a step toward him. “Are you okay?”

  “Just a bit tired,” he said.

  The truth. He hadn’t had much sleep the night before, and he didn’t anticipate much more rest that night. Especially given what he’d just read about the contents of the nightstands.

  Her scrutiny didn’t waver, and he fought a shudder at how that steady, concentrated perusal burned through his clothing like a shower of embers. How her mere proximity made him weak, made him hard, in the dim hush of a room designed for pleasure.

  She waved a hand, encompassing their surroundings in a single graceful sweep. “Does all this make you uncomfortable?”

  Definitely. But perhaps not for the reasons she might imagine, and not for reasons he was willing to discuss with her at that moment.

  He countered the question with its echo. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  When she blinked and glanced away, he could finally draw oxygen to his lungs again.

  “Not really.” Her voice sounded steady. Definite. “With anyone else, I would be super-anxious right now. Worried about what HATV might want us to do on this island. Worried about what my…” She cleared her throat. “Worried about what my partner would want from me, and how much of it would end up on camera.”

  The idea of her pressured into situations that made her anxious, ones she didn’t choose or want, made his gut clench.

  Callie’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “But I know you would speak up if the crew requested something that made me uncomfortable, because you did that already, during our first photo shoot.” Her brows compressed again, and her lips pinched a tad. “And you were a total gentleman last night. This morning, too. It felt like we were hardly in the same room together, much less in the same bed.”

  Her gaze landed on the huge slab of mattress dominating their suite. She reached out to caress the slick wine-colored silk of their comforter, and all the blessed oxygen departed his lungs in a whoosh.

  “So no, I’m not uncomfortable.” Another step toward him. Another. Until she was within arm’s reach, her chin tipped up to him and her glossy lips parted. “But I still don’t know whether you’re uncomfortable. Some people might find all this”—she gestured to their surroundings again—"shocking or off-putting, and if you’re one of them, I want you to know that’s totally okay. If you’d like, we can talk to Gladys about finding a different place to stay tonight.”

  He exhaled through his nose.

  Really, he shouldn’t be surprised. Not by her thoughtfulness, nor by her concern. From the beginning, their coworkers had assumed his absentmindedness, his academic bent, the way he didn’t seem to notice the world around him while he sorted through his thoughts, his research, his ideas, meant he must be an innocent or a prude. Possibly someone entirely uninterested in sex.

  He hadn’t dated anyone since starting at CMRL, which had only confirmed that mistaken belief. A belief that, apparently, Callie might share.

  There was nothing wrong with being innocent or uninterested in sex.

  But he wasn’t either, and he wanted her to know that.

  “Callie…” When he moved a step closer, her breath feathered across his neck in a ticklish rush. Carefully, he lifted a hand and traced the silken heat of her cheek with his knuckles, and her eyes flew to his, dark and wide. “I’m no monk.”

  Her teeth sank into her lower lip. “You’re not?”

  “No.” He stroked the line of her jaw, the tempting length of her vulnerable neck. Her flesh rippled into goosebumps beneath the light drag of his knuckles. “Definitely not.”

  He really wasn’t.

  And if they didn’t leave the room soon, he was going to beg her to let him prove it.

  He allowed himself one last gift. A slow sweep of his thumb across that distracting, plump lower lip, which lowered in a shuddering breath.

  Then he forced himself to step away, even though the carpet beneath his feet had dissolved into quicksand. “We should get ready for dinner.”

  She stood there for a moment, her expression dazed and her eyes cloudy, as he hustled to his suitcase. But when he whacked his knee against the leg of the desk—waist-height and very sturdy, he’d unwillingly noted—she startled and gave him a sympathetic wince.

  “That looked like it hurt.” She dropped onto the mattress in a sudden descent, as if her own knees had given way. “Are you all right?”

  He carefully kept his back to her as he zipped open his bag. “I’m fine.”

  In fact, the pain was distracting him from discomfort in other areas of his anatomy, which was a welcome development.

  After that, they each took a turn changing in the absurdly lavish bathroom, which boasted heated floors. Marble sinks. An enormous, sybaritic shower. A sunken bathtub big enough for a crowd.

  His gaze caught on one of the shower’s adjustable body jets, which would hit at about his upper thighs. But for Callie, if she was facing the jet and he was behind her, spreading her open for the spray—

  He gripped the marble countertop with both hands, bracing himself there as he dropped his chin to his chest and got himself under control.

  It was going to be a long, steamy night.

  And not just because he and Callie had traveled to a tropical paradise.

  Five

  Callie definitely preferred Thomas to the male strippers.

  She’d seen a number of the performers up close—really close, since the
resort had given them prime seats in Club Carnal—so she was in an enviable position to judge.

  Yes, their muscles bulged. Yes, their chests were as smooth as that silky passion fruit crème anglaise she’d had with dessert. Yes, they could thrust their hips with startling vigor, at an impressive frequency, and without any signs of tiring, not even after pretending to be dance-loving, clothing-averse firefighters for several impressive, athletic minutes.

  And yes, maybe that Clark Kent-esque one with the glasses and the tearaway shirt and bowtie—not to mention the gleaming, tree-trunk thighs—would have turned her crank a week ago.

  But Clark Kent didn’t freeze in place and stop speaking mid-word when he first saw her dressed for the evening. He didn’t tell her she looked like an Amazon queen in her goddess dress and gladiator sandals, or marvel at how she’d tamed her hair into a twist. He didn’t listen to every word she said at dinner as if she were an oracle predicting the fate of humanity. He didn’t drop his fork on the floor when she smiled at him.

  Clark Kent didn’t check to make sure she was comfortable seeing the strip show before it began. He didn’t sit beside her during that strip show without any evidence of discomfort or attempts to reaffirm his heterosexuality.

  Clark Kent was hot, no doubt about it, but his glasses didn’t make him look like an ancient history professor who’d cause a stampede of hungry women to return to college, or perhaps a lit professor whose handsome, gentle face would inspire a thousand sonnets, all composed during class. And his suit didn’t skim the slim, strong lines of his frame in a way that made her want to explore such gorgeous, unfamiliar terrain in detail, in privacy, and in totality. While naked.

  So she didn’t want Clark Kent. She wanted Thomas. More than she’d ever imagined she could.

  When the club DJ played her first slow song after the end of the strip show, Thomas stood. He reached out a hand and invited Callie to dance with him. And when she accepted, he folded her into his arms and cradled her like a priceless artifact made of glass.

  They were swaying to Sade, one of the artist’s older tracks, the gentle, seductive warmth of her voice a partner in the dance. Callie looped her arms around Thomas’s neck, the better to draw him close. Preferably, as close as her next breath. And his hands…

  Oh, goodness. One of them was braced, firm and warm, on her back. Supporting her. Guiding her away from other oblivious couples and the tables edging the dance floor.

  But the other hand…it was playing at the nape of her neck. Stroking. Kneading softly. Tracing the fine wisps of hair that had escaped her updo.

  She was on the verge of combustion, despite a hazy awareness of the cameras filming their every move.

  As the song continued, he nearly tripped over a speaker wire, and his sway slowed to a near stop. But he nudged her away from that same wire, and those gentle, talented hands of his didn’t falter for a moment.

  She got it. Finally, she got it.

  When Thomas concentrated on something, on someone, the rest of his world disappeared. At the library, that meant she worked alone, even as she worked beside him. On the ferry to Parrot Cay, that meant he was paying so much attention to her, he nearly fell overboard. Here, in her arms, it meant he was so focused on holding her that he forgot to watch his feet, or even move them.

  He wanted her. This strong, sweet, protective man who’d made her laugh dozens of times during dinner and couldn’t seem to do anything in a hurry.

  She sincerely hoped that applied to foreplay too.

  When the music faded, he spoke into her ear. “It’s getting late. Do you want to go back to our room?”

  Oh, yes. She really did.

  He held her hand as they said good night to the crew. All the way to the elevator, all the way down the hall to their door. But when they got inside their room, he gave her fingers a squeeze and let them go.

  He beamed that sweet, affectionate smile her way. “May I take a shower first?”

  To her shock, he gathered what he needed and shut the bathroom doors behind him. The sound of running water began moments later.

  He’d left her with no kiss. No loaded glances. No seductive invitation to join him in the shower.

  Had she misunderstood everything? Mistaken on-camera flirtation and the affectionate gestures of a friend for something different?

  She was still standing there frozen, just inside the room, when he emerged from the bathroom minutes later, dressed in a thin white tee and drawstring pajama bottoms.

  “Your turn.” He smiled at her again. “We have a tour scheduled early in the morning, so we should get some sleep. You must be exhausted.” Then he flipped back the covers on his side of the bed and climbed inside, turning so his back was to her and his voice was muffled when he spoke again. “Thank you for a truly wonderful day, Callie. One of the best I’ve ever had.”

  She’d hoped for a truly wonderful night too. One of the best she’d ever had.

  But it appeared that wasn’t going to happen, so she choked out a pro forma but honest reply. “Same here.”

  In a sudden, embarrassed hurry, she kicked off her shoes, grabbed a nightgown from her suitcase, walked to the bathroom, and closed the doors behind her. The dress she hung on a hook to prevent wrinkles. The bra and panties she kicked to the corner.

  A quick shower washed away the glowy goddess makeup she’d applied earlier that evening and the grime inevitable after a day of travel. The body jets pummeled her skin until she felt raw, and even the soft towels provided by the hotel abraded her oversensitive flesh.

  Her hair unraveled after the removal of a few strategic bobby pins, falling around her shoulders. The simple shift nightgown floated over her head, and there she was in the mirror.

  Not an Amazon queen.

  Just Callie. Confused and worried, with dark circles under her eyes and a furrow pinched between her brows.

  She braced herself before opening the bathroom door. But just like the previous night, only her bedside lamp was illuminated, Thomas had turned his back to her, and he wasn’t moving or speaking.

  Asleep or feigning it.

  It didn’t really matter which. Even if he was faking, she clearly didn’t have the ovaries to press him on it. So instead of whispering his name, as she’d done the previous night, she simply climbed into the empty side of the bed, turned out her light, and resigned herself to another restless night in which Thomas remained simultaneously too close and too far.

  Gladys was listing the afternoon’s itinerary, her voice rising above the sound of the boat’s engine and the splash of waves against its two hulls. “Upon our arrival on Renaissance Island, we’ll immediately take a private tour of the grounds and facilities. Then, after we check in, you two will go parasailing, followed by dinner at Seaside Steaks restaurant. After dinner, you have tickets to—”

  Callie nodded automatically, her mind elsewhere.

  Just minutes ago, they’d completed a very risqué tour of Thongs—which had included an illuminating stop at the very special adult toy store on the island—and boarded a catamaran ferry to the third and final island they’d visit.

  Renaissance Island. The entire reason she’d applied to Island Match.

  Under a cloudless sky, the boat was skimming over the water, full of laughing tourists and amiable crew members. The sun’s reflection off the whitecaps seared into her retinas, and the breeze tempered the heat of a summer day off the coast of Florida.

  Somewhere over the horizon, their destination waited.

  She should be excited. Carefree. Marking every word Gladys said with strict attention.

  But Callie had already reviewed the schedule that morning. She didn’t really need to listen. Which was convenient, since she wasn’t listening. Couldn’t listen. Not with Thomas so near and her mind so cluttered.

  He stood behind her, his butt propped against the wooden rail, his arms looped around her waist and her body tucked into the curve of his. It seemed to be a protective position, as if he were att
empting to ensure she didn’t get jostled and tumble overboard.

  Which, to be honest, she found sort of hilarious. If anyone was going to fall off the boat and into the ridiculously blue water, he was the most likely candidate. No question about it.

  Still, she appreciated the gesture. And since that ridiculously blue water matched his eyes exactly, she was also experiencing a pleasant sense of vindication. She snapped a quick picture of the water with her cell phone to send Cowan and Irene later that day.

  “Look at me for a moment,” she whispered to Thomas.

  He did, and she snapped a photo of his eyes.

  Uh-huh. Perfect match.

  Gladys paused. “Did you hear that last bit, Callie?”

  Nope. “Yup.”

  That fleeting moment of victory past, her worries crept back into her thoughts. By the time she surfaced and took conscious stock of her surroundings once more, Gladys had finished talking and gone elsewhere. So had the hair and makeup woman. Other than the camera operators and boom mic guy, Callie and Thomas were alone at the rail.

  He was turning her in his arms and nudging her chin upwards with a single, careful fingertip. He studied her face, his high forehead creased with worry.

  “Are you okay?” The words were a quiet murmur, pitched too low for the mic. “You seem…not entirely present.”

  Well, of all people, he would know how that felt.

  She too kept her voice quiet. “Was it obvious I wasn’t listening?”

  “Not really. Other than when you took your pictures, I don’t think Gladys noticed.” Those startling blue eyes searched hers. “You made all the right responses, but you didn’t sound like yourself. What’s going on?”

  She bit her lip. What she had to say didn’t belong on camera, but she needed to talk.