Allegro Court
“You have yourself a bet, Matilda.” Marcus held out his hand.
Mattie didn’t even flinch at the use of her full name, too wrapped up in dread. Her skin crawled with goosebumps. What had she done?
She’d let her own emotions take over, that’s what she’d done. Because it wasn’t only her wish to give Lorraine choices, or to help Marcus and his mother reconnect, that had caused her to offer the bet. It was her own need to keep Marcus close, at least for a little while longer. She couldn’t bear to have him leave so soon, not again.
Jason was going to kill her, no matter her brave words to Marcus. Arranging the contracts was strictly his territory. She’d gotten so carried away with keeping Marcus here, both for herself and for Lorraine, that she’d forgotten her responsibility to the company.
She stared at Marcus’ hand.
“Getting cold feet already?” he taunted.
She’d just have to make sure she won the bet. Then Jason would never need to know. All she had to do was finish in twenty-seven days. If Marcus was still around, he could leave one day early if he wanted. If he wasn’t, well, she’d have won the bet regardless, if not the reason for it. Wiping her damp palm on her denim-covered thigh, she gripped Marcus’ hand, prepared for a swift shake to seal the deal.
Instead she found herself hauled into the air, landing with a thump against his chest, their clasped hands wedged between them. His other arm snaked around her waist, holding her close. Her toes scrabbled for a hold, stretching to their limit as he lifted her off her feet.
“A handshake won’t do for this bet,” he muttered, his breath warm and soft against her cheek.
Her nose was level with his chin, putting his mouth right in front of her eyes. His lips were perfect, she thought dreamily, thin and masculine, slightly parted, just waiting for her to nibble on. And then she lost sight of them as he lowered that perfect mouth to hers.
The shock of it sent bolts of desire coursing through her, curling in her belly, loosening her knees. She sagged against him and he tightened his grip around her waist. The heat of him enfolded her, rivalling the early summer sun.
He released the hand he’d trapped between them, and ran his fingers over her skull, down her ponytail, angling her head so he could press the kiss deeper. A sweep of his tongue across the seam of her lips unlocked the last of her feeble resistance. Bone-deep shudders shook her as he explored her mouth, darting forays that teased and tempted and tore her apart.
She’d been seventeen the first time he kissed her. He’d learned a bit about women since then. Her free hand clutched his shoulder, crushing the fabric of his shirt, her dry, work-roughened fingers rasping against the smooth material.
The sound evaporated the fog of lust from her mind. She was a labourer, blue collar and proud of it. He was a sophisticated cellist more comfortable with tuxedos than tradespeople. Physical attraction hadn’t been enough to keep them together before, and nothing had changed since.
Mattie didn’t even flinch at the use of her full name, too wrapped up in dread. Her skin crawled with goosebumps. What had she done?
She’d let her own emotions take over, that’s what she’d done. Because it wasn’t only her wish to give Lorraine choices, or to help Marcus and his mother reconnect, that had caused her to offer the bet. It was her own need to keep Marcus close, at least for a little while longer. She couldn’t bear to have him leave so soon, not again.
Jason was going to kill her, no matter her brave words to Marcus. Arranging the contracts was strictly his territory. She’d gotten so carried away with keeping Marcus here, both for herself and for Lorraine, that she’d forgotten her responsibility to the company.
She stared at Marcus’ hand.
“Getting cold feet already?” he taunted.
She’d just have to make sure she won the bet. Then Jason would never need to know. All she had to do was finish in twenty-seven days. If Marcus was still around, he could leave one day early if he wanted. If he wasn’t, well, she’d have won the bet regardless, if not the reason for it. Wiping her damp palm on her denim-covered thigh, she gripped Marcus’ hand, prepared for a swift shake to seal the deal.
Instead she found herself hauled into the air, landing with a thump against his chest, their clasped hands wedged between them. His other arm snaked around her waist, holding her close. Her toes scrabbled for a hold, stretching to their limit as he lifted her off her feet.
“A handshake won’t do for this bet,” he muttered, his breath warm and soft against her cheek.
Her nose was level with his chin, putting his mouth right in front of her eyes. His lips were perfect, she thought dreamily, thin and masculine, slightly parted, just waiting for her to nibble on. And then she lost sight of them as he lowered that perfect mouth to hers.
The shock of it sent bolts of desire coursing through her, curling in her belly, loosening her knees. She sagged against him and he tightened his grip around her waist. The heat of him enfolded her, rivalling the early summer sun.
He released the hand he’d trapped between them, and ran his fingers over her skull, down her ponytail, angling her head so he could press the kiss deeper. A sweep of his tongue across the seam of her lips unlocked the last of her feeble resistance. Bone-deep shudders shook her as he explored her mouth, darting forays that teased and tempted and tore her apart.
She’d been seventeen the first time he kissed her. He’d learned a bit about women since then. Her free hand clutched his shoulder, crushing the fabric of his shirt, her dry, work-roughened fingers rasping against the smooth material.
The sound evaporated the fog of lust from her mind. She was a labourer, blue collar and proud of it. He was a sophisticated cellist more comfortable with tuxedos than tradespeople. Physical attraction hadn’t been enough to keep them together before, and nothing had changed since.