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Arousal pulsed in his loins at the memory of how much they’d both enjoyed it.
Down, boy. A repeat performance wasn’t the best idea.
He’d be letting her go in the morning with no regrets.
He needed to return to his life and the work he loved. To get back to the clean, uncomplicated solitude of his house in Laguna Beach. And he needed to forget all about Connor and his family, and the girl lying so trustingly in his arms.
But as he fell into dreams she shuddered in her sleep, and his arm tightened around her shoulders instinctively.
Chapter Seven
JUNO lurched awake to the sound of an overzealous sparrow on dawn-chorus duty, the brilliant morning sunshine blurring her vision, but none of her other senses.
The heady scent of sex smothered the light perfume of the terrace flowers. Goosebumps prickled on her naked skin and a large, rough hand lay possessively on her hip. A low grunt sounded behind her and the hand twitched, sending shock waves rippling through her.
She sneaked a look over her shoulder. And her vision—and all the torrid memories from the night before—came into sharp, vivid focus. Mac Brody lay spreadeagled on his stomach, his broad shoulders and long legs hogging most of the bed and the sheet riding low on his buttocks. His back rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The shadow of stubble on his jaw made him look as swarthy as a pirate, highlighting chiselled cheekbones, but his thick dark lashes were almost boyish.
She shifted onto her back and lifted his hand to place it by his side, being careful not to wake him. She paused, noticing for the first time the nasty scar that slashed from his bicep down to his elbow. Why hadn’t she noticed that last night? The hot spot between her legs pulsed hard as she took in the red scratches on the tanned skin of his shoulder blade. Of course she hadn’t noticed the scar, she’d been too busy availing herself of his staggering skills as a lover.
Not that she was an expert on such things, but she’d leapt into the lion’s den last night and he’d made it the most exhilarating, the most erotic experience of her life. He’d been so careful with her, so patient. Knowing who he was and what he was, she never would have expected such care or generosity.
Edging closer to him, she pressed a light kiss to his cheekbone. He gave a soft grunt, but didn’t stir.
‘Thank you, Mac Brody,’ she whispered, and felt the tingle of tears.
Horrified, she wiped her eyes. What was she doing? She mustn’t let herself get over-emotional about their night together. It was only sex—and she had to remember that.
Her heart wedged into her throat. She should never have spent the entire night in his arms. This was just the sort of intimacy she’d been determined to avoid.
They’d made no promises, no commitments. How long was he even likely to remember her name? After all, a man didn’t make love like that unless he’d had a lot of prac
tice.
She slipped out of the bed. She’d seized her Cinderella moment and made the most of it. But she’d taken a foolish, self-indulgent risk falling asleep in his arms. She wasn’t about to make it worse by hanging around like some star-struck groupie until he woke up.
Having wiggled into her underwear and the heavily creased gown, she gathered up her shoes and crossed the room. She hesitated next to the antique desk beside the door, then picked up a pen and dashed off a quick note on the hotel’s letterheaded stationery. She folded the thick white paper, scribbled Mac’s name across it, then tiptoed to the bed to prop it by the phone on the bedside table.
Tilting her head, she took one last opportunity to admire Mac’s magnificent body sprawled across most of the bed. And felt the inevitable throb of response.
How could he still look so dangerous when he was fast asleep?
She took a fortifying breath and crept back across the silk carpet barefoot, suddenly eager to get as far away as possible. But as she shut the door the soft click of the lock echoed in some small neglected corner of her heart.
Five hours later, a raucous ring jolted Mac out of a nicely carnal erotic fantasy. Swearing, he kept his eyes shut and groped for the phone.
‘Brody,’ he grunted into the mouthpiece once he’d finally located the damn thing. ‘This better be really good.’
‘Mac, why have you had your cell off for two days? And what the heck are you doing in France, man?’
Mac groaned, recognising the harassed Brooklyn accent of his personal publicist, Mickey Carver. ‘None of your business, Mick,’ he said, his head now throbbing as insistently as his groin. He went to dump the phone, but heard Mickey’s panicked plea crackling down the line.
‘Don’t hang up, Mac. I’m begging you, here.’
He exhaled slowly and brought the handset back to his ear. There was no point hanging up on Mickey. He’d call the management and have them storm the hotel room. ‘All right, Mick.’ He opened his eyelids and got blasted by five thousand watts of sunshine in both retinas for his trouble. ‘But keep your voice down,’ he whispered, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m not alone.’
He eased over onto his back and blinked groggily at the indent on the fluffy goose down pillow beside him.
Holding the phone away from his ear, he strained to hear any sound from the en suite. All that greeted him was Mickey’s muffled voice and the rustle of a breeze in the terrace vines.
