Chapter 10

Marabelle stiffened when Nick pulled his Range Rover into the middle of three garage bays and turned off the ignition. Even though she’d crashed his house uninvited before, she’d never pictured herself returning, and definitely not under these circumstances. His shiny Porsche sat parked on one side of the Range Rover, a gray BMW 750 on the other. A blind man could see he had expensive taste in cars, homes, watches, and women. Especially women.

She reluctantly moved from the garage through the mudroom as if heading to the guillotine. Once inside Nick’s amazing kitchen, the tension tying her in knots seeped from her shoulders. Gleaming stainless steel appliances, honed soapstone countertops, and old wood plank floors would do that to a girl. Marabelle suffered a serious bout of kitchen envy, and her frustrated chef’s heart fluttered. Nick hadn’t spoken since they’d entered the house, but every nerve in her body knew he wanted to blast her…again.

She tried heading him off. “I gotta hand it to you, you have an awesome kitchen.” The aroma of fresh rosemary teased her nose from the herbs in the clay pot decorating his island.

“You wanna see the rest of the house?”

What? She had expected him to say a lot of things, from “Don’t interfere in my life again” to “Let’s get naked.” Not offer a home tour.

“Sure.”

He gestured with his big hand. “This is the kitchen.”

“The appliances are a dead giveaway. Do you cook?” She fingered the rosemary, infusing the air with more of its pungent scent.

“No, but my housekeeper does.”

Nick led her through the kitchen into the big dining room, where an antique rug in faded greens and oranges covered the wood floor. The room felt masculine without being obvious. She could easily picture Nick at the head of the old trestle table, in the host’s chair. She touched the draperies in burnt orange, framing the French doors.

“Do you collect antiques?” A collection of antique beer mugs with horn handles was displayed on the large walnut buffet.

Nick shook his head. “Not particularly. My interior designer put most of it together for me. My only request was for it to be comfortable and classic. Let’s keep going.”

He guided her through the various rooms on the first floor. She’d already spent time in his large media/pool room the day she had barged in and surprised him, but she hadn’t seen the library, guest bedroom, and comfortable sunroom, which overlooked his wooded lot.

Nor his home office. Marabelle felt as if she’d stepped into the lion’s den, where his antique partner’s desk sat on a rug in browns and blues. Four TV monitors covered the wall in front of his desk, surrounded by bookshelves stuffed with books, tapes, pictures, and tons of trophies. Marabelle inched toward the credenza behind his desk to admire photographs of Nick playing pro ball. Gently she fingered some of his trophies, stopping in front of a massive, diamond-studded Super Bowl ring displayed under a glass cube. Marabelle sucked in a breath. Greatness oozed from every nook and cranny.

“Any of these awards yours?” she asked to break the awkward silence.

“A few.”

“You some kind of football fanatic?” she teased, lightly brushing a silver MVP trophy. Coach Frasier had played his entire NFL career with the Miami Stingrays before retiring three years earlier. Marabelle had Googled his career and read some of his stats. His list of accomplishments was impressive even to a novice like her. He had racked up a few unbroken records in passing touchdowns, been named to the NFL All-Pro team several years in a row, and was named most valuable player in the NFL twice. And, of course, he’d won a Super Bowl.

Nick shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s just a hobby.”

“Very impressive.” Marabelle nodded in awe.

Returning to the front of the house, she looked up at his two-story foyer with exposed wood beams. A wrought iron fixture that looked as if it had come straight from King Arthur’s castle caught her eye.

“Great house. Your interior designer did a beautiful job. I hear a good designer gets to know the client real well in order to personalize the space.” She couldn’t stop her fishing expedition.

“That’s one way of putting it. We lived together for years.” Nick straightened the corner of a gold-framed painting with the tip of his finger.

Duh! Of course they did. His designer was probably Ginger. Ugh. Disappointment weighed heavy in her stomach.

She pasted on a fake smile. “Well, there you have it. What better way to get to know someone.” Studs like Nick didn’t think twice about stashing a different woman in every room. And Nick was far more studly than most.

“Yep, she knew me better than most, since she’s…” Nick advanced on her and turned her to face him. She rapidly blinked as he slid his hand along her arm and cupped her face in his palm.

Whatever you do, don’t say Ginger!

“…my sister. Natalie’s a designer. She decorated my house.” His low, velvet voice had a calming effect. “Stop worrying. I don’t have a harem of women coming and going, no matter what you’ve heard.”

Marabelle stepped away from his warm touch. “I wasn’t worrying,” she lied. “You could be living in the Playboy mansion. Doesn’t matter to me.” Her attempt at sounding cool and unaffected failed miserably.

His eyes softened, and Marabelle sensed desire, but something more. Affection maybe.

“Your face says differently. Oh yeah, it matters.” They still stood at the bottom of the stairwell next to an antique mirror hanging over an English chest.

“Whoa!” Suddenly Nick had gripped her around the waist and plopped her atop the old chest. She gasped as he slipped between her legs, enveloping her in his heat. This position allowed her to see the clear blue of his eyes flecked with bits of gray.

“Uh, Nick…what’re you doing?”

“Just putting you where I can get at you.”

And right on cue, Marabelle’s insides melted into gooey marshmallow fluff.

* * *

Finally. For the first time all evening, Nick felt in control. He’d had enough of being led around by the balls. Time to take this thing—whatever it was—to the next level, because little Tinker Bell had no clue. Without dwelling on the ramifications of getting involved with a sweet girl with irrational hang-ups and a high school equivalent in experience with relationships, he went for it.

She nibbled her lower lip, and Nick noted her brown eyes showed excitement shadowed by fear. Relieved to know this attraction wasn’t one-sided.

“Remember last night?” he rumbled low next to her ear. “You being wasted and jumping my bones?” She stiffened beneath his palms resting on her hips.

“Ugh. I’ve purged it from my memory permanently.”

“Well, darlin’, I can’t seem to forget it. If I hadn’t put a stop to it, we’d still be going at it like a couple of minks.” A pink flush infused her chest and cheeks. Nick had no compunction about playing dirty or running a quarterback sneak play on an unsuspecting rookie. And in this case, Marabelle was the rookie. Everything seemed to click into place.

He proceeded in a matter-of-fact-tone. “I’ve been thinking. Ever since the day you blurted out that you sucked at sex”—her face went from pink to red, but he ignored her discomfort—“which I assure you is not true, I’ve decided to help you out.” His fingers moved underneath her shirt, spanning her lower back, brushing against her silky skin. He lowered his voice. “It’s time you had mind-blowing sex”

“What?” She gripped his forearms, and Nick waited for her to push him away. When she didn’t, he almost smiled. Damn, this was going to be fun.

“Bottom line. You can’t dress sexy and accept dates with my players when you’re supposed to be engaged to me.”

“But no one believes we’re engaged.”

“You’re missing the point.” He frowned. “It’s only natural we have sex with each other.”

“Nothing about this is natural.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s in it for you?”

Sex! Nick cleared his throat. “You gain all the experience your heart desires with me. I get to have great sex, and everyone will believe we’re engaged. It’s a win-win situation.”

“I think you’re embellishing the great sex part.” She looked at him like he had too much yardage between the goalposts.

He continued in a low, soothing voice. “You scratch my back, and I scratch yours.” Matching action to words, he lightly scratched her back and then nuzzled her sweet-smelling neck.

She gasped. “If we do this—”

“Oh, we’re gonna do it,” he whispered around her delicate ear.

Marabelle pushed back. “It’s not that simple.”

He watched her. “Sure it is. No point in letting a perfectly good engagement go to waste.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, and the effort didn’t go unappreciated, since it showcased her killer cleavage.

“If I do it…it’s only going to be once. For the experience and all.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” He chuckled, unlocking her arms. Unable to resist temptation any longer, he slid his hands up to cup her breasts, loving the way they filled his palms, round and full. Nick gave a devilish grin. “We’re gonna take this real slow. Pay attention. There’s gonna be a quiz later.”

“Quiz?” she croaked.

“Oh yeah.” He wrapped her arms around his waist. Then he started in on her tiny buttons. “You’re driving me crazy with that sexy blue bra,” he rasped.

“Don’t you want to go somewhere…dark?” she asked, pressing her hands into his back.

No way in hell.

“Relax and enjoy.” He smoothed back the cotton fabric. His thumbs brushed her nipples over the blue lacy bra, and they puckered in tight, hard buds. Marabelle’s eyes closed, and Nick unhooked the front of her bra, pushing it aside in one motion. He lost his breath as the chandelier’s dim light cast a glow on her full breasts. Marabelle dug her fingers into his back.

“Perfection,” he said, impatiently dipping his head. He drew her nipple into his mouth, raking it with his tongue, and sucked long and hard. A throaty moan purled from her throat and almost sent him over the edge. Nick wanted to be buried deep and hard inside her before he exploded.

Marabelle squirmed, hooking her legs around his hips, pushing closer. Nick trailed kisses up the column of her neck and caught her lips as she gasped, plunging his tongue inside. A wave of warmth unfurled deep within his gut. He deepened the kiss, intensifying the hot haze of lust.

Marabelle shuddered, rubbing against his straining erection, practically starting a damn bonfire with the friction from their jeans. She ground against the barrier as if the denim irritated her as much as it irritated him. After several scorching minutes, Nick knew it was time to stop, as much as it killed him. Moving too fast would not help his cause.

He nibbled at her lips and said, “You have to pay the piper.”

“Mmm?” She nibbled right back.

“For your behavior.” He nipped her swollen bottom lip, and she whimpered. “You have a choice…to be spanked”—his hands cupped her bottom, and her eyes fluttered—“or you can make me something to eat.” Her head lurched back, shock fully registering.

“What?”

“Pick your poison.”

“You mean we’re…we’re done kissing?” she squeaked.

A rush of emotions blasted him like a torrential downpour of pleasure and tenderness at the disappointment in her voice. At that precise moment, he knew only one thing: this crazy new relationship would be more enjoyable than he’d ever imagined.

He murmured against her forehead, “Just taking it slow. It’s called foreplay. So, what’s it gonna be?”

Marabelle snuggled up to his chest, and Nick liked it…a lot. With a satisfied smile, she said, “What are my choices again?”

Nick licked her ear, making her giggle. “Either I get to spank your sexy bottom for being a smart-ass, or you can cook for me.”

“Hmmm…that’s a tough one. Twist my rubber arm, I’ll cook. Anything to get back in that kitchen again.”

Nick laughed reluctantly, backing away from her tempting curves. Fascinated, he watched as she rehooked her bra, inwardly mourning the covering of those plump, perfect breasts. With shaky hands, she tried buttoning her shirt. Brushing her clumsy fingers aside, he finished the job and then helped her down from the chest…his new favorite spot in the house.

“You shouldn’t reveal your secrets, Tinker Bell. Now I can use my kitchen as bait.”

Heading in the direction of the kitchen, she tossed over her shoulder, “I don’t care. Don’t ever ask me to choose between you or your kitchen. You may not like the answer.”

Nick threw his head back and laughed again.

* * *

Beau obeyed Coach’s orders and escorted Ginger Jones home, grinning to himself as he replayed the tense scene earlier at Corbett’s. Beau’s great instincts made him a terrific quarterback, and his instincts about Coach Frasier were right on the money.

Coach had it bad for little Mary-bell. Damn. He hadn’t seen Coach that mad at him since he’d thrown four interceptions against the Steelers last season.

Anyone with half a brain recognized the difference between Mary-bell and other women who pursued football players. She was a breath of fresh air, with the added spunk of a puppy. Beau would hate to see Coach lose Mary-bell on a bad throw of nearsightedness. He figured a well-intended intervention never hurt anyone, and congratulated himself for plotting a near-flawless play: he’d persuaded Mary-bell to dress up and asked Ty to give Coach a heads-up about meeting at the bar. Everything else just fell into place.

Until Ginger showed up.

She almost blocked the winning field goal. But Beau knew how to drop back in the pocket and see what opened up, studying the field to see which receiver became free.

He pulled his Cadillac Escalade in the driveway right behind Ginger’s Lexus sedan. Her two-story Georgian brick house was nestled between two much-older homes in one of the newer communities inside Pine Boulevard, the older, more established part of Raleigh. Beau noticed three For Sale signs in the area with her name as the listing agent. Ginger had certainly made a reputation for herself in this high-end neighborhood.

“This wasn’t necessary,” she said, unfurling her sexy, long legs from her sedan.

“Always a pleasure.” Beau followed her up the front steps with his hand pressed to the small of her back.

“I couldn’t help notice the tension between you and Nick… It was a little thick. What’s going on with that Marabelle?” She dug for her house keys. Time to set pretty Miss Ginger straight.

“Aw, Mary-bell’s great. They met last week through some charity benefit they’re working on. Coach is crazy about her. Never seen him get all-in-your-face possessive before.” Beau shoved his fingers in his back pockets. “Not that I blame him. Mary-bell is one of a kind.”

Ginger unlocked her door with shaky hands. “You’re saying, after one week, he’s serious about that girl?” she all but screeched.

He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. “It’s the most distracted I’ve seen Coach about a woman in a long time.”

“But…but he’s supposed to be with me! We’ve been dating for months.”

Now Beau knew Ginger’s type like he knew his own stats. Pretty, successful, and in this case, a shark in the real estate community. But none of that satisfied her. She still wanted the status of snagging a high-profile, rich man. Who better to fill that requirement than Coach? Beau also knew Coach had never acted jealous around Ginger the way he had around Marabelle.

Weighing his options, he decided to lay it on thick. “Honey, why are you waiting around for Coach? He’s a busy man. He doesn’t have the time to devote to a real woman like you. Don’t misunderstand…he’s a great guy, but the only thing he’s married to is his job. You’re a beautiful woman. You can be with any man you desire.” He pushed away from the door and moved inside, uninvited.

Ginger Jones knew opportunity when it came a-knockin’, and she didn’t hide her intent as she sized him up with a sweeping gaze from his head down to his Prada suede loafers, making a pit stop on the goods along the way. She didn’t disguise the desire that flared behind her eyes either. Flicking her long mane back with one hand, she formed a perfect, pouty expression with her mouth.

“Mmm, you could be right. Why don’t we discuss the possibilities further?” she crooned.

Beau shut the door behind him. Sometimes you just had to take one for the team.

* * *

“Your mother wishes you lived in Atlanta?” Nick leaned back against the cabinets and observed Marabelle whip up something she called a frittata—which appeared to be a savory egg dish with cheese—from the fresh ingredients in his refrigerator.

She poured the whisked eggs over the sautéed vegetables. “My mother wishes I was married, having babies, and playing bridge at the country club. Preferably in that order, and definitely in Atlanta where she can keep tabs on me.”

“So, you ran away from home?”

“Not exactly. I mostly grew up in boarding schools. My mom couldn’t handle me.” Nick’s expression clouded. “She loves me, but I was a handful growing up, unlike Phoebe, my older sister.”

“And your dad?”

She focused on stirring the eggs. “Dad wasn’t around much. My parents have a mutual understanding: if they live apart, they get along fine.” She covered the pan with a lid. “Almost done…just needs a little time to bake.”

She bent to put the frittata in the oven below the stainless range, and Nick couldn’t stop from admiring her perfect bottom. Once she turned, he got busy, opening a bottle of chilled white wine and the subject of her family again.

“Do you visit your family much?”

Marabelle hesitated as if weighing her next words. “Um, my dad travels with his job. He’s not around much.”

Nick poured the wine into goblets and waited.

“My mom…well, she finds clever ways to lure me home. My family is…er, they’re very shallow and hung up on appearances. Wearing the right shoes, attending the right parties, and marrying the right man are very high up on their lists.”

This explained a lot. Marabelle embraced a completely opposite lifestyle from her parents. The Fairchilds didn’t sound much different from the groupies hanging around professional athletes, hoping to gain money, notoriety, and maybe a reality TV show.

“I’m gathering your parents aren’t too happy with your choices.”

Marabelle shrugged, not meeting Nick’s gaze. “I guess. My mom, anyway. She’s a bit of a control freak.”

Nick heard the bitterness in her voice. He handed Marabelle two dinner plates from his cabinets.

“Being a schoolteacher is great…for someone else. My mother would rather I work at something more prestigious. Really, she’d rather I become arm candy to some sugar daddy.”

A prickle of alarm ran up Nick’s spine. He’d been down this road before. But he shook it off. Not everyone was after his celebrity status and money. And Marabelle had to be the least likely candidate of all. Nick had never met anyone less affected by his position, except in terms of helping with her auction. For that, she had no qualms in using him.

“So you’re not into the sugar daddy thing, huh?”

Marabelle pulled the frittata out of the hot oven with two oven mitts and placed it on the stone countertop. “Give me a break. I have no interest in dressing up every day, getting Botox, and buying shoes at Neiman’s. Nor do I want to sit around sipping cocktails and figuring out ways to exploit the latest social cause for the thrill of reading my name in the papers the next day. What a boring life.” Marabelle sliced the steamy frittata and put the portions on the plates.

“And you know this…” Nick dragged out the last word.

“I’ve lived around it my whole life. I’m sure the committee at Trinity Academy has sensed my disgust, which is probably why they’re more hostile than usual.” She waved her hand to prevent him from speaking. “I know. I’m being ridiculous. Not everyone who raises money for charity has selfish motives. But my mother does.”

Nick placed both plates on the kitchen farm table. “If you feel this way, why are you working like a dog on this auction? Why don’t you tell them to shove it?”

“Because I can’t. Because I believe in this cause. I really do want better tennis courts and playing fields for the kids, and I want to grow this program and give these kids the incentive to go for it. And a promotion will go a long way in helping me support myself.”

Nick raised his eyebrow and held a chair out for Marabelle. “What about working for the public school system?”

Marabelle nodded her thanks and dropped into the chair. “They don’t pay as well. I want to be where I can teach K through sixth and coach varsity tennis. Public schools don’t pay their coaches squat, if at all. Most of them volunteer and don’t really have much impact on the tennis program.”

What the hell kind of expenses did she have? He’d seen her tiny car and rental house. “How much is your rent? Why don’t you get a roommate?” he asked, picking up his wineglass.

Marabelle gave him a scathing look. “It’s called a mortgage. I have mortgage payments and yeah, it’s probably equivalent to your monthly toilet paper bill, but it’s enough for me. And I’m in between roommates at the moment, but Paula’s moving in with me as soon as her lease is up in a few months. I’m also still paying off school loans.”

Nick’s parents had gotten lucky with his education because he’d been given a full ride at the University of Florida. But it sounded as if Marabelle’s parents could afford her education. Maybe they’d given their daughters a lump sum of money and called it a day.

“Your parents didn’t pay for your college?”

“I know this sounds like a poor-little-rich-girl story, but the truth is my mother was more than willing to pay for everything as long as I attended the school of her choice. But I wanted to play college tennis and was recruited by Clemson. My mother was furious and basically cut me off.”

Her mother sounded like a real jewel. “What about your dad?”

A sad smile played around her lips. “I wouldn’t let him pay. She would’ve given him holy hell if he had.” Marabelle scooted her chair forward, meeting Nick’s gaze. “Have you ever wanted to live life on your own terms? Without someone else calling the shots?”

Yeah. Nick thought of Marty Hackman. Even though Nick had enough money to last a lifetime and Marty couldn’t bankrupt him, he did have the power to destroy Nick’s professional reputation. And at the end of the day, reputation was all that mattered. “Sure,” he said slowly.

“For as long as I could remember, I wanted my independence, and once I got to college, I finally felt free. No longer living to please my mother, because she no longer held the purse strings.” Marabelle shrugged. “I’ve been living on my own ever since.”

Nick’s heart seized as if gripped by iron forceps. He hated knowing she’d been cut off like that.

“Of course, when my dad would send money, I took it. I wasn’t a complete idiot.” Marabelle smiled, and her eyes lit with mischief.

“Good for you. Did you receive a tennis scholarship?”

“Sure, but it wasn’t enough. We all know the bulk of that money goes to the football players, not the ladies’ tennis team.” Marabelle shot him a pointed look.

Nick stared right back over the rim of his glass. “You don’t expect me to apologize, do you? It’s a known fact that college football generates millions in revenue. From broadcasting rights, ticket sales, and merchandising, not to mention bowl games.”

“I get it. My point being, other sports don’t have great scholarship programs, if at all.”

“They don’t bring in the fans either.” Nick forked some steaming frittata into his mouth.

“Sad, but true.” Marabelle watched and waited for when the flavor of egg mixed with cheese, peppers, and fresh herbs exploded in his mouth.

“Whoa. Delicious. If this teaching thing doesn’t work out, I’ll pay you to cook for me.” He winked at her pleased face.

“I might hold you to that,” she said, closing her lips around her fork.

They both ate in silence, enjoying the food and each other’s company. And didn’t that sound strange? They barely knew each other, but something felt right with Marabelle in his kitchen. His home.

Marabelle leaned back in her chair. “What about your family? Any other siblings besides your sister?”

“No. My parents still live in Jacksonville. My sister, Natalie, is off in Europe trying to find herself,” he said between bites. “She went through a bitter divorce about a year ago. And Brandon is the one suffering.” He grimaced, picking up his wineglass.

With eyes cast down, she said, “Even though our parents never divorced, Phoebe and I felt the hardship just the same. Why did Natalie divorce?” she asked softly.

“Not sure. Dan, her ex, is a great guy. At least I thought he was. Natalie can be high-strung and dramatic. And Dan travels a lot for work.”

She nodded. “That can wear on a marriage.”

“Yeah, with the exception of my parents, I haven’t witnessed too many normal marriages.”

“Is that why you’ve never married? Uh, sorry. None of my business.” Marabelle dropped her hands in her lap, strangling her napkin.

He chuckled. “Perfectly okay. We are engaged.”

“Only in public. I really do respect your right to privacy,” she said.

“No worries. I’ll let you know if you’re invading…my privacy.” He’d finished his frittata and reached his fork across to snag a bite from her plate. “I’ve seen a lot of marriages tank in a hurry. For professional athletes, relationships get based on income, physical attributes…you know…star power.” The food suddenly tasted bad in his mouth as he pictured Lola and how she had lied and tried to get him to the altar. And the extremes Jenna went to. All for what? Not for love, that was for damn sure.

“Yeah, life’s a bitch,” Marabelle muttered, gulping her wine.

Nick raised a brow. “I’m not complaining. I’ve had a great life. More work than fun sometimes, but it paid well.” He pushed his empty plate away. “All I’m saying is if a relationship starts out superficial, then the marriage is heading straight for the toilet.” He scowled, leaning back in his chair. “Take my sister. She married for love and it wasn’t enough. They divorce and look who suffers—Brandon. I’m not ready to make the same mistake.”

* * *

Marabelle watched Nick’s features cloud over as he talked about not getting married. She’d be smart to remember this was all a game.

Nick fiddled with the stem of his glass. “As head coach with the Cherokees, I’m juggling eighteen balls, and two of them are mine, so my hands are pretty tied up. I wouldn’t make a good husband for anyone.”

No need to spell it out. Heard you loud and clear.

She humphed. “Clearly, you have commitment issues.” She picked up the empty plates and headed for the sink.

Nick followed. “Huh? How is not wanting to be a bad husband a commitment issue?”

“That line of reasoning is so old. It’s code for ‘afraid of commitment.’ Don’t get too close.” She gave the plates a vicious scrub with a kitchen brush, when Nick snatched them from her hands, shoved them in the dishwasher, and slammed the door closed.

“Are you shittin’ me? This coming from ‘I’m not getting married just to piss my mother off.’ You’re the one with the commitment issues.”

“Me?” She dried her hands on a dishtowel and threw it on the counter.

“Yeah. You can’t even accept a fake engagement.”

“Key word there…fake.” Marabelle pushed his chest with both hands, but he didn’t budge. His blue-gray eyes flickered from irritation to amusement.

Nick snatched up the dishtowel and swatted her on the bottom. “Know what your problem is?”

“Don’t you dare do that again,” she half shrieked, half laughed, backing up and scanning the countertops for something to hit over his hard head.

Nick tossed the towel over his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, reading her mind. “My palm’s still itching to spank your ass, and don’t think I won’t do it.”

“Not if you can’t catch me.”

Nick’s face lit up. Uh-oh. Note to self: never challenge a professional athlete.

“No-o-o!” She squealed and attempted to run in her wedge shoes. Marabelle darted into the dining room and through the foyer, away from Nick’s diabolical laughter. She raced up the stairs to parts unknown, since the second floor had not been on the home tour. Without hesitation, she dashed through the first door on her left.

Enough moonlight filtered through the windows to indicate a sitting room. She hurried through a pair of double doors to her right, searching for a place to hide, when she stopped cold. Looming at her from under the window was a king-size bed, glowing like the star attraction.

Yowza! She’d managed to land in the master bedroom. The double doors closed behind her with a definite click.

Marabelle whipped around. Nick pushed away from the doors and stalked her like a tiger eyeing his prey. “Uh…Nick, can’t we talk about this?”

“Talking is way overrated.” He began to unbutton his shirt.

The backs of her knees hit something solid, and she felt the give of the mocking bed behind her. “What are you doing?” she croaked, with her hands outstretched to ward him off.

“Undressing.” He pulled his shirt off, balled it up, and threw in the corner.

Marabelle gulped. She licked her suddenly dry lips. The soft moonlight bathed Nick’s chest, giving it the appearance of sculpted marble. A study in contoured muscles all the way down to his ripped abs. For a fleeting moment, she agreed with the folks who plastered his rock-hard body all across the Internet. Something this magnificent should not be hidden. Ever.

Nick walked right into her outstretched hands and gathered her in his arms. Her fingers delighted in brushing through the dusting of hair on his chest before she rested them on his strong shoulders. “This is probably not a good idea,” she said with a sigh.

“It’s the best idea I’ve had all month.” He cupped one breast through the cotton of her shirt. “Which part of you am I going to taste first?” His words whispered across her cheek like silk, making her shiver. “Let’s start here.”

His mouth dipped to meet hers. His firm lips teased, demanded, and seduced. Marabelle moaned and locked her hands around his neck.

“You have way too many clothes on.” His fingers brushed against her breasts, and he started to unbutton her shirt for the second time that night, when his cell buzzed, vibrating against her middle. Marabelle froze as if hit with a blast of icy water, and Nick’s head jerked up. “Shit. Ignore it.” He sought the sensitive spot just below her ear with his lips while peeling off her shirt. The jarring sound of the phone pierced the lust-filled air in the room three more times before it stopped.

Marabelle tensed, not able to relax. “Uh…don’t you think—”

“Sh-h-h.” Nick captured her mouth and unfastened the front of her bra with a flick of his capable hand. Then his cell buzzed again, killing the mood as she pushed back.

“Jesus. Who the hell is calling at midnight?” he growled, digging his phone out of his pocket.

Marabelle covered her chest with her arms.

“Shit.” Nick put the phone to his ear. “Hello? Yeah, what’s up, buddy? You okay?” His free hand rested heavily on her shoulder as he rubbed her neck with his thumb, sending all kinds of celebratory messages to her unused female parts. “Slow down, Brandon. What’s the problem?”

Alarm bells went off, and Marabelle scrambled to get her bra back on.

“Okay…calm down, buddy…everything’s gonna be all right… Yes, I’ll come over. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Okay…okay. Let me speak to Paola. Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.”

Nick talked with the nanny in Spanglish as he grabbed a sweater from a tall French chest of drawers. Marabelle stifled a cry of frustration as he disconnected and covered his glorious chest. When he disappeared into his huge walk-in closet, Marabelle told herself she was relieved. She’d dodged a potentially embarrassing bullet. But her body was in mourning. Nick emerged with a Cherokees parka in his hand and tossed it to her.

“It’s gotten chilly out.”

“Everything okay? What’s wrong with Brandon?” she asked, slipping her arms through his oversized jacket.

Cupping her elbow, he led her from the bedroom. “He’s fine. Just scared. Apparently, he’s been trying to reach his mom all day, and she hasn’t answered. Says he can’t sleep because he’s worried.”

“Anything I can do?” she asked, hurrying down the staircase.

“Yeah. Restrain me from killing Natalie when I finally get my hands on her,” he answered grimly.