License to Thrill Read online

  “Something tells me the Gentrys from Houston Texas are not big fans of daytime television.”

  “Somebody my parents know might see us.”

  “And that would be the end of the world?”

  “Three days ago, I would have thought so. But now, after all we’ve been through, what’s a little parental disapproval in the grand scheme of things?”

  “That’s the spirit,” she encouraged. “Rebel. Buck the system. I’d say you’re about ten years overdue.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said darkly. “Gentry Enterprises is a high-profile company. We live in a fish-bowl. People watch what we say and do. My family is very conscious of their public image.”

  “No kidding.”

  “You’re awfully young to be so sarcastic.”

  “And you’re awfully old to let your family pull you around by the nose.”

  They glared at each other.

  “It’s going to be a disaster,” he muttered.

  “Look, Mason, going on television beats the alternative. We either go on the show, which gives us time to come up with a plan for eluding Rocko and Bruiser out there, or we might as well just get fitted for cement shoes, go climb into the trunk of their Chevy right now, and be done with it. Come to think of it,” she mused, “cement shoes have got to be more comfortable than these medieval torture devices.” She bent to tug at the straps biting into her ankle.

  “You don’t wear high heels much.” His gaze, tracking the length of her bare legs, sent heat waves shimmering through her.

  “What was your first clue? The fact that I keep twisting my ankle?”

  “There you go with that smart mouth again.”

  If he only knew what was going on inside her body. Her sharp tongue was her singular defense against the hot and bothered way he made her feel. The lone barrier that kept her heart safe.

  “I’m also guessing you don’t wear short dresses either considering the fact you’re swishing that skirt around so hard you keep flashing me your panties.”

  “What!” Aghast, she plastered her hand to the back of her skirt. “Oh, crap, how am I ever going to be able to sit down without giving the audience squirrel shots?”

  Mason laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “What?” Charlee narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a woman say ‘squirrel shots’ and not be discussing wildlife photography.”

  “That’s because the only women you’re ever around are those hoity-toity stuck-up society women. Squirrel shot is a perfectly legitimate term.”

  He was still laughing; his dimples tap dancing their way into her heart. So much for the mental Mason vaccination she’d given herself last night. Apparently his strain of charm was so virulent no adequate inoculation existed.

  A heavy sense of inevitability weighted her. She felt like one of those shooting gallery ducks going around and around on the mechanical track, listening to the ping-ping of ricocheting bullets, never knowing when she was going to get hit but certain the blast was coming.

  “Just keep your legs crossed very tightly and don’t squirm. You’ll be okay.”

  “I swear this was the longest skirt in Violet’s suitcase. The woman is a floozy, I’m telling you.” Charlee kept yanking at the hem, trying to make it stretch lower.

  Mason eyed her legs again. “If Violet looks anything like you do in that outfit then Skeet is a lucky, lucky man.”

  “That does it. I’m going back to the bungalow and putting my blue jeans back on. I can’t have you ogling me like a hunk of bologna.”

  “Sweetheart,” Mason said and arched an eyebrow. That simple word sent an arrow of longing straight through her very soul. “Forget bologna. You’re filet mignon all the way.”

  She thrust a thumbnail into her mouth and started to gnaw.

  “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  Mason got up from the stool parked next to the lighted vanity table that hosted makeup, nail polish, cold cream, and other beauty supplies. He walked over to extract her thumb from her mouth.

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s a bad habit I can’t seem to break.”

  “Sit down,” he said and nodded at a chair on the other side of the tiny room.

  “What for?”

  “I’m going to paint your fingernails bright red and every time you start to bite them you’ll see that flash of crimson and stop.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “I’m serious. Noshing your fingernails completely negates your tough girl image.”

  “I know.”

  “So sit.” He pulled the chair next to the vanity and patted the seat while he plunked down on the stool.

  Charlee eased down across from him. Mason rummaged through the bottles of nail polish and selected a screaming vermilion color.

  “Give me your hand.”

  Reluctantly, she stuck out her hand. He shook the polish, and then uncapped it. Taking her hand in his, he stroked the brush over the nail of her pinkie.

  She forced herself not to shiver at his touch and read the label on the polish bottle to distract herself. “Be Still My Heart.”

  “What?”

  Her gaze leaped to his. He cocked a grin with his dimples on full-out assault.

  “The polish,” she said in a rush, not wanting him to think she was saying he caused her heart to stop. “That’s the name of the color. Be Still My Heart.”

  “Oh.” He lowered his head again, moved on to the next finger.

  “Where did you learn to paint fingernails, Gentry? Don’t tell me you have a secret life dressing up in women’s clothing.”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m afraid the truth is much more mundane. I built model cars when I was a kid. Hundreds of them. I spent hours holed up in my room, gluing and painting.”

  “Really? Rich as your family is I would have supposed they’d have hired someone to build the models for you.”

  He flashed her another look. This time he was clearly irked. “Money isn’t everything, Charlee.”

  “That sounds like someone who’s never been broke.”

  “I don’t want your sympathy, so don’t think that’s why I’m telling you this, but I was really a lonely kid. My folks weren’t hands-on parents.” He didn’t sound bitter, just matter-of-fact. “That’s what money will buy you. Nannies so that you don’t have to fuss with the mess of daily child rearing. No kissing those skinned knees and risk mussing your makeup. No rushing home from parties to put your kids to bed. No tedious bedtime stories. Hired help will do it all for you.” He laughed but Charlee realized that chuckle held a note of hurt. “But, hey, at least I had both my parents. You got cheated out of both of yours.”

  “Maybelline was enough.” She stared in fascination as he finished painting her left hand and motioned for her to give him her right.

  “What happened to your mother?”

  Charlee shifted on the seat, uncomfortable with the conversation. She didn’t like talking about herself. Exchanging personal information resulted in closeness and she’d already told Mason way too much about Elwood. That’s as close as she wanted to get.

  She said nothing.

  “Come on, Champagne, it’s your turn to share.” He gazed at her. She saw intelligence, understanding, but worst of all an overriding compassion. She didn’t want him feeling sorry for her.

  Just tell him and get it over with.

  “She was onstage one night and her headdress slipped. Didja know those things can weigh up to fifty pounds? She tripped on the stairs and broke her leg. She died in the hospital after a blood clot went to her heart.” Charlee paused as the memory washed over her. “I was at Maybelline’s watching cartoons and eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when she got the call.”

  “It must have been hard on you.”

  Charlee shrugged, pretending the pain didn’t run river deep. “I don’t rem
ember her much.”

  He didn’t say anything else and Charlee recognized his technique. He was waiting for her to fill the silence. She refused.

  The ticking of the wall clock sounded like a gong in her ears. The air in the room seemed stale. Dust motes cavorted on the shaft of sunlight slanting in the window blinds.

  “There you go. All done,” Mason said at last and capped the fingernail polish. He blew on her hand to dry her nails. His warm breath sent chills of anticipation skittering up her arm.

  Charlee jerked her hand away, disconcerted by the emotions pumping through her. She stared at her vermilion fingernails. Be Still My Heart. Her hands looked as if they belonged to someone else. Someone soft and giggly and feminine, and she was none of those things.

  “Your nails look nice. I’d love to do your toenails next. There’s something incredibly sexy about painting a woman’s toenails.”

  “Lord, don’t tell me you have a foot fetish.”

  “I think I have a Charlee fetish.” And then he did the unthinkable. He leaned over and ran a hand up the edge of her skirt, his fingertips brushing lightly over her upper thigh.

  She slapped his hand away. “Knock it off,” she growled.

  He ignored her.

  “Mason,” she jabbed a stern note of warning in her voice.

  “Yes?” He arched a devastating eyebrow and she couldn’t find her tongue. Dammit, where had she put the stupid thing?

  He pulled her off her chair and onto his lap and peered down into her eyes with that knee-melting brown-eyed stare of his.

  “Don’t you dare,” she threatened.

  “Dare what?”

  “Do what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?” His eyes challenged her with a lusty gleam.

  Her heart pounded and her palms grew wet. Ah hell, she grew wet in another place not too far away from where his hand lay.

  “No more of that kissing nonsense we were doing last night.”

  He dipped his head lower and pursed his lips. “Why not? You really seemed to like it on the bus last night.”

  “That’s exactly why not,” she squeaked. “I did like it. Too much.”

  “I liked it too.” His voice was deep and masculine and packed with sexual tension. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “We’re wrong. You and me.”

  “If wanting you is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.”

  Why did he have to say that?

  Charlee, you’re in deep trouble. Get up. Get out of his lap. Run away.

  “We can’t do this,” she whispered. “My fingernails are wet.”

  “I don’t intend on kissing your fingernails.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  She thought she could forget about last night and that heady, Edith-Beth-word-game-induced make-out session they’d indulged in. She thought how his kisses had made her feel special and cherished and appreciated.

  She thought she could treat it lightly. She’d told herself repeatedly those kisses meant nothing.

  Ha! She was falling faster than a barrel tumbling over Niagara Falls.

  “I know why you’re so cranky.”

  “I’m not cranky,” she denied and tried to squirm out of his lap but he held her flush against him and the more she squirmed the more aroused he became, leaving no doubts as to where his perverted thoughts lay.

  “You are definitely cranky.”

  “Am not.”

  “You’ve been hiding your femininity for so long behind that tough-talking attitude and your gun and those cowboy boots and faded blue jeans that you’ve completely forgotten what it feels like to be admired for the sexy, desirable woman you are.”

  “Oh, you’re so full of it,” she said, even though his words hit the bull’s-eye with such unerring accuracy her throat clogged.

  “You can’t fool me, Charlee Champagne. I see right through your streetwise persona.” He lowered his voice. “Deny it all you want but I know that deep down inside you’re soft and vulnerable and tenderhearted.”

  “Stop grinning at me like that,” she snapped, terrified he was going to spy the hungry longing reflected in her eyes for something she could never have.

  How many times had she hoped that a man would gaze at her exactly the way he was gazing at her? How many times had she dreamed of strong loving arms around her? How many times had she longed to be swept off her feet and carried away into happily-ever-after?

  She’d dreamed, yes, but she knew it was all a fantasy. Real life simply didn’t work that way. Hadn’t Maybelline drilled it into her head and hadn’t Charlee’s life experiences supported her own disappointment in love?

  “I don’t want this.”

  “Liar.”

  “You’re becoming really pushy, Gentry. I’m not sure I like this new side of you. I’m not…”

  Before she could finish castigating him for having the audacity to ogle her with such frank desire, he took her mouth hostage.

  She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t his for the taking. That she wasn’t some scullery maid eager to lift up her petticoats for the lord of the manor anytime his appetites led him to the kitchen. But she did not say a word. She breathed in the dark scent of him and savored the rich aroma. Damn her and her shortsighted weakness for brown-eyed handsome men.

  Charlee succumbed, all fight and denial and fear vanishing in the heated taste of his lips. She relaxed her neck against his forearm, the top of her head resting against the wall.

  The pressure of his mouth was ticklishly light at First. Soft, warm, teasing.

  Dizziness assailed her and she reached up to thread her trembling fingers through his hair and pulled his head down closer to hers. So what if she got fingernail polish in his hair, it would serve him right for starting this.

  Last night’s kisses had been no fluke of nature. The man could kiss with a mastery that took her breath.

  Step by step he increased the pressure, cajoling her lips apart. The mild brush of his tongue was measured and indolent, seducing her in steadily escalating notches. Her head spun recklessly as he took the kiss deeper and deeper still.

  His palm cupped the curve of her hip. An instant chemical reaction exploded inside her. The material of her borrowed black blouse grew damp from the anxious perspiration pooling between her breasts.

  She tightened her fingers in his hair, pulling lightly, and heard him growl low in his throat as his breathing quickened.

  She should put a stop to this. Right now. Get up. Move. Poke him in the eye. Anything to snap herself out of the languid dream state he’d woven over her.

  But he smelled like orange juice and tasted like the sinfully delicious eggs Benedict they’d been served for breakfast.

  She knew she was going to pay for her recklessness. It wouldn’t be the first time she had paid a high price for her imprudent desires. She’d learned the hard way that nothing this sweet came without expensive strings attached.

  Kiss in haste, repent for the rest of your days, Maybelline had drilled into her. And so far her grandmother had been right to warn her.

  But Mason’s mouth was moist and hot against hers, blurring the edges of reality and sucking her down into momentary bliss. Ah, what a foolish slave she was to her hormones.

  He stroked her with firm, tender circles and she trembled beneath his touch, her body’s response as unstoppable as an earthquake. From outside the dressing room came the sound of the Newlywed Game theme song played to an updated hip-hop beat. The steady pounding bass vibrated up through the floor and into the steamy air beneath them.

  Her blood skipped through her veins with the strumming rhythm and gathered heavily in her groin. She ached to be filled with him.

  Because of their circumstances she was safe from her own headlong recklessness. No matter how tempted she might be to take this lurking passion to its natural crescendo, she knew they couldn’t get too carried away. Not when any moment they were expected onstage.

  That remembered knowledge eased her
earlier misgivings. She was free to explore this sweet interlude without fear of going further than she wished.

  Or so she thought until Mason’s hand slipped up her thigh and his fingers hooked inside her panties.

  Charlee no, her mind warned but her body, oh-her-wicked wicked body was on fire for him and she writhed against his lap while his inquisitive fingers gently explored.

  Too late for regrets.

  Pure animal instinct took over when his lips left hers to trail a path of blazing heat over her chin and down her throat to the ticklish juncture where her collarbone intersected with her neck. She groaned at the tactile pleasure of his mouth against her skin.

  He gave a low, throaty chuckle of pleasure and laved her with his tongue while his fingers continued to stroke the delicate tissue hidden by her panties. He sounded triumphant and a tad egotistical that he had dragged her down to such depths, but she was too lost in physical bliss to care.

  One hand was undoing the buttons of her blouse, exposing her aching breasts to the hot air of his breath. While her pulse leaped and revved in answer, his naughty hand slid under her back and she felt the hooks of her bra spring open. The guy knew what he was doing.

  Charlee arched her back, practically beseeching him to take her nipples into his mouth. She rocked her pelvis against his hand begging for more. She shouldn’t do this, but she was the helpless product of biology. Her body quivered and pulsated and yearned for more.

  Forget common sense. Ignore prudence. Deny rational thought, whispered the pleasure centers of her brain. Stop thinking and simply enjoy.

  When he sank a finger into her, she gasped and tightened her muscles around his warm, wet digit and almost came right then and there with his hand in her panties.

  Moisture filled her mouth. She hadn’t been this hungry for a man since, well, Gregory.

  And look where that got you, whimpered the rational side of her brain, which had been all but bushwhacked by her wildfire libido.

  Mason raised his head and peered down into her face, sensing her mood change. His dark eyes gleamed with not only lust, but with something deeper, something more. It wasn’t the lust that scared her, but the something more. Was that tenderness skulking in his gaze?

  Mesmerized, Charlee stared back, unable to look away, unable to stop herself from slipping pell-mell into the abyss of those dark brown eyes. They hung suspended like that for one long breathless moment. Their gaze locked, her blouse unbuttoned, her bra flapping loose, Mason’s hand in her panties, his finger inside her, his erection impossibly huge and hard against her buttocks.