LITMIR.BIZ

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Then again, when a woman was preoccupied by a man such as Marcus, it was hard to recognize that there was anything else out in the world at all.

      As if conjured by the thought, she felt him slip up behind her, close enough that his body was flush against her own. She told herself she was only imagining the way she could feel the heat from his body mingling with hers, but the scent of him … That was all too real. All too wonderful. All too exhilarating.

      “It was barely flurrying when I came in,” she said. “I’m surprised how much has already fallen.”

      He said nothing for a moment, only continued to exude warmth and his intoxicatingly spicy fragrance.

      Finally, quietly, he said, “The snow isn’t the only thing that’s been surprising tonight.”

      She couldn’t disagree. Yet as unexpected as Marcus had been, his presence somehow felt perfectly right. Prince Charming was the only thing that had been missing from Della’s fairy-tale plan for the evening, even if he was a complete stranger. Then again, he wasn’t a stranger, not really. They’d known each other for hours now. They’d shared, in a way, a lovely dinner, a spectacular opera, some quiet conversation and gentle touches. They’d made each other smile. They’d made each other laugh. They’d made each other … feel things.

      Della liked Marcus. He liked her. That made them something more than strangers, surely. She just wasn’t quite certain what.

      Impulsively, she tested the handle of the door and found it unlocked. Another surprise. Or perhaps more magic. Unable to help herself, she pushed open the door and strode quickly out onto the terrace, turning around slowly in the falling snow.

      “Della,” Marcus objected from inside, “what are you doing? It’s freezing out there.”

      Funny, but she didn’t feel cold. On the contrary, being with him made her hot to her core.

      “I can’t help it,” she said as she halted her rotation to face him. “It’s so beautiful. And so quiet. Listen.”

      As happened with snow, the sounds of the city beyond the terrace were muffled and silent, but the snow itself seemed to make a soft, supple sound as it fell. Reluctantly, Marcus shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and walked onto the terrace, shaking his head at her.

      “You’re worse than a little kid,” he said. But he was smiling that delicious smile again.

      As he drew nearer, Della moved farther away, until she’d backed herself into the far corner of the terrace, away from the door. When her back bumped the wall, the motion unsettled a small bundle of snow from somewhere above her, sending it cascading down around over her. She laughed as she shook her head to scatter the flakes, then the comb that had been holding her hair came loose, making it fall around her shoulders. He came to her immediately, slipping a little on his way, grabbing the railing to steady himself as his laughter joined her own.

      “Well, aren’t we a mess?” she said.

      Not that she cared. Her life had been a mess for a year now. At least this mess was a fun one. She extended her hand over the balcony to let the snowflakes collect in her palm one by one. As soon as they landed, they melted, but the moisture still sparkled against her skin. “Look at it, Marcus,” she said. “How can you think it’s not lovely?”

      He tucked himself into the corner of the darkened terrace as snugly as she was. “It’s cold,” he corrected her. “And you left your coat inside.”

      As chivalrously as a paladin, he slipped off his tuxedo jacket and reached around her to drape it over her shoulders. The garment fairly swallowed her, but it was redolent with both his scent and his warmth, and she was helpless not to pull it more closely around herself.

      “Now you’ll get cold,” she told him.

      “I haven’t been cold since the moment I laid eyes on you. A little thing like snow and subfreezing temperature isn’t going to change that.”

      Della wasn’t feeling cold, either. Not that that would make her return his jacket to him. It felt too nice being enveloped in it. Almost as if she were being enveloped by Marcus himself.

      Almost.

      As if reading her mind—again—he started to lean forward, dipping his head toward hers. Knowing he intended to kiss her, Della turned quickly away. Why, she had no idea. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to kiss him, too. But she still couldn’t quite bring herself to allow it. She wasn’t the woman he thought she was. She was beginning to wonder if she was even the woman she thought she was. Soon, she would be someone else—entirely and literally. And in a couple of hours, she and Marcus would be nothing but a fond memory lodged in each other’s brains. What kind of memory did she want to be for him? What kind of memory did she want him to be for her?

      Marcus didn’t give her time to think about it, because the moment she had her back to him, he coiled both arms around her waist to pull her against himself. His broad chest more than spanned her shoulders, but his long torso aligned perfectly with hers. It was at the small of her back where she felt him most, however, because as he drew her closer, rubbing their bodies together, he stirred to life against her.

      Della’s heart rate quickened at the realization that he was becoming as aroused as she. Heat coursed through her when he dipped his head to hers, his mouth hovering just over her ear. His breath was warm and damp against her skin, at odds with the snow, clouding her senses until she was dizzy not knowing what was what.

      “I can say the snow isn’t lovely,” he murmured, his voice as hot and demanding as the rest of him, “because I’ve seen something much lovelier this evening. In fact, you, my intriguing Della, are absolutely electrifying.”

      Instead of replying to that—mostly because she was afraid of what she might say … and even more afraid of what she might do—Della leaned further over the railing and into the falling snow. She turned her face to the caress of cold air, hoping it would be the antidote she needed to quell the swirling, simmering sensations inside her. Instead, her new position pushed her backside even more intimately against Marcus, and she felt him swell to even greater life against her.

      She swallowed hard at the recognition of his condition, curling her fingers tightly over the metal railing, afraid of where her hands might wander otherwise. She wasn’t so lucky with her thoughts, though, because they wandered plenty, telling her things she didn’t want to hear. Things about how she would never meet another man like Marcus, and how he could be out of her life in a matter of moments, and how there was nothing sadder in life than a missed opportunity. So she tipped her face upward, welcoming the soft cascade of snowflakes, hoping they would numb her brain and make her forget …

      … everything. Every ugly memory of where she’d grown up. Every miserable feeling she’d had since discovering the truth about Egan Collingwood. Every anxious moment she’d experienced since discovering even worse truths at work. Every terrible shudder of loneliness that had plagued her over the past eleven months. Every reason why she shouldn’t do exactly what she wanted to do with Marcus. He was the surprise birthday gift that fate had presented her, sporting a big, satin bow.

      Again, as if he’d read her mind, he covered her hands with his and gently urged them apart, opening his jacket over the front of her dress so that he could slip his fingers between the two garments. They went immediately to her rib cage, strumming it as if fine-tuning a delicate instrument. Ripples of pleasure wound through Della as he touched her, and she sighed her delight, her breath a puff of fog in the frigid air. Unable to help herself, she leaned against him, reaching behind herself with both hands to curl her fingers into his hair. Marcus used her new position to plunder her at will, covering her breasts with sure fingers.

      “Oh,” she murmured at his touch. “Oh, Marcus.”

      He said nothing in response, only dipped his head to her neck to drag kisses along the column of her throat. One hand gently kneaded her breast, while the other began to venture lower, moving along the elegant curves of her waist and hip and thigh, where he bunched the fabric of her dress in his fist.

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