“Need to make a call?”

“It needs to charge,” she said, walked by him and out.

She could give tours in this closet, he thought, taking another moment. Have cocktail parties. Hold board meetings.

When he went out, she’d set the phone on the charger on the nightstand closest to the terrace doors.And to his continued fascination began to fold down the bedspread—comforter—whatever it was.

He just leaned on the wall and watched her. Brisk and graceful, he noted, as she smoothed out, folded, smoothed. Parker Brown would never just fall into bed.

No wonder he’d never felt about any other woman the way he felt about her.There was no other woman remotely like her.

“I don’t make a habit of this.” She set the folded cover on the bench at the foot of the bed.

“Folding down the bedspread?”

“Bringing men here. If and when I do—”

“I’m only interested in you and me.You’re nervous.”

She turned to walk to the dresser. Her gaze met his in the mirror as she unfastened her earrings. “You’re not.”

“I want you too much to be nervous. It doesn’t leave any room.” He walked to her now. “Are you finished?”

“What?”

“Overthinking, second-guessing.”

“Nearly.”

“Let me help you with that.”

He took her shoulders, jerked her against him. The hard, hot demand of his mouth helped. Quite a bit.

Even as she lifted her arms to circle his neck, he tugged her sweater up and off in one quick, impatient move. He tossed it on a chair.

“You can hang it up later.”

“You don’t hang sweaters.”

“Why not?”

“It—” Her breath sucked in when he skimmed his hands over the thin chemise, over her. “It ruins the shape.”

“I like yours.” He pulled off the chemise, tossed it on the sweater. “Nice.” He trailed his fingers over the lacy cups of her plum-colored bra. “It’s the kind of color coordination I can get behind.”

Her laugh ended on a shaky gasp as his hands slid down, his lips roamed down. As he knelt down. “Malcolm.”

“Better take off the shoes.” He tugged the short, inside zipper on the boots. “Wouldn’t want you to forget yourself and wear them to bed.”

“Are you making fun of me or seducing me?”

“I can do both.You’re not the only multitasker in the room.”

Once he’d pulled off her boots, he ran his hands up her legs. “Now these are the Holy Grail.”

“You’ve seen my legs before.”

“Not like this.” He unhooked her pants, slid the zipper down, then guided her pants down her legs with his hands. “No, not like this.” He lifted them one at a time to free them from the pool around her feet.

He ran his hands up, calf to thigh to tease the edges of plum-colored lace.

Her phone rang.

He looked up, his eyes sharply green, almost feral. “Not this time.”

She shook her head. “No, not this time.”

He sprang. His movement so quick both her vision and her mind blurred. His mouth didn’t merely take but possessed while those rough-palmed hands raced over her, setting off charges under her skin. The nerves that had ridden there exploded into pure, primitive need.

She tugged at the buttons of his shirt. Her hands wanted flesh, too.Wanted to take it, to own it.When she had it, the muscles, the ridges, the rough and the smooth, need leaped to craving.

She tried to satisfy it, her mouth on his throat where the blood beat hot, her teeth on his shoulder where muscles tensed like wires. But the claws of it only sharpened.

He could have taken her there and then, hard and fast. She wanted him to, heard herself tell him to, to feed and sate that craving before it ate her alive.

He swept her up. It wasn’t like being carried to bed but like being dragged into a cave. And she reveled in it.

When she was under him, she arched up, pressed urgently against him.

“Now. Now, now, now.”

He managed to shake his head. “You’re killing me.”

He couldn’t want so much and end it almost as it had begun. But the whiplash of lust was brutal, and she was a storm raging, slashing under him, around him, over him. Her body, so firm, so arousing with that silky skin over disciplined muscle, eroded control. He needed more of it before he took all.

Not to savor, since he knew savoring would drive him mad, but to devour in great gulps of greed.

Those perfect breasts possessed at last by hands and mouth while her nails dug into his back, his hips. Those incredible legs, open for him, winding around him, the muscles of her long thighs quivering as he did what he liked. All he liked.

And that face, the cool, classic beauty, flushed now, fierce now, eyes deep and blue, lips hot and avid.

He drove her up once, his hands rough, ruthless, for her, for himself. He wanted to see her break for him, rise and shatter. She cried out, her nails digging deeper. And as she broke, he plunged into her.

She cried out again, a strangled sound that gasped out pleasure. That pleasure, wild and whippy, blew through her like a gale, again, again, until there was nothing else.

Lost in the speed, drowned in sensation, she drove as she was driven, with a kind of dark fury.

He thrust deep; she rose high, their bodies sheened with the sweat of effort and greed. She saw his face above her, the tumble of dark hair around it, those feral eyes fixed on hers.

She tried to speak, to tell him . . . something. But all that would form was his name.

When the phone rang, she only heard the frantic pounding of her own heart.

She lay stunned under him, breathless from the storm and from the full weight of him that had dropped on her like a stone.

They’d torn each other to bits, she thought, in every way but bloody. She’d always considered herself open and responsive in bed—with the right partner—but this had been like a pitched battle with one goal.

Give me all you’ve got, then give me more.

Which, she concluded, explained the sensation of mild shock and smug satisfaction.

She liked to think he felt the same, or he’d just dropped into a coma. Not a heart attack, at least, since she could feel that beat slamming against her.

When she lifted her hand to his hair, he grunted.

Not comatose then, but a . . .

“You’re a flopper,” she told him, and his head shot up.

“What?”

“You’re a flopper, which is why . . .” The sheer insult on his face turned on the light in her brain. “Oh God, not that way.” Laughter bubbled up, fought to get past the anvil on her chest. She gasped with it, waved her hands in the air, fought to get words out through the uncontrollable giggles. “After.You flop after.”

“I’m a guy, which you should’ve figured out by—”

“Not that way either.” More laughter, helpless, finally rolling free when he shifted. She sucked in air, had to sit up, hold her own ribs. “

After-after. You just collapse.” She slapped one hand on the other.“Dead weight. But it was all right because I’d stopped breathing anyway somewhere between the third and fourth orgasm.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He shoved the hair out of his face. “You count orgasms?”

“It’s a hobby.”

Now he laughed. “Happy to add to your collection.”

She didn’t cover herself, and he admitted he’d thought she’d be the type to grab for the sheets once the heat of sex cooled a little. But she sat there, rosily naked, smiling at him.

“You’re full of surprises, Legs.”

“I like sex.”

“Really? I’d never have guessed.”

“I often forget I like sex during extended periods when I’m not having sex. It was nice to be reminded.”

She reached out, traced a finger over the cross-hashing scars over his hip and thigh. “That had to hurt.”

“That’s from the big one. Mangled me some.”

“And this?” She brushed the thinner lines over his ribs.

“Yeah.There, the shoulder. A few others here and there.”

“This?”

He glanced down at the sickle-shaped scar on his right thigh. “That’s from another gag. A little miscalculation.You don’t have any.”

“Scars? Yes, I do.”

“Baby, I’ve been over every inch.”

“Here.” She rubbed a fingertip a few inches above her hairline on the left side of her head.

He sat up, gave a rub himself. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Well, it’s there.” And seemed, ridiculously, a point of pride now. “Four stitches.”

“That many?”

“Don’t brag.”

“How’d you get it?”

“We were in Provence, and it had been raining all day. When the sun came out, I ran out onto the terrace. I was seven. I slipped and went headfirst into the iron railing.”

“Wounded in Provence.”

“It hurt just as much. How about these?” She frowned at the thin, almost even grouping of horizontal scars on his left shoulder blade. And felt his body tense this time when she touched them.

“No big. I got knocked into a locker. Metal louvers.”

She left her hand where it was. “Your uncle.”

“It was a long time ago. Got any water handy?”

Ignoring the question, she leaned over, laid her lips on the scars. “I never liked him.”

“Me, either.”

“Now I like him less. I’ll get the water.”

She got up, walked into the closet. He was sorry to see she’d pulled on a robe when she came back with two little bottles.

Cold ones.

“You’ve got a fridge in there?”

“A small one built in. It’s convenient. And . . .” She twisted the top on her bottle. “Efficient.”

“Hard to argue.” He saw her eyes slide over to her phone, had to smile. “Go ahead. No point in you being distracted.”

“I promise our brides round-the-clock availability. And even if I didn’t,” she added as she walked over to pick up the phone, “some of them would call whenever they got an itch. A wedding can and does take over the world when it’s yours. Clara Elder, both times,” she said when she checked the display. She switched to voice mail.

He heard her sigh, watched her close her eyes as she sat on the bed.

“Bad news?”

“Hysterical, weeping brides are never good.” When she listened to the second message, she opened the drawer of her nightstand, took out a roll of Tums, thumbed one off.

“What’s the problem?”

“She had a fight with her sister, who’s also her maid of honor, about the dress she wants her to wear.The MOH hates it, and according to Clara, the groom took the sister’s side, resulting in another big fight with him walking out of their apartment. I have to return her call. It may take a while.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, glugged down some water. “I get to see how you fix it.”

“Appreciate the confidence,” she replied, then hit the key to return the call.

“Want something stronger than water?”

She shook her head. “Clara, it’s Parker. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the phone quicker.”

She lapsed into silence during which Malcolm could hear the hysterical bride’s voice if not the words. High-pitched, full of angry tears.

So, he concluded, the strategy was to let her vent it out, pour out the anger and tears to a sympathetic ear.While Clara vented, Parker rose to open the terrace doors. Cool air blew in, lightly scented with the night. Malcolm appreciated the way it fluttered Parker’s robe.

“Of course you’re upset.” Parker all but cooed it. Cool air, he thought again, over hot temper.“No one can really understand the stress of all the decisions and the details but you. Naturally you were hurt, Clara. Anyone would be. But I think . . . Um-hmm. Ah.”

She continued to make soothing and agreeable noises as she closed the doors again, walked back to the bed to sit.And this time rested her head on updrawn knees.

“I understand exactly, and you’re right, it’s your wedding. It’s your day. My sense is that Nathan wanted to help—Yes, I know that, but let’s face it, Clara, men just don’t get it, do they?”

She turned her face, offered Malcolm a smile and eye roll. “And sometimes they just step in it, then can’t figure how to get out. I really think Nathan was trying to smooth things over with you and Margot because he hated for you to be upset. He just went about it clumsily.”

She listened again, and Malcolm could hear the bride’s tone clicking down several levels.

“It’s not that the details aren’t important to him, Clara, it’s that you’re more important.Anger and stress, Clara, on both your parts. You know he adores you, and he knows, too, how much you and Margot mean to each other. No.” She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t think you were wrong.”