Blame It on Paris. Jennifer Greene

meant for a church choir. A voice that giggled with children, that played family diplomat in touchy moments.

      The woman’s voice talking to Will was a slut’s voice. A bad, bad woman’s voice. Conscienceless. Greedy. Wicked.

      It was all a trick, she thought. A trick her heart was playing on her. A trick that made it okay to be a brazen hussy—not in life, not in general, but with him. Will Maguire. Here. Now. In Paris.

      And that was the last coherent thought she had.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      SOMEWHERE AROUND ten the next night, they both woke up, hungry. It wasn’t the first meal Will had brought back to bed. This time he made melted cheese sandwiches, and carted them in with chips and cookies.

      She laughed, knowing they were going to sleep with crumbs, not caring any more than he did. Still, something was different when she woke up this time.

      It was as if, in the past twenty-four hours, she’d been Will-drugged. Still was, when he carried in the tray, buck naked. The man didn’t have a modest bone in his entire long, strong, deliciously male body. But suddenly she felt different. Different enough to tuck the sheet securely under her arms. It seemed silly, when he’d obviously seen every inch of her body in exquisite, thorough detail, but somehow she felt the odd need to hide all the love bites and nuzzle marks he’d left.

      He plunked down beside her and they dove into their makeshift meal. She didn’t try talking until she’d devoured a second sandwich, but after that, she swiftly ducked under the sheet, pulled up his fluffy comforter and snuggled into the pillow.

      “Will…” Outside, it was still pouring, lightning spearing the sky, wind howling through the cracks. “What are we going to do?”

      “As soon as we’re both done eating, I’m guessing we’re going to sleep. You wore me out, woman.”

      “That’s what I’ve been trying to grapple with. It’s not possible that we’ve been doing this. That I’ve been doing this. It’s seriously wrong.” She recognized that her entire behavior had led him to believe otherwise. Hell’s bells, her entire behavior had led her to believe otherwise, but there it was. Reality seemed to have shown up out of nowhere. Or maybe she’d finally caught a couple seconds where she wasn’t sucked under by all that wicked, powerful passion.

      He lowered his empty plate to the floor, switched off the lamp and eased down next to her, pillow to pillow. He didn’t brush her off. He could have. Didn’t roll his eyes at her sudden attack of regretful guilts, either, and for damn sure, he could have done that.

      “Just for the record,” he said, “I’ve never gone near a woman who ever took me under before. Not like this. I mean it. Ever.”

      “Yeah, well. It’s totally my fault, not yours.”

      But he wasn’t playing scorekeeper on the guilt record. “I don’t do guilt. It’s one of the best things about giving up Catholicism. Truth is, I don’t think people need guilt to keep them in line anyway. Most people seem to get up every day, trying to be the best people they can be at that moment in time.” He ran his fingers through her hair, looking thoughtful, as if confused how that bit of philosophy had sneaked out of him. In other ways he was being careful, like in not touching body parts. More, he was keeping in touch, with that finger-light caress. “So I don’t know how to draw conclusions about what’s going on with us…except to say that you and I seem to fit. To be right together. I wasn’t looking for it, wasn’t expecting it. But that’s sure how it is. At least for me.”

      “For me, too.” Since he was doing that finger-caress thing, she did, too. On the slope of his shoulder, gleaming in the rain-light. “In fact, that’s exactly what’s scaring me. What’s confusing me. I’ve never done casual relationships. Ever. It’s not possible. If you just knew me…”

      No smile. But he suddenly loomed over her, an expression on his face that she’d never seen. Tenderness. And something else. Something…that invoked a soft shiver all through her.

      “I do know you,” he said. “I know you like this.…”

      And he showed her.

      WILL FIGURED it had to be around three in the morning. If there was a fire, he doubted he could find the energy to move. Not that he’d say it out loud, but he’d always considered himself a good lover. Certainly he’d never had a problem with some eloquent sustaining action, so to speak.

      But they’d made love how many times?

      His legs were limp. His body was limp. Even willie was limp. He could have slept naked in a snowstorm. He was that wiped. His eyelids were too tired to open.

      But Kelly was still talking.

      “Okay,” she said. “So self-discipline didn’t work for us. Or denial. Or pretending this wasn’t going to happen again. Or guilt. And I know you don’t do guilt, Will, but I do. And it doesn’t seem to make a lick of difference. I still want to be here, right here. With you.”

      He managed to find the energy to open one eye. “Do you have to sound so miserable?”

      “I’m not miserable. That’s the whole problem.” She shifted on top of him, her elbows digging into his shoulders, using his body for her own personal mattress. But then she bent down and kissed him. And even though willie was wiped, even though he was too tired to breathe, he felt her soft skin from breast to tummy to thighs, layered against him. As if she had the right. As if he did.

      When she lifted her head, her lips still just inches from his, she murmured, “You know what you taste like?”

      “What?”

      “Hot sex. Love. Wonder. Magic.” She sighed. “I can feel him. You’d think he’d be tired by now.”

      “He is, he is.”

      “Yeah, right.” She let out a long-suffering sigh, but there was something in her eyes. A gleam. A wickedness. The way she wiggled her hips was hardly the act of an inhibited, guilt-ridden, goody-good kind of woman. And then she took a nip out of his neck. Not a big one. Not drawing blood or anything like that. Just a nip. With her teeth, then her lips, then her tongue. She whispered, “You’d better hold on to the headboard, because I think this could be a real rough ride.”

      He said primly, “I don’t do bondage with women I barely know.”

      “You’d do bondage with any woman who’d let you get away with it,” she corrected him.

      Well, hell, she already had his number. There was no point in fighting with her, when making love with her was so much more fun.

      WHEN THE ALARM CLOCK BUZZED at seven, the word work entered Will’s brain…welcomed on a par with tetanus shots, cavities, the flu. It couldn’t be Monday morning. It just couldn’t be.

      He pried open one bleary eye. Then the other.

      There seemed to be a naked woman standing in front of him, holding a steaming mug of coffee. Hazelnut. He could smell it. He lurched out of the bed, nose-first, realizing at that instant that he was hopelessly in love.

      The first sip of joe confirmed it. “I can forgive a woman anything who makes outstanding coffee,” he told her.

      “Oh, good. Then you don’t mind if I empty out your bank accounts, trash your place and decorate your living room pink?”

      “You’re going to still make the coffee, though, right?”

      She chuckled. There was no way, no possible way, she could be this perky. Neither had had any sleep. Her hair was messy, and she was sashaying around the room naked as if she had the cutest boobs, the sassiest butt, the skinniest legs this side of the Atlantic.

      Which she did.

      Damn, but she did.

      “What’d you do with all your Catholic guilt?” he asked her a few minutes later…which