Love Between the Pages: 8 Romances for Booklovers Read online

  “But it all turned out. You’re here now.” He looked around the room. “Looks like the place is full, except there.” He indicated the bar. “How do you feel about sitting there?” When she nodded, he spun the bar seat around so she could sit and took the one next to her.

  After they ordered drinks, she asked, “So, how was the convention dinner?”

  He regaled her with bits of the dinner speaker’s speech as well as a critique of the meal, his dinner companions, and what they’d talked about. It was difficult to resist being pulled into the web he was weaving with strands of sheer attractiveness, intelligent conversation, and similar opinions on the state of the publishing world.

  By the time he’d finished his report, her wine and his coffee had appeared. After the bartender left, he asked, “That’s my evening. How was yours?”

  “Nothing worth talking about. Just the usual negotiations with my editor over my next contract and the book I still owe them.”

  “Got a new book coming out soon?”

  “Supposedly not for six months, but he’s trying to push the deadline up to meet his production schedule and I’m resisting. I have other obligations than my contract with him.”

  “Yeah, I hate it when my publisher does something like that, especially any time during the school year when I’m slammed with classes, tests, or college recommendations.”

  “I know what you mean. Especially the end of term.”

  “So, you teach, too?”

  Damn. He was too smart for her to be so careless. “Yes, I do.”

  “High school? UDub?”

  Seattle? Why is he asking about Sea …? Oh, right. He thinks I live there because that’s where he saw me board the airplane. “Neither, actually. I teach at Bellevue College. English lit.” She’d read someplace the secret to a good lie was to keep it as close to the truth as possible. Her job before she was hired by Portland State had been teaching English lit at Bellevue.

  He smiled and leaned across the table. “Okay, we have Let’s Get Acquainted out of the way. Tell me about the mysterious Cl—Claudia? Clarice?”

  She steeled herself not to react to hearing her real name and pasted on what had better be a convincing smile. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

  “I have to know, to tell the truth, so I can stop calling you Bambi.”

  “Why would you call me a boy deer’s name?”

  “I thought Bambi was a she.”

  “How could he take his father’s place as King of the Forest if he was a she?”

  “And now I know better than to tangle with a lit professor.”

  “Let’s get back to why you called me Bambi in the first place.”

  “You kept disappearing. Like you had gone back into the woods. I was beginning to feel like I was hunting Bambi.” He waved off what she was about to say. “So, I’ve answered your question. Now you answer mine: What’s the Cl name you’re hiding—Clancy? Clarabell? Clemence? Clio? Cleopatra? Claudette?”

  “What did you do, Google it?”

  “Of course. Have I hit it?”

  “Well, I can tell you it’s not the queen of Egypt or the muse of history …”

  “So, not Cleopatra or Clio.”

  “Or a clown on an old kids’ TV show.”

  “Thank God, not Clarabelle. How about what it is rather than what it isn’t?”

  “You’ve already said it, actually. This afternoon.” Which one of the Cl names he’d guessed would she remember to answer to? In desperation she grabbed one. “It’s … it’s Claire.”

  “Funny. You don’t look like a Claire. Too tame.” His grin was infectious. “So, is the last name real?”

  “Yes. Sort of. It’s Mayes … uh, Mason.

  He reached across the table, his hand extended. “Nice to meet you, Claire Mason.”

  She took his hand and shook it. But when she tried to withdraw hers, he switched the angle of his hand so he was holding hers, not shaking it. “Not yet. I like the feel of your hand in mine.”

  Her heartbeat sped up.

  “I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you in the airport,” he said, and raised her hand to his mouth. He kissed the palm then took the tip of her index finger in his mouth and sucked gently. She couldn’t hide her sharp intake of breath that accompanied his action.

  As he continued to gently caress her hand, she could feel the heat from his touch begin to creep up her arm. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. Not from just the touch of a man’s hand. It was electric. And it affected him, too. She could tell from the way his breathing had hitched and his eyes had darkened.

  “You feel it, too, don’t you?” he said. “This chemistry between us.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come out. Instead of answering, she shook off his hand and picked up her wine glass. “I’d be a damn fool not to admit it,” she eventually said.

  “And I don’t imagine you’re any kind of fool at all.”

  “Well, I’m not sure how accurate that statement is, but, yes, of course I know there’s chemistry. I may have been a liberal arts major, but I’m not totally unfamiliar with science.”

  “Or the attraction between a man and woman, if your books are any indication.”

  She laughed. “So, you think I’ve done everything I’ve written about, like the man who asked me a question this afternoon?”

  “I didn’t say that. But I do think someone as successful as you’ve been has to understand the emotion, whether you’ve had the experience or not.” He picked up her hand again. “But I’m betting someone as beautiful as you are has more than a passing experience with passion.”

  “Out of curiosity, have you read any of my books?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “No, I’m not. At least, not as effectively as you’re avoiding the question.”

  “I have not. But I can promise you as soon as I get home, I plan to remedy the situation.” He smiled. “Have you read mine?”

  “I’ve been meaning to pick up your latest, about Abigail Scott Duniway. I read about it online someplace. Didn’t it win a big award not too long ago?”

  “The Oregon Book Award, yes. But why that one?”

  “She’s always been an interest of mine.”

  “Odd for a Washingtonian to know about her, isn’t it?”

  She had to be more careful. She was so caught up in his kissable mouth and his brilliant sapphire eyes and his delicious shoulders, she wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying.

  “I helped a colleague develop a class on feminism in the Northwest.” Which was true. “Abigail figured prominently in her syllabus.”

  “I imagine. She was almost single-handedly responsible for the vote for women being defeated five times in Oregon before it was passed.”

  “All because she wanted to link women’s suffrage with a ban on liquor.” Claudia raised her glass of wine. “Here’s to her success in one venture and her failure in another.”

  Brad reached for her free hand. “And here’s to success for us.”

  “Yes, success.” She heard the quiver in her voice as the warm, electric feeling reappeared in her hand and began to work its way up her arm. “Lots of books sold.”

  “Not what I meant but worth drinking to.” He raised his coffee cup and took a sip.

  Desperate to change the subject, she grabbed onto the first one she could think of. “Do you not drink alcohol?”

  “I do. But I’ve already had my limit for the evening. Don’t want to run the risk of having it mess things up.”

  “Oh, right. You have a panel presentation and a lunch speech to give tomorrow, don’t you?”

  “Are you deliberately misunderstanding everything I’m saying?” His smile was sinfully smug.

  “Crossing word swords with another writer is a new experience for me. I’m enjoying it.”

  “I am, too. But I think there might be something else we’d enjoy.”
He signaled to the bartender who had been hovering for some time trying to get them to pay the check. It was almost midnight, and he wanted to close out his till. “I have a nice minibar in my room. Care to join me there for a nightcap?”

  “I thought that’s what this was.”

  “Then a nightcap for the nightcap.” He waved off her attempt to take the bill, signed his name to the check, and slid off the barstool. Extending his hand to her, he said, “I’m on the eighth floor. Where are you?”

  She took his hand and stood. “Same.”

  “Good. Then you won’t have far to go when we say good night.”

  She swore she heard him add “Or good morning,” as they walked hand in hand to the elevator.

  Chapter 7

  Brad wasn’t sure how hard he should push. He didn’t want to spook her. More than anything, after the day he’d had chasing then flirting with Bambi, he wanted to take her to bed, to see if sex was the way to unravel the puzzle of who she was under the phony costume she was wearing. Because the longer he talked to her, the more convinced he was that the makeup and glasses were part of a disguise of some kind. And he intended to find out what she was hiding.

  He wasn’t normally the kind of guy who looked for a conference hookup. Quite the opposite. As a single man teaching in a girls’ high school, his reputation was something to be carefully protected. And the last thing he needed was someone reporting back to Portland about how he bedded available women as soon as he was out of town. But this woman wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met. She made him want to do things he’d normally shy away from.

  She was very quiet as they waited for the elevator. He wasn’t sure what it meant. She could be rethinking her decision to go with him. She could be trying to figure out a way to head for her own room when they got to the eighth floor. Or she could be doing what he was doing—overthinking the whole thing.

  When he saw they were the only two on the elevator, he decided to vote for option number three and act on it. After the door closed but before he pushed the button for their floor, he said, “There’s something I’ve wanted to do all evening. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to do it now.”

  The look on her face said she knew exactly what he meant and she didn’t object.

  He backed her against the wall and, taking his time, caressed her face, enjoying the way she turned her cheek into the palm of his hand, sighing. Lifting her chin, he touched, just touched her mouth with his. The moan that vibrated through her mouth encouraged him to take it further.

  Adjusting his mouth to take full possession of hers, he began to explore her lips with his tongue. Her body relaxed against his until he swore he could feel every inch of her softness molded to him. The smell of her perfume filled his senses. It was some kind of exotic smell, spicy, mysterious, and damn sexy. Like the woman who wore it.

  His tongue urged her to part her lips. As she did, her arms circled his neck and the kiss intensified. Their tongues played hide and seek with each other. His hands slid down her back to her bottom and snugged her against his rapidly growing erection.

  He was only a few seconds away from touching one of the lovely, full breasts teasing his chest when the elevator jerked to a start and began to rise.

  Claire laughed against his mouth. “Did we do that?”

  He moved a step back from her, regretting immediately the loss of contact with her body. “I certainly didn’t. My hands were otherwise occupied.”

  “Mmm. Me, too. Must be someone else calling the elevator.”

  “Then we better try to behave.” He punched the button for the eighth floor. “With luck, we’ll get off before whoever called the car gets on.”

  Luck was with them. They got to their floor without a stop. As they walked down the hall, holding hands again, he said, “Still up for a nightcap?”

  “Now more than ever.”

  • • •

  Claudia’s breath hitched at the thought of what drew closer with every step away from the elevator—Brad Davis’s bed. She was no reluctant virgin, but she’d never had a one-night stand. Never gone off to a strange man’s room after closing down a bar. Never kissed a man in a public elevator. Apparently April Mayes … ah … Claire Mason or whoever the hell she was tonight … did all those things and was in charge. Claudia was willingly going along with whichever of her convoluted alter egos she was channeling at the moment, not because she was curious but because of this man.

  This unusual behavior was more than merely acting the part she’d been playing to go along with her disguise. More than trying to experience what the heroines she’d created had felt. The “more” was something she hadn’t quite dissected yet. It involved the indefinable appeal Brad Davis projected. Ever since the airport, she’d been aware of him. He was smart, funny, and, God knows, sexy as hell. She loved talking to him—every conversation they’d had engaged both her mind and her heart. He was the perfect foil for her bad girl/April Mayes/sensual writer role. Whether he could be the same for her as Claudia Manchester remained to be seen. But she wasn’t going to worry about that right now.

  He stopped at room 810. “This is me.” Swiping the keycard, he opened the door and stepped aside so she could enter. He flipped a switch, and the light over a small table near the window came on.

  His room was neat and tidy, of course. The staff had straightened it all up and turned down his bed carefully. But his suitcase was open on top of the low chest opposite the bed with shirts and dark red boxer shorts spilling out of it. Two pairs of shoes were on the floor under the table. The tabletop was covered with papers, books, and a laptop computer.

  He pulled open the door of the minibar and peered in. “I’m sticking to water. What can I get you?”

  “Nothing thanks. I’ve had my limit tonight, too.” Before she could sit, he was in front of her, taking her hands, pulling her toward him.

  “Thank God. I’m finished with conversation, booze, and anything other than this.” Before she could react, he had claimed her mouth in a blazing hot kiss that warmed up the room and melted away any second thoughts she might have had. Melted thoughts of any kind at all, actually.

  He nibbled her mouth to end the kiss then nipped his way to her ear. He whispered, “I swear I could strip you and take you in five minutes, I’m so ready for this. But I don’t want to hurry. I want to take my time so I can enjoy every single inch of you.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Why, yes. That sounds like a good idea.”

  He chuckled. “And you sound remarkably like a teacher talking to a slightly naughty pupil when she’s not really sure she approves.”

  The shock of his blunt statement of what he wanted was now replaced by a determination to completely rid herself of Claudia Manchester, PhD for the night. She slid her hands down between them and unbuttoned his jacket. Saying, “Does it? Maybe you’re feeling naughty and projecting.” She pushed her hands up to his shoulders to remove his jacket. When it hit the ground, she started to work on his shirt.

  “You might be right. I’ve never had a naughty teacher get me out of my clothes.” As she reached the top button, he said, “Let me help,” and yanked off his tie.

  Because she’d forgotten about cuff buttons, she couldn’t get the shirt off him. He grinned down at her and undid his cuffs, giving her the chance to admire the amazing set of abs she’d uncovered while he did. Her mouth went dry at the sight. She ran her hands up and down, through the valleys and over the hills of his chest and abdomen. He was more than in shape. He was perfect.

  She must have made a noise because after he dropped his shirt on the floor and put his arms around her again, he said, “You’re making an interesting sound. Can I take it you like what you see?”

  “Oh, yeah. I like it very much. You’re much better than anything I’ve seen in the faculty gym.”

  “It’s my turn now,” he said. He deftly pulled the zipper in the back of her little black dress down, and the dress seemed to somehow slip off and puddle on the
floor. When the skimpy black lace bra she was wearing joined the dress, it was his turn to make interesting noises. “Jesus, woman. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He caressed a breast, ducked his head, and took a taste, a brief taste, of the nipple.

  It wasn’t enough for her. She wanted more. With shaking hands, she fumbled at the belt on his pants. He stopped her. “How about I get you settled over there.” He gestured toward the bed. “And then I’ll join you.”

  She nodded and walked on wobbly legs to the side of the bed. He turned her around and gently urged her to sit. When she had, he removed the glasses she was wearing then knelt and took off one of her shoes and began a slow, sensuous trail of kisses up her now shoeless leg. When he reached the barrier of her bikini panties, instead of removing them and continuing to the place she wanted him to kiss, he switched legs. She groaned as he retreated down her other leg. When he got to her foot, he removed the second shoe and then swung both legs up onto the bed.

  Heat pooled in her sex. She was desperate for him to touch her, kiss her there. Now.

  Instead, he went to the other side of the room where he removed his belt, shoes and socks, trousers, and boxers in what seemed like only seconds. Not long enough at any rate for her to appreciate the show of masculine perfection she was privy to. Before he joined her, he removed something from his suitcase.

  When he sat down next to her, he put the “something” on her bed stand. A condom. He was prepared. Just like all her heroes were.

  He bent to her and combed his fingers through her hair, drawing her head up to meet him. This time, the kiss started out with a hunger that had an almost desperate edge to it. But somewhere in the middle of it, he loosened his hold on her and turned the kiss into something softer, more subdued.

  What had she done? Had he changed his mind? She was confused. He seemed to sense her anxiety. “I’m trying hard not to revel in the fact that you’re in my bed, but after seeming to avoid me all day, I have to know the answer to this—why did you agree to come back to my room?”