“Oh, hell with it.” She could hardly hide out in here for much longer after all—she was sure Patrick needed to use the facilities. Without thinking about it further, she opened the door and strode into the bedroom, heading straight for her suitcase.

  “Well, good morning,” Patrick said from the bed. He was reading again, and in those glasses, which had no right to look as sexy as they did.

  “Forgot to bring clothes in with me,” she said, tucking the towel a little tighter.

  “No complaints here.” How did he manage to be clearly appreciative of her body without leering? It was a rare skill in her experience.

  “Well, the bathroom is all yours.” There was no way she was bending over her suitcase to find clothes in this scrap of terrycloth.

  “Okay.” He slid a piece of paper between the pages and took off his glasses, swinging out of bed and walking to the bathroom without any further ado. Tove’s attention snagged on the paperback as the door closed behind him. She’d assumed it was a thriller based on the cover image, but on closer inspection, she’d been wrong. It was a romantic suspense novel.

  The man just got more and more interesting.

  Chapter Eleven

  Just when Patrick had gotten his libido under control, Tove had to go and do that. Her blue silk pajamas were hanging on a hook on the back of the door and Patrick inhaled the scent of her that lingered in the fabric. He caught a faint whiff of her perfume and the indefinable fragrance of her skin, which he’d become intimately acquainted with overnight.

  Well, that was a mistake, he realized as his dick stirred again.

  Hell with it. He turned on the shower and shucked out of his lounge pants, hanging them over the pajamas on the door. Then he stepped into the shower and began to stroke himself, fast and hard, the warm water cascading over his chest as he worked himself over, racing hellbent for the finish line. The image of Tove, nearly nude in that towel, sent him over the edge and he braced himself with his free hand on the tiled wall as the water rinsed away the evidence of his orgasm. He blew out a long breath and let go of his softening dick, straightening up as he grabbed the soap and began to wash.

  By the time he was out of the shower and making his own towel-clad journey back to the bedroom, Tove was seated at the little desk with her laptop, dressed in a simple tee shirt and shorts. She glanced up, her eyes going wide. “Oh. I’ll go down and grab us a table for breakfast,” she said, starting to rise to her feet, but stopping as he put his hands on her shoulders, encouraging her to stay seated.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to. I’m not uncomfortable.”

  Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips. “Considering my earlier actions, that kind of makes me seem like a prude.”

  “Nah,” he said, turning his back on her to rummage in his bag for a pair of running shorts with built-in briefs. “Just someone with boundaries in different places.” He dropped the towel on the bed and tugged on the shorts, grinning briefly at her audible inhalation.

  “So,” he said, pulling a tee shirt over his head as he turned back to her. “Let’s go down to brunch and then see about having a floating non-argument. Deal?”

  There was a startling openness in Tove’s expression that was entirely new. “Deal.”

  Something in Tove had let loose when Patrick dropped that towel, showing that perfectly rounded ass to her in all its very muscular glory. She felt free somehow, almost reckless. She even took his hand when they stepped out of the elevator and held it as they walked to the resort’s restaurant, giving in to the fantasy he represented. Patrick’s fingers threaded through hers and squeezed as they stepped up to the hostess stand. They were led with some ceremony to a table, only to find that breakfast was a buffet.

  “Well, then,” Tove said, taking the napkin from her lap and slapping it on the table. “I guess I’m going to get an omelet.”

  “Sounds good, I’ll join you.” Crossing the busy restaurant to the omelet station, they found Anthony and Sofia waiting their turn. Sofia, a waifish brunette with light brown eyes, looked pale—maybe her headache yesterday had been real—and Anthony looked furious.

  Interesting.

  Behind her, Patrick gently stroked the nape of her neck with his fingertips, sending delicious sensation down her spine. The movement caught Anthony’s eye and he scowled at the taller man. “Perfect. Just what my day needed,” he muttered and stalked off, ignoring the cook who’d just asked him what he’d like.

  Sofia, after watching her husband storm away with a curiously blank expression, stepped up and ordered, then glanced back, apparently not recognizing Tove. “Hello, are you here for the wedding?” she asked in lightly accented English.

  Tove blinked. “Yes.”

  “Ah.” She gave Tove an arch smile and held out a hand, palm down, like she was royalty. What was Tove supposed to do, kiss her five-carat ring? “I’m Sofia. Emily’s stepmother. Welcome. I hope your accommodations are good.”

  “I know who you are. I’m Tove. Emily’s actual mother.” Tove took her hand, turning it into a proper handshake and holding it a little too firmly as she gave it a brisk pump, especially since Sofia’s grip was nonexistent. “And I think while ‘stepmother’ is possibly a technically correct way to explain the relationship, it seems a bit much to claim since you barely know her. Next time, you might want to just go with ‘Anthony’s current wife.’”

  “I…” Sofia’s large amber eyes went even wider and she seemed unable to think of anything to say. “Excuse me.” She tugged her hand from Tove’s and quick-marched out of the restaurant, much to the consternation of the cook who had just plated her omelet and was standing with it in his hands. He looked helplessly at Tove, who felt a little guilty. She hadn’t intended to do anything but put the officious younger woman in her place. She’d never considered she’d make difficulties for the cook.

  “What kind is that?” Patrick asked behind her. Informed that the omelet was a Western with whole wheat toast, he extended a hand. “I’ll take it. What would you like?” he asked Tove.

  “Spinach and feta with sourdough toast,” she replied and the cook got to work immediately, ladling the eggs onto the flat-top griddle and sprinkling the filling when it had firmed up a bit. A couple of folds and a flip and Tove had her breakfast.

  Patrick laid a hand on the small of her back as they moved towards their table. “Nice going, Mama Bear.” He laid his plate down and helped her with her chair before seating himself.

  “That woman met Emily literally one time at her own wedding to the girl’s father and she tries to take credit for being her stepmother and for hosting this wedding? I think not.”

  Patrick merely winked at her and put a bite of omelet in his mouth. A waiter circulated by to drop off a carafe of coffee and Tove appeared to be concentrating on eating her breakfast and cooling off her simmering rage.

  “Hello lovely people, can I crash this party?” Vati swung her purse onto one free chair and plopped into the other without waiting for a reply.

  “Help yourself,” Tove said and sipped some coffee.

  “So, I saw Wife Number Six storming toward the elevators looking like a rather pissed-off stick insect. Any idea why?”

  Patrick choked on his coffee and Tove said, “Oh, I have every idea why.”

  Vati’s eyes went wide and she leaned forward, placing her chin on her hand. “Do. Tell.”

  “She didn’t know who I was and introduced herself to me as Emily’s stepmother with all the ceremony of a queen condescending to a serf.” Patrick was surprised at how calm her voice was.

  Vati snorted. “She didn’t.”

  “Oh, I can assure you she did,” Patrick said. “Tove was magnificent. She introduced herself as ‘Emily’s actual mother’ and Sofia went positively gray.”

  “I’ll bet she did. Wonder if she was mad at you, herself, or someone else entirely,” Vati mused, pouring a cup of coffee from the carafe. “For example, Anthony, who didn’t bother to inform her about you. Or maybe herself for not doing a bit of homework.”

  “I don’t really care, I have to say,” Tove said. “She seems just as insufferable and self-important as Anthony is and I want nothing to do with her. This is Emily and Hayley’s day and those two human billboards can just sit down and be quiet.”

  “Mama Bear is having her roar,” Patrick said and Vati snickered.

  “Auntie Vati! I’m getting married today!” Emily yodeled as she swept in and wrapped her arms around the older woman.

  “Yes, you are. Where’s your bride, love?” Vati cradled Emily’s cheeks in her palms and beamed up at her.

  “Off with her folks. Secret errand of some kind or other,” Emily said as Vati pulled her bag off the extra chair and almost pushed the young woman into it.

  “Are you all set for today?” Tove asked her daughter, who gave her a sunny smile.

  “More than set. Ready, steady, go, that’s us. What are you all doing today?”

  “Your mother and I thought we’d try out some canoes or kayaks,” Patrick said, feeling oddly self-conscious about the phrase your mother and I while at the same time not venturing near the term paddling again.

  “I am going to spend some quality time on a lounge chair with a book,” Vati announced. “I never get to sit and just read and I’m doing exactly that.”

  “I’ve got about a hundred silly little things to do to get ready. Like get my nails done.” Emily inspected her short, blunt fingernails and frowned. “Hayley’s totally into manicures and they look great on camera, but…ugh. Well, then. You lovebirds go on and get recreational,” Emily said, grinning at Patrick as Tove wiped her mouth and put her napkin on the table.

  Tove put one finger under her daughter’s chin and pushed it up. “Enjoy your manicure, love. It’s called pampering.”

  Emily made a goofy face. “You enjoy yourself, Mom. It’s called having fun.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “You don’t have any single-person boats?” Tove asked, dread rising up in her like a tide.

  The young man behind the rental counter whose chest bore a name tag that read Mike shook his head. “Nope. All reserved. We actually only have one of the bigger canoes available at all this morning.”

  “Floating argument it is,” Patrick said, pulling out his wallet and handing Mike a credit card over her shoulder.

  Tove whirled and glared at him. “Seriously?”

  Patrick gave her an enigmatic smile, that scar on his lip tugging his mouth off-kilter and laid his hands on her shoulders while Mike ran the transaction behind her. “Hey. I have a sneaking suspicion I’d rather have an argument with you—floating or otherwise—than do anything with anyone else.”

  And that was how, mere minutes later, Tove found herself in the stern of a canoe and pushing away from the dock. She’d offered the rear seat to him, but he just shook his head and said he’d leave the steering to her. Amazing. In her experience, men never willingly relinquished control. They proceeded across the lake dotted at a distance with kayaks and paddleboards and Tove let out a big sigh.

  “Okay back there?” Patrick called over his shoulder.

  “Perfect.”

  “So, when do we start arguing?”

  Tove laughed, the blue sky and the forested hills and Patrick’s easygoing temperament all blending in her to create a bubbling, contented feeling. “I guess as soon as you start telling me I’m doing everything wrong.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just something men have always done in these kinds of circumstances.”

  He turned and squinted back at her. “I’m starting to think you have a shitty history with men in general, not just with your ex.”

  She shrugged. “I work with a lot of very powerful men and they can be frankly insufferable.”

  “So, why do you do it?”

  “The money is excellent.”

  “Fair enough.” He turned back and resumed paddling, his strokes strong and sure. Tove found herself gazing at the play of his back muscles underneath his shirt, the flex of his shoulders and arms.

  This was an even better reason than control to be in the stern, she decided. A heron made its silent way across the sky and dipped out of sight in a distant inlet. The quiet seeped into her, punctuated only by the little splashes and drips from their paddles. They each switched sides, balancing each other’s strokes almost automatically and Tove marveled at how easy the whole thing was. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been so comfortable with a man in her life.

  Was it because getting along with her was literally his job right now? The thought was uncomfortable, but she pursued it, musing over their time together. She might be fooling herself, but she didn’t think so. The real “gig,” as he put it, was to be a visible presence to annoy Anthony. That didn’t explain private moments like him holding her last night or even his reassuring companionship now.

  He was, she concluded, simply, a very nice person.

  Patrick’s arms moved in a steady rhythm that was almost automatic. With his body in motion, his mind was free to roam over the coming hours. Anthony was sure to make a pestilent ass of himself at least one more time before the weekend was over and Patrick almost looked forward to annoying him again. The familiar dance of male posturing had an extra spice in circumstances like this. Anthony had chucked family life with a wonderful wife and daughter to chase a string of progressively younger women and what did he have to show for it?

  Nothing, as far as Patrick could see.

  He realized he was enjoying this emergence from retirement more than he’d ever enjoyed the job when it was what he did regularly. And there was a change to Tove’s demeanor that said she might be open to more than cuddling which he found deliciously intriguing.

  “We only have about fifteen minutes left on the rental,” Tove said, her voice regretful. “We should probably turn around.”

  Patrick’s lips pressed together, suppressing a smile. “I can afford the late fee.”

  “It would stink for someone who’s waiting, though. Our friend Mike did say that watercraft were at a premium today.”

  “True.” He smiled at her rectitude and paddled while Tove used her oar as a rudder to turn them back to the boathouse.

  Tove’s voice floated from the rear of the canoe. “What are we going to do now? There’s still several hours until we have to be ready for the wedding.”

  Patrick grinned to himself. “I have an idea.”

  Tove didn’t know what to think as he took her hand and led her back to the hotel after dropping off the canoe. The exercise had felt wonderful and her muscles had a lovely sort of fatigue. Maybe he was going to suggest they take a nap, she thought as he tugged her back to their room and closed the door with a solid thunk.

  “Here’s what I think,” he said, toeing off his shoes and looking her straight in the eye. “I think you need a certain kind of glow for this evening.”

  “Glow?” Nerves fizzed in Tove’s stomach.

  “Yes. A postcoital glow.”

  Well, that was direct. “Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say I can make love to you,” he said, softly cupping her jaw in both of his hands.

  That reckless feeling from earlier flooded through her. “Okay.”

  “Okay? I can strip off your clothes and worship you until you come like a freight train?”

  “That sounds…” Nice? Lovely? Amazing? A total novelty? “Yes.”

  “Thank god.” And then he was kissing her, his lips insistent, his tongue demanding, his long, hard body pressing her against the wall. Here was the bossy man she’d been dreading, but oh god it wasn’t something to dread now. He just felt so good, his touch direct and arousing. His hands slipped from her face down her body, stripping her shirt off, then her shorts, then the rest of her clothes in quick, sure movements as he continued to kiss her. She reciprocated as best she could, tugging his shirt over his head and fumbling with the waistband of his shorts. He took over, making short work of his clothes and then they collided, his body pressing to hers in the most delicious way she’d ever experienced. Every nerve ending felt alive and she threaded her fingers through his hair, kissing him like his lips and tongue were necessary for life.

  Then he was walking her backwards to the bed and she toppled onto it, looking up at his intent face with dazed, breathless anticipation. He looked down her body, took a deep breath, and groaned.

  “You. Are. So. Beautiful.”

  Tove didn’t have time to deflect or negate his statement before he dropped to his knees, pushed her thighs apart and pressed his mouth to her sex. She gasped at the sudden, intense thrill of it, the warm, wet pressure of his tongue against her most sensitive place compounded by his fingers slipping inside her and pumping steadily while his tongue worked against her, flicking her into a frenzy. Her swift orgasm took her by surprise, ripping through her with so much force that she heard a wail before she realized she was the source of it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Patrick smiled and pressed a soft, openmouthed kiss to Tove’s clit as the last shuddering waves of her orgasm subsided. A sated groan was her only response and he rose from his position on the floor, looking at her, loose-limbed and flushed, her pale hair spread in messy waves across the bedspread.

  “Gorgeous.”

  Her hand slapped over her eyes. “I’m sure I’m nothing like gorgeous,” she said, pushing her body up toward the pillows.

  He slid onto the bed next to her. “Gorgeous,” he repeated, pulling her hand away from her face and curling his arm around her waist, tugging her close, his erection pressing against her belly.

  “Oh.” Her eyes popped open and her hand stroked down to touch him with hesitant fingertips.

 

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