Secret Games. Jeanie LondonЧитать онлайн книгу.
tipped her head back to stare into his face, into dove-gray eyes that gazed so much more potently without the shield of clear lenses and wire frames.
He kissed her cheek in a casual greeting. “The arm snapped off. As fate would have it, glue wouldn’t work.”
“Your optometrist couldn’t repair them?”
“Afraid not. The arm snapped below the joint. And I couldn’t find my spare pair. I must have accidentally thrown them in with that last Goodwill trip.”
“Oh, are you wearing contacts?”
Maggie knew he would have never seen her from across the lobby without some sort of corrective lenses. More likely he would have tripped over an ottoman.
“My optometrist had to order the frames I liked, but he was able to get these in a few hours. I suspect a conspiracy, though. He’s been trying to sell me on disposable lenses for a while.” Sam squinted myopically. “Have to admit they work. I can see fine.”
She’d seen him without his glasses before, so Maggie couldn’t figure out why his face—such a strong study of planes and angles that in themselves were not noteworthy but created a very striking whole—suddenly seemed so commanding and bold.
Or why catching her breath seemed to be a problem. She must be reacting to the pressure of the past few weeks. Wanting to help Angie and Raymond resolve their issues had weighed heavily on her, and now here she was, ready to implement her plan. She needed ideas, and she only had the weekend to fill up the blank pages of her journal. No wonder she was stressed.
Of course, Sam would notice. Understanding flickered deep in his gaze. He knew her well enough to know she was edgy.
“I checked in and went straight to our suite, so I haven’t had a chance to look around,” he said. “Mind if we do?”
Whew! “No problem.” She wasn’t ready to tackle the sleeping arrangements just yet.
“Here, let me take your coat.” Circling in front of her in a fluid stride, he caught the strap of her purse when she slid it from her shoulder.
But the cold must have affected her more than she’d realized because unfastening the buttons of her pea jacket beneath Sam’s steady gaze proved beyond her abilities. To her profound embarrassment, she seemed to have sprouted ten thumbs.
Of course, Sam would notice that, too. But like the gentleman he was, he took command of the situation. Sliding her purse into the crook of his elbow, he brushed aside her fingers and worked the button at her throat.
He didn’t say a thing. Then again, he didn’t have to. His sparkling eyes conveyed amusement loud and clear.
His eyes.
It wasn’t stress or the cold that was unsettling her. His eyes were the problem. Without his glasses, Sam didn’t seem at all like Sam. The omission had transformed him into a stranger. A very handsome stranger with soft gray bedroom eyes, who was further unraveling her already high-strung self.
Too taken aback to decide if this development would bode well or ill for the weekend ahead, Maggie simply avoided his gaze as she twirled around and let him tug her coat away.
“Thanks.”
Returning her purse with a smile, he flipped her coat over his shoulder and inclined his head toward the shop front she’d been caught peering into. “Want to take a look in there? See something you liked?”
“Nothing especially.” Although she should ask the salesclerk whether younger couples purchased Peterbutter or older couples, who’d had years to learn their partners’ sexual preferences.
And what would Sam think about Peterbutter? Would the espresso flavor have a stimulating effect on him? Would the peanut butter flavor make him stick to the roof of her mouth?
Oh, my!
Maggie swallowed hard. She hadn’t even been inside the romance-themed suite yet and she was already developing a serious case of naughty thoughts.
A fact that became increasingly obvious as they strolled along the promenade in silence. This moment was markedly different from any in memory. Sure, she and Sam had gone shopping together before. But pricing washing machines for the basement that doubled as their laundry room hadn’t prepared her for walking so close beside him, so aware of their arms barely touching, staring into windows with the knowledge that somewhere above them a suite with one bed awaited.
Get a grip, Maggie.
Or she’d never survive this weekend. What she needed here was a firm hold on the reins. She always told her patients if they acted in control, they soon would be. Now it was the counselor’s turn to test the theory behind the advice.
“So, how’s our suite?” she asked.
“Medieval.”
“The Warlord’s Tower?”
“Our other choices were the Wild West Brothel or the Sultan’s Seraglio. As much as I liked the idea of you dressed up as I Dream of Jeannie, I couldn’t get past the fact that those romance novels you read all have knights on the covers.”
He’d thought of her dressed up like a harem girl? Maggie wasn’t sure what to make of this confession, and the only thing that saved the moment was the realization that here was classic Sam, thinking of her before himself. He wasn’t her best friend and the most stabilizing influence in her life for no reason.
She actually managed to make her voice work. “I Dream of Jeannie? Really?”
“Really.” A dimple flashed, and she couldn’t find a shred of anything that even remotely resembled self-consciousness in his face.
Which was probably a good thing, considering she was experiencing enough self-consciousness for the two of them.
“Don’t worry. Maggie, the warrior princess, works just as well.” His finger tapped the bottom of her chin, and the mouth she’d let fall open snapped shut. “Or will I get to meet Maggie, the damsel in distress?”
Love-’em-and-leave-’em Maggie a damsel in distress? That wasn’t how she wanted Sam to think of her, but by the time she’d rallied her thoughts enough to think of a reply, he’d arched a dark brow in a familiar expression that had never before made her stomach swoop.
“Maggie the damsel in distress, I think. You’re the one who needs the favor, which means I’m coming to your rescue. So, Mags, am I your knight in shining armor?”
She stood there gawking at him, one small part of her brain cursing herself for not only letting go of the reins, but allowing them to be dragged beneath the horse.
Who was this man bantering about sex with her? Maggie had no idea. When she’d arrived in Niagara, she’d expected to meet nice, safe Sam. Where was he? And who was this man leading her into a store that looked like the embodiment of a designer lingerie magazine?
Sam’s sexy twin?
He came to a stop so abruptly that Maggie ran into him. Absently, he steadied her with a hand on her shoulder, his gaze fixed above her head. “Now that doesn’t look comfortable.”
Following his gaze to the half mannequin on the wall, Maggie felt her heart stop in midbeat.
Fitted around the half mannequin’s pelvis was a bright-red leather apparatus suggestive of a pair of medieval panties.
“Leather Chastity Belt,” Sam read from the display card propped on the stump of the mannequin’s thigh. “‘Keep your treasures under lock and key. Supple high-quality leather harness with fully adjustable waist strap and T-back for a comfortable fit. Available in Valentine-red, shell-pink, lavender-purple, mint-green and canary-yellow.’” He paused, considering. “Definitely not canary with your hair, but the shell or mint would work. What do you think?”
He glanced down at her, so obviously trying to contain his laughter that Maggie couldn’t