âAre you all right?â
Elena cupped Nickâs jaw and tried for a confident smile. âIâm fine.â
One long finger stroked down her cheek, sending a raw shimmer through her. âThen why do I get the feeling that youâre not quite comfortable with this?â
âProbably because I havenât done this in a while.â
Something flared in his gaze. âHow long?â
âUhâaround six years, I guess.â
He said something soft beneath his breath. âSix years ago you slept with me.â
The breath caught in her throat. âIâm surprised you remember.â
âIâm not likely to forget,â he said quietly, âsince you were a virgin.â
For a split second she was afraid he might abandon the whole idea of making love, so she took a deep breath and boldly trailed a hand down his chest. âIâm not a virgin now.â
He trapped her hand beneath his, then used it to pull her close so that she found herself half-sprawled across his chest. âGood.â
* * *
Just One More Night is part of The Pearl House series: Business and passion collide when two dynasties forge ties bound by love
One
Elena Lyon would never get a man in her life until she surgically removed every last reminder of Nick Messena from hers!
Number one on her purge list was getting rid of the beach villa located in Dolphin Bay, New Zealand, in which she had spent one disastrous, passionate night with Messena.
As she strolled down one of Aucklandâs busiest streets, eyes peeled for the real estate agency she had chosen to handle the sale, a large sign emblazoned with the name Messena Construction shimmered into view, seeming to float in the brassy summer heat.
Automatic tension hummed, even though the likelihood that Nick, who spent most of his time overseas, was at the busy construction site was small.
Although, the sudden conviction that he was there, and watching her, was strong enough to stop her in her tracks.
Taking a deep breath, she dismissed the overreaction which was completely at odds with her usual calm precision and girded herself to walk past the brash, noisy work site. Gaze averted from a trio of bare-chested construction workers, Elena decided she couldnât wait to sell the beach villa. Every time she visited, it seemed to hold whispering echoes of the intense emotions that, six years ago, had been her downfall.
Emotions that hadnât appeared to affect the dark and dangerously unreliable CEO of Messena Construction in the slightest.
The rich, heady notes of a tango emanating from her handbag distracted Elena from an embarrassingly loud series of whistles and catcalls.
A breeze whipped glossy, dark tendrils loose from her neat French pleat as she retrieved the phone. Pushing her glasses a little higher on the delicate bridge of her nose, she peered at the number glowing on her screen.
Nick Messena.
Her heart slammed once, hard. The sticky heat and background hum of Friday afternoon traffic dissolved and she was abruptly transported back six years....
To the dim heat of what had then been her aunt Katherineâs beach villa, tropical rain pounding on the roof. Nick Messenaâs muscular, tanned body sprawled heavily across hersâ
Cheeks suddenly overwarm, she checked the phone, which had stopped ringing. A message flashed on the screen. She had voice mail.
Her jaw locked. It had to be a coincidence that Nick had rung this afternoon when she was planning one of her infrequent trips back to Dolphin Bay.
Her fingers tightened on the utilitarian black cell, the perfect no-nonsense match for her handbag. Out of the blue, Nick had started ringing her a week ago at her apartment in Sydney. Unfortunately, she had been off guard enough to actually pick up the first call, then mesmerized enough by the sexy timbre of his voice that sheâd been incapable of slamming the phone down.
To make matters worse, somehow, she had ended up agreeing to meet him for dinner, as if the searing hours sheâd spent locked in his arms all those years ago had never happened.
Of course, she hadnât gone, and she hadnât canceled, either. She had stood him up.