A Sure Thing?

Chapter 2

Stopping under the columned portico that stood in front of Chateau Fontaine's curved driveway, Matt shifted his Lexus into Park and gratefully exited the vehicle. His legs were stiff from six straight hours of sitting, and his ass felt like it weighed eight hundred pounds. For the amount of time he'd been in the car, he could have driven to damn Canada.

Of course, not arriving at Chateau Fontaine until the middle of the freakin' night was his own fault. What stroke of insanity had possessed him to attempt to drive out to the winery? He'd known there'd be traffic-hell, the Long Island Expressway wasn't called the World's Largest Parking Lot for nothing-but he'd figured that by not leaving the city until almost 8:00 p.m. he'd miss most of the congestion. Unfortunately he hadn't factored in the holiday shoppers on the road. Nor had he predicted the overturned tractor-trailer that had closed all eastbound lanes, clogging the roadway for miles. Or the snow that had started falling several hours ago.

After accepting a claim check from the valet and removing his black leather overnight bag from the trunk, Matt circled through the revolving glass door then crossed the cream marble floor, heading toward the registration desk as if it were an oasis in the desert. Damn, but he was tired. His eyes felt gritty, he was thirsty, and the energy provided by the Snickers bar he'd eaten at his desk for dinner was long gone. But at this point he was even too tired to eat.

"Hell, I'm even too tired for sex," he muttered. Now there was a sentence he didn't think he'd ever hear himself say.

All he wanted was to crawl into bed and pass out until his wake-up call. After pulling an all-nighter last night working up ideas for ARC Software, then suffering through a long, frustrating, headache-inducing day, topped off with the drive from hell, he was finished.

He'd wanted to check in early, to give himself a chance to relax and look over his notes before his breakfast meeting with Jack Witherspoon, but his crazy day had sunk those plans like a bowling ball tossed in a lake. He'd spoken to Jack this morning and since neither knew exactly what time they'd be arriving at the resort, they'd agreed it was best to meet first thing in the morning instead of tonight. Good thing, as Matt would have had to cancel.

When he arrived at the highly polished beige granite counter, he was greeted by a young woman whose name tag announced she was Maggie. Maggie appeared way too perky for the middle of the night.

Summoning a tired smile, Matt gave her his confirmation number by handing her the fax he'd received that morning from Maxximum's travel agent.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Davidson, you're all set," Maggie said with a friendly grin. She handed him a key card and a pamphlet. "This explains all our amenities. Take the elevators on your left to the third floor. Room 312 will be at the end of the hallway."

Room 312 sounded like Utopia, and the only amenity he needed right now was a bed. "I'd like to have a wakeup call, please, for six-thirty." That would give him plenty of time to relax and look over his notes before meeting with Jack Witherspoon at nine. He did his best thinking in the morning, and he was too exhausted to contemplate work now. What he needed now was sleep. He just hoped he'd find his bed before he passed out.

Nodding his thanks, Matt hoisted his overnight bag onto his shoulder and headed across the lobby, his tired gaze skimming over the lush, yet understated neoclassic decor. Christmas wreaths decorated with colorful glass ornaments hung on the walls, and long, fragrant boughs of pine draped the mantel. The entire back wall was glass and, he presumed, overlooked the vineyards. Vaulted ceilings, supported by marble columns wrapped in holiday twinkle lights, dotted the perimeter of the lobby. Lush foliage, planted in huge urns painted with scenes of pastoral vineyards, lent the room a gardenlike atmosphere. Thick rugs, their borders decorated with grapes, vines and leaves, were scattered around the room, as were plush, inviting chairs. An ivory grand piano stood majestically in the corner, near a curving staircase that led up to a loft area. There, a brightly lit Christmas tree glowed with jewel-tone lights.

He dozed off standing up in the elevator, awakening when his head bobbed forward with a sudden jerk as the car halted at the third floor and the doors slid open. Squinting his tired eyes against the bright light illuminating the hallway, he made his way down the leaf-patterned carpet to room 312.

After slipping the key card into the slot, he turned the brass handle when the green light flashed. He gratefully entered the room, closing the door behind him, and welcomed the soothing darkness after the irritatingly bright hallway light.

Bed, bed, bed his exhausted cells chanted. He plopped his overnight bag on the floor, then quickly removed his overcoat. Eyelids drooping, he toed off his dress shoes, then undressed with clumsy haste, tossing his clothing haphazardly over his bag, vowing to hang up everything in the morning when he could think straight. Stripped down to his boxer briefs, he stumbled in the dark toward the bed. With the small part of his brain that was still barely functioning, he noted the lumpy disarray of the covers on the far side of the bed. Humph. This might be a swanky resort, but the housekeeping left a lot to be desired. But who the hell cared? There was a pillow with his name on it only seconds away.

A long, satisfied sigh escaped him as he eased beneath the covers, and let his groggy head settle against the cushy pillow. The limp relaxation brought on by utter exhaustion closed in on him. Floating in a hazy state that bordered on just dropping off to sleep, he turned onto his side, and stretched out his arm.

His hand landed on something delightfully warm and silky. Satin sheets. A low hum of appreciation rumbled in his throat. Nice. His hand cruised upward, some deep recess of his fried brain vaguely appreciating the smooth texture. Soft. Smooth and curvy. Like a woman's breast.

His fingers gently kneaded the plump softness, and as sleep overcame him, his imagination conjured up a rosy nipple beading beneath his palm. He drew in a contented breath. Oooooh, baby. Yeah. This was some kind of fabulous bed. He shifted closer to the enticing softness, brushing his body against the delightful warmth. Definitely gotta get me a bed like this…

A low, throaty, sexy moan sounded, and the plump softness beneath his hand shifted. Warm breath touched his shoulder, and for one heavenly moment it felt as if feminine curves pressed against him. Before his brain could fully register the delightful sensation, a sharp gasp sounded next to his ear. What the-?

His eyeballs weren't even all the way open when he was pelted with a barrage of thrashing limbs and a slew of threats.

"Get away from me, you bastard," came a female voice filled with both fury and fright, "or I'll hand you your severed gonads on a platter."

Holy crap! That chased away all remnants of sleep like a bucket of ice water over the head, and he quickly cupped his privates.

The next instant light flooded the room, and he blinked against the sudden brightness. Looking up, he found himself staring at a vision of dark-haired fury. She stood on the mattress, chest heaving, eyes filled with a combination of fright and a lethal expression that made it clear his gonads were indeed in danger. She snatched up a paperback book from the nightstand and raised it above her head as if to hurl it at him. She looked like a one-woman kung fu, Swat team, fully prepared to kick his ass. "What the hell do you…?" Her furious question trailed off, and she narrowed her eyes. "Matt?"

Matt? She knew him? He uncupped himself and struggled to sit up. "Yeah. Who are…?" His struggling abruptly ended, and he stilled as a flash of disbelieving recognition hit him like a two-by-four to the head. He actually felt his eyeballs goggle. "Jilly?"

They stared at each other for several long seconds, silence stretching between them. Matt wasn't certain what was preventing her from speaking, but he sure as hell knew what had rendered him speechless.

The woman standing on the bed was most certainly Jilly Taylor, but except for the familiar facial features, nothing about this tousle-haired female resembled the Ice Princess.

Good God, this raven-haired temptress could ignite a bonfire in a rainstorm. Long, silky strands of midnight hair fell across her shoulders and down her back in tumbled disarray. Her golden-brown eyes, devoid of her rectangular glasses, appeared huge and startled. Crimson stained her cheeks, and her full lips were moist and parted.

Unlike the ultraconservative Jilly Taylor he knew, nothing about this woman screamed prim or proper. Smooth, creamy skin-a lot of it-was showcased by the black satin tank top she wore. His stupefied gaze skimmed over her delicate collarbone, focused on the way her chest rose and fell with her rapid breaths, then lowered to the swell of her breasts and the visible outline of her erect nipples pushing against the material. His fingers involuntarily clenched, vividly recalling the plump softness of what he now realized had been her breast filling his palm.

His gaze tracked lower still, over the several inches of flat, toned abdomen left bare between the end of her tank and the top of her low-rise black, lacy panties. And her legs… holy hell, the sight of those long, shapely bare legs nearly stopped his heart. She looked like she'd stepped off the pages of a Victoria's Secret catalog-right after a bout of hot sex.

Damn. No more need to wonder what was hiding under all those straitlaced suits she wore-not that he'd ever wondered, of course. But now he knew. And he knew not only what she looked like, but also what she felt like. Jilly possessed a warm, soft, womanly, fantasy-inducing body that was rapidly supplying a number of unwanted, ill-advised fantasies. Great. Just what he needed-a budding erection.

Forcing himself to concentrate on his annoyance rather than her nearly naked body, he cleared his throat-twice-to find his voice. "What are you doing here?"

She planted her hands on her hips and raised her brows, looking down on him from her vantage point like an avenging warrior. "Actually, I think the question is what are you doing here-besides breaking into my room and scaring me to death? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Feeling at a distinct disadvantage sitting, he swung his legs over the side, stood, then returned her glare. "I don't play sick jokes. And what do you mean, your room? The girl at the registration desk gave me a key to room 312." Sudden doubt assailed him. "This is 312, isn't it?"

"Yes." She frowned. "There must be some mistake with the reservation." Her frown turned to a squinty-eyed, suspicion-filled glower. "But that doesn't explain what you're doing here. At Chateau Fontaine. Of course, one doesn't need to be a rocket scientist to figure it out. Listen, if you think you're going to weasel your way into my time with Jack Witherspoon-"

"Whoa! What do you mean your time with Witherspoon?"

"Just that. Adam sent me out here to wine and dine Jack this weekend to convince him to hire Maxximum for his new ad campaign."

Matt narrowed his eyes and studied her closely. Either she was a remarkable liar, which was certainly possible, or Adam had sent both him and Jilly out here to woo Witherspoon, which unfortunately was also possible. "Is that so?" he said. "Well, Adam sent me out here to wine and dine Jack this weekend to convince him to hire Maxximum for his new ad campaign."

Still standing on the mattress, Jilly stared down at him for several long seconds, trying to gather her scattered wits. Her heart still slapped against her ribs-a result of two factors: one, fright at being awakened from a deep sleep to find herself no longer alone in bed, and, two, physical arousal from her sensual dream-of a warm, masculine hand caressing her breast, a hard, muscled body rubbing against hers-which had turned out not to be a dream at all. Jeez, it was a miracle she hadn't gone into cardiac arrest. If she hadn't hit the light switch and discovered it was Matt, she most likely would have croaked.

As for his explanation, could he possibly be telling the truth? Or had he found out about her travel plans and thought he'd try to win ARC's account for himself? Her suspicious gaze raked over him, which was a mistake, because her long sleeping libido suddenly woke up.

Whew. A veritable rainstorm of perfect genes had soaked this guy. She eyed his broad shoulders, and the smattering of dark chest hair that narrowed into a tantalizing ribbon, which bisected his six-pack abs before disappearing into white boxer briefs. Her gaze dipped lower, taking in his long, muscular legs, before wandering back up to rivet on his groin.

Double whew. She instantly recalled how warm and tingly and aroused she'd felt during those brief seconds she'd snuggled against him before she'd come fully awake. For some insane reason, Kate's words whispered through her mind. When you least anticipate it, something unexpected will happen and-poof!-your world will be turned upside down.

Good grief, she was losing her mind. Sure, this was unexpected, but in a very unpleasant way. Definitely not what Kate had meant at all.

"Well?" he asked, yanking her attention away from his way-too-fascinating crotch. Their eyes met, and awareness seemed to crackle between them. His watchful expression made it clear he was well aware he'd just received a thorough ogle. Humph. She certainly wouldn't feel embarrassed. After all, he'd ogled her first-surely a fact that should have annoyed her, rather than shoot heat through her veins. There'd been no mistaking his surprise-or his appreciation-when his gaze had roamed over her. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her as Matt just had. Of course, it had been a long time since she'd stood before a guy wearing next to nothing.

"Well, what?" she said, moving to step off the mattress and onto the floor.

He held out his hand to assist her, and without thinking she clasped his hand for balance. His long fingers wrapped around hers, rushing heat up her arm, igniting her nerve endings. The instant her feet were firmly planted on the carpet, she snatched her hand away as if he'd electrocuted her and backed several feet away from his disturbing presence. She felt raw and exposed, and she desperately wished she'd brought a robe. But all she had to cover herself with was her sweats, and they were in her overnight bag in the closet. Matt didn't seem disconcerted by their lack of clothing, and she wasn't about to give him the upper hand by allowing him to think she was uncomfortable.

You wear less to the beach, her inner voice rationalized. Yeah, she did. But skimpy lingerie had a whole different connotation than swimwear-especially in the confines of a bedroom, and with Matt Davidson around. Pushing aside her discomfort, she crossed her arms and raised her chin a notch.

"Well, I think it's pretty obvious what's going on here," he said, his gaze fixed on hers, "assuming you're telling the truth about Adam sending you here-"

"I'm not a liar," she said through clenched teeth. "But perhaps you are."

"I'm a lot of things, but a liar isn't one of them."

"One phone call can verify that."

"Yes, it can." His gaze flicked to the digital clock on the nightstand which glowed 2:43 a.m. "Do you want to call Adam this late to ask him, or can you take my word for it until a more decent hour?"

She prided herself on reading people fairly well, and as much as she hated to admit it, Matt looked and sounded utterly sincere. If he was telling the truth…

Dread seeped slowly into her veins. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt-until morning." She pushed her tangled hair off her face. "Besides, sending us both out here to woo the same client-while I don't want to believe Adam would do that to us again-"

"It looks like he's done it to us again." He blew out a breath. "Just like last summer, with the Lone Star Steak account. Pitting us against each other certainly insures that one of us will win the ARC account for Maxximum."

"Right. It worked with Lone Star, and clearly Adam hopes history will repeat itself. Smart tactic."

"One I would admire much more if I wasn't one of the victims." Matt muttered. "Again. And I don't intend to let history repeat itself."

"Meaning?"

"You won the Lone Star Steak account. I'm going to win this one."

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hey, whatever you need to believe to get you through the day. But your quest for ARC will be difficult to achieve when your weekend is spent explaining to the police why you broke into my room."

He shot her a glare. "I'm an ad exec, not a cat burglar. I told you. Registration gave me a key to 312 when I checked in." He moved to the phone resting on the pale oak desk in the corner. After consulting the directory listed on the phone's cream-colored surface, he lifted the receiver and punched in a number. "I'm calling the front desk to find out what's going on."

He turned his back to her and reached across the desk to slide a pad and pen closer to him. His underwear stretched across a taut male butt that deserved to be bronzed and displayed in the Smithsonian. Someone at the front desk must have picked up because Matt said, "Hello, Maggie. This is Matt Davidson…" He explained the situation, but Jilly only listened with half an ear as all her attention focused on the very distracting view of his backside.

This was not good. The sight of this guy in his Calvins was having an adverse affect on her ability to breathe straight and think right. Er, think straight and breathe right. Jeez, anybody would think she hadn't seen a gloriously masculine, almost naked man before. She had. Just not recently-unless one considered nine months, three weeks and eighteen days recent. And everything feminine in her that had lain dormant for those nine months, three weeks and eighteen days was suddenly bright-eyed and alert and very interested in this new masculine scenery.

Swell. Like she didn't have enough problems, now she had to go and develop a sudden case of the hots for her biggest rival. Why, oh why, did her body have to respond to this guy?

He hung up the phone, then turned to face her. "Did you catch all that?" he asked.

Heat crept up her neck. With her libido and hormones making so much racket, nothing he'd said had registered. "Er, not exactly. I was trying to, um, remember where I left my cell phone." Yup, that was her story and she was stickin' to it. "Why don't you summarize it for me?"

"You want the good news first or the bad news?"

"Good news."

"That's unfortunate because there is no good news. At least for you. The bad news is that only two rooms were booked for Maxximum Advertising."

"Right. One for you and one for me. So what's the problem?" Her bare foot tapped against the carpet.

"Noooo," he said in a voice one would use with a kindergartner. "One for Jack Witherspoon and one for me."

"You?" Anger propelled her forward until less than two feet separated them. At least her anger had shut down her hormones. More or less. Nothing was less attractive than an arrogant, infuriating man. Usually. Jamming her hands on her hips, she jutted out her chin. "In case it escaped your notice, you came into my room, where I was sleeping in my bed. My clothes are hanging in the closet, and my makeup and toothbrush are in the bathroom. That makes this my room. Possession is nine-tenths of the law." Reaching down, she yanked up the pile of masculine clothes draped over his luggage and slapped them against his bare chest. "So I suggest you get dressed and toddle on down to the registration desk, pick up a new key and stake your claim on a vacant room."

His lips curved into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "I'd be happy to, but that's where the rest of the bad news comes in. There are no more rooms available."

She looked toward the ceiling and prayed for patience. "Surely you don't expect me to believe that."

He shrugged. "Call the front desk. It's not that difficult to believe. There're only three dozen rooms here-this place is not exactly the size of a Hyatt."

Easing around him, she stalked to the phone and jabbed in the number for the front desk. A very pleasant young lady named Maggie regretfully confirmed that there were indeed no other rooms available, and no vacancies until the following Wednesday. At Jilly's request she checked the reservations. "A suite was booked at 8:20 yesterday morning for three nights for Maxximum Advertising by Surety Travel Agency."

"All right," Jilly said, nodding. That would be the suite Adam had booked for Jack Witherspoon. "What else?"

"A room was also booked for Maxximum yesterday," Maggie said, as Jilly heard computer keys tapping in the background. "That reservation came in at 9:53 a.m. by Surety Travel Agency, for a single room, for three nights."

"For just one room?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The bottom fell out of Jilly's stomach. One room. At 9:53. She thanked Maggie, then hung up. Turning to Matt, she asked, "When did Adam talk to you about the Witherspoon account?"

"Yesterday morning."

"What time?"

"Our meeting was at 9:30."

Oh boy. Her meeting with Adam had started at 9:45. Which meant that at 9:53, when the reservation was called in, she was still in Adam's office. Which meant that the travel agency had booked this room at Matt's request.

"Your meeting was after mine," he said, still clutching his wrinkled clothes against his chest. Understanding dawned in his eyes. "I'm guessing this room was booked during the time you were meeting with Adam."

As much as she wanted to, there was no point in denying it. At least he had the decency not to look smug, which surprised her. "Obviously the travel agent made an error," she said. Yeah-like they'd neglected to book her damn room.

"Obviously."

"That's hardly my fault, Matt."

"Nor is it mine, Jilly."

"Well, I'm not leaving."

"Well, neither am I."

They stared at each other for several long, silent seconds, like two suspicious dogs circling each other, vying for the same bone. At this moment, the room was the bone. But, ultimately, Jack Witherspoon and the ARC Software account with all its accompanying perks was top prize. It was a huge career jump, winner take all, and Jilly had no intention of losing. Based on the stubborn set of Matt's features, neither did he.

She glanced toward the window and noted the heavy snow falling. Forcing him to leave, in the middle of the night, in the midst of a snowstorm seemed pretty inhumane. But she couldn't very well share the room with him. There was only one bed. And it wasn't even a king-size. No way was she lying in that not-king-size bed next to him and all that male pulchritude-again. Nope. No way. That scenario had disaster tattooed all over it. In Technicolor. Yet clearly the only way to get him out of this room would involve an atomic explosive, and she was fresh out.

"Look, Matt, surely there must be a sofa or roll-away bed somewhere at the resort you can sleep on."

He lifted a brow. "I asked, and according to Maggie, there are no roll-aways available. As for a sofa, I guess there're some in the lobby, but I'm not about to sleep there-especially not when there's a perfectly comfortable bed right here."

"A bed that's already occupied."

"It's big enough for two."

She opened her, mouth to protest, but before she could utter a sound, he continued, "Don't worry, I'm not one of those guys who thrash around. Hell, I don't even snore. Do you?"

"No, but-"

"Great. Not that it would matter much. I'm so exhausted, even if you sawed wood like a lumberjack it wouldn't keep me awake. Look, there's not much we can do about this mess now, so let's just get some sleep. Maybe we can get the room problem sorted out in the morning." He yawned hugely, then plopped his clothes back down onto the top of his luggage. The sight of all that lovely male bareness momentarily robbed her of speech, and she could only watch as he bent down and pulled a brown leather shaving kit from the side pocket of his overnight bag. He entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. Seconds later she heard water running.

"What are you doing?" she called.

"Brushing my teeth."

He emerged a minute later, and walked past her, leaving her to breathe in a whiff of his masculine scent mixed with mint. After pulling back the covers on the far side of the bed, he scrunched up the pillow, then laid down on his side facing away from her.

"'Night, Jilly. Sweet dreams."

'Night, Jilly? Sweet dreams? Was he insane? He didn't look insane, but what did she know? There had to be some inkling of insanity lurking under that masculine exterior if he thought there was a snowball's chance in hell of her being able to sleep next to him. And dream? Not likely. No, she'd stare up at the ceiling, listening to him breathe, remembering what he'd felt like pressed up against her, cupping her breast, hating herself for remembering, and growing more and more annoyed that her presence obviously had no effect on him.

This was what came of concentrating too much on her career and not devoting enough attention to her social life. Nine months, three weeks and eighteen days of celibacy, mixed with a nearly naked gorgeous man was proving disastrous to her ability to keep her wits about her. And this with a guy she didn't trust as far as she could throw him. Thank God she didn't like him or else this situation would be a real disaster.

She gazed down at him, noting that his breathing was already slow and regular. Since she'd made it a rule long ago to steadfastly avoid any activities that could result in jail time, there was no point in contemplating tossing him over the balcony. Besides, based on the heated shivers she'd already experienced, touching him was not a good idea.

She eyed the chintz-covered wing chair near the desk, but decided it was ridiculous to attempt to sleep on it. All that would result in would be a stiff neck, and why should she? This was her room! Maybe it had been booked at his request, but she'd gotten here first. Squatter's rights, and all that. And Matt, drat him, was already asleep. If he could live with these arrangements for the next few hours, so could she.

Switching off the light, she gingerly slid between the covers. Moving as little as possible, she situated herself on her side as close to the edge of the mattress as possible without falling off, facing away from Matt. Once she was comfortable, she blew out a long breath of relief.

There. This wasn't so bad. So what if his beautiful, barely covered body rested less than three feet away? So what if she could hear him breathing? What difference did it make that she could feel the heat emanating off him against her back? Why, she barely noticed.

Yeah right, her inner voice snickered. That's why your heart is pounding, your nipples are hard, and your body feels like it's roasting over a slow flame.

Humph. Why the heck couldn't she be like Matt? He wasn't having any trouble sleeping, a fact which irked her to no end, driving sleep even further away.

She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for sleep, strongly suspecting that that was one prayer destined to go unanswered.

Matt lay in the dark, wide-awake, forcing slow, even breaths into his lungs, but the effort cost him as he was decidedly short-winded, as if he'd run a mile uphill. Instead of falling into the dead sleep that had beckoned less than an hour ago, he felt like someone had hooked him up to a nuclear power plant and flipped the switch. Where the hell had his gritty-eyed, muscle-weakening exhaustion disappeared to?

Stupid question. He knew where it had gone-straight out the window the instant he'd clapped his bugged-out eyeballs on a nearly naked Jilly Taylor. An hour ago he'd thought he was too tired for sex. Ha! Now he couldn't erase the thought from his overactive mind, not to mention his very alert body.

How was a guy supposed to sleep when all that warm, smooth, fragrant, silky, bare female flesh was within reach? Flesh that he'd touched. Molded beneath his hand. Feminine softness that had pressed against him. Damn it, he wanted to touch her again. This time while fully awake.

Why the hell didn't her sleepwear match the sort of clothes she wore to work? Instead of black satin, she should have been wrapped up, chin to toes, in flannel.

Of course, all those carbs and sugar in the candy he'd consumed for dinner wasn't helping the situation. He brightened immediately. Yeah, that's why he couldn't sleep-carbs and sugar. And this slight arousal problem? Just an involuntary body response.

Slight arousal problem? his inner voice scoffed. Right. And Jilly Taylor almost naked is just slightly gorgeous. And the knowledge that she's less than an arm's length away is only slightly disturbing.

He heard her sigh and his every muscle tensed. This was not good.

And this was going to be one hell of a long night.