He clasped her hand. Her handshake was firm and professional, and the brief contact certainly shouldn't have whooshed heat up his arm. He had to fight back the urge to yank her into his embrace and start off the morning by breaking the rule of keeping clothes on at all times. Her skin felt so warm and soft against his fingers, and she was only wearing that skimpy towel…
He gave himself a firm mental shake. He needed to remember who and what she was-an ambitious coworker. A rival who wanted nothing more than to pull the ARC account out from underneath him. Of course, that would be much easier to recall once she put on some damn clothes. As soon as she was once again dressed in one of her conservative, don't-mess-with-me suits, and had her hair all pulled back in that severe bun, all would realign in his universe. Then he'd be able to shake her hand and not feel a thing.
His gaze slid over her, and he stifled a groan. Man, even when she was again fully clothed, it was going to be really, really difficult to erase from his mind the sensual image of Jilly Taylor fresh from the shower. But he could do it. He'd accomplished tougher quests, completed more difficult missions. He was up to the task.
She stepped back and gave him a slightly shaky smile. "I'll just get my makeup bag, then the bathroom's all yours."
"Uh, thanks."
She emerged from the bathroom seconds later, a tan leather pouch clutched to her midsection. He watched her walk past him, his gaze attached to her backside as if velcroed there, his imagination conjuring up the very fine sight he knew lurked beneath that towel. His erection stirred against his sweats and, with a frown, he stomped into the bathroom and closed the door with a decisive click.
He tossed his sweatshirt onto the white marble counter and looked down at his tented sweatpants and grimaced. Damn. Had he just thought he was up to the task?
Well, it certainly appeared that he was. Damn, damn, double damn.
Jilly listened to the bathroom door close behind Matt, then squeezed her eyes shut and blew out a long, fervent sigh of relief.
When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell on the rumpled bed where they'd slept. Together. A humorless sound escaped her. Slept? Ha! Good thing she'd caught some z's before he'd arrived because she hadn't slept a wink the rest of the night. All she could think about was the warm, sexy, almost-naked male body less than three feet away. She'd recalled what that body felt like pressed against her. Wondered what it would look like completely naked… and feel like wrapped around her. Her very unruly hormones were letting her know in no uncertain terms that nine months, three weeks and now nineteen days were their absolute limit.
When the digital clock had finally glowed 6:00 a.m., she'd risen and indulged in a long, steamy shower in an effort to wash the image of Matt Davidson from her mind. Instead, all she'd accomplished was stirring up a maelstrom of fantasies in which she, Matt, the pulsating shower, and a bar of soap figured prominently. Disgusted with herself and this uncharacteristic, unwanted and unacceptable lust, she'd finally managed to set her sensual thoughts on the back burner long enough to formulate a set of ground rules to present to Matt-rules she'd arrived at purely for the purpose of self-preservation. While she had no intention of roaming around undressed in front of him, she wasn't certain how uninhibited he might be regarding nudity, and she absolutely, positively, did not want to see him naked.
Yeah, right, her detestably honest inner voice chimed in. You want to see him naked more than you want to be able to eat unlimited Rocky Road ice cream and not have it permanently adhere to your ass.
Yikes. Since that Rocky Road fantasy was one of her fondest dreams, this was not good. Okay, so she wanted to see him naked. Big deal. Who wouldn't? She was female and possessed a healthy, if somewhat recently starved, libido. But damn, why did it have to be him who had her insides melting to goo? This was like sleeping with the enemy. She glanced again at the rumpled bed, eyeing his still scrunched-up pillow that rested perilously close to hers. This was sleeping with the enemy.
Well, she just needed to remember that that's what he was. The enemy. The only thing standing between her and bringing home the ARC account. She could well imagine that he intended to try to turn this weekend into a "boys' club" scotch-swilling, cigar-smoking bonding session with Jack Witherspoon. Probably planned to hang out in the men's locker room, and take a steam-or whatever the hell men did in locker rooms. She couldn't compete with that. And she wouldn't let him get away with it, either.
Drawing a resolute breath, she marched over to the closet and mulled over her wardrobe possibilities, finally deciding on her red suit. The color was bright and empowering, and its slim skirt that hit just above her knees provided the perfect combination of professionalism and femininity. As soon as she was dressed, she'd feel more in control. All this bare skin was too distracting. What she needed was a robe-a heavy-duty one-and she made a mental note to visit the gift shop to see if they sold any. In the meanwhile, it was time to forget about Matt and focus her attention on Jack Witherspoon and the ARC account. Fortunately, with her strong work ethic, she knew she'd be able to focus on winning the account. Unfortunately, with everything female in her raising a ruckus, she wasn't so sure she'd be able to forget about Matt Davidson.
Matt turned the brass knobs to shut off the shower, then reached for one of the thick, white towels. Securing the terry cloth around his waist, he blew out a long breath. The pulsating hot water had refreshed him, cleaned the cobwebs from his brain, and-thankfully-washed his ardor down the drain.
The muffled hum of a hair dryer filtered through the door, indicating Jilly hadn't left yet. No problem. He'd just shave and brush his teeth, and surely by that time she'd be on her way out. Then he'd order up some coffee from room service and go over his presentation for Jack.
Whistling softly under his breath, he wiped off a section of the steamy mirror then pulled his razor from his shaving kit. He'd just finished applying a thick layer of shaving cream to his face and throat when a knock sounded on the door.
"Matt? I'm sorry to bother you, but are you going to be much longer in there?"
His body tensed at the mere sound of her voice. Damn. "I'm just about to shave. Why?"
"Well, I'm ready to go, but I need to brush my teeth. I can stand the sight of your razor blade if you can stand the sight of my toothbrush. How about sharing the sink?"
He hesitated, then glared at himself in the mirror. Get a hold of yourself, man. It's not as if you've never shared bathroom space with a woman before. Be cool, be casual, and let her be the one thrown off balance.
Drawing a resolute breath, he opened the door. "Sure, come on… in."
His words faltered as he took in her appearance. His gaze traveled over her, his brain noting that her fire-engine red suit was tasteful, flattering, and conservative. All his nerve endings, however, noted that it hugged her curves and showcased her legs in a way that made him feel as if someone had set a match to his towel.
His wayward gaze jumped upward. Their eyes met, and his jaw clenched at the unmistakable awareness simmering in her golden-brown depths. Then he noted the dark, silky curtain brushing her shoulders. "Your hair is down," he said in a voice ripe with suspicion.
She raised her brows and looked at him as if he'd just escaped from a mental ward. "What are you-the hair police? Listen, unbound hair may possibly be illegal in certain parts of the world, but here's a news flash-New York isn't one of them."