another step away from her, he grinned at their audience. “It’s damn hot in the sun today.”
Reaching down, he crossed his arms and tugged his henley upward, the friction of fabric on fabric pulling the tee underneath higher at the same time and exposing bare flesh.
It was a cool spring day. No way he couldn’t feel the chill against his skin.
He knew what he was doing. Oh, he knew.
His abdomen appeared first, flat and firm and bisected by a line of silky-looking golden-brown hair, lovingly bracketed by those lickable diagonal furrows. His jeans rested lower on his hips than she’d imagined, low enough that she had to swallow hard.
Then, as he kept dragging his henley higher—slowly, so slowly—his chest came into view, muscled and lightly furred, and . . .
Nipples. Jesus, nipples. They all got a flash of those too, hard in the chill, before the henley was over his head and gravity dragged his tee back down a few inches.
The paparazzi were capturing everything, their cameras clicking away.
One of them finally managed to recall the reason for their presence, however. “Are you here on a date, Marcus? What’s your lady friend’s name?”
“Well, we all know I have no interest in museums.” At his wink, one of the paparazzi actually blushed behind her camera. “But anything to impress a pretty woman, right? I suffered for the sake of beauty, as I so often do.”
Yes, it was definitely an impressive show.
At least, April assumed he was putting on a show. Hoped.
Because otherwise, he’d only been acting today. Pretending to enjoy the museum, enjoy her company, in hopes of riding their obvious—if surprising—sexual compatibility into the orgasmic sunset.
Would she even know? Hadn’t she been thinking only days ago that he should have won an award for his dramatic abilities? How could she assume the man she’d seen today, the man she’d briefly glimpsed at the end of dinner, was the real Marcus, and not merely another role?
He gifted their onlookers with one last gleaming smile before taking her hand again and tugging her toward a taxi just arriving at the museum’s entrance. The paparazzi trailed after them, shouting more questions, taking more pictures, but he merely waved and grinned.
They were sliding into the back seat of that taxi before the elderly woman inside even managed to finish paying the driver.
To give the woman enough room, Marcus drew April down onto his lap, and she wished she could relax into the contact, melt against the heat emanating from his honed, strong body, but she couldn’t. Not right now. Instead, she remained stiff against him, her back ruler-straight.
Was he thinking how heavy she was, compared to other women he’d dated?
Or—and this was somehow, illogically worse—was he thinking, Finally, we can stop talking about fucking rocks and just get down to actual fucking?
Marcus smiled apologetically at the wide-eyed taxi patron perched on the other side of the back seat. “Sorry to intrude. We’d be happy to pay the tip for your ride, if you’ll allow it.”
At that, a smile crinkled her papery cheeks, and she rapped his knee lightly with her cane. “I already put the tip on my card. Besides, I saw your performance as we drove up. That was more than sufficient compensation, young man.”
He laughed, his mirth rattling through April on his lap, and he accepted the free hand the woman held out. They chatted for another minute, hands clasped the entire time, before she began to exit the taxi.
Awkwardly, attempting not to elbow him, April nudged Marcus toward the center of the back seat and maneuvered out of his lap. Sliding across, he supported the elderly woman’s elbow as she slowly climbed out.
“That Lavinia girl seems nice.” One more rap of her cane against his shin. “Don’t screw things up.” Her eyes flicked to April. “That goes for this one too.”
Then she was safely on the sidewalk, and Marcus shut the door behind her, blocking out the clamor of questions and the blinding strobe of camera flashes in an instant.
His gaze immediately returned to April, now huddled against the far door. A line appeared between his brows as his smile faded to nothing.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“I’m sorry, but we need a moment to figure that out. Feel free to start the meter.” Marcus didn’t look away from April. “Um . . . this taxi ride was my idea, not yours. Please let me pay for it. I’ll take you back to your hotel, or wherever you want to go. We