Page 23 of Flirting With Disaster

“God, kill me now.” Beck tore her itinerary into pieces. “Four minutes of sex? That’s all you’re expecting?”

She was confused by his fervor. “I’ve researched this, Beckette. A man’s orgasm is controlled by the sympathetic portion of the autonomic nervous system, the increased heart rate, and vasodilation for erection. When the lateral orbitofrontal cortex—our thoughtful, reasoning center—shuts down as it does during intercourse, there is no hope for the weary. A man loses all control. Men want to feel good and they want it as soon as possible. By my calculations, they’ve got, at most, four minutes until ejaculation.”

Beckette ran his hand through his hair. “You are some piece of work, Jude Duffy. This is not how it works. You can’t plan sex. And you are not having sex with Mr. Fantome.”

Jude’s stomach turned. Beckette didn’t know the complete debauchery of her plan. How could she consider something so unscrupulous as stealing a man’s sperm? Even a man as obtuse as Mr. Fantome.

Because I’m desperate.

“It’s certainly none of your business. If you don’t want to help, I’ll have to…wing it.” She’d rather wing it with him, but that would be a disaster.

She focused on the large commercial mixer across the room and envisioned a red-headed little girl sitting next to her, making homemade cookies on a snowy Saturday afternoon. Her hunger for a child much outweighed her guilt, but she needed detached, no-emotions-involved sex with someone with no principles. Beck might be emotionally unavailable, able to rip her heart out, but the man had morals and honor. And she’d never be able to forget him.

Mr. Fantome was the perfect choice. He’d impregnate her then walk away to be forever forgotten, her heart intact. She couldn’t let The Count get in her way.

“I’m sure you are quite adequate in carnal affairs, Mr. Beckette. Hopefully, it will be as enjoyable for me with Mr. Fantome. He doesn’t seem like the type to…linger…so he will be the perfect one-night stand.”

“Is that why you’re wandering the halls at two in the morning? Because everything will work out perfect and tidy in your plan? Like your hair and your clothes and your little itinerary?”

Shame heated her cheeks. This man saw too much in her. “No, I just couldn’t sleep. I had a bad dream.”

Beck shot her an incredulous glare then moved around the island and bumped her out of the way. He opened the freezer and walked in, returning seconds later with his arm wrapped around a large tub. “Cherries Garcia?”

Jude smiled. An unfamiliar warmth spread through her at his intuition and care. “Yes, one of my favorites.”

“I know. You mentioned it a while back and I had the cook order some.”

The walls around her heart began to crack and crumble, brick by brick.

He opened a drawer and pulled out two spoons, then pushed the drawer closed with his hip. Beck set down the ice cream then lifted her onto the island. A rush of excitement ran through her as he hopped up next to her as if it took little to no effort.

His focus moved to the left of her mouth, and he smiled. “I love the dimple you get when you do that. When you’re thinking about something.”

His compliment pulled her from her scientific contemplation. “You know when I’m thinking?”

He nodded and stuck another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. “And when you’re nervous or frustrated or excited about something you’ve just figured out. Your emotions are written all over your face.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I like it. You’re honest.”

Honest. And here she was, planning to secretly impregnate herself. “How come I don’t know anything about you? You’re like the spooky mystery of the castle. No one sees you or knows anything about you.”

His mouth curved on one end in a wry smile. “There isn’t much one would enjoy knowing. I’m not the man you think I am.”

“I’m an expert in the human species, Beckette. I’m quite sure I know a little something about the man you are inside, if my research and observation skills are as good as my PhD say they are. Try me.”

He glowered as if to scare her away then jumped off the counter and stood between her knees. “I’m twelve months sober and just as long celibate. Before that, I was a drunk on and off for the last seventeen years, pissing everyone off and leaving a trail of destruction behind me. I grew up in a strict Christian household with a ruthless, exacting preacher for a father and a complaisant mother, neither of whom have approved of me for the last twenty years or spoken to me in five, because I broke their hearts with my addiction. I’m here rediscovering myself as part of my recovery. I’m keeping the world safe from the curse that is Beckette Sl—me.”

Jude fell even further toward his inevitable love trap, if that were possible in three days. “Is it working?”

He glanced at her and paused. A small smile caught the corner of his mouth. “At times.” He toyed with the sleeve of her robe. “I’m a bad bet, Jude Duffy. I’m an addict. An adrenaline junkie who thrives on chaos then self-destructs, taking down everyone around me while I drink to relieve the stress. I need to avoid messy attachments and keep to a steady, straight road so my stress level can be non-existent.”

“There is no such thing as a stress-free world, Beck. You need to find inner peace against the outside stressors. Hence the word inner.”

“Easier said than done.”

“You didn’t mention your wife.” She studied the remoteness in his amber eyes. She should run like hell, but her inquisitive mind wanted to know the whole story about her beast.

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