Heart’s Desire: The Bold and the Beautiful

by Amy Andrews

  Rick made sure he was looking her square in the eye when he said, “You did.”

  He was pleased to see her at a temporary loss for words. “Me?” she said eventually and it came out high and squeaky and he loved that too.

  “Yes. I was watching you today in that suit you were wearing and you looked hip and cool and sexy. Really, really chic. And I realized we didn’t do anything like that and I couldn’t come up with a reason why we didn’t and I got this sudden mad urge to ask Caroline to try out some designs.”

  “Oh.”

  Rick smiled as heat rose to her cheeks. He really had stumped her and strangely, he liked having her not so sure of herself. He didn’t know what that said about him, but she looked exceptionally beautiful right now, as she slowly realized the kind of power she held in her hand.

  “You could say you’re my muse,” he murmured.

  She laughed then. A very nervous laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s muse before.”

  “Well, get used to it. Who knows, I might have a whole collection by the time I head back to LA.”

  Chapter Nine

  Four days later Rick had amassed an impressive amount of designs from Caroline and he took pride in showing Taylor each one over dinner every evening.

  A week ago, if someone had told her Rick would be living with her and commissioning suits while an armed guard was stationed around the clock outside her door, she’d have written them a prescription for something. But it had come to pass.

  Taylor wouldn’t have thought this rapid change in her living situation was conducive to any kind of normality but it was surprising how quickly she’d adjusted to her new normal.

  Unfortunately the police investigation was coming up empty-handed. Another note had been handed into the lobby of her building the day following the studio note. It had been rather naively delivered by a college student who’d been given fifty bucks to do so by a guy two blocks away, wearing a baseball cap, dark sunglasses, a huge overcoat and what the police were sure were a fake beard and moustache.

  The prints on the second note matched the ones from the first.

  Taylor was kept well informed and she knew Mack and the crew wouldn’t let anything happen to her, but as each day slipped by she felt more and more like a prisoner in her own home. More and more like they’d never find him and she’d have to live her whole life like this—indoors, jumping at her own shadow.

  The police assured her they would get him. That he seemed like an amateur and amateurs always screwed up. That they were following a lot of very good leads and that she needed to have patience, lie low and let them do their job.

  That was exactly what she did. And whenever she felt like it was never going to end, Rick would be there telling her it was all going to be okay. Rick had been her rock and their days had fallen into a surprisingly easy rhythm, given the circumstances: she worked on her book in her office and Rick worked on running Forrester Creations.

  So much for his vacation.

  In the afternoon he’d go out for a few hours and return with bags full of aromatic food.

  There was just something about Rick in his jogging clothes that erased everything else from her head. In fact, she had almost protested that it fell under the walking-around-half-clothed rule. She really didn’t want Rick knowing that she was having problems resisting him in shorts that revealed too much perfectly muscled leg and T-shirts that clung to his broad chest and flat abs.

  Because she had no doubt he’d be ruthless with that information.

  The undercurrent between them was strong, fed by their proximity and stoked by the illicit pull of their one incendiary kiss. He wanted her. Taylor could see it in the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t aware of his scrutiny.

  And, God help her, she wanted him too.

  Sure, he’d stuck to the rules—jogging outfit aside. And so had she. But Taylor sensed that it wouldn’t take much to tip her into his arms. That the clock was counting down on them and the longer the police took to apprehend her stalker, the closer she and Rick came to their explosive conclusion.

  She felt it acutely every night as they ate together or as they sat on the couch and laughed together watching the DVDs he’d rented. It was always there between them. A palpable force. Building inexorably. Their passionate history and suppressed desires clashed ominously. Every innocent look, every ordinary word, every incidental touch held a wild sexual potential.

  It was like living inside a ticking bomb.

  And Taylor had no desire to be collateral damage when Rick upped and left for LA.

  *

  On the fifth morning, Taylor woke early. She wasn’t, as a rule, an early riser, but she’d just had a particularly erotic dream about Rick and there was no way in hell she’d ever be able to get back to sleep.

  Her dreams had been growing more and more fevered as the days had progressed but this one had culminated in Rick swiping all the dishes off the kitchen counter, lifting her onto it, pushing her silky dressing gown off her shoulders to expose her nakedness beneath and laying her back as he made passionate love to her.

  She squirmed against the mattress as her body relived every detail and she prayed the police found their man soon or she was going to be the one swiping dishes off the counter and committing indecent acts upon Rick’s body.

  Taylor groaned as the satin of her slinky nightdress rubbed across the tips of her already sensitive breasts and clamped her thighs together as the ache between them grew to a growl. She was going slowly mad.

  She needed a cold shower!

  Leaping out of bed, she headed for the ensuite, flicking the taps on and quickly stripping off her clothes. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and gasped. She even looked like she’d been dreaming naughty dreams. Leaning over the vanity, she inspected her face—dewy gaze, moist, pouty mouth, ruffled hair.

  “Pull yourself together,” she chastized herself.

  Done with scolding her reflection, she turned to the shower, her hand accidentally connecting with one of the many bottles that lined one side of the vanity. She lunged but it was too late and she watched in horror as her bottle of foundation toppled then fell on its side. The lid popped off and a thick, creamy sludge splattered the top of the vanity.

  Taylor swore under her breath at the mess. She mustn’t have screwed it on properly yesterday and now it was everywhere. And she knew from experience if she didn’t clean it up pronto, it would stain.

  She quickly grabbed her satin nightgown from the back of the door and threw it on as she reached into the shower recess and flicked off the taps. The cold shower was just going to have to wait. The cleaning agent she’d used last time she’d had a spill was under the kitchen counter. She secured the belt of her robe tightly and headed for the kitchen.

  When she came to her bedroom door she stuck her head out first, checking for any signs of Rick. He was usually up earlier than her and the last thing she wanted to do was run into him dressed like this. The living areas were clear, as was the kitchen, but she could smell coffee so she figured Rick was up. Taylor scurried through the apartment, a woman on a mission, not wanting to be caught out.

  When she reached the kitchen she squatted down and opened the cupboard beneath the counter. She had to push Rick’s stool aside a little to access it and then she castigated herself for thinking of it as his. Just because he’d sat there a handful of nights eating takeout didn’t mean it was his. It was her stool—she owned the damn thing!

  And she’d do well to remember that nothing in her apartment was Rick’s. It wasn’t Rick’s chair at the dining room table just because he sat at it every day to work. It wasn’t Rick’s spot on the couch just because that’s where he sat when they ate popcorn and watched television. And it wasn’t Rick’s bedroom just because that’s where he was sleeping.

  It was her chair. Her couch. Her spare bedroom.

  And she needed to get used to that for when he was gone.

  Dragging h
erself back to the task at hand, she located the crate of cleaning products quickly and searched for the one that had done the job before, which was a much harder task given how much stuff was crammed into the crate. Since when had she developed such a fetish for cleaning agents?

  Growing more nervous as the time ticked by, Taylor almost gave a triumphant little squeal when she finally found the bottle, her hands grasping the neck in relief.

  She heard the absent-minded whistling first.

  Taylor froze. Everything seized inside her and she shut her eyes in a futile attempt at becoming invisible. She could see Rick in her peripheral vision, or his bare feet anyway, entering the kitchen and heading straight for the counter. She could hear the scrape of the coffee pot as it was pulled from its base and the gurgling noise as coffee filled a mug.

  She contemplated sneaking away but she knew she wouldn’t be able to do it and stay undetected. The second she moved, the cover of the bar stool would be gone and she’d be fully exposed—slinking away in some bizarre form of waddling squat.

  Maybe if she just stayed very still, he’d pick up his coffee and take it straight to his room. On automatic pilot. Not look back. Not look down.

  She heard the fridge open and shut, then some rummaging noises, like packaging being opened and then the click of the toaster as something was set to cook. She glanced at his feet. His heels greeted her and she relaxed a little. He was still facing away from her. Maybe she could sneak out?

  And then his feet turned.

  “You okay down there?”

  Sprung. Taylor shut her eyes, cringing, trying to work out a way she could get out of this with style and grace—her default mode. But none were forthcoming. There was only one way out of this—the embarrassing way.

  She pushed herself to her feet and turned to face him. A mistake if ever there was one, as her gaze snagged on his very naked chest. She barely suppressed a gasp at the sight. She was fairly certain her mouth dropped open.

  Her eyes devoured the expanse of flesh and muscle before her—she couldn’t stop them. Broad shoulders lead down to contoured pecs. A ladder of taut abs descended to the flat of his belly, bracketed by sharply defined obliques and a pair of low-slung blue jeans with the top button popped.

  A fascinating trail of light brown hair starting at his navel disappeared behind that button and into the wide band of underwear she could just see. Taylor swallowed as she remembered that what was beyond that band was equally impressive.

  She felt light-headed by the time she’d dragged her gaze back up and knew she’d spent way too much time staring. Not that he seemed rattled by it, lounging as he was against her bench as if he owned it, legs casually crossed at the ankles.

  “Sorry,” she said lamely, aware suddenly of the growing silence. “I was just looking for this.” She held it out like it was an exhibit in a court of law. “I didn’t know you were up.” Which was a big fat lie and she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to justify her actions in her own house, but she just wanted this thing to be over.

  “Coffee?” he asked, turning back to the bench, reaching for a mug and pouring.

  Taylor blinked as her gaze reveled in the planes and angles of his back. He expected them to stand around with only four pieces of clothing and a very bad idea between them and drink coffee?

  He approached with her mug and Taylor backed up, her hip nudging the solid barrier of the counter. “I … have to get back to the bathroom and … clean up,” she said, holding the bottle up between them as if it were a shield she could use to protect herself against him and the heat and panic that was being generated inside her body the closer he came.

  He smiled at her and she felt her resistance give just a little, begin to heat and melt slightly as though she was made of wax and her wick had just been lit.

  “Come on, Taylor,” he said, his voice low and easy, laced with wicked familiarity. “I know what you’re like before you have your coffee in the morning.”

  His hip bumped the counter beside hers and he pushed the mug toward her. The aroma of roasted beans flared her nostrils and Taylor felt her caffeine receptors roar to life. But she wasn’t sure taking anything from him in this situation was advisable.

  She didn’t think he was offering her just coffee.

  Taylor swallowed. Overwhelmed by the twin evils of caffeine and pheromones, she felt cornered. She’d learned over the years that the best form of defence was attack.

  “I thought we’d agreed to not walking around half dressed,” she said.

  He smiled at her again, placing her mug down on the counter. Taylor tried really hard not to think about this counter being the one from her dream. Or the fact that she was wearing the gown from it too.

  Oh, and nothing else.

  “So we did,” Rick said smoothly. “But you’re not usually up for another two hours so I thought I’d be able to have my morning coffee dressed more … casually.”

  “I guess you were wrong,” she said waspishly.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly what I would call fully clothed either,” he said.

  And then she was subjected to his thorough inspection, his gaze raking down her body, lingering on the way the gown clung to her thighs and outlined her breasts. Her nipples puckered under his blatant scrutiny, tingling, a corresponding ache taking up residence between her legs.

  Taylor actually had to bite down on her lip to stop the moan that rose to them.

  He was so close she could reach out and touch him. Place her hand on his chest, snag her finger into the waistband of his jeans and yank him closer.

  His gaze returned to hers, unrelenting and unashamed. It wandered over her mouth and held there for long moments, as if he knew there was a moan barely being held in check. As if he’d read her thoughts. She could hear his breathing roughen and the rise and fall of his chest had grown more uneven. The wick burned brighter and she could feel her body slowly melting, lust dripping in rivulets down her body.

  God help her, but she wanted Rick to tear the gown off her. To pick her up like he had in her dream, knock the coffee mug onto the floor, let it soak into the thick white carpet on the other side, place her on the bench and kiss her until she couldn’t think any more. Put his mouth on her nipples and suck them until they no longer ached. Take them both to the place they wanted to go.

  They stared at each other, their husky breathing totally in sync, weighing each other up, waiting to see who blinked first.

  “Are you sure platonic is the way you want to play it?” he asked, an edge of tortured restraint deepening his voice.

  Taylor was conscious of something burning but it was superfluous to the impact of the question Rick had just posed. Was she sure?

  Hell, no.

  Suddenly that set of rules was the dumbest thing she’d ever concocted in her life.

  Rick wanted her.

  And she wanted him.

  Did anything else really matter? Wasn’t life too short for artificial restraints? Who was really going to be hurt by it anyway? Who even had to know?

  “Taylor?”

  The sound of his voice overrode everything, including the smell of smoke. It sliced straight through her belly and her melted-wax legs. She reached out her hand, touched her fingertips to his abdomen, felt the quick contraction of his muscles and the corresponding groan.

  “Taylor.” He thrust a hand into her hair, his heated gaze searing into hers.

  And she was lost. Lost in his eyes and the intensity of longing she saw there as his head lowered.

  Suddenly a high-pitched squeal yanked them out of their bubble.

  Taylor looked around, dumbstruck. “What’s happening?” she yelled above the noise, her body—and, clearly, her brain—still stuck back in the almost kiss as she watched black smoke pouring out of the toaster.

  “The pop tarts!” Rick yelled, dashing to the toaster and ripping the plug out of the wall.

  Taylor blinked uncomprehendingly for a couple of moments as Ri
ck smothered the toaster with a dish towel, trying to coordinate her brain and body, the smoke detector alarm ear-piercing and the bottle of cleaning fluid still in her hand.

  There was a crash and her front door flung open. Tonka, her morning guy, dressed in his black suit and brandishing his weapon, flew into the room, grabbed her and put himself between her and, given his bulk, just about everything else.

  “Are you okay?” he shouted at her over the noise of the alarm.

  Taylor nodded. “It’s just the smoke detector,” she yelled, pointing to the ceiling. “Burnt pop tarts.”

  Tonka nodded and returned his weapon to its holster. “Okay,” he said then strode to the kitchen, located another dish towel and flapped it about in front of the sensor until the detector fell blissfully silent.

  She looked at Rick across the kitchen and she didn’t have to ask him to know what he was thinking.

  Saved by the bell—again.

  Chapter Ten

  Taylor was going stir crazy by that afternoon. She’d been shut in her apartment for days. She hadn’t breathed fresh air or felt the sun on her face in almost a week—unheard of for someone as active as she was, and who enjoyed her daily forays into the vibrant streets of New York City.

  She’d resigned herself to her detention, knowing it was necessary and hopefully not for long. And she’d comforted herself with the fact that at least she’d be able to concentrate on her book. Really get some words down. But she’d produced precious few so far. And today? She hadn’t written a single word.

  Oh, and to cap it all off, she’d almost had sex with Rick in her kitchen.

  She stood at her office windows and looked out over the park, her fingers drumming on her arm as she relived again those lustful moments just prior to the alarm sounding.

  They’d been insane, unwise, wrong. Stupid. That’s what they’d been.

  But man, she’d wanted Rick so badly in those moments it was all she could think about now. How close they’d come. Hell, they hadn’t even kissed but there hadn’t been one cell in her body that didn’t know they were about to.