by Anne Stuart
“I don’t know if you’re afraid of all big strong men, sugar. You’re certainly scared shitless around me.”
She didn’t even hesitate. She rose with one fluid movement, crossed to the sofa and calmly straddled him, putting her arms around his neck and looking down into his eyes. “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” she mocked him. He shifted, and she could feel his erection. It startled her so much she started to pull away, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.
“Don’t leave now that it’s getting interesting,” he said. “You started it this time. Let’s see how brave you really are.”
Part of her wanted to pull away, run away. She had no idea whether he’d let her go if she struggled, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
The other part, centered between her legs, wanted to call his bluff. He was so mockingly sure of her.
But she hadn’t survived her family by being a coward. Or by hiding from what she wanted, even if she knew perfectly well it was bad for her.
And she wanted the man beneath her. At least a taste of him. “You’d be surprised how brave I can be,” she said. And she leaned down and put her own mouth against his chest, her hair falling around them like a curtain of night.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, his hands reaching up through her hair to cup her face. She ran her mouth down the thin line of hair on his chest. She wanted to kiss his stomach, but she couldn’t reach without moving from her perch astride him, and she liked the feel of him, hard and full between her legs. She rocked slightly against that ridge of flesh, and the sensation was exquisite, overwhelming, unnerving. She froze, but his hands caught her hips. “Don’t stop, sugar,” he murmured. “If it feels half as good to you as it feels to me then you can’t stop.”
It was the most erotic experience she’d ever had in her life. The layers of cloth between them only increased the friction, and when he reached up to touch her breasts he did so through the thin cotton, not touching her hot flesh. The barrier of cloth was incredibly frustrating, incredibly arousing.
“You like that, don’t you, Jilly?” he whispered as her hair flowed around them. “Nice and safe, all that clothing between us. Nothing touching, no skin, just safe. Distant. Strangers.” She was moving slowly, back and forth, sliding against the ridge of flesh, and she was hot, cold, panting, moving.
He was talking to her. Hot sex words, telling her what he wanted to do to her, how he wanted to touch her, taste her, take her, as his hands caught her hips, controlling the rhythm, arching against her, and she heard the words in a blind flurry of shame and desire. This was wrong, this was bad, this was indecent, and there was no way she was stopping, no way she could stop. But she needed more, she needed his flesh, she needed him inside her as she’d never needed anyone before, and she was sweating, trembling all over.
“No,” she said in a choked voice. “I can’t…”
“Sure you can. Just try it,” he mocked her, arching up against her sensitive body, and she wanted to punch him, to bite him, for tormenting, teasing her like this when she couldn’t…
He was right, she could. One moment she was fighting it, the next she was convulsing, her entire body exploding in a fast, fierce orgasm.
And he was with her. She heard his harsh groan, felt the heat and wetness that flowed between them, and she slid down slowly, sensuously, pressing her face to his chest, her breasts against his stomach, letting the wetness soak into her T-shirt.
It took her long, shocking moments to realize what she’d done. What he’d done. With a start she scrambled away from him, landing on the floor in a sprawling, ungainly heap.
He rose on his elbows, looking down at his body with a slow, wry grin. “Well, that hasn’t happened in a hell of a long time. You’re a dangerous woman, Jilly Meyer.”
She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at herself, as waves of mortification swept over her. It was growing light outside—she didn’t even have the mercy of the night to cover her embarrassment.
So she did what any brave, self-respecting woman would do. She ran away. Hearing the sound of his laughter echoing in the distance.
13
“I need a cigarette,” Brenda said breathily, leaning back against the sofa.
Ted passed her one of his, a grin on his face. “You always had a voyeuristic streak, honeybunch.”
“You have to admit that was a lot more inspiring than some of the stuff we’ve seen over the years. Those disgusting creatures who filled this place in the sixties used to pile on each other like dogs,” she said with a sniff.
“Rachel-Ann hasn’t proved to have much taste where men are concerned. And I’m not sure if I approve of this Coltrane character. Jilly deserves better.”
Brenda smiled serenely. “You’re just jealous. There’s no reason to be. He’s very good-looking but he’s not my type.”
Ted looked at her with mock affront. “You mean you prefer your men ugly like me?”
“Don’t be silly, darling. You know I’ll worship you till the day I…” She let the sentence trail off. She couldn’t worship him until the day she died—that day had long passed. “I think Coltrane will be perfect for Jilly. That was definitely the best orgasm I’ve ever watched her have.”
“Voyeur,” Ted said again lazily.
“You, too, darling. We have our own real-life television show here, and it’s a lot more interesting than some of the things the girls watch. Why would someone be obsessed with weather?”
“At least it makes more sense than street addresses. Melrose isn’t even in a decent neighborhood. Stop trying to distract me, honeybunch. I don’t trust Coltrane.”
“Well, of course not,” Brenda murmured. “I never said he was trustworthy. Some of the most interesting men are far from trustworthy. But I think he’s got potential. Just a little redemption and he’ll suit Jilly very well.”
“Not Rachel-Ann?”
Brenda shook her head. “Not Rachel-Ann.”
“Should we do anything about Jilly?”
“She’s upstairs sitting in the shower, crying. She does that sometimes, when she thinks no one can hear her.”
“Maybe I ought to go see….” Ted suggested, and Brenda hit him.
“You keep your filthy mind off her, darling. I know you’re infatuated with her, but I’ve already claimed you.”
He smiled at her. “So you have. Just teasing, my precious. I don’t want to see anyone curled up in the shower.”
“Besides, she’s still in her nightclothes.”
“They’d cling quite nicely. I always liked a statuesque woman.”
Brenda, a full five feet tall, hit him in the shoulder. “Behave yourself. Jilly will be fine in the shower. In a few minutes she’ll turn off the water and throw herself into bed, where she’ll probably sleep for hours.”
“And Coltrane?” He jerked his head toward the man who was still sitting on the sofa, watching the sun rise past the windows, a distant expression on his face.
“Oh, he’ll be fine, as well. He’s just got something to think about. Things aren’t going according to his plan. I love it when that happens.”
“Tell me, honeybunch, are you privy to his plans?” Ted asked dryly.
“I can’t read minds, darling. I only know that when he came into this house he had a clear agenda, and that’s been shot to hell. It makes things even more interesting.”
“A little too interesting, if you ask me,” Ted said. “I think I liked it best when the place was deserted. Then I had you to myself.”
Brenda smiled at him. “You still have me all to yourself, darling. You always will.” And she leaned down to kiss him, nibbling lightly on his mustache.
The light was filtering in through the miniblinds, sending stripes of sunshine across the mattress. Rachel-Ann didn’t want to wake up. It seemed as if she’d never been so comfortable in her entire life. She felt cushioned, cradled by the mattress. The temperature was perfect, neither too hot nor too cold; the scent of coffee on th
e air gave an added aura of comfort.
She opened her eyes, unmoving, focusing on the details of the apartment. She was alone in the bed, and in the kitchen she could hear someone moving around. Rico.
She closed her eyes, trying to will herself back to sleep. She usually left after she’d had sex, slipping out of the apartment or hotel room without a word the moment her partner had fallen into an exhausted slumber.
But this time she was the one who’d slept like the dead. And, in fact, they hadn’t had sex. They hadn’t even kissed. She’d slept in the safety of his arms, and for some reason she felt more raw and exposed than if she’d danced naked on his coffee table.
She didn’t want to face him. She’d pretend to sleep, wait until he left and then sneak out. She wouldn’t ever have to see him again—she hated those AA meetings, anyway, and if she ever decided to go to another one she could avoid the ones at the Unitarian church, head farther west and find other ones. God knows AA meetings were like rabbits—they multiplied like crazy. You couldn’t walk two feet without tripping over one.
She heard him coming out of the kitchen, and she quickly closed her eyes, feigning sleep. Then she smelled the coffee even more strongly, and she knew she couldn’t fake it any longer.
“Wake up, Rachel-Ann. I’ve got to go to work, and I don’t want to leave until you’re safely in your car. It’s a rough neighborhood without me to look out after you.”
She opened her eyes, reluctantly. He was dressed, he’d even taken a shower and shaved. He smelled like soap and shampoo, he looked clean and rumpled and the best thing she’d ever seen in her life.
She managed a shaky smile. “I’ll be out of here in a minute,” she said, pulling the duvet up around her. There was no particular reason to be modest—she was still wearing her underwear, the same fancy underwear she’d stripped down to last night in front of his watching eyes. The pile of condoms still lay on the bedside table, unused, and she could feel color flood her face.
“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had something to eat. I’ve made you a good breakfast and if you don’t eat it I’ll be offended.”
“I don’t eat in the morning.” It smelled divine, though. The wonderful smells of a huge breakfast and coffee, things she hadn’t smelled since she’d been an adolescent and Consuelo ruled the kitchen at La Casa.
“You will today. The bathroom’s over there. I left towels for you. Take a shower if you want—by the time you finish, breakfast will be ready.”
“I don’t eat—”
“In the morning,” he finished for her. “Did I ever tell you I’m incredibly stubborn?”
She waited until he’d gone back into the kitchen, for some reason oddly loath to prance around in front of him. Her clothes were folded neatly beside the bed. She grabbed them and dashed for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
The shower went a long way toward making her feel half human, and she liked the smell of his soap, his shampoo. She’d smell like him when she came out, she thought absently.
She didn’t bother putting her underwear on again, simply tossing it in the trash before she opened the bathroom door a crack, half hoping she’d be able to sneak out the front door while he was in the kitchen cooking.
No such luck. He was waiting for her, and he had her car keys in his hand. She hadn’t noticed his hands before. In fact she hadn’t looked at him clearly at all—she preferred to keep these things impersonal.
But not having sex with him had suddenly made it very personal, and she looked first at his hands, elegant, long-fingered, quite beautiful. Deft, clever-looking hands. Hands that would know how to touch a woman.
She looked at his face. Bony, interesting, attractive rather than handsome, with astonishingly beautiful brown eyes. She looked at him in the bright daylight and that strange sense of comfort washed back over her.
It was the smell of food, she told herself, reminding her of her safe childhood. The untold benefits of an uninterrupted night’s sleep, though she supposed she ought to be offended that he hadn’t interrupted it.
Except she remembered the feel of him, wrapped around her, and she knew it hadn’t been lack of interest that had kept him from making love to her.
Making love—that wasn’t a term she used often. But somehow, with this man, she sensed that was what it would be. Making love. And it was the last thing she wanted.
She tore her eyes away. “Okay, feed me, Seymour,” she said flippantly. “And then I’ve got to get home.”
He’d made huevos rancheros. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had them, and the sight of eggs and salsa so early in the morning should have made her stomach revolt. Instead she found she was starving.
It was heavenly, rich and spicy and perfect, and the coffee was exactly the way she liked it, strong with cream and tons of sugar and just a hint of cinnamon. She was practically at the point of licking her plate when she realized he was watching her.
“You don’t eat breakfast?” he said gently.
She shrugged nonchalantly, reaching for her coffee. “What can I say, it was delicious. Who taught you to cook like that?”
“My mother.”
She set the coffee down hard on the table in sudden shock, jerking her head up to stare at him. A simple, clicking into place when she hadn’t even begun to guess.
He was wearing a loose white T-shirt. She stood and yanked the back up before he could stop her. Not that he would have. The tattoo was on his shoulder blade, faded slightly with the years. A heart, split by a lightning bolt with her name etched into it. Into his skin.
She let the T-shirt drop, suddenly chilled. He didn’t move, just sat there looking at her.
“Richard,” she said in a hoarse voice.
“Rico,” he corrected her gently. He held out his hand, his beautiful hand that had touched her all too well in the past. “Rachel-Ann…”
But she backed away, stumbling into the doorway that led to the rest of the apartment. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t tell me who you were….”
“I told you my name. I should have realized you wouldn’t know it. I was Richard the Cook’s son, the Mexican son of the chauffeur. I didn’t need a last name.” He didn’t even sound bitter about it, just accepting.
“You were stalking me.”
“No. You walked into a meeting and I knew you immediately. Unlike you, I hadn’t forgotten.”
“For God’s sake, I haven’t seen you in more than fifteen years,” she said. “How the hell was I supposed to recognize you?”
“You weren’t,” he said calmly. “Don’t be so upset about it, chica. There’s no reason you should have known who I was, and I didn’t want to spook you by mentioning it. As you said, it was a long time ago. It’s not important. I’m not the first man you slept with and I wasn’t the last.”
“Nicely put,” she said in a cool voice.
“You know what I mean. You’ve been married twice since then….”
“You’re behind the times. I just divorced my third husband. No, you weren’t the first and you most certainly weren’t the last. I can hardly keep track of my husbands, much less my adolescent fucks….”
“Don’t,” he said softly.
“Don’t what? Say fuck? That’s what we did, isn’t it? Everywhere, every time, every way we could think of. That’s what you do when you’re seventeen. Sorry you’ve lost interest in it recently, but I still enjoy myself every chance I get.”
He was supposed to be hurt, offended by her hostile words. Instead he just smiled at her with great sweetness. “You have such a happy life, Rachel-Ann?”
“Go to hell,” she muttered, pushing her way out of the kitchen. Her sandals were by the sofa with the brightly colored afghan draped over it. Consuelo must have made that afghan. Somewhere, packed away in her bedroom, was a similar one she’d made for Rachel-Ann for her sixteenth birthday.
He didn’t try to stop her, though he s
tood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her. He was leaner than he’d been as a teenager, more wiry. He’d been strong and young and gorgeous as a teenager. He was devastating as an adult.
She shoved her feet into the sandals, grabbed her car keys from the table, accidentally knocking over the stack of condoms. She looked at them littering the floor. “I suppose I should take those with me,” she said lightly. “I imagine I won’t have much trouble finding someone who wants to use them.”
She’d finally managed to get to him, break through his gentle calm. He took a step toward her, then halted, visibly getting himself back under control. “You have a talent for pushing buttons, Rachel-Ann,” he said lightly. “Leave the condoms. We’ll use them next time.”
“Fuck you,” she said deliberately.
“Next time.”
She slammed the door on her way out, racing down the narrow flight of stairs to the street with complete disregard to her safety. In daylight the neighborhood looked worse, and there were three teenagers leaning on her BMW, peering inside. They looked up as she approached, keys in hand, and it took all her self-control not to hesitate, just to keep walking.
She’d just reached the car when one of the boys removed himself from it to stand in front of her. He was taller than she was, beefy, wearing gang colors. He had three teardrops tattooed on his cheek, and he couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. Or been more frightening.
Then a voice rang out, and he turned, all danger dropping away from him, as he answered, in Spanish. Rico was standing on the sidewalk, barefoot, calm, in charge.
The other two boys immediately backed away from the car, but the boy who’d confronted her argued for a moment with Rico. Rachel-Ann’s Spanish was rusty, but it would have taken a fool not to realize they were talking about her. And that Rico was warning him away from her in cool, implacable tones.
Finally the boy shrugged, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture before reaching for her car door. And then he stood there, the perfect gentleman, holding the door for her as she quickly scrambled inside, closing it behind her with a mocking little bow before stepping away.
