A Secret Between Friends: A New Zealand Sexy Beach Romance (Treats to Tempt You Book 6)

by Serenity Woods

  They arrived at Beck’s place, and he turned off the car engine. She glanced over at him. “I’m guessing that means you want to come in for a drink?” Her tone bordered on sharp.

  Surprised, he raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have to, if you’d rather not.”

  She blew out a breath. “No, come on.”

  Her grumpy tone irritated him—he wanted to snap Don’t let me do you any favors! He was tempted to just drive off. But she was already getting out of the car, and he suspected she was only irritated because she was tired and in pain. He got out and followed her to the house. She was limping quite badly, leaning heavily on the cane.

  “Leg hurt?” he asked when they got to the door.

  She shoved the key in the lock and shot him a glare. “Don’t you start.”

  Perhaps Beck had been giving her grief. He didn’t care for her tone, though, and began to regret his decision to stay.

  “What do you want to drink?” he asked when they were inside. He didn’t want a whisky as he was driving. “Coffee?”

  “I guess.”

  “I’ll make it. Go and put your feet up.”

  “I’m not a fucking invalid,” she snapped.

  He put his hands on his hips. “I never said you were, but your knee is clearly painful and I thought I’d offer to make you a drink. You want me to go, Gin, you only have to say so.”

  She bit her lip and looked at her shoes. “I’m sorry. Yeah, the knee is stiff, and I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Before he could reply, she turned and walked through to the living room, not bothering to turn on any lights. She sat on the sofa, turned to lie down so her legs were raised, and rested her head on the arm.

  He made two coffees and carried them through, balancing a plate on top of each with one of the profiteroles they’d brought home in a tub. He’d never get tired of the view across the bay. The setting sun had turned the sky to a bruise of purples and oranges, and the sea was a deep, mesmerizing blue.

  Taking the armchair opposite her, he placed her cup on the table and leaned back to sip his coffee and eat the dessert. She lifted her head and, to his surprise, pulled out the pins holding up her bun and shook her head so her hair tumbled around her shoulders. Even exhausted and irritable, she was beautiful. She did look tired, though.

  “Why didn’t you sleep well last night? Jet lag?”

  She sipped her coffee and looked up at the ceiling. “No.”

  He rested an ankle on the opposite knee and waited for her to continue.

  “Dreams,” she said eventually.

  “About Ciara?”

  “About the crash.” Her left hand strayed to her right wrist, which bore a beaded bracelet. He watched her fingers pass over the beads, flicking them in pairs. She appeared to be counting, although he was sure she wasn’t conscious of it.

  He frowned. In spite of her bubbly personality, when she was young she’d shown symptoms of OCD—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It had begun as a desire for order—making sure objects were lined up, arranging them alphabetically or numerically, but it had gotten worse in her early teens, and she’d developed rituals she couldn’t seem to control—constantly washing her hands and checking things repeatedly, such as making sure she’d locked the door a hundred times.

  Niall and Finn had teased her about it at first, thinking it funny, but Garret Brennan—a GP—had recognized it for what it was, an anxiety disorder. He’d taken his boys to one side and tried to explain to them it was probably a manifestation of her losing her mother and being apart from her real family—it was a need to try to establish some control in her life. The boys had been horrified to think she was suffering, and they’d immediately stopped their teasing.

  Garret had worked with her on ways to deal with it, one of which had been counting. Whenever she felt panicky or distressed, he’d taught her to count, either in her head or using patterns around her, and one way he’d suggested was to wear a bracelet and count the beads. It had worked, and as she’d moved through her teens, she’d seemed more in control of the disorder. The bracelet had appeared less often, and by the time she’d enlisted, she’d stopped wearing it.

  It was the first time he’d seen her do it in years, and cold filtered through him as if he’d drunk icy water rather than steaming coffee. If the anxiety disorder had come back, and she was having bad dreams, she was almost certainly suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Presumably the Army were aware of that and were helping her deal with it. But his heart went out to her. She tried so hard to appear strong, as if nothing could touch her, but she was a marshmallow inside.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  She rolled her head on the sofa arm to look at him.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I want to know.”

  She looked back up at the ceiling. “I can’t remember.”

  “You can’t remember the explosion?”

  “No.”

  He said nothing for a while. He knew that people with PTSD often had problems with their memories, but somehow he was sure she was lying. She did remember the accident—she just didn’t want to talk about it.

  That was fair enough, he supposed, trying to suppress a flicker of hurt that she didn’t want to confess to him. Her best friend had died, and it must have been a traumatic experience. He tried to ignore the way his stomach churned as he thought about his sister’s last moments, because this wasn’t about his own grief, this was about Genie not coping with the terrible experience she’d been through. Deep inside, though, he felt a swell of sorrow, and he hoped it had been quick and Ciara hadn’t suffered for long. The thought of that bullet slicing through her body…of the light gradually fading from her eyes…

  He pushed the image away. Genie’s fingers were moving more quickly now, passing the beads as if saying prayers with a rosary, her glazed eyes staring into space as God knew what images flared in her mind. She hadn’t caused Ciara’s death, and she wasn’t responsible. Even if she had talked Ciara into enlisting—even if she’d talked Ciara into getting into the fucking truck, she hadn’t set that bomb, she hadn’t blown the vehicle up, and she hadn’t shot the bullet through Ciara’s heart. She was no more responsible than he was. He’d suffered with his grief, but Genie had watched Ciara die, and regardless of whether she was accepting it, she also had guilt to contend with. No wonder the poor girl was having nightmares.

  He stood, walked over, and dropped to his haunches beside her. Reaching out a hand, he stopped her fingers as they religiously counted out the beads.

  Genie’s gaze met his, and humiliation burned in her eyes. She’d always hated the disorder, as if it were an ugly dog that refused to leave her side, and she hated people being aware of her weakness even more.

  Swinging her legs around, she went to get up, but Niall pushed her back, then moved to sit beside her. He lifted his arm and placed it around her shoulders, and gently pulled her to him.

  She resisted at first, stiff and unyielding, refusing to accept his compassion and his forgiveness. But he kissed the top of her head, letting his lips linger the way he had in the bar, inhaling the scent of mint in her hair, and eventually she melted against him.

  She still didn’t cry, but she did curl up as much as her knee would let her and snuggle up to him.

  They sat like that for a while. At one point, he leaned forward and picked up a profiterole, took a bite, and offered her the other half. She gave a small laugh and took it, her lips closing briefly over his fingers as she accepted it. He struggled to hide an answering shiver, and lifted his fingers to his mouth to lick off the last of the chocolate.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “You’ve nothing to feel sorry about.” He kissed her hair again. She was warm in his arms, and she felt more fragile than she looked. She’d lost weight since he’d last seen her, the bones of her shoulder prominent beneath his hand. He wanted to comfort her, to make her feel better, and take away her pain.

  She lift
ed her face to look at him, and before he could consider whether it was sensible or right, he trusted his instincts, tucked a finger under her chin to keep it there, and lowered his lips to hers.

  Just the same as last time, she gasped with surprise, and he moved back, knowing that if she didn’t want him to kiss her, she’d damn well make it apparent, probably with a vivid curse, a slap to the cheek, and possibly a kick to the balls.

  She did none of those things. Instead, she went very still and closed her eyes, as if focussing all her attention on the fraction of an inch between their mouths. His lips curving, he lowered them back to hers.

  They were as plump and soft as the profiterole they’d shared, and just as sweet. Slow and measured, taking his time, he pressed his lips across from one corner of her mouth to the other before returning to the middle, where he tested the water with a small brush of his tongue. Genie sighed, her lips parting, and he accepted the invitation and dipped his tongue into the warm cavern of her mouth, tasting her, enjoying the silky slide of her tongue against his. His hand moved of its own accord along the soft skin of her cheek to slide into her hair, and he closed his eyes too, concentrating on his other senses for once: taste, touch, feel, smell, enveloping himself in her. It was like diving into the ocean, when the water closed around him and blocked out the real world, transporting him to another place entirely that was quiet and dark and strangely sensual. He wanted to dive into her, to plunge into her depths and lose himself in her.

  Was he out of his depth? Niall didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he cared an awful lot.

  Chapter Twelve

  Genie held her breath and let Niall kiss her.

  Usually, she played a very active role in lovemaking. If he’d been any other man, and this had been any other situation, she would have lifted herself up to sit astride him, taken his face in her hands, and kissed him back, escalating the moment until they ripped off all their clothes.

  This time, though, she played passive and let him direct the moment. Part of it was due to being unsure of his motive. His hug had been comforting and consolatory, and his previous kisses—apart from the kiss on Waitangi Day all those years ago—had been the same, meant to reassure and cheer her up. She couldn’t be sure this wasn’t the same—was this purely about solace? His words, You’ve nothing to feel sorry about, told her he’d either accepted she wasn’t to blame or had forgiven her, and he’d wanted to show her how he felt.

  This couldn’t just be about comfort, though. Comfort was a quick peck, a chaste press of the lips, and a warm arm around the shoulders.

  Comfort wasn’t tightening your hand in the other person’s hair to hold them in place, or sliding your tongue inside their mouth so sensually that she could feel the warm throb of her pulse in places she’d not thought about for months. He tasted of chocolate, sweet and sexy, and the subtle scent of his aftershave stirred her senses as she lifted a hand to his face and brushed his cheek with her thumb.

  His other hand slid from her shoulder down her back and around to her ribs, and his arm tightened, drawing her against him. Moving her hand to the back of his head, she enjoyed the feel of the short strands slipping through her fingers, the warmth of his nape, the skin surprisingly silky. It was nice to touch and be touched, to be in contact with another human being, to take time to appreciate the other person and exchange enjoyment in the kiss.

  Lifting his head, his eyes scanned her briefly as if to assess her expression, and she wondered whether he’d move back now he’d come to his senses and overcome his compulsion to kiss her. It was easy to get carried away, but common sense tended to reassert itself, and when cooler heads prevailed, the logic of soundly kissing one’s best friend would be called into question.

  To her surprise and pleasure, he didn’t pull back with a regretful look and apologize for his behavior. He moved his hand so he could brush a thumb over her lips, as if making sure she was enjoying it, or maybe just to absorb her pleasure. His thumb stroked across her top lip, and he gave a small smile, then dipped his head again to kiss her Cupid’s bow, before returning once again to a soft, sensual exploration of her mouth with his lips and tongue, his teeth occasionally grazing her bottom lip.

  It wasn’t just comfort or solace; he wasn’t doing it just to make her feel better. He wanted to kiss her because he was attracted to her, and he was enjoying it, reveling in it, even. Heat simmered between them, warming her through like whisky. As he deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue into her mouth, the embers glowed scarlet and threatened to erupt into flames, and a soft moan escaped her lips. She hadn’t been kissed like this for so long, and it was heavenly to be desired, to be wanted, especially by a man who could have bottled his masculinity and made a bajillion dollars selling it to males lacking in manly genes.

  She hadn’t expected this—the way he held her so tightly, on the verge of possessiveness. She already knew she wouldn’t be able to get him out of her head that night—she would be lying awake for hours recalling each nip of his teeth, each stroke of his tongue, and the way he’d pulled back to observe her, his lips curving with pleasure as he saw his desire reflected in her eyes.

  As much as she hoped it would, it couldn’t last forever, and although part of her desperately wanted it to turn into something more, she was genuinely tired and her knee was throbbing, plus Beck had told her he might be home early that night.

  She placed a hand on his chest. He lifted his head and dropped his hand from her hair, his eyes bright in the last rays of the sun across the water.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He chuckled. “You’re welcome.” He shifted on the sofa and rested an ankle on the opposite knee, possibly, she suspected, to hide an erection. The thought made her glow inside, but she didn’t let on that she’d guessed.

  He touched lightly beneath her eye. “You have dark rings here. You should get to bed.”

  She just stopped herself asking him to go with her, and nodded. “Shall we choose the next task from the list before you go?”

  “Sure.”

  She leaned forward and picked up the list from where she’d left it on the shelf beneath the table, and then curled back up on the sofa. He left his arm along the back, apparently content to let her rest against him, and she did so, enjoying the warmth of his body.

  “Ready?”

  He nodded.

  She closed her eyes, circled a finger in the air, and let it drop on the paper. Together, they read the outcome.

  Spend the afternoon on a nudist beach.

  For a second, neither of them said anything.

  Genie pursed her lips and looked up at him. His eyes were filled with humor.

  “Do you think Ciara’s trying to tell us something?” she teased.

  His smile faded—only briefly, but she caught the flicker of something behind his eyes, although she couldn’t make out what she’d said that had bothered him.

  He didn’t answer her question, but the smirk did reappear. “You can always veto,” he said.

  She looked at the sheet. She was considering a veto, but not for the reason that was probably forefront in his mind. Spending the afternoon naked with Niall Brennan sounded a little like dying and going to heaven. Even though she was aware that nudist beaches discouraged any kind of lewd behaviour, after the sort of kiss they’d just had, taking off their clothes certainly wasn’t going to stand in the way of a developing physical relationship.

  The issue lay more with her scars. Not only was her knee ugly, but she had a peppering of other marks from her thigh up the right side of her body to her breast. Of course, if they were to progress to the bedroom he’d get to see them anyway, but peeling off one’s clothes erotically in the semi-darkness and walking along a beach with your boobs and bum out in broad daylight were two completely different things.

  Then she sighed. What difference did it make? If the scars turned him off, better she found out before they got to the bedroom, surely?

  She looked up at him. “No. Not g
oing to veto.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”

  “That surprises you? You could always veto.”

  He grinned. “Going naked in public has never bothered me.”

  Of course, getting in and out of a wetsuit on the beach all his life had probably eradicated any fear of being seen without his clothes. Still, she suspected he hadn’t quite thought it through. Her lips curved. “Okay. We’re on.”

  He laughed. “Cool.”

  “Just need to find a nudist beach now.”

  “There’s one over in Russell,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Privately owned, and it’s a family beach—you can rent lodges right on the sand. Want me to book it for the weekend?”

  She smiled with genuine pleasure. “That would be lovely.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you know when and where.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, and she did the same, rising awkwardly, stiff and sore. After grabbing the cane, she limped over with him to the door.

  He stopped and turned to face her. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too.”

  “I mean it, Gin. I don’t want to pick you up on Saturday and see those dark circles under your eyes.”

  “I can’t help it if I can’t sleep,” she said honestly.

  He shrugged. “Well, maybe tonight you’ll be thinking about something else when you doze off.”

  She laughed, but inside she felt a twinge of caution. Was that why he’d kissed her? In an effort to take her mind off of things? There had been no discussion of what the kiss had meant or why he’d done it—he was a bloke after all, and it was likely he hadn’t given it any thought except Woman Look Hot, Man Want to Kiss Woman. She had to remember it for what it was—hot and sensual, but just a kiss.

  He touched the back of his fingers to her cheek and then left. Genie turned and limped through to her room. She visited the bathroom and brushed her teeth, then climbed into bed, sliding beneath the cool sheets and turning on her side so she could look out of the window at the sea. It was only just dark, but she couldn’t wait up for Beck—she was too tired, and she wanted to make the most of it and hopefully get a few restful hours before the nightmares started.