Bad Boys of Summer

by Lori Foster, Erin McCarthy

  He’d agreed—almost right away, actually—but not before a handful of emotions flickered in his eyes. She hadn’t understood any of them—not the shame, not the weariness, and particularly not the fear. It was a wedding, for heaven’s sake, not a public execution.

  But what had convinced her not to drop the issue was the brief flash of what looked like pride that touched his hard, masculine mouth in a hesitant smile. He was touched that she’d asked him, she would bet on it. Which meant there was no way to rescind the invitation, not that she wanted to, anyway.

  She wanted him there. She wanted him everywhere—in her dreams, in her life, in her bed. He was already in her heart, whether she liked it or not.

  And days like today, it was hard to be sure. There was so much she didn’t know about him, so much he seemed unwilling to share. She wished she could convince him that nothing mattered but the here and now, that she truly believed kicking an addiction to alcohol was courageous, but there was never an opening, never a way to tell him so.

  And there were, she had to admit as she studied his sharp profile, all those unsettling unknowns. She knew in her bones that Leo would never hurt her on purpose, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t get hurt, period.

  He slid his hand into her lap and twined his big fingers around hers. “Sorry,” he said. His voice was gruff. “I’m not always real comfortable with a lot of strangers.”

  Why did she suspect that was a lie? A little one, to be sure, but no matter what, it wasn’t the whole truth.

  She decided to ignore it, and squeezed his hand. “Stick with me, buddy,” she said lightly. “You’ll do fine.”

  Picking at the moist chicken marsala on his plate three hours later, Leo glanced up at Mackenzie, who was across the room taking pictures of the flower girl. The child couldn’t have been more than four, a tiny blond thing with a headful of curls and the most enormous blue eyes Leo had ever seen. Her dress was wrinkled, its lavender sash untied and trailing behind her, but she smiled for the camera as if she’d been posing for photos all her life, and he heard Mackenzie’s laugh of delight.

  “Thank you, Shelby,” he heard her say above the chatter and the DJ. “I think that’s going to be the best picture of all.”

  She’d barely taken the time to eat. Beside his, her plate was heaped with food she hadn’t touched. But he’d never seen it affect anyone less—she was all over the place, bending down, stretching up on her toes, crouching, catching the wedding party and the guests in pairs and groups, laughing and talking and dancing. She was tireless, and she was good. She’d caught a quiet moment between the bride and groom, seated at their table, the groom running his knuckles over his new wife’s cheek as she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. If the couple didn’t cherish that picture, they didn’t deserve a photographer like Mackenzie.

  He’d brought his own camera, a small digital, since he’d figured it would be cool for Mackenzie to have some pictures of herself with her friends. He’d caught a couple of her with the bride and groom, and one of her and Bree and their friend Susannah, but she’d been so busy otherwise, he’d only had a view of her back.

  A moment later she sat down next to him, placing her camera in the empty seat on the other side of her, and sighed happily. “Almost over,” she said, laying a hand on his knee. “Why aren’t you eating?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I’m saving room for cake,” she said with a smile, leaning toward him to bump shoulders.

  So casual, so familiar. As if they’d known each other forever. As if their lives were entwined for good.

  God, how he wished.

  He was an addict, that was the problem. After years of not dating, barely even looking, he’d fallen off the wagon with a deafening crash when it came to Mackenzie Pruitt. And just one taste of her had been his undoing. He wanted her nonstop, not just her body—though that was pretty fucking wonderful—but her. All the time, every day, forever.

  Forever. God, it had been almost that long since he’d even let himself think about a relationship. And now he was poised to be with the one woman he wanted, and the one woman who would run the other way when she discovered what and who he was.

  At least no one at the wedding had recognized him. Yet. He’d caught a few questioning glances, but there was no way to know if Mackenzie’s friends were curious about her choice of a date, or the kind of sharp-eyed people he’d been avoiding all these years.

  Beside him, Mackenzie idly forked up a piece of chicken as she watched the guests on the dance floor. The DJ was decent—he’d kept the music going, picking lighter, softer songs during the meal, and the bouncier, really danceable stuff now that the party was in full swing. And without, thank God, resorting to the Electric Slide or the Chicken Dance.

  Suddenly the bride was beside them in a cloud of billowing white satin, her cheeks flushed with exertion. “Did you get pictures of the cake?” she asked Mackenzie.

  “You bet,” Mackenzie replied. “It’s gorgeous, too.”

  “Well, good,” Bree said, taking her hand and smiling at Leo. “You’re off duty until the whole cutting and feeding portion of this program. You two need to dance, have a little fun.”

  She tugged Mackenzie to her feet despite her protests, and leveled him with a dictatorial gaze. “Come on, buddy, get your butt on the dance floor and show my very good friend a good time.”

  There was no arguing with that, however much he wanted to. He stood and tipped an imaginary hat at the bride, who beamed, and took Mackenzie’s arm, leading her through the swaying bodies to an empty spot on the polished parquet floor.

  “At least this way I get to have my hands on you,” he murmured in her ear.

  “I’m all for that,” she whispered back, leaving a kiss on his jawbone just before the music started.

  But it wasn’t a slow-dancing kind of song. It was the Commodores’ old hit, “Brick House.” He watched in horror as the groom’s mother began gyrating, her silk-clad bulk jiggling as the song funked up.

  Mackenzie bit her bottom lip to restrain a giggle and steered him backwards, moving her shoulders in time to the music. “Loosen up, Leo,” she shouted over the music. “Show me your moves.”

  “I’ll show you all kinds of moves later,” he replied, turning and nudging her toward the hallway to the restrooms and the kitchen. The music throbbed around them, and Mackenzie kept bouncing in time until he pushed her against the wall and leaned down for a kiss.

  She tasted good, as always, and beneath her simple, hot-pink linen sheath, her body was warm and mobile, grinding against him as his tongue swept inside her mouth.

  After a moment, her arms twined around his neck, and he growled in appreciation when her breasts pressed against him. Stupid suit coat. He wanted it gone, wanted her body bare and open against his.

  He deepened the kiss, losing himself in the taste of her mouth and the soft curves of her hips as he slid his hands over them. On the dance floor, most of the guests were singing along, shouting, “Brick!House! ” during the chorus, and, he hoped, oblivious to what he and Mackenzie were up to just a dozen feet away.

  The waitstaff, however, was a different story. “Oh, excuse me,” a young girl in a white shirt and black bow tie exclaimed when she backed into the hall a moment later, bumping into him, a huge tray of discarded dinner plates wobbling in her hands.

  Mackenzie blushed a deep rose and nudged him away from her, managing a sheepish smile for the girl. “Our fault. Sorry. Come on, Leo.”

  She grabbed his hand just as the song ended, leading him back to the dance floor, but he froze as the DJ cued up the next tune.

  There was no mistaking that familiar bass beat, the raunchy growl of the guitar. Two solid CDs and a spectacular crash-and-burn later, and “Making Time” by Joe’s Garage was still in heavy rotation, not quite a one-hit wonder, but close.

  He swallowed hard, dropping Mackenzie’s hand. “I have to go to the men’s room. I’ll be…back in a minute.”r />
  He didn’t even wait to gauge her reaction, just took off, brushing past a waiter with another tray, nearly stumbling into the men’s room and into a stall, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Damn it! No matter what he did, that song at least was going to follow him till the day he died. He couldn’t even complain, not really, since royalties still came in on a regular basis. It was one of the reasons he’d been able to keep Dawson Carpentry small, picking and choosing his clients from the limited population of the Wilmington suburbs and Wrightsville Beach. The goddamn song had paid for rehab, for God’s sake.

  But every time he heard it, he knew that someone with a sharp eye would do a double take and figure out that, yup, he was the former guitarist for Joe’s Garage, nineties wonder band gone wrong. He was the guy the tabloids had loved to gossip about, between the booze and the women and the parties. He was the guy who had self-destructed when his band mate had OD’d. He was the guy who had disappeared from the face of the planet, holed up somewhere no one would look for him…

  He slammed his fist against the stall in frustration. Just because no one was looking didn’t mean he’d never be found. He’d known that five years ago, and he knew it now. And every time a “where are they now” program ran, every time someone wrote an article on rock-star excess and fallen idols, he waited for the phone to ring. He didn’t want any part of it. He wasn’t that man anymore.

  The song was ending—he could hear the last chorus, Mike’s voice rasping, “‘Making time for us to share, making time’s become so rare…’” The music vibrated through the walls, a clatter of drums and his own sliding guitar riff, and then it was over.

  He took a deep breath and reached for the stall door when he heard footsteps. Two men, it sounded like, over by the urinals. There was a metallic hiss as a zipper slid down.

  “He looks familiar, doesn’t he?” one of the men said. “And so…Well, he’s not exactly Mackenzie’s type, you know?”

  Hand on the door’s metal lock, Leo froze.

  “Yeah, Bree said he’s working for her, building a photography studio or something.” Another zipper, the telltale sound of urine splashing against tile. Bree’s new husband, Mark. It had to be. “She usually goes for the white-collar types.”

  “I wish she’d go for me,” the other man said over the sound of flushing. “She’s so freaking cute. That ass, man. But she gives pretty stern cold shoulder, you know?”

  A flame of rage, hot and dangerous, licked through Leo. Herass? White-collar types? He restrained the urge to burst out of the stall and shove the guy’s words back down his throat, with his fists.

  Like he needed any extra attention now. Already, the asshole who’d been ogling Mackenzie had pronounced him “familiar.”

  He had to get out of here. As soon as they cut the cake and Mackenzie took the requisite photos, he was taking her home.

  And then he was taking her to bed. Before she started asking questions, and he would be forced to say good-bye.

  Eight

  Leo drove home like a man possessed. Strapped into the passenger seat of his truck, Mackenzie eyed him warily as he gunned across the causeway. The windows were open, and the sultry night air on her face felt good. Or it would if it wasn’t rushing by quite so fast.

  The minute she clicked the last photo—Bree throwing her bouquet of overblown white roses—Leo had practically kidnapped her, helping to stuff her cameras and equipment into their appropriate bags, gathering up her purse and the special favor Bree had made her, a painted picture frame.

  “I have to say good-bye, Leo,” she’d protested. He’d only scowled, and gone to wait in the truck for her.

  So much for her good-time wedding plan. He’d looked like a torture victim through most of it, even if he hadn’t behaved that way, but at the end? What was that? What was wrong with him?

  The obvious solution was to ask him, of course.

  But in this case, the obvious solution seemed like the perfect way to get her heart broken. Whatever he was hiding, he could hold onto it for a little while longer.

  Even if that made her a coward.

  She opened the door when Leo pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. “So much for my hair,” she said lightly, reaching up to touch the elaborate knot she’d made that afternoon. During weddings especially, she didn’t need her hair swinging into her eyes or the lens, but the wind had effectively made hay of it. Loose strands blew around her face in the evening breeze.

  “It looks pretty,” Leo answered, gathering up her equipment and following her inside. “Sexy, in fact.”

  “Thank you,” she said, flipping on a light and setting down her purse. “I think.”

  If she had any sense at all, she would send him home. Give herself some time to think about what they were doing, and what they were going to do when he finished the studio. To wonder why he’d never invited her to his house, why he preferred staying in to going out. To contemplate the way a song had spooked him, the fact that he’d once had a drinking problem.

  But when she looked up at him after kicking her shoes off, she knew the truth. When it came to Leo Dawson, she apparently didn’t have any sense at all. Because all she wanted to do was hold him.

  Well, okay, not “all,” but close.

  Turning, she walked past him down the hall to her bedroom, switching on the little lamp on her dresser. It cast a soft glow in the darkness, throwing shadows over the unmade bed and the comfortable, rose-patterned easy chair she’d found at a flea market.

  She knew Leo was behind her, even though he hadn’t said a word. Without turning, she reached for the zipper of her dress and slid it down, letting the garment drop to the carpet. Next came her bra, and then her panties, both items tossed recklessly toward the open door of the closet, and the hamper inside it.

  A rustle of movement, a muted groan from the floorboards beneath the carpet, and then Leo’s hands were on her, framing her waist as his mouth traveled the back of her neck and across her shoulder. Her body responded with an electric thrill of anticipation, her skin waking to his touch, tingling with pleasure already.

  He snapped the clasp of her barrette, and her hair tumbled over her shoulders. She shook it out as he turned her around and set her away from him, his eyes hungry.

  “So beautiful. You don’t even know,” he murmured, and she felt a hot flush of arousal on her skin, from her breasts to her belly.

  “You’re pretty beautiful yourself,” she whispered, stepping backward until her thighs hit the mattress. She sat down, then slid onto the bed, lying back against the mound of pillows at the headboard.

  Her nipples were already erect, rigid with excitement. He was swallowing her up with his eyes, which were nothing more than vague shadows beneath his brow in the gloom. She was dying for him to touch her, to get undressed and climb onto the bed with her, but there was something wildly exciting about being on display this way, just for him.

  He shrugged off his jacket, but he didn’t throw it on the chair. He reached into the inside pocket first, withdrawing his camera and setting it on the dresser.

  A hot flame of arousal licked at her belly. He wasn’t going to…? Oh, but he was. Loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves, he picked up the camera again. And aimed it right at her.

  “Leo…” she began, but her voice was strangely breathless, hardly audible.

  “I’ve never been much of a photographer,” he murmured, “but I think now might be a perfect time to try again.” He crouched at the foot of the bed, aiming the camera up at her. “You’re so beautiful, just like this. I want to remember you this way.” He pressed the button and the flash went off, a shocking flare in the dim room.

  Oh God. He’d really done it. He’d taken a picture of her, naked.

  And it was…exciting. Slightly naughty, in a completely innocent way. It was Leo, after all. She trusted him. And she had a feeling that she wasn’t the only one turned on.

  She took a deep breath and wriggled up on h
er elbows, thrusting her breasts farther forward. “What about this?”

  Had she really said that? Was she really doing this?

  “That’s…very good,” Leo said, his voice catching in his throat as he snapped another picture. He sat at the foot of the bed, his face only partially visible behind the slim silver camera, waiting. “Show me how sexy you know you are, babe.”

  She twisted, tilting her head and parting her thighs just a little bit, teasing him with the glimpse of curls.Click. Then she sat up, eyes wide, her heart hammering in her chest, and let her legs fall open completely, one hand on her thigh.Click.

  Oh God. She couldn’t take much more of this. She was wet already, and so hot inside she was restless. She wasn’t even thinking of the few nude centerfolds she’d seen—she was just doing what came naturally, opening herself to him, to the camera, reveling in how lovely her naked body felt against the rumpled sheets, fluid and soft, deliciously curvy.

  Suddenly her hands were on her breasts, cupping them, holding them up to him, and the camera hit the floor with a thud.

  “Photo shoot is over,” Leo growled, crawling over her and pushing her back on the bed. Before she knew it, his mouth had fastened on one ripe nipple, suckling hard, and she groaned in relief.

  He was still dressed, though, and that had to change.Now. She reached for his tie, but his head was in the way, and when his teeth closed on her flesh, she gave up, the sharp, thrilling surprise of the bite echoing through her.

  He moved down her body, his mouth hot and wet on her skin, biting, kissing, sucking, tasting. She shivered with the pleasure, the racing sensations skittering over her breasts, her belly.

  He left one sucking kiss just above her curls as he nudged her thighs apart, wide and then wider, sliding his arms under them and gently spreading her folds. He murmured something she couldn’t hear, and then his mouth was on her, his tongue licking through the creamy, wet flesh.

  Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God, it was good. So hot, so very hot, and so wet, his tongue, her folds, a burning point, a dangerous blaze…