Love Gone Wild: A Contemporary Romantic Comedy

by Michele Bardsley

  His breath quickened.

  The spasms of her pleasure felt by another man's cock.

  No!

  He reached into his jacket pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes and his gold engraved lighter. With a trembling hand, he put the cigarette between his lips then flicked open the lighter and brought the tiny flame to light the cancer stick. That's what she called 'em. Cancer sticks. He traced the initials on the lighter and smiled. She'd given it to him. Didn't want him to smoke, but gave him a goddamned lighter as a present. He blew out a stream of smoke and felt a little better, a little more in control. He held up the lighter and thumbed the wheel. The flame grew higher and higher.

  She was fucking that guy from the bar.

  And she had to be punished.

  He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window near the exit door. Such lovely, sheer curtains. The flame licked the fabric like a hungry child with an ice cream cone. He watched parts of the burning curtains fall to the floor; the fire loved the carpet, too. It danced a fickle path down the hall.

  "Burn in hell," he whispered. Then he flicked his cigarette into the swelling fire and left the way he'd come in.

  * * *

  THE BEDSIDE CLOCK blinked 1 a.m. when Dane awoke to a blare of noise. He'd been in bed a mere fifteen minutes. He groaned as the alarm's high-pitched whine threatened to deafen him. Dane reached over to the nightstand and smacked the buttons on the "complimentary" alarm clock.

  The damned thing continued to screech.

  "What the—"

  "Fire! Fire!" Someone pounded on the door. "Fire! Everybody out!" The pounding stopped and the shouts faded.

  Marissa! Dane jumped out of bed and sprinted to the door. It wasn't hot to the touch, but when Dane opened it, he heard the crackle of flames and smelled the choking fumes of smoke. Hot air wafted across his chest. He looked down.

  "Shit!" He ran to his clothes, tugged on his boxers, and grabbed the wallet on the nightstand. He rushed into the bathroom, wet two hand towels, and slung them over his shoulder. Then he opened the door, got on the floor, and belly-crawled across the hall to Marissa's room.

  "Marissa!" He banged the door with his fist. "Marissa! Are you in there?"

  "Dane!" Marissa's voice wasn't coming from inside the room.

  * * *

  Dane searched the grayish haze enveloping the hall. His heart squeezed in his chest. Where is she?

  "Dane? I'm four doors down on the left. Help!"

  What the hell was she doing there? He'd have to yell at her later for not staying in her room—not that it would do much good. Dane wrapped one towel over his mouth and felt his way along the wall. The haze thickened into dense smoke. Staying as close to the floor as possible, he wiggled on his belly until he came face-to-face with Marissa. Relief made his bones feel rubbery. He pushed the towel from his mouth. "Are you okay, princess?"

  "Yes, thank you. Are you all right?"

  "I'm terrific."

  "Dane, can you get us out of here?"

  "I hope so. Here." He tucked the other wet towel around her face, covering her mouth. "I'll turn around. You hold on to my ankle, okay? We've got to make it to the staircase at the end of this hall."

  She nodded.

  He scooted around and waited until her slim hand grasped his ankle. Conscious of the delicate feel of her fingers, afraid she might let go, Dane scooted as fast as he dared. The emergency exit sign glowed a welcoming red at the other end of the hall. Smells of singed fabric and burnt wood accompanied the cloying smoke. Dane coughed and felt Marissa's grasp tighten on his ankle. "I'm okay. Don't worry. We're almost there."

  The smoke dissipated as they neared the exit door to the stairway. Finally, they made it. Dane stood and helped up Marissa. Black grit smudged her face and her hair looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket. The green dress had been replaced by a long white T-shirt with "Kiss Me, You Fool" emblazoned in big purple letters on the front. He resisted the urge to follow the shirt's advice. For some reason, the idea of kissing her offered him a sort of primal reassurance.

  Oh man, I'm losing it.

  * * *

  "Dane?"

  Her voice trembled, and he realized she must be scared to death. "Let's get out of here." He pushed the bar on the exit door.

  It wouldn't open.

  Dane shoved hard with his hands then used his shoulder for a battering ram. The door wouldn't budge. He slumped against it.

  "What's wrong?"

  His gut clenched when he heard the fear threaded into her words.

  "It's just being stubborn." He looked at her. She was cradling the orange purse like it was a sleeping child. It jerked in her arms and Dane swore it barked.

  He blinked away the weird sight, then glanced down the hall. Smoke crept toward them. Using an elevator was out of the question and trying to get to the other stairwell would put them too near the fire.

  "Crap!" He smacked the door with the palm of his hand. It swung open. He wasn't going to question the whims of fate. "Let's go!"

  He ushered Marissa through the door and they hurried down the five flights of stairs. When they got to the lobby, two firemen and a paramedic spotted them stumbling into the entryway. In seconds, they were rushed out of the building. Fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances crowded the two-lane driveway in front of the hotel. Dazed people in varying states of undress milled about the parking lot. Dane led Marissa to a black Mercedes and lifted her to the hood.

  "Are you okay?"

  "I believe that was more excitement than I was prepared for." She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture struck Dane as vulnerable and needy. Ignoring the voice of reason telling him it was not a good idea to touch Marissa, Dane pushed aside the purse in her lap, and gathered her into his arms. She snuggled into his embrace, placing her head against his shoulder and her arms around his rib cage.

  She smelled like smoke, but her hair and skin were softer than rose petals.

  "I should've added hugs to the list," she murmured. "This is quite wonderful."

  Her sigh of contentment whispered across his chest. Dane resisted the urge to stroke her backside. He might do something stupid like cup her bottom and pull her closer. He was already between her legs. The thin cotton fabric of his boxers was the only barrier between him and Marissa. If she wiggled the wrong way, he was in big trouble.

  She eased away from him. "Thank you."

  "For what?"

  "For this." She slid her arms from around his waist and cupped his face. "I appreciate you breaking your rules to comfort me."

  Dane cleared his throat. "Uh, well, I enjoyed it." Heat singed his face. "I mean—that is—you're welcome."

  She laughed. Dane's gaze was drawn to the fullness of her lips. They were dangerous, those lips. Even more so when curved into a smile. He was so tempted by that luscious mouth. Just a taste. What would one tiny taste hurt? He leaned forward, knowing his gaze reflected his intentions, enjoying the surprised anticipation in Marissa's eyes.

  The purse barked.

  Dane blinked. Marissa's face was turned toward him, her eyes wide, her mouth forming a cute little "o." He hastily stepped out of the embrace.

  "Your purse is yapping." The handbag wriggled and writhed next to Marissa's hip.

  "Oh, dear!" She unzipped the purse and removed a tiny, brown-and-black ball of hair. The pink bow on its head vibrated as it yipped at Dane.

  "Isn't she precious? Do you want to pet her?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm not a big fan of animals. They stink and drool and mess up your stuff."

  "I love animals. I was never allowed to have one, you know." She showed him the gold tag dangling from a faux diamond collar. "I can't make out her name."

  He looked at the noisy hairball. "Who the hell paints a dog's toenails?"

  "I think that shade of pink is very charming."

  "I take it she's the reason you weren't in your room?" Dane couldn't keep the d
isapproval out of his voice.

  "I heard her barking when I came out to see what was going on. It seemed like everyone else was gone. I-I should've waited for you, Dane. I'm sorry."

  He really wished she'd stop apologizing when she was wrong. Her sincere remorse made it difficult for him to maintain his righteous anger. Lorraine would not have apologized to a pharaoh of Egypt. He'd learned that arguing with his ex-wife was like trying to change the color of the sun.

  Marissa cooed to the puppy and let its slimy little tongue lick her face. He couldn't believe she'd left the relative safety of her room to rescue a powder puff with an attitude. He should—should spank her, but damned if he didn't admire her spunk. "Princess, you need to learn to rely on me. I'm your bodyguard, remember?"

  "Yes, I remember." Her eyelashes fluttered down. "You're taking the job rather seriously, aren't you? I didn't expect quite so much...body."

  Her teasing had a weird affect on him. He cursed the threatening hard-on. Maybe it was being too near her half-naked body or the fact they'd gotten out of the hotel without becoming barbecue. Or maybe the desire ripping through him was the result of not being with a woman in quite a long time.

  But he wanted Marissa Vanderson.

  More than he'd ever wanted any woman.

  "Oh, Romea, Romea, wherefor art thou?" cried a shaky female voice. "Poor, poor precious puppy. I loved you so." A woman trudged down the row of parked cars, her hand held dramatically against her brow. She wore a pink chiffon nightgown and slippers with puffy balls of pink fuzz. Her face was heavily made up and she looked about hundred years old. Dane thought she resembled Gloria Swanson in Sunset Lane.

  Wrapped up in her display of emotion, the woman didn't see them. She paused, and to Dane's surprise, splayed herself on the Mercedes' trunk. "Romea!" she cried in a theatrical voice.

  The mutt barked and tried to leap off Marissa's lap.

  The woman's head slowly rose. "Is that you, sweetie? Or do I hear you talking to me from heaven?"

  "Oh brother," muttered Dane. Then he called out, "Hey, lady, is this your dog?"

  She dragged herself off the trunk and peered around the car. "Romea?"

  "Yip! Yip! Yip!"

  "Romea!"

  The woman nearly tripped on her chiffon in an effort to reunite with Romea. "My teeny tiny precious doggy-poo!" she cried, lifting the ball of fluff and clasping it to her rather large and heaving bosom.

  "Oh, thank you, kind and gentle sir, for rescuing my Romea." Dark, painted-on brows rose invitingly and the woman fluttered long fake lashes at Dane. He jerked a thumb toward Marissa. "She saved precious doggy-poo, Mrs.—"

  "Miss Lenetta Devereaux," she said. "I've never been married." The lashes fluttered again. "But I'd consider it if I had a hunk of a man like you."

  He backed up a step in case she decided to drop the dog and grab him. Fortunately, Lenetta turned to Marissa. "My dear, I can't thank you enough. Romea means the world to me." "You're welcome," said Marissa. "She's such a sweetie."

  Dane felt a little safer since Lenetta's attentions had been diverted by disgusting doggie kisses. "Why did you call her Romea?"

  Lenetta lifted a brow. "Because she's a girl, of course."

  * * *

  "BRENT, I'M STANDING in my underwear at a payphone. Damn it, stop laughing!"

  Marissa leaned against the brick wall and sipped on a cool confection known as an Icee. The simple drink reminded her of all the things she hadn't been able to do—all the experiences that awaited her.

  Many of the hotel's guests had wandered across the street to the convenience store. Earlier, hotel personnel filtered through the crowds reassuring everyone that their rooms would be comped and transportation would be provided to another hotel.

  The night sky gave way to morning splendor: purples, oranges, yellows, and other brilliant hues left Marissa breathless. She glanced at Dane's stern expression. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he explained the situation to his friend. Dane had already attempted to call his brother, but the line had been busy.

  "Just come get us!" Dane slammed the receiver so hard the phone cubicle shook. "My friend will be here any minute." The nearest hotel was only a few blocks from the convenience store, but Dane seemed reluctant to go to it. She wondered if he'd used that hotel for assignations. The thought of Dane enticing a woman to a hotel for a sexual encounter weakened her knees. At the same time, jealousy pricked her. Why would he make love to other women and not to her? Disappointment stabbed her like hot little knives.

  "Why didn't you bring your car?" To her surprise, her question sounded like an accusation.

  "My brother gave me a ride to the club last night. Everything okay, princess?"

  "Why wouldn't it be?" She sipped the Icee and avoided Dane's quizzical gaze. "We still have to meet Tuesday. It's already six-thirty."

  "We'll go to my apartment, shower, and get dressed." He looked at her wrinkled and smoke-smudged T-shirt. "Where did you get that? You didn't have any luggage."

  "It was in my purse."

  "Another impulse buy?"

  "Yes." She slurped the last bit of the drink and tossed it in the trash bin next to her. "Is your friend married?"

  "No."

  "What does he look like?"

  "He's a troll. Long hair, bad teeth, bushy eyebrows, big ears. Has a hump, too. Walks with a limp and spits when he talks."

  "Oh, my." She knew Dane was teasing, although his frown indicated he was less than pleased with her questions. "Where did you meet him? Under a bridge?"

  "He works with me at the TeenCenter. He's a counselor."

  "Are you a counselor?"

  "I'm the director of the sports programs."

  "Oh." She'd pursue those tidbits later. She was too fascinated with Dane's thunderous expression and clipped speech. Whatever was the matter with him? If he didn't want her, why not approach someone who might agree to be a temporary bed partner? "Muscular, like you? What color are his eyes? Is he tall?"

  "You planning on having his children?"

  She considered it. The idea of a husband and children delighted her. "Maybe."

  "I knew it!" exploded Dane. "You're thinking about having sex with him, aren't you?"

  "If he'll consent." She played with the strap of her purse. "I-I don't suppose you'd ask him for me, would you?"

  "You're not sleeping with him."

  "I'm paying you to help me with the list. You said you wouldn't participate in the one-night stand. Don't you trust your friend to show me a good time?"

  Dane crossed his arms, his face a mask of anger. "You're paying me to be your pimp, is that it?"

  Hurt speared her. He thought she was behaving like a—a whore? Was that what he believed about her? She wanted to experience physical love, like the kind she'd read about in the romance novels Geoffrey had smuggled to her. Her parents allowed educational material and the occasional entertainment. She'd had no access to television programs, but her DVD collection was unrivaled. Her favorite film of all time was not part of her parent-approved movies: Sweet November.

  Marissa was tired of being told what to watch, what to believe, what to do. Is it so wrong to want physical pleasure? She swiped at the tears welling in her eyes. "If you are uncomfortable with our agreement, you can terminate it at any time. Right now, if you like. All I ask is that you allow me to purchase some clothes and that you drop me off at the café to meet Tuesday."

  "I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "Yes, you did." She pushed away from the wall and put some distance between herself and Dane. "What I don't understand is why. I've done nothing to indicate I wish to prostitute myself. I simply want to enjoy what you and everyone else take for granted."

  "Marissa, I—"

  Beep! Beep! A blue truck whipped into the parking space in front of them. A handsome, blond-haired man stuck his head out. "Hey, buddy! Good thing you didn't wear your Batman underwear, huh?" The man's gaze assessed Marissa. His hundred-watt smile indicated he liked what he saw.
"Hi there."

  "This is Marissa Vanderson," said Dane. "Marissa, this is Brent Williams."

  He put his hand on the small of her back as if to guide her to the truck, but she moved away from the possessive touch. She didn't much like him right now and she didn't have to put up with his behavior. She had choices, too.

  She found herself squeezed between the two men, straddling a stick shift. Dane stretched his arm across the backrest; her neck tingled as his arm slid across it. Dane's naked thigh heated her right leg and Brent's jean-clad thigh produced interesting friction on her left leg. Her nightgown only stretched so far, giving both men bird's eye views of a considerable amount of flesh. If she wasn't careful, her panties might make an appearance.

  She felt decidedly hot.

  Really hot.

  In her wildest dreams, she never thought she'd be sandwiched between two handsome men. She had a healthy fantasy life, but this....

  "Is it warm in here?" she asked.

  "No," answered Dane.

  Brent reached between her legs to shift the gear. When the truck hit a pothole, his arm—going for the gearshift—bumped against her inside thigh. He shot her a wicked grin and winked. Next to her, Dane stiffened. She glanced at him and found him staring out the window. She might have believed his nonchalance if she hadn't noticed the tenseness of his jaw.

  Marissa wasn't sure what to do. She didn't understand Dane at all. Men were much more complicated creatures than she'd been led to believe. Daddy always gave in to Mommy's demands. Her father and mother finished each other's sentences. They did silly things like intentionally misquoting Shakespeare to suit their romantic moments and wearing those ghastly matching Hawaiian shirts when they went golfing. They loved each other, and they loved her, but their protectiveness had turned into control. It was almost as if they believed she would be fourteen-years-old forever; somehow, they had convinced themselves that time would stop for their little girl. But time didn't stop. Eight years had passed and she had grown up.

  For the millionth time, she wondered what her life would be like if Gillian hadn't died. Shaking off her thoughts, she turned to Brent. "So, what do you do?'