by Heidi Rice
She tramped down the familiar guilt that she’d worked so hard to deny. And the agonising feeling of inadequacy.
For god’s sake. Was she going to keep making the same mistake forever? She didn’t love Brent the way she’d once convinced herself she loved Henry. But she had invested more in their night together than she should have. Or that bloody note wouldn’t have got to her the way it had.
‘That’s bullshit,’ Brent said from the opposite side of the cab, interrupting her pity party. ‘Your card wasn’t the real reason I freaked out.’
‘Then what was?’ she asked, curious despite the fact that she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
He shrugged. ‘You’d made me feel good, and I didn’t want to deal with it, I guess.’
‘What was there to deal with? It was only sex.’
‘Seriously?’ He raised a sceptical eyebrow, calling her on the lie. ‘Even that last time?’
‘That would be your endorphins talking,’ she said, the panicked flutter returning. This conversation was straying into dangerous waters. ‘And those little buggers lie, all the time.’ They’d certainly lied to her about Henry.
‘Hey, I know that,’ he said, the rueful smile on his face surprisingly endearing. ‘I married a woman who ended up hating my guts thanks to those lying bastards.’
The revealing statement sparked her curiosity, unsettling her more. She’d convinced herself she didn’t want to know anything about his past, his ex-wife. So why should this tiny glimpse make her want to probe?
Sam had told her that Brent was a hard-ass with women because of his divorce. But had he really been a hard-ass with her? They’d jumped into bed without knowing the first thing about each other but still he’d treated her with surprising care and consideration—give or take the odd playful smack on the arse! Before that bloody note, he’d made her feel good too, especially in those moments before dawn. And wasn’t that precisely why she’d been so hurt by what happened afterwards?
‘Was it very bad?’ she asked, before she could think better of it. ‘Your divorce?’ The muscle in his jaw tensed, and she instantly felt like a fraud. ‘I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.’ What right did she have to ask him such a personal question when she had absolutely no desire to share and discuss her own past?
‘Divorce is never pretty,’ he said, surprising her with an answer. ‘But the marriage was a mistake from the start. So it could have been worse.’
‘How could it have been worse?’
‘It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. I was young and stupid. And high on those pesky endorphins.’ He smiled, but he looked more rueful than amused. ‘I didn’t love her. I only thought I did. I guess she dazzled me. She looked like a supermodel, her old man was richer than Rockefeller and she had this sense of entitlement that made her seem special. I couldn’t believe she’d agreed to marry me.’ He shrugged. ‘She was slumming it at Cornell because she hadn’t gotten into Harvard. And I was on a scholarship, proud of being the first kid in my family to get past high-school graduation. It didn’t take long for the cracks to show once we’d graduated.’
‘So she was a snob,’ Tally said, not attempting to hide her contempt. The woman sounded like a bitch—although she would love to know why all the biggest bitches got to be disguised as a supermodels instead of, well, dogs.
His lips curved, the smile genuine this time. ‘I guess she hadn’t planned to slum it for the rest of her life. Anyway, by the time we called it quits, it had gotten pretty ugly. But by then we’d figured out we didn’t like each other much. So it was okay.’
‘Pretty ugly, how?’
He hitched his shoulder. ‘You know, the usual. Arguments that lasted forever, never-ending sulks about nothing. Neither one of us wanted to admit we’d made a huge mistake. But then Della got it into her head that I’d tricked her into the marriage. Things got really ugly after that.’
She could hear the regret in his voice. Why was he still shouldering so much of the blame? Surely it took two people to make a marriage work. ‘What happened?’
He stared at her, twin flags of colour highlighting his cheekbones. ‘She took a photo of my cock while I was sleeping and posted it on both our Facebook walls. The caption was something about the monster I married.’
‘Bugger off!’ Tally sucked in a breath, horrified. ‘What a cow.’ How old was this woman? Thirteen? What a nasty thing to do.
‘It was pretty damn humiliating at the time. She made me feel like a freak. But the divorce was child’s play after that.’
Shame engulfed her at the thought of her nasty tweet that morning and the furore it had caused. ‘Oh, my god! Brent, I’m so sorry about tweeting that photo of you.’
If what his wife had done was tacky, what she’d done to him wasn’t far behind. And his ex hadn’t humiliated him in front of five hundred thousand complete strangers.
‘Hey, at least I had my pants on for that one,’ he said, being surprisingly magnanimous in the circumstances. ‘And you already apologised.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t actually mean it.’ Although she did now. No wonder he wasn’t big on trust. Who could blame him? ‘Then,’ she added hastily. ‘I do mean it now. Obviously. Absolutely.’ She crossed her little finger over her heart and kissed the tip, suddenly desperate for him to believe her. To trust her, if only a little bit. ‘Pinkie swear.’
He gripped her finger, choking out a laugh. ‘I guess I’m gonna have to accept your apology, then. Again.’
She smiled back, relieved by the twinkle of humour. ‘Well, at least now you know why I’m called the Blind Date Bitch.’
He linked his fingers through hers, tugged her closer. ‘You’re not a bitch. You tell it how it is. There’s a difference.’
He actually sounded as though he meant it, the admiration in his gaze as it swept over her face unmistakable. The swell of affection blind-sided her as his lips covered hers in a tender, searching kiss that felt very much like the one he’d given her that afternoon in the closet. It had frightened her then; it terrified her now.
She thrust her tongue into his mouth, letting the hunger consume her, determined to turn the kiss into something carnal and predictable—instead of random and scary. He groaned, encouraging her. She laid her hand on his knee, stroked the hard thigh heading towards his groin. She needed to get this seduction back on track.
Not that it was a seduction, she reminded herself.
But he placed a hand over hers, halting her exploration, and ended the kiss before it could get properly filthy. ‘Hold that thought.’ He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze, which didn’t do much to reassure her stuttering heartbeat, or quell the throb of arousal making her nipples pinch into hard peaks.
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re here.’ It was only then she noticed the cab had stopped in front of the thoroughfare that led onto Millennium Bridge. Known as the Blade of Light, the pedestrian bridge spanned the Thames in a sleek steel arch, connecting St Paul’s to Shakespeare’s Globe and the Tate Modern on the south side of the river.
She’d always loved this bridge, thinking its striking yet functional design encapsulated all the things that marked London as a thriving modern metropolis with a rich and vivid history.
She wasn’t loving it much at the moment, though. ‘Let’s tell the driver to take us to the nearest hotel. How’s that for straight talking?’
‘Nothing doing,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got plans for this evening that don’t involve jumping you.’ He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss into her palm before climbing out and holding the door open. ‘Yet.’
The cheeky wiggle of his eyebrows made her feel a little less foolish. But not much.
He handled the fare, then clasped her hand to lead her towards the bridge.
‘I hope your plans involve something better than sex,’ she grumbled. ‘Be
cause otherwise I’m going to be disappointed.’
He slung a hand round her waist, drew her against his side. ‘Nothing’s better than sex. Not the way we do it.’
‘If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it’s not working.’ She glared at him, the freshness of the autumn breeze between her legs not helping. Maybe leaving her knickers behind had been a tactical error. How on earth was she supposed to stop herself from giving him anything he wanted when she was on a knife-edge of arousal?
‘Suck it up, kid.’ He dropped an easy kiss on her lips, matching his steps to hers.
‘I’d rather suck you.’
‘Quit it.’ He gave a strained chuckle. ‘And stop pouting. Hasn’t anyone ever told you anticipation is nine-tenths of the fun?’
His large hand skimmed down to the slope of her bottom to emphasise the idiotic notion in a deliciously agonising caress that promised much and delivered not nearly enough.
‘Yeah, right.’ She groaned. ‘More like nine-tenths of the agony.’
Chapter Ten
#NewRule: Ignore all previous #NewRules cos the 1st rule of hot dating is: THERE R NO RULES. Only you + him (+ optional knickers)... #Whoknew?
‘Do you think the architect actually intended for it to look like a huge phosphorescent phallus at night? Or is that a lucky coincidence?’ Tally pressed a hand to her stomach to still the swoop of vertigo as she stared at the luminous green panels of the Gherkin and the fortress turrets of the Tower of London from their vantage point on the thirty-ninth floor of the Heron Tower.
Brent’s laughter stirred her hair as he wrapped his arms around her waist to draw her back against his chest. ‘I’m not sure I’d call it lucky.’
She laughed too, the sound equally strained as she allowed herself to settle into his embrace—grateful for the strong arms anchoring her to the spot and preventing her from floating off into London’s starry night sky.
The evening had been enchanting. Brent had thought of everything, escorting her first to an exhibition at the Tate Modern that had only opened last weekend and which she’d been trying to get tickets to for weeks. Then he’d whisked her off to the Shard for a three-course dinner at AquaShard, the restaurant halfway up Europe’s tallest building. The new British cuisine on the menu had been delicious, or it would have been if she’d been able to swallow more than a few bites. Finally they’d arrived at the cocktail bar in Samsushi in the Heron Tower a half an hour ago—supposedly to admire the view. But she’d spent most of the time admiring him—jolly green giant phallic symbols notwithstanding.
As pity dates went, she’d never had better. In fact, as any dates went, she’d never had better. If she’d felt good the night before, she felt cherished now. But she knew not to read too much into it. Brent had wanted to apologise and, as she’d discovered yesterday, he was a man with enough focus and concentration to ensure he always achieved his goals. Whether that involved giving the woman in his bed a mind-blowing orgasm or a woman he’d insulted the blind date of her life.
Luckily she wasn’t the sentimental sort, or he would have gotten more than he bargained for tonight, because she’d found herself enjoying his company. Maybe a tad too much.
With that in mind, she’d made sure to steer the conversation away from any more personal observations about his past—and neatly side-stepped all his probing questions about hers. Even that small insight into the failure of his marriage had shown her that Brent would be an easy man to fall for. She didn’t plan to make that mistake. Not again.
Unfortunately she hadn’t accounted for the fact that even small talk with someone like Brent could be dangerous. Who would have guessed they’d find so much to discuss outside of sex?
They’d argued, good-naturedly, about the difference between American football and the beautiful game (which Tally had categorically refused to call soccer), whether Lee Harvey Oswald was a lone gunman (Brent, it turned out, didn’t have as lurid an imagination as she did when it came to convoluted conspiracy theories), and whether a mojito could claim to be a real drink (Brent’s imagination also being fairly conservative on the subject of cocktails—either that or he had something against mint). But best of all had been their lengthy debate on that all-important question for the ages: Who would win in a fight, Batman or Superman? Brent, being a total guy and a tech geek to boot, had refused to acknowledge the magnificence of Henry Cavill’s chest as one of Superman’s prime assets and declared Batman the winner by virtue of his cool gadgets. Tally had eventually conceded defeat in the face of Brent’s in-depth knowledge of Batman’s arsenal of geeky hardware and his enthusiasm for arcane comic-book factoids.
Sam had once dubbed him a wolf in geek’s clothing, but who knew that the first time the geek came out of hiding, Tally would find him so ridiculously cute?
She stroked her hand along Brent’s forearm and watched his reflection in the glass as he bent to nuzzle her neck, the swell of affection catching her unawares. Disturbed, she swung round in his embrace. Time to bring out the wolf again and dispense with his clothing altogether.
They’d had their real date and it had been fun. But it was getting a little bit scary again now. Luckily, all through the evening there had also been a subtext that had kept her fears at bay whenever she’d panicked that she was taking his attention too seriously. And that subtext had been all about sex.
The long smouldering looks, the stolen kisses, the possessive touches. The way he gripped her fingers as the elevator zipped up to the thirty-ninth floor. The way his palm stole down to settle on the curve of her ass while they viewed a statue of a naked man on a park bench in the Tate Modern’s cavernous entrance hall. The brush of his lips against her ear-lobe when he’d held out her seat at the restaurant. Every one of them telegraphing his need and increasing hers.
It was way past time to stop playing by Brent’s rules and start imposing her own. Before this date got any more complicated.
She gripped the lapels of his suit to tug his face down to hers. ‘I need to tell you a secret, Brent.’
‘A secret? I’m intrigued.’ His hands bracketed her hips, drawing her against him. She loved the boldness of the gesture, and the fact that he didn’t seem bothered by the sidelong looks they were getting from the bar’s other inhabitants—a collection of young city workers enjoying a night out after a hard week’s work fondling other people’s money.
She lifted up on tiptoes to whisper against his ear-lobe. ‘I was in such a hurry to get ready this evening, I completely forgot to put on a vital item of clothing.’
His whole body stiffened and the muscle in his jaw jumped. His large hands shuddered and then lifted from her hips to squeeze her waist, almost as if he were trying to stop them heading in the wrong direction. ‘And what item of clothing would that be?’
She trailed her finger-nail over the collar of his shirt, angling it under the white linen that opened over his throat. ‘Guess.’
He’d lost the tie several hours ago and undone the first two buttons, revealing the dark wisps of hair on his chest and the tanned column of his throat. She took a moment to torture them both, trailing one coral-tipped nail across the well of his collar-bone as his Adam’s apple bobbed. His hand slipped a fraction, his thumb caressing the silky chiffon covering her hip. Moisture surged between her thighs.
‘How about you give me a clue?’ His voice sounded parched, his breathing laboured.
Her own breathing wasn’t entirely steady as she pressed her palms to his chest and leaned against him to whisper above the low hum of music and the buzz of conversation. ‘The truth is, I didn’t forget them exactly—they were simply surplus to requirements. Besides, this dress is a VPL hazard waiting to happen.’
His brow cocked higher. ‘What the hell’s a VPL?’ he asked, his voice properly hoarse now.
She slipped her tongue out to moisten her lips and his gaze d
arted down to her mouth. ‘A visible panty line.’
His fingers curled into her dress, tightening the fabric across her bottom and lifting the hem several crucial inches as he waged a battle with his control. Part of her—the insane part of her—willed him to lose. And take her right here in the middle of a crowded bar. Getting arrested for public indecency seemed like a small price to pay to end the torment.
‘Are you telling me you don’t have any panties on under this dress, Tally?’
‘That would be correct.’
His rough palms rubbed the cool chiffon backwards and forwards, heating the skin beneath and making her body burn to feel his blunt fingers gliding over her clit.
‘And are you also telling me you haven’t been wearing any panties all night?’ The question was low, measured, the look on his face anything but.
She nodded, fairly sure she couldn’t trust her own voice anymore.
‘Fuck? Seriously?’ The desperation in his words matched her own ricocheting heartbeat. What had been flirty fun only moments ago suddenly seemed fraught with tension. Her thighs quivered as his eyes bored into hers.
Why didn’t this feel like simple sex anymore? Why did it feel like complicated sex all of a sudden? They’d had a good time together, nothing more. This couldn’t go any further, so why did it feel as if it already had?
‘Yes, seriously,’ she said, unable to hold the words back. Wanting him to take the need away, in the only way that mattered.
He burst into action. Grabbing her hand, he hauled her through the crowd, away from the wall of glass that looked out over London’s skyline and into the darkened interior of the club. ‘To hell with this,’ he muttered as they shot down the spiral staircase that led to the elevators.
It took an eternity to get their coats from the hat-check girl. But when he paused to hold her coat for her, she got that scary flutter in her stomach to go with the hot surge of lust.
He yanked her close in the lift, covered her lips as they swooped to ground level and the London street zoomed towards them. His hands swept over her bottom, but instead of lifting her skirt, he held the material down. She thrust her fingers into his hair, her heartbeat bumping her throat.
