by Lisa Plumley
“It’s easy?” Damon raised his brows. “Go ahead, then.”
Oh yeah. Their conversation. Swerving back to it, Natasha put her hands on her hips. She looked at the bags of veggies and fruit Damon had purchased. She looked at Milo, contented and full of apples beside him. She looked at traitorous Finn, who’d merely thumped his tail at her approach instead of getting up and risking leaving Damon behind. Even her dog liked Damon best.
“If it’s so ‘easy’ to know what could go wrong with having a harmless picnic,” Damon prompted more precisely, “then tell me.”
“Well …” Natasha thought about it. A picnic. That would be nice. Damon probably did know of a good place to go. “I was planning to get home. I have some work to do in my garden shed.”
“Oh.” Damon assumed a peculiarly knowing and intent look. “Okay. We’ll do the picnic some other time, then.”
He whistled. Finn leaped to his paws. Then he … heeled.
Natasha boggled. “What did you do to Finn?”
“Hmm?” Damon glanced at the puppy. Finn gazed back at him, tongue lolling, in canine adulation. He didn’t otherwise budge. Damon shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess dogs just want to please us. All we have to do is step back and let them do it.”
“When I step back, Finn piddles on the rug.” Natasha gawked at her dog. “He hasn’t even had any free dog training yet.”
“Well, I’ve noticed he seems to respond well to whistling. Maybe Finn is musical.” Damon gave her a teasing look. “Maybe he doesn’t like the tune you’ve chosen to call him with. Maybe it doesn’t sound like fun to him.”
“Oh, please.” Exasperated, Natasha folded her arms. “What’s really going on here is that your usual mojo is back.”
Damon scoffed. “Yep. And I’m using it to influence dogs.”
She swept the market with a meaningful look. “And women. Do you realize you’d magnetically pulled every female within a six-block radius? Even cats? They were all at this stand with you.”
“That’s just the kids-and-dogs effect.” Damon laughed. He accepted the sack of mixed citrus fruits from the seller, then tucked it in one of his bags. “Everyone knows women love cute kids and adorable puppies. If you happen to be packing both—”
Women fall at your feet, Damon’s body language suggested. It can’t be helped, his eloquent shrug told Natasha next.
“Then you’re not aware that five of those women wrote their phone numbers on those oranges and grapefruits with Sharpies?”
“Sharpies?” He laughed more loudly, then gathered up Milo as easily as he had Finn. Both of them fell in line behind Damon, the pied piper of the farmers market. Helplessly, Natasha did, too. Just to keep up. “Who packs Sharpies?”
“Women. Women with purses. Do you know what I have in here?” To prove her point, Natasha patted her purse. “More than you can imagine. I could survive for a week with this stuff.”
Damon thought about that. “Do you have a Sharpie?”
“No.” Inwardly, Natasha grumbled. “Not exactly. But—”
His dazzling grin flashed. “I rest my case.”
“You don’t have a case! What you have is unbelievably good luck when it comes to women, misbehaving puppies, and children!”
“Well, all the better for you, then.” Fondly, Damon put his hand to the small of her back. He guided her toward the exit. People smiled and made way for them. Reggae music played. Balloons drifted past. So did ocean breezes. “You’re a woman with a puppy and a child. That makes us a perfect match.”
“We’re not a match,” Natasha insisted. We could have been, if things had been different, but … “We’re all wrong for each other.”
Before Natasha could enumerate the ways, one of the farmers market customers ran up to them. She had one of Damon’s canvas bags in her hand and an apologetic smile on her face.
“Here,” she told Natasha. “Your husband forgot this.”
Natasha blanched. “Oh, we’re not—” Married? Preposterous.
“It’s really sweet to see such a loving family spending the day together,” the woman gushed as Natasha automatically took the bag. The woman beamed at Milo. And Finn. “Have a nice day!”
As she left, Damon gave Natasha a wiseass look. “See? That’s the kids-and-dogs effect in action. I’m right. Total strangers are corroborating my point.”
“The fact that total strangers are rushing to your defense only proves my point,” Natasha shot back. “You’re you again.”
The realization made her inexplicably sad. She’d kind of been hoping, Natasha realized, that only she could glimpse everything that was special about Damon. She’d kind of been hoping that his bad-luck streak would persuade him to reserve his most intimate charms for her.
Obviously, whatever time they had together was limited. The clock was ticking. Pretty soon, Damon would go back to his regular life full of beautiful women, fast cars, and charisma.
But until that happened …
“You know what?” Natasha said impulsively, glancing up at his rugged profile. “Let’s do it. Let’s go on that picnic.”
“Picnic! Yay!” Milo danced a jig, holding Finn’s leash.
“I don’t want to keep you from the work you mentioned,” Damon insisted, keeping one eye dutifully on Milo as the boy jogged ahead. “I’m not Pacey.” On that confusing note, Damon added, “Besides, I think your work is hot. I like knowing you have a secret side. It makes you even more … you. It makes you incredible.”
Even as Damon delivered her another slow, sexy smile to prove it, warning bells went off in Natasha’s head. His reaction was the polar opposite of Paul’s. Paul had been threatened by her work. He’d been dismissive of it. Could Damon really think—
No. That didn’t matter, Natasha decided, on the verge of being lulled by Damon’s potential approval of her artwork. That was a road she’d better not step on, much less travel down.
What did Damon know about Paul’s shortcomings anyway, that he’d compare himself favorably to her ex-husband? What did Damon know about Natasha’s “secret” work in her garden shed?
What, exactly, had Carol been telling him?
“I do have to wonder, though,” Damon mused aloud, “why you wouldn’t say we’re a bad match because you’re with Pacey.”
Caught, Natasha stared at him. “I guess … I forgot.”
“I guess you did. Naughty girl.” Damon’s smile leaped back in place, as dazzling and intriguing as ever. He touched her hand. “I guess I’m rubbing off on you. We’d better be careful.”
Then, as Damon noticed Milo wandering farther ahead with Finn, he hurried to be at Milo’s side. The two of them exchanged smiles. As one, they turned and waited for Natasha to meet them.
But just then, as she looked at her son and at Damon—laden willingly with boxes and canvas bags and the additional burden of Milo’s personal, Elmo-branded “green” backpack—Natasha didn’t want to be careful. She’d had more than enough of being careful.
Damon was right. He was rubbing off on her.
She liked it. She liked the feeling of being naughty … even if (or maybe because) she wasn’t really doing anything wrong. She’d probably been foolish to fib to Damon about her long-ago divorce—to let him believe she was still married to Pacey (er, Paul)—but Natasha wasn’t sorry, either.
That little white lie was keeping her safe. As long as that continued to be true, she could continue to feel free around Damon. Free and crazily sexy. So, smilingly, Natasha added a little extra shimmy to her step as she went to meet him.
It was fun. Fun couldn’t possibly be wrong … could it?
It wasn’t until Natasha was seated on a worn-smooth boulder, looking out from a private spot near the lighthouse at Point Loma and getting sloppily juice-spattered by the fresh oranges she and Damon and Milo had been enjoying as they gazed out over the wave-tossed ocean that she realized something else … .
Damon was the one who believed fun couldn’t ever be wrong.
/>
Not her. Not ever her. Fun always wins was one of Damon’s mottos. It wasn’t hers. It had never been hers. It couldn’t be.
Struck by that realization, Natasha gazed at Damon.
He did seem happy with that philosophy. Even after all he’d been through with his flooded house and on-hold job and frozen bank accounts … and everything else she’d learned about today during her visit to La Jolla.
Damon seemed … content, even as he hunched over with Milo, helping her son segment another organic orange. For a renowned millionaire playboy with more charisma than common sense, that quotidian activity couldn’t have been very fascinating or very fun. Yet Damon made it seem as though it was fun. For him.
For that, Natasha cherished him. For as long as this lasted, she and Milo would have some extraordinary memories.
Also, it occurred to her, if Damon was being responsible …
That left her to enjoy herself! With that thought utmost in mind, Natasha stood. She washed her hands in a tide pool.
Milo noticed. “Mom!” he said in a scandalized tone, looking in bafflement at her. “That tide pool is outdoors. It’s probably dirty. Don’t you want some hand sanitizer?”
“Nope.” Cheerfully, Natasha wiped her wet—but now refreshingly non-sticky—hands on her jeans. She stretched herself upward—ever conscious of Damon’s attentive gaze on her figure—then looked out at the ocean. The sun dipped low; the wind tossed her hair and made her feel reckless. “This has been fun. So … who wants to go ride the Giant Dipper at Belmont Park?”
At her mention of the famous wooden roller coaster near Mission Beach, Finn seemed to sense the excitement in the air. He leaped and wagged his tail, abandoning his farmers market doggie treats in the process. Her puppy seemed ready to go.
But Milo only gawked at her. “The roller coaster? This late? It’s already sunset. It’ll be my bedtime pretty soon.” He looked at Damon, then shook his head worriedly. “You’d better handle this. I think my mom is sick or something.”
Natasha laughed. “I’m not sick. I just feel like having some more fun today.” The dubious look on her son’s face made her wonder exactly how dreary she’d become while striving always to be a prepared, loving, responsible, PTO-VOLUNTEERING, traveling-for-business, guilty-feeling single mother. But not today. Not while Damon was there to pick up the slack.
“It’s not that far to Mission Beach, and the park will be open way past dark. In fact, it’s better at night!” Cheerfully, Natasha eyed them both. “Who’s up for more fun today?”
Milo and Damon traded puzzled glances. Natasha could almost see her son’s gears turning as he considered staying up late.
Then … “I am!” they shouted in unison.
It was all happening just the way Natasha wanted it to.
Satisfied, she smiled. “That,” she said, “is more like it. Let’s go.”
Chapter 18
Feeling uniquely invigorated—and a lot more tired than he (as a notorious, party-all-night, nonstop playboy) had a right to be—Damon followed Natasha into her apartment. He stepped very carefully over the threshold, watching as Natasha turned on the lights. She dumped her purse and canvas bags on the sofa. Then, limned by the lamplight, she turned to face Damon. All around her, the whole place seemed to glow with hominess and welcome.
Awed by it, Damon hesitated. He wasn’t sure he belonged.
Milo disagreed. Riding gleefully on his shoulders, the boy clutched Damon’s head. He gave him a one-handed shoulder whack. “Mush, Damon!” Milo shouted, wiggling with energy. “Mush!”
“There’ll be no more mushing tonight.” Natasha knelt to unfasten Finn’s leash from his collar. She gave the puppy an affectionate pat, then set him loose to scamper to his water bowl in the kitchen. “It’s past bedtime for you, Mr. Giant Dipper.”
“Aw, Mom! Do I have to go to bed already?”
“I’m afraid so.” Natasha glanced at Damon. “Don’t worry. If Damon’s up for it, he can give you piggyback rides all day long tomorrow.”
“It won’t be as much fun then,” Milo pouted as Damon carefully hoisted him higher, then set him on his feet again. “Tomorrow there won’t be roller coasters and games and all those flashing lights.”
The boy’s face shone at the memory, sparking a similar sense of instant nostalgia in Damon. It had been fun visiting Belmont Park today. It had been fun riding rides, playing games, walking hand-in-hand through the beachside attractions. Milo had seemed to relish every minute. So had Damon. He’d felt as if he was finally part of something real … something lasting and good.
And Natasha … well, she’d shown Damon a whole other side to her tonight. She’d raced from ride to ride. She’d shrieked with glee on the roller coaster. She’d bought cotton candy and eaten it with sticky-fingered abandon. Then she’d licked her fingers, one by one, and accidentally ignited an entirely different sense of appreciation in Damon. Not that he was completely sure her actions had been an accident. Given the provocative way she’d been looking at him as she’d stuck her finger in her mouth …
“I’m sure it’ll be fun anyway,” Natasha said now, all potential flirtatiousness gone. She smiled at her son, then shooed him toward his room. “Put away your stuff first, then—”
“Tooth brushing. I know.” With elaborate world-weariness, Milo picked up his jacket and backpack and all the things he—as a naturally curious little boy—had collected today. “I’m going.”
With a nod, Natasha accepted that. She bustled around doing little things, straightening her wind-tousled hair and checking her cell phone for messages. Her newfound sense of fun seemed to be slipping away from her with every moment that passed.
Damon didn’t like that. But he did like knowing, as he did now, that Natasha was an artist. He was glad that Carol had confided in him. Because he believed Natasha could be creative and imaginative. He believed she could bring beauty into the world. He loved the idea of Natasha being utterly engrossed in doing something. Something that was just for her. Something that brought her pleasure and fulfillment and a sense of purpose.
Natasha’s purpose in life went beyond making sure Damon arrived at his appointments on time, he realized in that moment. It went beyond bailing him out of jail, out of relationships, and out of responsibilities he should have shouldered himself. Because of him—and also because of Pacey, that selfish bastard—she’d stymied her natural impulses and dimmed her creativity.
Because of him, she’d given up. But not anymore, Damon vowed. Not if he could help it—and he meant to do just that.
Which didn’t mean he was going all one-hundred-percent altruistic. It didn’t mean Damon didn’t wish he could push Natasha’s creative impulses to the limit in other, more erotic ways. He did. But until Damon knew what was going on between her and Pacey—
“Bath time next,” Natasha told Milo. She brushed off the tight-fitting seat of her jeans, then made a rueful face. “I think we could all use a cleanup. Then, bedtime. It’s pretty late—you’ll have to have a shorter bedtime story tonight.”
“I want Damon to read to me!” Milo said. “Please, Mom?”
“It sounds as though your adoring public wants an encore.” Natasha sent Damon a questioning look. “What do you say?”
“I say I hope there’s more Dr. Seuss,” Damon told them both. Then, smiling, he went to help Milo get settled in.
With only one bathroom in her apartment, Natasha was used to juggling shower and tooth-brushing times. She was used to taking turns. She was resigned to semipermanently forgoing luxuries like long, indulgent bubble baths. What she wasn’t used to was the fact that Damon approached his role in Milo’s bedtime routine entirely differently from the way she did. As a result, Milo was ready for bed—and his bedtime story—at warp speed.
Standing in Milo’s doorway, Natasha stared in disbelief as her son eagerly crawled beneath the covers. Wearing his Toy Story pajamas, with his hair still a little damp and his face shining from a good, soapy scrubbing
, he looked so much like the tiny toddler she’d chased nonstop around this apartment a few years ago that it made her feel unexpectedly wistful.
Milo had taken to Damon immediately and enthusiastically, it occurred to her. She hoped she wouldn’t regret letting them spend so much time together. After Damon left …
Well, she wouldn’t think about that now.
Milo seemed to have coped with his father’s absence pretty well. He couldn’t possibly get too attached to Damon over the course of a week or two, could he? However long it took Natasha to help Damon, Milo would be fine at the end of it.
She, on the other hand, might have a more difficult time.
Because being with Damon today had been like being with her dream man. All during their impromptu picnic, during the drive to and from rocky Point Loma, and during their time together at Belmont Park, Damon had smoothly segued from sexy companion to jovial jokester; from handholding tease to piggyback-ride-offering helper; from bantering, smiling, admiring playboy to backpack-and bag-toting, stuffed-animal-winning, generous, protective family man in disguise.
With no effort at all, Damon had sparked all Natasha’s fantasies—even ones she hadn’t known she’d had. He’d been the ultimate seducer and the perfect platonic companion, in fast succession and with evident willingness. He’d been … remarkable.
He was still doing it, even now, Natasha saw as she drew in a deep breath and prepared to join him and Milo. Seated on the chair beside Milo’s bed, Damon was cracking open a copy of Yertle the Turtle, making a joke with Milo before reading it … and flexing his biceps in a way that made Natasha imagine what else Damon could do with all that strength of his. He could do a thousand pushups. He could open stuck pickle jars. He could balance himself atop her, all those muscles flexing and working, and make love to her in her big double bed in the room down the hall.
Feeling a surge of raw lustfulness sweep over her, Natasha grabbed the doorjamb. With effort, she wrenched her gaze away from Damon. She wished she could blot out his voice, too. Maybe then she would quit imagining Damon using that sexy, husky voice of his to whisper sweet nothings in her ear as he slowly undressed her, urgently touched her, kissed her and kissed her—
