Cruise Control

by Sarah Mayberry

  The sound of someone swimming told her where she would find him, and the tension banding her shoulders relaxed a notch. He’d been in the pool—that was why he’d buzzed her in. Nothing more meaningful than sheer convenience. Placing the carrier bag just inside the French doors that opened onto the terrace, she went down the broad, deep steps until she was on the lowest level. He was slicing up the pool, his strong arms cutting through the water like scythes. She enjoyed the play of the dying sun on his tanned arms and back, marveling at his strength and speed. He gave no indication that he knew she was there, and after a while she turned to the view, mesmerized by the color show the sun was providing as it retired for the day.

  The lack of splashing told her when he’d stopped swimming, and she turned in time to see him step from the water, his broad-shouldered body glistening with moisture. He wore midthigh-length board shorts, and his dark hair was slicked sleekly to his skull, highlighting the harsh planes of his face and the chiseled lines of his mouth. It made him seem harder, implacable, almost intimidating as he approached her.

  “Some view,” she said drily.

  He didn’t match her smile, his dark eyes sweeping down her body as he stood dripping in front of her.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said.

  The old hunger was in his eyes, but something was different. She frowned as she preceded him up the stairs, terribly aware of him following close behind her, his tall, near-naked body still damp from the pool. He’d simply slicked the excess moisture from his arms and legs before following her up the stairs, but he stopped to collect a towel from a nearby sun lounger when they arrived at the house. The silence stretched between them, and for some reason Anna felt a tangle of nervous knots forming in her belly. She’d never been tongue-tied with him before, never been at a loss for something to discuss with him. He had a keen, analytical mind, and a sharp sense of humor. She knew he appreciated her take on things, and that he enjoyed her brand of humor. But tonight she got the distinct impression that he wasn’t in the mood for talk.

  “Um, how was work?” she finally asked as he led her into the house.

  He shrugged one broad shoulder as he headed toward the staircase.

  “Work was work. As it always is,” he said dismissively.

  Okay, he was definitely not in the mood for talking. Anna hesitated at the bottom of the stairs as he started up them.

  “Look, if tonight’s a bad time for you, if you want me to go…” she said, offering him the opportunity to renege on their arrangement, very carefully not acknowledging the hurt she felt at his cool, hard demeanor. They were lovers, nothing more. If he wanted an evening to himself, he was more than entitled. She just needed to know, that was all.

  He paused halfway up the stairs, staring down at her. She felt his dark gaze roam up and down her body, then at last it seemed to zero in on her mouth.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he said baldly. He turned and continued his ascent, and she stood staring at his receding back for a few beats before following him. It felt like a mistake, staying when he was so clearly in a dark place. But her body needed him. With one glance he’d managed to strip her bare, and she was already anticipating his hands on her skin. She had to have him.

  He was waiting for her when she entered his bedroom. Her heart skipped a beat as he stepped closer. She wondered if it would always be like this, if he would always be able to arouse her so quickly, so readily, with just a look or a gesture. As he lowered his head, dark eyes glinting with desire, she realized that when the hunger ended, so, too, would their fling. That was the deal, really, wasn’t it?

  His lips were cool from the pool, and the thin fabric of her shift dress was swiftly soaked through as he hauled her up against his damp body. His kisses were different tonight, all control or finesse gone as he ravaged her mouth, his hands demanding and impatient on her body. She didn’t care, she just wanted him close, some part of her exhilarating in his savagery. She made a small, needy sound as his hands slid up onto her breasts, and the next thing she knew she was being tumbled back onto the bed and he was pushing her skirt up. He tugged her panties off impatiently, and she loved the urgency in him. She felt the coolness of his skin against hers as he kneed her legs apart, and she spread her legs in welcome as the familiar weight of him settled between her thighs. He made an animal sound of approval as his seeking hand found her wet folds, and she bit her lip, anticipating the usual bittersweet torture of his caresses.

  But no sooner had he touched her than his hands were gone, and there was a quick pause for him to protect them before the thick heat of him was sliding inside her, buried deep, his hips flexing as he withdrew to plunge into her again. His body was tight with tension as he pounded himself into her, and even as part of her reveled in his raw need and hunger, another part of her registered that his face above hers was fixed and hard, his eyes tightly closed as he rode her. There was a resigned intensity to his expression—as though he was trying to lose himself in her.

  But despite herself, despite her growing doubt and unease, she couldn’t stop her body from responding. The familiar tension was coiling tighter and tighter inside her, and she wrapped her thighs around his hips and gave herself up to his mindless domination. Her orgasm tore a cry from her throat even as he shuddered his climax into her. While she was still shivering with aftershocks, he withdrew from her in one smooth, fast move, and then he was gone. She heard the shower come on, and she stared at the ceiling, trying to work out what had just happened between them.

  Her dress was rucked up around her waist, and she sat up, tugging it down, then reached for her underwear where he’d discarded it. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting, when Marc emerged from the en suite bathroom, a towel slung around his waist. He pushed his hair back from his forehead when he saw her, and she caught a glimpse of something cold and lonely in his eyes. He really didn’t want her there, she realized.

  “Listen, I’ll just go,” she said, springing to her feet.

  “It’s fine. If you want to stay,” he said, shrugging, his dark gaze roaming over her body.

  He meant if she wanted more sex. Absurd, ridiculous tears pricked at the back of her eyes. He was like a stranger. The funny, warm, considerate man she’d laughed and made love with over the past week had disappeared behind a cold, implacable facade. And she didn’t want to have sex with this new Marc, even if he could bring her to a screaming climax like the one she’d experienced not five minutes ago.

  Shaking her head, she turned for the door.

  “Anna, wait,” he said.

  She paused, watching as he crossed to his bedside table, yanking the drawer open to extract his wallet. She watched with growing confusion as he pulled four hundred dollars from between the supple leather folds.

  “For the hotel room,” he said, offering the money.

  She shook her head instinctively. “It’s fine,” she said.

  “I insist,” he said, twitching the hand with the money imperiously, indicating that she should take it.

  Suddenly she remembered how arrogant she’d found him when they first met.

  “I covered it. The room was my idea,” she said coolly.

  “At least let me pay my half,” he insisted.

  “Why?” she asked abruptly, feeling pushed around and not liking it one little bit.

  “Does it matter?” he asked, exasperated. “Just take the money, Anna.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “Because I don’t want to feel obligated,” he bit out.

  It felt like a slap, and she had to work very hard at not letting her shock and hurt show on her face. Thank God she’d once been a lawyer.

  “Fine,” she said very coolly, plucking two hundred dollars from his hand. “Now we’re even.”

  Turning on her heel, she exited. She had nothing else to say to him. Or, more accurately, she was very afraid that if she stayed she might not be able to stop herself from demanding what had changed, why he was being like
this. She didn’t have the right to ask such things, she knew.

  But there was one thing that resounded clearly inside her as she let herself out the gate and slid into the sanctuary of her car.

  It was over. Of that there could be no doubt. From the moment he’d buzzed her in the gate to the moment he’d held that money out to her, the whole evening had been one big salutary lesson: it was time to end the fling. Because he should not have had the power to hurt her. She should not have felt the threatening sting of tears when it became clear that he didn’t want her there. Somewhere along the way, lust had turned to liking, even to respect and admiration. And she’d stepped over the line.

  A solitary tear ran down her cheek, but she scrubbed it away fiercely. She would not cry over Marc Lewis. He had been her lover, a walking hard-on that she’d enjoyed for a week or so. That was it. They barely knew each other. He didn’t have the power to hurt her.

  She knew it wasn’t the whole truth. But it would get her through the night. And the next night, and all the nights afterward when she craved Marc’s hands on her body.

  It was over. It had to be.

  AS SOON AS she was gone he swore, then started down the stairs after her. But the sound of the front door clicking shut had already sounded by the time he’d reached the halfway landing, and he stopped in his tracks. What was he going to say to her? Apart from, “Sorry, I was angry with my soon-to-be ex-wife and I took it out on you?” That was a conversation neither of them would welcome or relish.

  He’d just taken something uniquely pleasurable and simple and made it very complicated, he realized. And in doing so had probably ruined it. There had been a finality in Anna’s last words, in the determined swing of her hips as she made for the door.

  And perhaps that was the way he wanted it, if he was being honest with himself. Seeing Tara today had brought back an avalanche of memories and emotions that he’d been positive he’d put paid to. They were half memories, faded emotions, true, but they’d been enough to remind him of why he didn’t want to get involved again. Sitting opposite Tara, staring into her gray eyes, he’d searched in vain for the woman he’d once loved. But the woman staring back at him bore little resemblance to the girl he’d met and married when he was twenty-five. This woman was slimmer, more composed. Her mouth was held more tightly, her neck more stiffly. She dressed more conservatively. She laughed less often.

  And she looked sadder. This last thought struck him as he sat on the balcony outside his bedroom nursing a whiskey and staring out at the ink-dark water of the harbor. He wondered if she was still with John, if their relationship had survived the exposure of their affair and the breakup of her marriage. He could find out, if he wanted to. Alison would probably know; she made it her business to keep tabs on Tara. But he didn’t care. That was a strange realization—the ball of anger that he’d nursed toward the other man had seemed as insoluble as concrete at one time. Now it had gone.

  The business side of the divorce had been a breeze. Tara was being surprisingly fair-minded. She didn’t even want half, which she’d have been more than entitled to given the span of their marriage. She’d kept their old house, a more modest dwelling in Balmain, and she’d asked for the deed to the beach property. That had caused a pang, but in the interests of expediency he’d agreed. She kept her shares in the business, and he had the option of buying her out in twelve months’ time should he choose to do so. And that was it. No children or pets to carve up. Just assets and lost dreams and hopes.

  All in all, not the grueling session it could have been. Very civilized, in fact. No accusations thrown, no tearful insults or character assassinations. He’d even stood up from the table feeling vaguely satisfied with the entire proceedings. And then they’d stepped into the elevator at the same time on their way out of the building.

  At first Tara had just kept her eyes straight ahead, hands wrapped around the straps of her handbag as she held it in front of her like a shield. He realized as they plunged toward the ground that she was laboring under some strong emotion, and sure enough, before the doors opened on the ground floor she turned to him, eyes burning, to spit out what was on her mind.

  “Do you know what I think is the saddest thing about our marriage, Marc?” she said. “Not once have you ever asked me why.”

  “I would have thought the answer to that was fairly obvious,” he responded coolly.

  “Would you? Tell me, then—why do you think I had an affair?”

  Just remembering the challenge in her words made him angry all over again.

  “You’re the one who slept with another man for more than a year, Tara. It’s a little late to be playing the self-righteous martyr now, don’t you think?”

  “You think I should have been content with what I had, don’t you? You think the nice car and the nice house and the good prospects should have been enough.” She’d stared hard at him then. “Ask yourself this, Marc. Were you happy? Were all the nice things enough to make it all worthwhile for you?”

  “I guess we’ll never know, will we, since you thought so little of the ten years we’d spent together that you screwed our accountant behind my back every chance you got,” he’d said tersely.

  That had shut her up, but he couldn’t silence her words as easily now as they echoed around his head. Had he been happy? He tried to think back to the time before he’d discovered Tara’s betrayal. It seemed so long ago that the memories were the mental equivalent of sepia photographs.

  Shaking his head, he tossed back the last of the whiskey. The liquor burned a trail down his throat, and he stood and leaned against the railing, bringing his mind back to his present problem. Anna.

  He’d pushed her away tonight. He should have told her not to come over, but he’d wanted her, needed her. Then, as soon as he’d slaked his need he’d been overcome with resentment at the power she had over him. He’d thought about her all day. He couldn’t get enough of her luscious body. And he couldn’t resist her.

  So it was a good thing that their fling was over. Tara had just reminded him of why it was important to ensure he was the one calling the shots, and where Anna was concerned, he was out of control. It was tough admitting that to himself, but it was better to face an unpalatable truth than ignore it. His desire for her had shown no signs of burning out. And he’d begun to think about more than just her body. He’d started to care.

  So. It was for the best. Refusing to believe anything else, Marc went inside to pour himself another whiskey.

  It was over.

  THE PHONE WAS RINGING as Anna let herself back into her apartment. For a second she allowed herself to hope it was Marc, despite her newly formed resolution. But she knew better. He could have stopped her as she left his house. Or called her on her mobile phone as she drove away. No, it wouldn’t be him.

  “Thank God you’re home. I need to talk.” It was Danny, sounding wound up and confused.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you in five minutes. I’m on my way to your place.”

  Anna put the phone down and took a deep breath. Crossing to the bathroom, she turned the tap on and wet her hands, then ran her damp fingers over her face and into her hair. It helped, marginally.

  Danny’s knock sounded on her door almost immediately, and she went to let him in. He strode past her, hair askew, shirt crumpled, face screwed up in confusion.

  “I just don’t get it,” he said by way of greeting.

  She shut the door. “Something up?” she asked ironically.

  “Why would someone deliberately go out of their way to turn someone on, then just leave them high and dry? What kind of sick, twisted act is that?” Danny demanded.

  “Why am I getting the feeling that last night didn’t go so well? What happened with Ben?” Anna asked.

  “Nothing. Zilch. Nada,” Danny said, exasperation oozing from every pore.

  Anna frowned, remembering how keen Ben had seemed last night.

  “What, after all that flirtin
g he just up and left? Not even a kiss?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Oh, no, we kissed. And it was pretty bloody amazing, too. That man has strong lips. Great lips.”

  Danny was shaking his head, eyes unfocused and far-off as he remembered.

  “Well, that’s not nothing,” she said, confused.

  Danny made an exasperated noise. “You don’t kiss someone like that unless you’re going to do something about it. And Ben was not interested in follow-through. He wants a relationship.” Danny spat the word out like it was poisoned.

  Despite the darkness of her own evening, Anna found herself stifling a smile. She had a vivid, high-definition image in her mind of the shocked, stunned expression on her brother’s face as Ben turned him down. Danny was a good-looking man. And gay guys weren’t generally known for their self-restraint. She’d bet a month’s wages that it had been a long time since Danny had a knock-back.

  “Thanks for feeling my pain,” Danny said drily as he registered her amusement.

  “What did you say to him?” she asked when she trusted herself to speak without laughing.

  “I tried to talk him around, but he wouldn’t stay. I mean, come on—like it’s going to kill him to have a night of hot sex.” There was a serious note of bewilderment in her brother’s voice.

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Yeah, on the way out the door as he left me with a gigantic boner. He said he really likes me. A lot. But that he’s looking for a relationship, and he knows that I’m not a relationship type guy. He said he’d like to be friends. Friends!”

  “Well, that’s nice, isn’t it? I mean, he likes you, clearly,” Anna said cautiously, not really understanding why her brother was so worked up. Surely he wasn’t just piqued at Ben’s rejection?