by Nina Mason
She shot a glance at Buchanan, whose eyelids were drooping. Poor guy, he must be exhausted. So was she, though still pumped. And not just about the news broadcast and the carjacking. He’d said us, hadn’t he? Alex Buchanan—the man she had believed for so long might be "the one that got away"—had said us. It was like inner gold. A precious nugget that made her heart feel full and warm for a change. She wanted to talk about it, to get more out of him, but was afraid to push. Afraid he might take it back, take away her nugget, and leave her feeling empty again.
I told her about us.
“What did she say?”
“Sorry?”
“When you told Helene about us. What did she say?”
He grimaced. “You don’t want to know.”
Actually, she did. In agonizing detail.
“Was she jealous of me?” she prodded, wanting the triumph, small and useless as it was.
“She wants me to move out,” he said glumly.
Squelching the impulse to invite him to stay with her, she asked, as innocently as she could, “Where will you go?”
Before he could answer, Nirvana started playing inside her purse. She dug out her cell and checked the display. It was Glenda. At last. Too bad the signal was weak and her battery charge was on its last legs.
“Hey, Glenda. Thanks for calling back.”
“No problem. How’s it going?”
“Good, good,” she said hurriedly. “We might be onto something, but I don’t have the time—or the juice—to go into it now. I do have a question, though: Do you happen to know the name of the guy who’s mounting the hostile takeover against Golden Age?”
“Not off the top of my head,” Glenda said, “but give me a minute and I’m sure I can find it.”
Thea waited, throwing furtive glances at Buchanan, praying her battery wouldn’t die before Glenda got back on the line.
“Found it. Right where I thought it would be, which isn’t often the case, let me tell you.”
Thea fretted as Glenda’s voice faded in and out.
“And?”
“It’s a British company. Olympus Enterprises. The guy who runs it is a former stockbroker named Robert Sterling. And, let me tell you, he sounds like a real piece of work.”
Thea was losing half of every third word, but managed to string enough together to get the gist.
“What do you mean by a real piece of work?”
“I mean he’s into….”
The call cut out before she got her answer.
“Damn.”
Buchanan looked at her. “What’s wrong?”
“My phone died.”
“Check in the console,” he suggested. “Maybe there’s a charger that’ll work.”
She did and, to her relief, there was. She plugged in her phone and set it in one of the beverage holders between them.
“Did you get a name?” he prodded.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Olympus Enterprises is the company. Do you know them? Glenda says it’s a British outfit.”
“Afraid not,” he said, shaking his head, “and the Black Knight? Did she give you a name?”
“Robert Sterling.”
That was when she saw it. A big rickety barn sitting out in a field all alone. The weathered timbers shone silver in the moonlight. It was rotted out in places and leaning precariously, but there was an opening in the side big enough to drive a tractor through.
“Look,” she cried, pointing it out. “It’s perfect.”
He must have agreed because he hit the brake and cranked the wheel. As the Toyota was bouncing across the field, he turned to her with a crooked grin.
“So, Thea, are you trying to tell me something?”
“What do you mean?”
“You live beside the Museum of Sex. You took me to Intercourse. And now you want to spend the night in a hayloft.”
“Would you rather keep driving, smart-ass?”
“Only if that bloody barn is full of rats.”
Thea bristled. She hadn’t thought of that.
“Do you think it might be?”
“Probably,” he said with a shrug, “but better beady-eyed rodents than bullets, eh?”
* * * *
Buchanan pulled the Toyota inside the barn and shut off the engine, but left the headlamps on and the key in the ignition. The barn was dark and rather creepy and the wind coming through the cracks and holes was icy cold. He shivered as he glanced toward the hayloft, now bathed in light, yearning for that king-sized bed.
And for the feel of Thea against him, flesh to flesh.
“We’re in luck,” she called to him from the boot, where she was looking for something to keep them warm. “Just as I’d hoped, there’s an old army blanket in here. It kind of smells like mothballs and gasoline, but it’s better than freezing our asses off.”
Much better, actually. She tucked it under her arm before leading the way up a rickety set of stairs. Using the handrail to hoist himself up, he prayed that the whole thing wouldn’t collapse under their weight.
Her sweet ass was close enough to grab, which he considered doing for a moment, but stopped himself. All at once, he was afraid to commit to consummation, afraid he might be too tired to make a good first impression. The first time would set the tone for the entire relationship. And he wasn’t sure he could do more right now than wham, bam, thank you ma’am.
And did he want to be that guy?
Upon reaching the top, she kicked some of the hay into a mound before spreading the blanket out on top. The result was remarkably inviting. She sat, looking up at him expectantly. He just stood there for an awkward moment as performance anxiety continued fucking with his head. And his confidence.
“I don’t have a rubber,” he blurted rather lamely, feeling it needed saying at some point. So why not now when he was at a loss for words? Besides, after they got started, if they ever did, turning back would be a good deal more difficult.
“It’s okay,” she said, “I have some in my purse.”
Her response gave him pause. Did she always carry rubbers? How much had she slept around? Why should it matter to him? But it did matter, didn’t it?
“Thea, look—“
She stiffened. “Oh God. You’re rejecting me again.”
“It’s not that,” he said uneasily, kneeling in front of her. “But maybe we should talk first. You know, get to know each other a wee bit better before ripping each other’s clothes off?”
She eyed him dubiously as she patted the blanket beside her.
“Will you at least sit?”
He crawled beside her, feeling clumsy and ill at ease. He could feel the straw poking through the blanket, which sank noticeably under his weight. When he was settled, she took his hand. He welcomed her touch, feeling a slight spark. She had nice hands, he thought. Feminine and small-boned with long, graceful fingers.
“Tell me about your childhood,” she said, looking into his gaze.
“Aye, well,” he responded, clearing his throat, “What is it you want to know?”
She smiled, somewhat shyly, which warmed him inside. “I want to know everything.”
He laughed. “If I show you mine, will you show me yours?”
“Ask me anything,” she said, her smile broadening. “But first, tell me about you.”
“Aye, well,” he said again, drawing a breath. “There isn’t much to tell. I grew up in Edinburgh, as you know, in a suburb called Stockbridge. We lived on Raeburn Street, in a nice two-bedroom flat overlooking a private garden.”
“Did you used to play in the garden? With your brother?”
“Lord, no,” he said, rolling his eyes. “The garden was always full of young mums pushing prams and old hens who’d roost on the benches, clucking at any wean daft enough to enter their coop.”
She smiled at him softly. “Wean?”
“A child. In Scots, bairn means baby while wean means child.”
“Ah. So, where did you play then?”
&nb
sp; “In the street, mostly. Stickball and football.” A realization made him add, “What you lot call soccer.”
“What else did you do? For fun, I mean.”
“Well, let me see…” he began, stopping a moment to comb his memory, “I used to watch Doctor Who on the telly with my family on Saturday evenings. When I was a bit older, we’d go out with the lads—Kenny and I—to the youth club to play pool, table tennis, and five-a-side football—or try to get served in one of the local pubs. Sometimes we’d go to the pictures and the Chinky.”
“The Chinky?”
“The Chinese take-out joint.”
“Ah,” she said, withdrawing her hand. She lay back on the blanket. “And college?”
“I went to Edinburgh University,” he replied, reclining beside her. “Even managed to do all right—a rather remarkable feat considering I spent more time in the pubs than in my lectures.”
“Did you major in journalism?”
“No.”
Edinburgh didn’t have an undergraduate journalism program, so he studied politics and international relations, hoping to one day become a foreign correspondent. (Be careful what you wish for and all that, eh?)
“What about you? Where’d you go to school?”
“I did my undergraduate work at Georgia State,” she said. “My mother was an instructor there, which entitled me to a free ride.”
He realized then, with a pang of guilt, how little he really knew about her. Her mother was a professor like her grandfather? He had no idea. “What did she teach?”
“Political science,” she replied, moving closer. “Her specialty was the Middle East.”
“Why’d you go into journalism? Besides not wanting to play it safe, I mean.”
“Well,” she said, setting her head softly upon his shoulder, “I guess it was because I wanted to expose some of the evils in the world—evils someone might get away with otherwise.” She put a hand on his chest and began to play with his chest hair through his shirt. “What about you?”
“It’s a very long story,” he said, not wishing to go into it. He found her proximity unsettling. But in a good way. “And rather dull, I’m afraid. Like the rest of my pathetic life.”
Shifting, he put his arm around her, pulling her against him. He sat there in silence for a time, feeling calmer, but still a bit hesitant. She was an intriguing woman. Smart, gutsy, achingly beautiful, and sexy as hell. His blood warmed as he thought back on the kiss they’d shared at the cottage.
“Thea,” he said unsurely. “I can’t make any promises.”
He heard her sigh. “I’m not asking for promises. Just honesty.”
That much he could give her, especially given his hopeless poker face. He could refuse to answer questions all day long, but not answer them falsely without giving himself away. “And can I count on the same from you?”
She chuckled. “Are you kidding? I’m constitutionally incapable of telling a lie.”
He looked down at her, tickled by her admission. “Are you now?”
She grinned up at him in a way he took as a challenge. “Go ahead, ask me anything.”
He rubbed his chin, considering. As his mind seized upon the rubbers in her purse, he said, “How many men have you been with?”
She coughed, clearly caught off guard. “Does it matter?”
“Why do you carry rubbers in your handbag?”
She sat up and looked at him with an expression he read as equal parts annoyed and amused. “Is that what this is about? You think because I carry condoms I’m a big ole slut or something?”
He arched a questioning eyebrow. “Did I say that?”
She turned away with a look of disgust. “You might as well have.”
“I don’t think you’re a slut, Thea. Truly. But I think I’ve got a right to know how many blokes have been there before me. Especially when I think I might be…”
She turned back, her expression softer but keen. “Might be what?”
His heart seized up in protest. Was telling her too much of a commitment? He’d never told a woman he had feelings for her before—mainly because he never had. Not feelings like this, at any rate. Would his confession give rise to expectations he wasn’t prepared to meet? Or, rather, didn’t know how to?
“Might be what, Alex?” Her voice was quieter, kinder. “Falling for me?”
“Aye,” he said, forcing the word through his narrowing throat.
“Good,” she whispered. “And for your information, caveman, I bought the condoms in the restroom at the bar. After you told me about Helene.”
He chuckled and flushed, feeling like an idiot.
“And to answer your earlier inquiry: not that many,” she went on. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet I’ve had far fewer partners than you have.” Poking him in the chest with her forefinger, she added, “So fess up, man-whore, how many bonny lasses have you slipped the big one to over the years, huh?” Before he could answer, she put both hands on his shoulders and pushed him down in the hay, landing on top of him. Their eyes met with a visceral charge. “And did you just admit that you’re falling for me, Tin Man?”
“I did,” he whispered, throat tight. “And I am.”
He must have a heart because he could feel it in his chest, swollen with a need he hadn’t known existed until now—a searing, possessive need he found almost unbearable. He reached up, slipped his fingers into her hair, and pulled her mouth down on his. Coaxing her lips apart, he brushed his tongue against hers, but then drew back and broke away, suddenly aware how strongly he must taste of cigarettes.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, frowning down at him.
“Maybe we should wait until I’ve had a chance to brush my teeth,” he suggested.
She batted her long lashes “I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said, meaning it. “But I don’t want you feeling put out.”
She ran a finger along his sandpaper jaw. “I’m more put out by your reluctance than by the way you taste.”
“It’s not reluctance,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It’s consideration.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, tapping the finger softly against his lips, “almost as much as I appreciated the feel of your tongue in my mouth.”
He couldn’t stop the laugh that popped out and chased her finger away. “Oh, aye? Well, in that case…”
He seized her face between his hands and pulled her mouth down onto his in a savage, heartfelt kiss. He slipped her his tongue, which she captured between her lips and suckled in a way that reached all the way to his groin. As he felt the first feather-soft undulations of budding desire, he remembered his condition with a pang of nerves. Would his cock fail him tonight? He flung the thought away, knowing the fear alone could defeat him.
The kiss intensified, as did his arousal. He might taste revolting to her, but she tasted wonderful to him. The kiss was intoxicating. The best ever. Even better than those stolen snogs in the back garden with Carol Brody. And those were pretty bloody inspiring.
As their tongues continued to tango, his hands roamed downward, exploring the long, lean muscles of her thighs. He eased up her skirt, ran his hands over her lace-encased buttocks, remembering how sexy she’d looked in just her underwear. She had a gorgeous body and a face to match. And her hair smelled of honeysuckle. Fresh hay and honeysuckle. What man in his right mind wouldn’t want her?
Jealousy sparked, but doubt quickly doused the embers. Was he in his right mind? The flashbacks, the fear of commitment, the failure to feel more than physical desire for a woman. And lately, he couldn’t even feel that much.
He felt it now, though, didn’t he? Oh, aye. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hard. He cupped her cheeks and pulled her on top of him, and flexed his hips, letting her feel how much he wanted her. She moaned her approval into his mouth, throwing gasoline on the fire down below. She moved against him, lighting sparks that made the need to penetrate her
nearly insufferable.
Breaking out of the kiss, he wrapped her in his arms and rolled them both over in the hay, so he was on top. He looked down at her, into her eyes, which mirrored all that he felt, but couldn’t express.
“I’m not very good at this.”
She smiled and bumped against his erection in a playful yet meaningful way. “Aren’t you? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I don’t mean that part,” he said, smirking. “I meant the part that comes after.”
Her expression grew serious. “You mean the relationship part?”
“Aye.”
She blinked at him with hurt in her eyes, which made him feel like an undeserving heel. “You can’t even say the word, can you?”
Could he? He wasn’t sure. “I just don’t want to disappoint you.”
“All I ask is that you try, Alex,” she said softly, sincerely. “And that, if the time comes when you feel you can’t even do that much, you have the decency to tell me to my face.”
He thought about Helene with a pang. Had he been an insensitive prick to end it on the phone? He’d thought it little more than a business arrangement—flatmates with benefits—but she clearly thought it had the potential to be more. Should he have waited to tell her until he returned to New York? Should he have waited to move forward with Thea? Ah, shite. All this second-guessing himself was making his cock lose its starch. He rolled off her, feeling like the world’s biggest disappointment.
She must have sensed his growing despair, because she turned toward him, set a comforting hand on his chest, and said, “Nobody knows what they’re doing, Buchanan. We’re all just a bunch of aging, frightened teenagers trying to figure out what the hell we want and what we don’t.”
A tense smile twitched on his lips. That about summed up how he felt most of the time, he just never realized other people might feel the same way—which, astonishingly, might actually put him somewhere in the range of normal.
He stroked her hair, pulling free a few straws of hay. “I want you, Thea,” he told her hoarsely. “I know that much.”
“I want you, too,” she said, bringing her mouth down on his.
