by Ren Benton
“But then it won’t be a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.” Surprises, by definition, couldn’t be prepared for. Surprises were first cousins of accidents. She had recurring nightmares about surprises.
Cole sobbed, protesting the pain, the loss of his dinner, and being ignored. He quieted only when Ivy gave him her finger to gnaw with his nubby gums.
Griff taunted, “Where’s your sense of adventure, Duchess?”
She craved more adventure than the risk of a tooth breaking through while she was being used as a chew toy.
She craved him.
More than that, she craved the woman she was when she was with him.
Even if sleep had to be sacrificed, she could find time to de-munchkin the house and stock her bag with provisions for every conceivable eventuality. Two days was, after all, more time than she’d had to prepare for any other date with him.
“Monday. My place. Seven.”
6
Monday, Ivy sprinted through her front door at five after six, stripping on her way to the shower. She’d been determined to leave work at five, but her last client, her boss, and a call from Nine News to firm up the details about the party had conspired to keep her there an extra forty-five minutes because she couldn’t bring herself to say, Can’t stay. Have to make myself fuckable.
Mostly what bound her tongue was the likelihood someone would tell her to come up with a more believable excuse.
She clipped up her hair because she had no time to style it if it got wet. She hopped in the shower while the water was still cold, soaped up and shaved off several days of prickly stubble while the temperature made its laborious climb to tepid. She was nearly done with the necessary ablutions when the hot water exploded out of the shower head. She screeched and whipped around to twirl the cold tap before she boiled — and her hair got soaked.
Of course.
She stood naked under the AC vent in her bedroom to calm skin made blotchy by the impromptu poaching. The heating element of her old blow dryer had died long ago, so that didn’t interfere with her cooling. She hung her head to let the dryer sigh ineffectually at her roots. Being upside down made her ears ring.
No, not her ears — her phone.
Holly’s ringtone.
Reflex prompted her to pick up even as common sense shrieked, What are you doing?
Without so much as a hello, her sister announced, “I’m dropping the kids off with you.”
The words were intelligible despite the death knell for Ivy’s adventure bonging in the background.
If Holly had picked up the kids right after school, that would make three hours she’d spent with them out of the past seventy-two. Something more fun than parenting must have come up at the last minute, but no problem. Ivy was always available. Ivy wouldn’t mind providing free babysitting with zero notice. Ivy never had anything better to do.
“No.”
The stunned silence on the other end of the line echoed her own surprise. “What?”
The incredulity pissed her off. Ivy couldn’t possibly have said no. Like hell she’d back down now. “I have” — do not say a date — “an appointment.”
“But what am I supposed to do?” Holly mewled.
Stay home and take care of your kids. “You’ll figure something out. I have to go.”
Ivy cut the connection, dropped the phone on the bed, and recoiled as if it had visible signs of rabies.
The phone didn’t lunge for her throat. The sky didn’t fall. The earth didn’t explode because she said no.
Imagine that.
Her galloping heart slowed as she stared into her closet, from which a new problem emerged. What was the dress code for a surprise?
Most of her closet was fit for a funeral. The far ends of the bar were devoted to just-in-case fat clothes and if-I-just-lose-ten-more-pounds aspirations, respectively. Her dresser was full of cargo pants and T-shirts. Her wardrobe anticipated work, dietary indiscretion, and chasing kids, not mysterious adventures with woodworking rogues.
God, she hated surprises.
She pawed through her options a second time, hoping desperation would make one more appealing. A sparkly red thing caught her eye. The way it drooped from the neck of the hanger suggested a scarf, which might jazz up a plain black dress.
The sparkly red thing proved to be a sequined halter top purchased back in the days she believed jiggle-free arms were only ten more sets of triceps presses away.
She was out of time to agonize. It would have to do. She grabbed a tuxedo-type blazer to cover her arms. Black trousers on the bottom? No. She’d look like a dealer at a casino.
In the aspirational corner of the closet lurked a pair of faux leather pants she’d impulsively bought on clearance when she’d been twenty pounds heavier. They wouldn’t have fit at the time, and she hadn’t tried them since then because where would she ever wear faux leather pants? They were kind of edgy for the grocery store.
Fortunately, she had a lot of experience squeezing bodies into clothes that weren’t made to fit them. With care and patience, the pants zipped. The halter top bloused over the soft part of her belly and hid the orientation of her breasts, which were unrestrained again because she still didn’t own a strapless bra. The blazer hid her upper arms and the strained upholstery covering her butt.
She looked at her reflection and saw a frumpy fat girl making a fool of herself by trying to be sexy.
But Griff had seen her in that hideous coral dress and kissed her anyway. He’d taken her to bed when she was sweaty and dripping red dye.
If he wanted to balk now because her thighs touched, to hell with him.
She buckled on caged sandals with four-inch heels and zipped through her makeup routine in three minutes, replacing her customary muted lipstick with deep red for the occasion.
A businesslike knock at the door put an end to further fussing. On the way to the door, she pulled her damp hair into a ponytail, picked up her discarded clothes and stuffed them behind a throw pillow, and kicked a lightsaber that escaped the morning toy roundup under the sofa.
Her hand fell on the knob, and a premonition seized her that the summons had to do with Holly. There would be a policeman on the stoop, bearing news that something awful happened to the kids because Ivy hadn’t taken them when asked.
The knock repeated. She forced herself to turn the knob and pull open the door.
Griff stood on the other side. His gaze hung on her lips for a moment before skimming down to her toes and leisurely journeying back up to her face. “You look dangerous.”
She wasn’t sure whether she should take that as a compliment, coming as it did from a man whose encounters with danger typically ended in the emergency room. “In a good way or a bad way?”
His lips curved. “The bad way is good to me.”
Her tight grip on the knob relaxed. “Am I inappropriate for your surprise?”
“So much so, I’ll have to alter it to something better suited to a rock star.”
Her reflex was to offer to change her clothes rather than spoil his plans.
She overcame it. Served him right for keeping her in the dark. “Surprise,” she taunted.
His grin turned wolfish. “Glad you decided to join me, Duchess.”
Griff admired Ivy’s ass as he followed her to the car. Those leather pants hugged her curves like a second skin. Her jacket offered a tantalizing glimpse of the crease under her cheeks, mimicking the outline of a ripe peach begging to be bitten.
He assisted her into the car and closed her door. As he rounded the hood, he made a quick phone call and had alternate plans in place before he slid behind the wheel.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
He could ask her the same. When she’d opened the door, she looked strained, borderline afraid, as if she expected the visitor to break her kneecaps. The fear vanished when she saw him on her stoop, so at least he hadn’t been the cause of her dread.
If she
was willing to set her worry aside to come out and play, he hated to bring it back to spoil her fun. He pulled away from the curb without mentioning it. “New surprise is all set. One of the many benefits of being a social butterfly.”
“You sound like my sister. Nothing is ever a problem because she knows a guy who can fix it.”
The tension in her voice evoked visions of drug deals and broken kneecaps — not likely for a member of the Miller family.
Then again, Griff’s family wouldn’t be caught dead associating with half of his acquaintances, so he shouldn’t assume.
If Ivy needed to vent before she could relax, he’d be happy to listen. “Rough day at the mortuary?”
“Not especially.” She sucked in a deep breath and released it inaudibly.
Before he could assure her his ears were as usable as the rest of his body, her hand came to rest on his thigh. His tongue tied like that of a teenager getting his first grope.
Her palm burned through his pants. “Should I be blindfolded?”
Yes.
“To preserve the surprise, I mean.”
His fascination with the blindfold had nothing to do with the surprise. With it, she could have her darkness — and he would have all the lights on. He would look his fill at every pink, wet, bouncy inch of her and take his turn narrating the event.
She leaned close so her breath fanned his ear. “Or would you rather gag me so you can concentrate on motor vehicle safety?”
When she made up her mind to play, she didn’t hold back. The suggestion wasn’t worth considering, though. “I would never put that mouth out of commission.”
She shifted back to her side of the car but left her hand on his thigh. “Is that a hint? Will I need it where we’re going?”
His lusty haze dissipated with those few inches of distance. She’d badgered her father to tell her about a surprise, too. She didn’t like being in the dark in this sense. “You can’t stand being left out of a secret, can you?”
“If I’m not prepared, how can I avoid being an embarrassment?”
A frigid gust cleared the bit of haze that remained. She wasn’t worried about being embarrassed — she was afraid of embarrassing someone else. “When have you ever been an embarrassment?”
More to the point, what son of a bitch told her she was?
“Only once, because I wasn’t prepared. Give me a hint.” Her voice softened, the better to butter him up. “Please, Griff.”
A red light gave him the opportunity to glare at her for exploiting his weakness. And then he folded under the influence of those sultry brown eyes — but only a little. “We’re making one stop.”
She applied her stare to the side of his face like a crowbar, trying to pry more information from him. “That’s a terrible clue.”
“You didn’t specify the quality of the clue in your request.”
Her hand withdrew. “I think I’ll rub my own thigh.”
The next light remained green, depriving him of that sight, but he had a vivid imagination. “You’re sexy when you pout.”
Her laugh bubbled. “I once wondered how attractive you’d find sulking. I guess the answer is ‘very.’”
Everything she did was attractive, in the literal sense of the word. Only her previously stated fondness for safe driving kept his hands on the steering wheel and off her.
She’d done him a favor in coming to the door looking like a diva. His original plan for the evening had included another interminable dinner sitting all the way across a table from her. The new and improved plan came with enough privacy to touch her while plying her with delicacies.
He pulled into the circular drive in front of the East Grand Hotel.
She tilted her head to look up at the high rise. “What kind of girl do you think I am, Dunleavy?”
“The kind whose mind goes straight to the gutter.” He exited the car and shook his head at the attendant headed for Ivy’s door. He helped her out himself and murmured against her ear, “My favorite kind.”
Dark-cherry lips smiled at him — only to jerk downward as her name was called.
A woman clacked across the concourse toward them, waving with both hands. “I barely recognized you! I bet you don’t remember me.”
By the time Ivy was released from the woman’s embrace, she’d schooled her expression to be pleasantly professional. “Of course I do, Mrs. Crenshaw.”
“I just can’t thank you enough for making Katie look so beautiful.”
“Your daughter got all her beauty from you.”
That was, by far, the smoothest bit of flattery Griff had ever beheld.
“I wish Mr. Crenshaw said things like that.” Mrs. Crenshaw patted his arm. “Take good care of this one. She’s a jewel.”
“I will.” What was the polite thing to say to a presumed mortuary client? “I’m sorry for your loss.”
A choked sound got trapped in Ivy’s throat.
Mrs. Crenshaw took it in stride. “Oh, pish. I’m glad she’s gone. I’d been waiting years to turn her bedroom into a yoga studio. I’ll be sending my niece to you soon, Ivy.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” she promised as somberly as any funeral director.
“I know you will, darling. You two have fun tonight.” She winked and bustled off to join a man Griff could only hope was Mr. Crenshaw.
He took Ivy’s hand in his. “Should we warn her niece that she’s going to be assassinated to free up space for a potting shed, or is the important thing that she looks fabulous at the viewing?”
“It’s the only thing. She is, after all, the focal point of all the pictures.” Her lips trembled with the effort to suppress a smile. “Besides, I need the commission.”
Her job at a funeral home was a blank he’d filled in, no doubt extraordinarily badly, so he knew she wasn’t a beautician to the dearly departed. But according to Mrs. Crenshaw, she did make her clients beautiful. If she were a makeup artist to the living, she would advertise her trade on her face by making it unrecognizable from the bare version, and she would have immunity to undereye mascara smudges. If she were a hairstylist, she would do something more elaborate on her own head than a ponytail or a bun.
But she wanted to keep that secret to herself. Even if he shared her obsession with preparation, he couldn’t imagine why he would need to arm himself against her employment, whatever it might be, so he let it go. Her business was none of his business.
However, since she felt no need to correct his wrong assumptions, he returned the favor and let her continue believing he was leading her directly to debauchery. He escorted her through the hotel lobby to the elevator and positioned her in front of him. “Stand here. The view is better.”
“The view of the door?”
“My view.” Which was of her succulent derrière.
Before the door sealed, half a dozen people poured into the elevator, forcing Ivy to back into him. He slipped his hand around her waist to keep her from toppling under the weight of her massive purse.
Her high heels put the top of her head level with his nose. Her hair smelled faintly of coconut, as if she needed shampoo to make her more edible.
The elevator disgorged its occupants by ones and twos, floor after floor, until they were alone again. Despite having room to roam now, she remained pressed against him, warm and pliant.
The elevator stopped at the top floor. She turned her head to aim expectant eyes at him.
If only what awaited were as dirty as she anticipated. “I should have used my time to think of something scandalous to say here, but I was distracted by your shoes.”
She looked down at her feet. “Did I step on your toes?”
“No. I was thinking that while you’re standing, with that extra height” — the elevator doors began to open — “I’d barely have to bend my knees to get inside you.”
A pretty pink stain spread up her neck just in time to display to the crowd milling about the lobby of Ulu, the penthouse restaurant.
She muttered, “Pity you couldn’t think of anything scandalous to say.”
A woman wearing a slim white suit cut like a knife through the patrons awaiting admittance. “Griff. Mason told me to clear a room for you.”
“I hope I didn’t cause too much trouble.”
She rolled her eyes over to Ivy. “This one is never anything but trouble.”
“You think so? I’ve always found him to be quite accommodating.”
“Oh, he’s a sweetheart. Until he gets you tossed in a Mexican jail. Or stranded in the wilderness with no pants. Or—”
Griff rubbed his head. “Hey, Selena, about that private room.”
“Just making sure you have something to talk about, dearest. I know how you struggle to make conversation.” She made a chattering puppet motion with her hand as she turned away.
At least the show entertained Ivy. “What a relief to know I’m not the cause of your paralyzing reticence.”
They followed Selena through the main dining area to a small room with a low table surrounded by dozens of pillows in vibrant colors and patterns. She departed with assurances they would be well taken care of.
When they were alone, Ivy arched a brow. “I can understand getting her out of her pants, but in the wilderness?”
Thanks a lot, Sel. “It was her brother, and it’s not what it sounds like, I swear.”
Her eyes gleamed. “You’d better explain it to me, then.”
Griff arranged pillows behind his back so he could lounge in comfort. “We’re city boys. We thought bears lived in the television. Mason learned otherwise during an activity for which he had removed his pants for hygienic reasons.”
She joined him on the floor — regrettably, across the table from him. “Why does his sister blame you?”
“I didn’t collude with the bear, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I also didn’t stick around to serve as a distraction and ensure her brother’s escape after he ran naked through camp screaming, ‘Bear!’”
“She thinks you should have sacrificed yourself?”
“Apparently so.” At the time, when Selena came to deliver pants and a blistering diatribe against testosterone-fueled stupidity, he’d thought her overwrought in response to the near disaster. As the years passed with no change in her perspective regarding the incident, he was forced to acknowledge she really did value her brother’s life that much more than his. “Never mind that Mase made it out unscathed even without me feeding myself to a bear in his stead. It didn’t even bruise his pride to stroll into the ranger station naked and ask if he could make a phone call.”
