by Lori Wilde
He laughed. “I figure that’s my eventual destination.”
I figure that’s my eventual destination. She knew those words. She knew the self-deprecating mockery of that tone, but the past was somewhere just beyond her reach. Like the man beside her, or the man who had placed the ring on her hand. All she knew was the twist of knots inside her, the pain in her head and the way she couldn’t keep her eyes off Eric.
Hell. She figured that was her eventual destination, too.
* * *
BUYING CHRISTMAS decorations should have been a trip through the seventh ring of hell. Instead, it was, God help him, fun.
Chloe was a compulsive holiday shopaholic, and he found himself saying “yes” to the blow-up lawn Santa. He said “yes” to the spinning penguin ornaments. He said “yes” to the reindeer antlers that attached to the hood of the ambulance. Honestly, he should have put his foot down on the Santa toilet seat cover, but then she had pouted, and guilelessly rubbed at the bump on the back of her head, and yes, he probably did some breast-ogling while she huffed and puffed, but in the end, there was nothing that he could deny her.
As he carried the bags out to the car, he noted the satisfied smile on her face. “You did all this on purpose?”
Her blue eyes were all innocence. “You said that you needed decorations. I was only trying to help.”
“Get out. You were trying to humiliate me in front of the good citizens of this town.”
“Did it work?”
“Not saying, in case you decide that I haven’t been tormented enough.”
Then she snickered, that same smoky laugh, and he found himself smiling, even while carrying a Santa toilet seat cover.
No one was at the corps building to witness the great unloading of joyeux de crap. Chloe studied each room of the building, the TV room, the kitchen, the bunkrooms and the lawn, making decisions about what should go where. The Christmas tree needed to go against the bay window in the TV room. There were ornaments in gold and silver, and while in the store, he’d thought they were ugly. Here, against the butt-ugly white walls, they looked...nice.
“What do you think?” she asked, sounding like a kid in a candy store.
“Not so bad,” he admitted, plucking a jingle bell hair ornament out of the bag. He wanted to see it in her hair, see the shadows reflected in the golden bells. He held it out, waiting for her to take it.
She didn’t move.
Eric took a step closer, the scent of pine and cinnamon filling his nose. His fingers inched forward, more than a little desperation in the movement. Take it, he urged silently, but still, she didn’t move, only watched him with that shimmering blue gaze, daring him to touch her. Daring him to touch the untouchable Chloe.
Slowly he placed the band in her hair, pushing the hair away from her eyes, feeling the silk strands skim over his hand like a dream. And still she watched him. Soft red lips fell open, an invitation, a tease.
Twelve years ago he had kissed those lips under the mistletoe at the Price Mansion. Unable to resist, Eric lowered his head...
Just as a ray of sunlight caught the gold on her hand.
Taking a shaky step back, Eric grabbed the first ornament he could find, the dancing penguins, and skewered them to the tree. He made a mess of the position, and smart Chloe didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to come near him. Instead she pulled the band from her hair, and watched him safely from afar.
Eric told himself that it was for the best.
* * *
FOR THE REST of the day, she was much more cautious. There was a hunger inside her that ached when she got too near Eric. She wanted to believe it was the remains of her injuries, but she knew that wasn’t the truth. Every time he was close, she could see the dark gold stubble on the hard line of his jaw. The long muscles in his back rippled as he adjusted the lights on the roof. Her eyes drifted lower, watching his thighs flex, watching the way the soft denim hugged the two perfectly molded curves of his Grade-A butt. She made him move the lights lower two inches, just so she could watch him.
Watching was so much smarter than touching, she reminded herself.
He was careful, too.
In the small kitchen, when he’d cooked two quesadillas for lunch, he had stayed close to the stove, hovering dangerously near the gas flames rather than venturing dangerously near her.
As he climbed down from the ladder, he loaded the remaining lights into a box, never looking at her, never talking to her, never touching her.
She followed him into the building, twisting the gold band on her hand.
Yes, it was definitely safer that way.
* * *
“I SHOULD TAKE you to the house. You’re probably tired.”
The digital clock on the wall said it was nearly seven o’clock, but she didn’t feel tired. She felt curiously buzzed.
“I would like to get cleaned up.” She had barely broken a sweat—Eric had done all the work today—but she had to say something to fill the space between them.
The somber gray gaze drifted over her face, over her chest, and she could feel her breasts tighten and swell. He didn’t say a word.
The car ride was quiet and uneventful. He drove up a long hill, away from the lights of the town, parking the car in front of a small stone cottage. Not exactly what she had been expecting. He looked more the modern contemporary condo type, but this place...it was perfect.
Inside, the rooms were decorated in earthy greens and yellows and browns, accented with huge splashes of color in the modern paintings on the walls. It was a tasteful design job, the very sort of non-monied look that only real money can buy.
The only thing missing was any trace of Christmas. There was no tree, no garlands, no Santas, no...nothing.
“Very nice,” she murmured. “Too busy to decorate your own place, huh?”
He met her eyes evenly and shrugged. “Why? You do the work and then later you undo all the work you’ve done. Seems like a waste of time to me.”
She managed a half smile because there was no point in arguing with a holiday dilettante. “Okay.”
“You have issues with that?” he pressed, obviously willing to waste time arguing with her, so there was hope for the man yet.
“Life is a waste of time. You’re born, and then at some point in the future, you die. And yet we don’t all roll over like dogs and give up.”
Okay, it was harsher than she intended, but this whole bah-humbug attitude was a cop-out.
“You think I’m a coward because I don’t decorate my house for the holidays?”
She crossed her arms, tilted her head and stared him down. “Yes.”
She thought he was going to argue again, but instead he ducked away. “Shower’s in the back. Towels in plain sight. Not Christmas towels, mind you, but they’re effective.”
“Pfftttt,” she grumbled, just loud enough that he could hear and then turned to get clean.
The bathroom was a dark royal blue with rich tile work in emerald green and white. A smattering of maroon and Christmas gold would have blended nicely and she considered whipping up a nice little bow and basket with a few jewel-toned ornaments thrown in for good measure. She wondered if he would get angry, and decided it would be good for him to have his very orderly world shaken up.
The man needed some excitement, she told herself, stripping off her clothes, catching sight of her naked body in the mirror. It always surprised her to see that face looking back. To see the sexy curves, ripe and decadent. It thrilled her, made her feel...alive. After a few minutes she dragged her eyes away, embarrassed by her own ego. Instead she focused on the bathroom, beautiful jewel tones, and yet there was no soul in this place.
Everything in this bathroom was pristine and untouched, and it cried out to be humanized. Even the glass shelves on the wall were bare. Doing nothing but gathering dust. She climbed up on the toilet seat, washcloth in hand, prepared to test her theory, and a bottle of air freshener fell to the floor. A polite knock sounded at the
door.
“Yes?” she called out, putting the bottle back in place. The door opened, and she hid her smile before she pivoted to face him.
He was eyes to her breasts, and that delicious gray gaze darkened to sin. Since he was a medic, she knew it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, but yeah, her ego got a little stroke.
“I heard the crash.”
“Oops. Sorry about that.”
He swallowed, frowned, then looked up at the shelves. “What were you doing up there?”
“Dusting.” She presented the formerly clean cloth to him. He didn’t focus on the dirt, only on the sight of her bare breasts. Enjoying the moment, she stepped into the shower, leaving the glass door ajar, and let the water run down her face, her chest.
It was hedonistic and shameless. She was flaunting herself, flaunting her sexuality, and she wondered if she’d always been like this. Maybe she was a nudist. Maybe she was a stripper. Both would explain this need to show her skin, but not everything. Not the way her breath caught when he looked at her. Not the way she ached to have him touch her. She reached up and adjusted the spray, making sure that the water pulsed over her, just so. Maybe she was a porn star, she thought, giving him her best come-hither glance.
Eric shut the shower door.
Maybe not a porn star.
“So you’re staying, then?” she called out, adding shampoo to her hair, savoring the rich scent of coconut and the ripe scent of danger. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t run away, either.
The soap was citrus, a tart scent that tickled her nose, and she lathered all over, washing her arms, her breasts, ridding herself of the antiseptic hospital smell, reveling in the heady smells of nature. “Love the soap,” she told him, raising one leg, marveling at her own toned thighs and calves. This body felt new, powerful, like a well-honed blade. Beautiful, yet lethal.
From the other side of the glass, she could see him watching her. The heat of the water was no match for the heat in the air, and she wanted him to notice her, to want her. She didn’t know why this feeling was so strong, but it was there, driving her forward to put on the show of her life. And the fast beat of her pulse told her that she wasn’t accustomed to men watching her. She wasn’t accustomed to letting men watch her. She knew that, but all this power was too exhilarating. And too new.
Her hands ran between her thighs, using the soap in novel and exhilarating ways.
“You shouldn’t do that.”
His words surprised her, breaking through the steamy confines.
“You don’t have to watch,” she reminded him, then began humming to herself.
Eric stayed silent, defeated by logic, and she smiled. Back against the tile, she let the water run through her hair, washing away the bubbles and the grime, washing away a whole other life. It felt like a new beginning, a chance to start over. To finally have all the things that she’d ever wanted.
“You’re married.”
The words hit her like a slap of cold water. She wrenched off the faucet, threw open the door. “There has been no touching, no kissing. I’ve done nothing wrong. Neither have you.”
Eric didn’t look convinced, but then again, he was still there, his gaze skimming over her, warming her skin. She stood before him, heart pounding in her chest. Excitement, fear, sex. Hooded eyes watched her, no excitement or fear, but the sex was there. And she noticed what was missing. Surprise.
“You’ve seen me like this before.”
“No.”
She couldn’t shake the feeling he was lying to her. The intimacy between them sparked memories inside her. Dreamy memories, but she thought they were more than just a dream.
“You’ve touched me before,” she whispered, not as sure as she’d intended. She wanted to understand what was real in her mind, what was only a dream.
For a long while, he stayed frozen, but then he nodded. Once.
“Did you touch me here?” she asked, running light fingertips over her stimulated nipples, hearing him suck in his breath. She tweaked one rosy peak, staring up at him, chasing after the dream, wanting so badly to know the truth between them. “Did I like it?”
He didn’t answer, not that she expected him to, so she continued. “I bet you weren’t easy, were you? I think I would like that, the pain.” It was like talking to a wall. A wall with a heartbeat so loud that she could hear it, or maybe that was only her own feeble heart.
“But you did hurt me, didn’t you?” A crystal drop of water caught his gaze, and her fingertips followed, chasing it down her torso, below her slim belly where it quivered and hung.
His eyes fell to her fingers. “Yes.”
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. A lie was so much easier. Since the accident, she had felt so powerful, so desirable, as if she could have any man in the world. But she wasn’t that woman, and he wasn’t that man. And now she felt like she’d come home from a party at two in the morning, with thick thighs, blurry makeup and an empty hole where a soul was supposed to be.
Her perfect body shone in the mirror. No thick thighs, no blurry makeup and the hole was just as real. She wanted to wrap herself in a towel, wanted to run and wanted to hide, but she wasn’t going to give him that.
Instead, she gave him a cold smile. “That’s why I want to hate you, why I want to make you hurt. You hurt me.”
The dark gaze lifted to hers, and she saw sadness there, regret mixed with desire. “You remember?”
She closed her eyes, tried to break though the fog and the steamy dreams, but she couldn’t remember anything beyond the urgency in his face. She could only feel his mouth against her neck. Hesitant. Unsure.
It all felt so real.
Her eyes flew open, expecting to find his mouth on her skin, but he was standing where he had been before. Unmoving. It wasn’t supposed to be like this at Christmas. It was supposed to be happy and magical. They were supposed to kiss under the mistletoe and he was going to love her forever.
Everything twisted inside her, and she hated that she was naked. Perfect. Naked. And still ashamed.
“Of course I remember,” she lied, and then decided that today he was going to hurt just as badly as she had hurt before. The mirror called her, and she twirled around, angry, aroused, but mostly wanting to make him pay. For what, she had no idea.
* * *
HIS CHEST FELT as if it was about to explode. Her eyes flickered with anger at him, all deserved. And yet she still stood there, reflected in the glass. Naked, wet, gorgeous, like some fantasy, but this one was real.
Every inch of him, every white-hot hardened inch of him wanted to touch her. Wanted to reach out and stroke the glistening flesh, wanted to see if she was wet all over.
But he didn’t, because she had been right. Eric Marshall was a coward. Her legs parted, and her left hand, currently ringless, drew small, lazy circles on the inside of her thigh. His gaze followed her finger, tracking the circles until he was dizzy from those small, easy movements.
It was Chloe, and yet not Chloe. The bravado and the boldness were all still there, but the vulnerability and the shame were gone. This was a woman baptized in fire, and she was determined to drag him into the flames as well.
Eric stood frozen because it was nothing that he didn’t deserve.
“I couldn’t do this for you before,” she whispered, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her hand, from the swollen bare skin between her legs. She’d had dark hair there before, untrimmed, unpolished. It had been soft. And wet.
Her middle finger slid between the two swollen lips and he could see the damp, see the pearly sheen of moisture on her. He heard a sound, a growl. She looked up at his pained face in the mirror and smiled. It wasn’t an invitation. This was the smile of a woman who had his balls in the palm of her hand.
Her finger disappeared inside her. He watched her hips move to accept the intrusion, and he felt his shaft grow, just as she intended.
“Chloe,” he heard himself whisper.
She met
his eyes, smiled, feeling a spark of recognition. Chloe. She was Chloe. “I like my name on your tongue.”
Instantly he licked his lips, mouth dry, parched, aching.
“I have to leave.”
Her sigh stretched out to hell and back. “Is it so easy to leave me?”
“No.”
“Do you remember when we were together?” she asked. Her eyes closed, her hips moving to her own private rhythm.
“I remember.”
“Why do I hate you?” she asked, her voice desperate and pleading and instantly he saw the trick.
“I thought you remembered.”
“A few hazy things. Not much. Not enough.” Her eyes were sad as she wrapped the towel around her perfect body. “I wanted you to hurt like I did. I wanted your heart to ache like mine. But it’s not your heart, only your cock. It’s not enough,” she announced, and Eric watched as Chloe left the room, leaving his aching cock, his aching conscience, his aching heart behind.
4
THEY REACHED AN unspoken agreement that night. Chloe kept her clothes on, and Eric kept his thoughts to himself. Chloe.
Chloe Skidmore. She had remembered her name when he said it. The sound was so familiar to her. She wondered what her married name was. She wondered about her husband.
“I’d like to use your computer,” she said politely, after dinner was done, after the strains of Beethoven were playing softly through the room.
“There’s no record of your marriage.”
She was surprised that he had looked. Surprised that he cared. “Maybe you were looking in the wrong places.”
“And you know the right places?” He raised one brow in the manor-born style designed to quash any question like a bug. The Marshall family had mastered the supercilious brow. His father, Edwin Marshall. His mother, Tinsley. Their only son, Eric.
“How are your parents?” she asked, deciding to change the subject.
“Old, bitter, rich.”
She smiled at the thought.
“You remember them?”
Oh, yes, she remembered them. She disliked them both. The Marshall family, the Price family, all the families that lived in the hills of Pine Crest. Sure, the Skidmores had lived in a mansion, but they didn’t belong there. She remembered that as well.
