Dynasties: The Elliotts, Books 1-6

by Various Authors

  Considering that Fin was driving herself to an early grave, Scarlet didn’t consider her aunt’s devotion something to strive for.

  Then there was the other issue, how Scarlet wanted to be a designer, not an editor. How long would she have to pay family dues before she could do what she wanted? How much did she owe her grandfather for raising her after her parents had died?

  “You’re not usually so reluctant to argue with me, missy.”

  “Maybe I’m growing up.”

  “That’s a welcome possibility.”

  She kept her expression serious. “It couldn’t be because you’re getting feeble, and I’m being careful not to cause you to have a heart attack or something.”

  His fists landed on his thighs. “Feeble?” he roared.

  She drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Now this was the Granddad she knew and understood. She decided to take advantage of his bluster to kiss his cheek and leave while she had the upper hand. “Let’s do this again sometime, Gramps.”

  She heard him chuckle as she walked through the door. It made her smile—until she got into the elevator and remembered his comment about betraying Summer. Summer wouldn’t see it as a betrayal, but she would surely be uncomfortable. Adults made choices in life. Scarlet could choose to make things easy on her sister or difficult.

  Without question, Scarlet would always make things easy for Summer—even to the point of denying herself love and passion, something Summer had found, and wanted Scarlet to find.

  But probably not with John Harlan.

  John knocked on Scarlet’s door at precisely eight o’clock. He was nervous—seventeen-years-old, first-prom-date nervous. Which was stupid, since he’d already slept with her. How could he be tense about seeing her, making conversation now?

  Because he had to act like he hadn’t slept with her. Hadn’t seen her incredible body in its natural state. Hadn’t seen her face as an orgasm overtook her. Hadn’t felt her hands and mouth all over him, hot and curious….

  Okay. That line of thought had to be stopped right now, or else when she opened her front door she would see a bulge in his pants and he’d get his hand slapped with a ruler or something. The thought made him smile. Sister Scarlet. There was an image.

  He saw the doorknob turn and tried to get himself into character. First date…First date.

  “Hello, John,” she said, looking soft and sweet in her buttoned-to-the-neck, electric-blue dress, her hair piled on top of her head but still looking touchable.

  “Hi.” He handed her a single white rose wrapped in green florist’s paper and tied with a satin ribbon. He watched her bury her nose in it and smile. She looked nervous, too, he decided. It relaxed him.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s lovely.”

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  “Let me put this in water and get my wrap. Come in.”

  He almost told her not to bother putting the rose in water, then decided not to spoil the surprise he had for her later.

  She was Scarlet but not Scarlet, he thought, as she disappeared into her tiny kitchen. Her dress wasn’t as daring as she generally wore, except that long line of buttons begged to be undone. Her jewelry was understated, and not as musical as usual. A couple of bangle bracelets that made a little noise, diamond studs instead of intertwining hoops in her ears, but that was all.

  “I’m ready,” she said, slipping a silvery wrap around her shoulders.

  Should he tell her she looked beautiful? Was that kind of compliment encouraged at this point? Man, he felt like a kid.

  “You changed your perfume,” he said instead. It wasn’t her usual citrusy scent, but tempting nonetheless. He couldn’t put a name to the fragrance. Not flowery. Not powdery. He’d smelled them all in his years of dating. Scarlet’s was just arousing.

  She smiled. He guessed it was a good thing, noticing a detail like that.

  He rested his fingertips lightly against her lower back as they left her apartment. It was going to drive him crazy not being able to touch her more than that all night. But he planned to kiss her good-night at her door later, a decent kiss, not a polite, end-of-evening peck. He didn’t care if it messed up the Woo U curriculum at that point.

  While in the car, they didn’t speak beyond routine chitchat about the traffic and weather. The awkwardness of knowing what they did about each other, and pretending not to, tied his tongue. Hers, too, he guessed.

  He pulled into his underground parking garage, a luxury he paid a huge premium for.

  “This is your apartment building,” she said, sitting up straighter.

  “Yes. I hope you like paella.”

  After a long, uncomfortable pause she gave him a tentative smile. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  They rode the elevator in a silence that wasn’t completely awkward, but unusual for them. He opened his apartment door and took in the scene, trying to see it through her eyes—the table set for a romantic dinner for two. The fireplace ready to light. Candles waiting to be lit. The scent of paella lingering, being kept warm in the kitchen.

  “What a wonderful view,” she said as if seeing it for the first time. She moved to the window.

  It gave him time to turn on the stereo, set to play a classical guitar CD to match the dinner theme. He lit the candles, then the fire. He went into the kitchen to pour them some wine. By the time he returned she’d moved to the fireplace.

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting a glass.

  He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “To the lady in blue. Welcome to my home.”

  She didn’t make eye contact as she sipped. What was going on? Something was obviously wrong, but what?

  “Have a seat.” He indicated the couch facing the fire. “How was your day?” he asked when they were settled.

  “Busy. I walked to the office so I could use the gym. Talked to Fin and my grandfather there for a little while. Went shopping. How about you?”

  He’d spent the entire day getting ready for this date, worrying about things he’d never worried about before. “I spent the day awaiting the night.”

  Everything about her relaxed—her expression, her shoulders, her spine. Had she just been nervous? She couldn’t possibly be more nervous than he.

  Still the evening dragged. Where was the vibrant Scarlet he knew? Oh, she smiled, even laughed, and touched his hand across the dinner table with her fingertips, but their conversation was less than dazzling. He plied her with work anecdotes and celebrity stories, but she kept her distance. He told her that the vase of eleven roses on the table was for her, to add to the one he’d given her earlier. She thanked him sweetly.

  He had no idea how to fix what seemed to be wrong.

  When she excused herself to use the bathroom he pushed back from the table, moved to a cabinet and poured two brandies. To hell with Woo U. He wanted Scarlet back.

  He heard a slight noise and turned. Scarlet stood a few feet from him—and it was definitely Scarlet. There was fire in her eyes, a flush of color in her face. She’d taken down her hair. She looked like every fantasy he’d ever had of her.

  He started to pass her a snifter of brandy, but she held up a hand.

  “I’m sorry, but this just isn’t working, John.”

  Nine

  Scarlet saw him retreat, his expression distant and self-protective. She hurried to assure him.

  “No. Wait.” She blew out a breath. “I shouldn’t have said it that way. I meant that this…dating thing isn’t working for me.”

  She’d tried all evening to just be his date, but she knew too much about him, wanted him too much. Loved him. And what was she doing, turning him into a better date for other women, anyway? How ridiculous was that?

  He set the glasses on the table and took her hands. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? I thought I’d really screwed something up.”

  “Well, actually, you had, but that wasn’t the problem.”

  His brows drew together. “What’d I do wrong?” />
  “You brought me to your apartment on a first date.”

  “Where was I supposed to take you? We can’t be seen in public.”

  “You could’ve gotten creative. You could’ve thought of someplace to go, something to do where no one would know us. We’re not that recognizable.”

  “You’re right,” he said after a moment. “Bringing you here, especially when we already had memories here…”

  “Exactly.” She laid her hand against his chest and looked into his eyes. “But that’s minor. Truly. Let’s be honest. The real issue is that we both know that Woo U was only a ploy to keep us in proximity, an excuse and nothing more so that we could…”

  “Sleep together.”

  She nodded. “We only have two more weeks until…Until. I don’t want to waste that time going on ‘dates.’”

  He scooped her into his arms. She knew where his bedroom was, knew he was headed there. She kicked off her shoes along the way. He said nothing. Maybe he couldn’t. She wasn’t sure she could, either, she wanted him so much.

  It had been nine days since they’d slept together. During that time they’d aroused each other to fever pitch twice—last night and at the country club the week before. This wasn’t going to be slow or tender, and she didn’t care. Except that sometime she wanted slow and tender.

  He didn’t wait for her to undress, didn’t undress himself. In the bathroom she’d taken off her underwear. When he discovered that, he shoved his pants and briefs out of the way, and drove into her, filling her so suddenly and completely that she cried out.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine. It’s good,” she interrupted in a rush. “I was more than ready. You feel wonderful. Incredible.” She arched toward him as he moved, finding a strong, hard rhythm. Demand became need. Need didn’t want to wait another second. Was that her making that noise? His mouth covered hers, open, wet. He changed the angle of the kiss, groaned into her mouth. She grabbed his hair as the climax hit her, no gentle buildup but a thunderous explosion, matched by him in sound and intensity. Life stood still. Life went on. Life suddenly had direction.

  The two other times they’d been together were good. This was phenomenal.

  This would never be matched by anyone, anywhere, anytime. She wasn’t given to exaggeration, so she believed her own prophecy.

  She wrapped her arms around him as he sprawled over her, taking off some of his weight with his elbows, but mostly lying on her like a warm, heavy quilt.

  “That was quick,” he said, his mouth near her ear.

  “And good.”

  “And good,” he agreed, rolling to his side, keeping her in his arms.

  She snuggled close, savored the way he stroked her hair. The pent-up tension dissipated. He felt like home.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Want to sleep?”

  “Hmm.” She burrowed closer.

  “Let’s get undressed first.”

  She left her eyes closed as he unbuttoned her dress and slipped it off her. She didn’t even have the energy to watch him undress. He pulled a quilt over them, wrapped her in his arms, ran his hands up and down her back, then over her rear, along her thighs. When he gently stroked her breasts, she wriggled.

  “Relax,” he whispered as her nipples puckered. “I just want to touch you. Go to sleep.”

  She laughed drowsily. “Sure.”

  He propped himself on an elbow, continuing his exploration. She opened her eyes.

  “Spend the night, Scarlet.”

  “Okay.”

  His hand stilled for a moment, then journeyed on. A while later, his generosity accepted and enjoyed, she fell asleep in his arms.

  He could get used to this, John decided, sitting next to Scarlet. They’d dozed for half an hour, showered together, then decided to have ice cream by candlelight in the kitchen. She was dressed in his robe. He’d pulled on boxers and a T-shirt.

  “I would’ve guessed you didn’t even own a T-shirt,” she said, spoon in hand. Candlelight flickered across her face. “You look younger.”

  “Since when is twenty-nine old?”

  “Since you dress like you’re fifty.”

  “I do?” He set down his bowl. “In what way?”

  “Your suits are boring. And your shirts. And your ties.”

  He felt too relaxed to take offense. “I think anything compared to your clothing probably seems boring.”

  “It’s an observation, not a comparison.”

  “I’ve never felt a need to keep up with the trends.”

  “You should. You’re supposed to be selling cutting edge, whether it’s products or people. You should look like it.”

  He’d never considered that. “What should I do?”

  Even though she didn’t rub her hands together, it seemed like she did. “Let me help you choose some new things.”

  “Put myself in your hands?” The image that came to mind had nothing to do with clothes, but rather the lack of them.

  She set down her bowl carefully then moved over to straddle his lap. He was learning just how complicated she was. He’d always expected her to be a sensual, sexual woman, although he’d based that opinion on her reputation more than anything tangible. But he saw shyness at times, too, which surprised him.

  This wasn’t one of those moments. When it came to sex, she was bold and demanding, but not domineering. A partner in every sense.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, planting little kisses all along his jaw. “You’re so serious.”

  “Everything that should be at attention is at attention,” he countered, with a smile. He had no interest in starting a conversation at the moment.

  She dragged her fingers down his cheeks. “I don’t get to see these dimples often enough.”

  “When a clock is ticking on a relationship, there’s not much to laugh at.” He surprised himself admitting such a thing out loud.

  She kissed him, tenderly, chastely. “Let’s go to bed.”

  They blew out the candles, set their bowls in the sink, turned out the lights. In his bedroom they got naked, slipped under the covers and held each other close.

  “This is just about sex, John,” she said finally. “We can’t have more than that.”

  “I know.”

  After they made love, she fell asleep. He studied his ceiling for hours, as if the answers to his problems might be written there.

  All he saw was that it looked very much as if an Elliott woman would break his heart, after all.

  In the morning, her head on a pillow next to John’s, Scarlet watched him sleep, his hair mussed, his beard shadowy. She’d slept until nine, not waking once. She couldn’t remember a night when she’d slept so well.

  Her eyes stung. Anything in life she’d wanted badly enough, she’d gotten, had worked hard enough to get. But no matter what she did in this relationship, she couldn’t win.

  Betray. Her grandfather’s word echoed in her mind.

  She eased out of bed, donned John’s robe and headed to the kitchen. She hunted for coffee and filters, then fixed a whole pot, not knowing how much he drank in the morning, or if he drank it at all.

  At the front door she looked out the peephole to make sure the coast was clear, then grabbed the Sunday Times from the hallway. She finished up the dishes from the night before and checked out his refrigerator for possible breakfast food, finding eggs, cheese and English muffins.

  At about ten o’clock she heard water run in the bathroom. Curled up on the sofa, she was enjoying her second cup of coffee and the Times travel section. A few minutes later he emerged, unshaven but with his hair combed. He’d put on the T-shirt and boxers from the night before. She’d been afraid he would come out in khakis and a preppy sweater or something, dressed for the day.

  He stopped in the doorway. A slow smile came over him. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”

  “On my side, mostly.”

 
; His smile widened.

  “I slept really well,” she said, moving her legs so that he could sit beside her, facing her. “And you?”

  She offered her mug. He took it, then leaned over and kissed her, deeper than a peck but not an invitation to more. He sipped from the mug, resting his hand on her thigh, rubbing it through the fabric.

  “I slept great, thanks. So, what do you usually do on Sundays?”

  “If I’m at The Tides I go to church with Gram and Granddad. If I’m in town, I’m pretty lazy. Read the paper. Go for a walk. Have a late breakfast somewhere. Do some sketching and sewing. How about you?” There was so much she had yet to discover about him. She knew his body. She knew his scent, his touch, his laugh. But nothing about his routines, his likes and dislikes. His passions.

  “I don’t think any two Sundays are the same for me. I play racquetball sometimes, or golf, depending on the season. Visit my parents sometimes. Work at home or even in the office occasionally. Go for a drive. Would you like to go for a drive?”

  She wished she could say yes. “Probably not a good idea, John.”

  His hesitation was barely noticeable. “Right. Well, breakfast, then. I’m pretty sure I have the makings for omelets.”

  “Do you cook?”

  “A little. You?”

  “Salads and eggs. And I reheat brilliantly.”

  “Took a master course in that, did you?”

  She recognized the conversation for what it was—avoidance. They were painted into a corner. Don’t get too close, learn too much, enjoy too thoroughly. Sex and inane conversation were apparently all they could have. They had to otherwise resist.

  “Maybe I should shower,” she said. “Then we can fix breakfast together. Then I’ll go home.”

  We can’t spend the whole day with each other. The words hung over them as if in neon lights.

  “How about we shower together?” he asked, standing, holding out a hand.

  Later, she argued against him driving her home. She could take a cab. He didn’t think she should be seen wearing what was obviously an evening dress at noon. On the drive to her house he held her hand. She didn’t pull away.