Getting Over Harry (Harlequin Romance)

by Renee Roszel

  As the household staff took away tables and rearranged the chairs along the lawn’s edge, the party turned into a beach dance. Emily stood beside Brice for a few minutes, watching Gallant employees and their spouses clutched together and swaying along the shore. Lyon was out there, of course, dancing with one of his female lawyers. She was a lovely brunette who could have been a model, too. Emily supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that he would hire the most gorgeous female lawyers money could buy. She felt an unwelcome surge of envy for the woman clinging to him, smiling dreamily into his handsome face.

  “Want to take a walk, Emily?”

  She was startled to hear Brice’s question—at least quite this soon. There was still an hour of light left. Somehow, she’d pictured their assignation in the darkness. Taking a heartening breath, she managed a smile. “I’d simply love to...” That was all she could steadily get out. Luckily, it sounded like a complete sentence. He grinned, tugging her away from the others. She chanced to see Meg, sitting between a couple of lawyers’ wives. Meg was watching her and Brice with a sly smile on her face. When she knew Emily saw her, she gave her a discreet thumb’s-up and winked.

  Emily managed a frail smile that was really more of a resigned grimace, then turned toward her companion, determined to convince herself how good-looking and charming he was.

  She knew this stretch of beach well. She’d jogged it every morning since the day in the cove when she’d tumbled over Lyon’s toolbox. It was lovely along here. A band of chaste beach was sandwiched between the glistening skin of the sea and a dense palm and live oak woodland, which gave off a sultry perfume. The delicate chirps of the warblers greeted them as they walked, hand in hand, each thinking his own thoughts. She wondered if Brice’s were as apprehensive as hers, but seriously doubted it.

  Not far ahead, she recognized a little inlet that would be hidden from the rest of the party. Just thirty yards away. She wondered how many parties Brice had attended here, and if he already knew about the inlet—if he’d used it before like this. She closed her eyes. This was not productive thinking! She had to remember she was simply taking a class—a sexual class. She would get it behind her like evolution of amphibians, then move on with her life.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Emily,” Brice said, drawing her startled gaze. She smiled wearily. Of course he would say complimentary things. This was part of the seduction process.

  “Thank you, Brice.” Her breathlessness sounded more sexy than frightened, which she counted as a piece of luck. “You’re—terribly attractive, yourself.”

  When they rounded the bend to the inlet, he indicated a secluded area of grasses amid masking ferns. “Why don’t we sit down and enjoy the view.”

  She wanted to suggest the view had been fine where the party was going on but bit her tongue, nodding obligingly. She had to work on her nineties attitude. Maybe she should have had an alcoholic drink to lessen her inhibitions. But it was too late now. She’d have to do this cold sober. Stifling a sigh, she took a seat on the grass.

  He sat down very close and faced her, his hip brushing against her thigh. His lime and coconut after-shave wafted around her, a scent she decided she could do without. Gamely she looked into his light eyes, unsettled to see lust glinting there. He leered at her, apparently misinterpreting her compliance as eagerness. “I’ve been lucky all my life.” He scooted nearer. Now his left hip was rubbing her right. He leaned across her, planting a hand on the grass across her legs, his wrist against her thigh. She began to feel claustrophobic but tried to hide it as he went on, “But I can’t believe my luck today.” He leaned closer, his face only inches from hers.

  Even though she was working at nonchalance, she tilted away from him. “What do you mean?”

  He chuckled, running a finger up her arm, then along her collarbone. “You. I didn’t think I’d have a chance with you. But here we are.”

  The iron butterflies in her stomach went berserk. “Where are we?”

  He laughed. “I like that thing you do—that comehither- maybe look. Really turns me on.”

  She smiled tremulously, ordering herself sternly not to chicken out this time. “Well, that always seems to work for me...” She winced, wondering where her brain was getting this stuff.

  The finger on her collarbone turned into the palm of his hand. Applying pressure, he pushed her down on her back. She was so stunned by the haste of his action, she could only manage to stare wide-eyed. His lips came down on hers, heavy and mushy. Like dry marshmallows. His mustache scratched her upper lip. At the same time, the hand on her chest slipped down to cup her breast, kneading. He groaned, sliding over her.

  She gasped, and his tongue took the opportunity to invade her mouth. The only urge she felt was to gag. Somehow, this wasn’t working right. Oh, she knew her plan was to get the virgin part over, but she thought there would be more tenderness, more sharing. But Brice seemed to be of the notion that she was there to give and he to take—and take as quickly as possible.

  Is this what it was like for Meg? Is this what she’d meant about the pickup and the gearshift scars? Emily supposed a woman’s sexual initiation didn’t have to be sparklers and firecrackers, but this was...

  She dragged her face away, turning aside, and shoved hard at the hand squeezing her breast. “Don’t!”

  “Oh, baby...” He moaned greedily, ignoring her demand, evidently assuming it was her way of keeping the play-hard-to-get game going. His fingers crawled back, this time pushing her bathing suit strap down to give him better access to soft flesh. He moved farther over her to recapture her mouth, his tongue darting, poking.

  She struggled, freeing her lips to plead, “Get off!” It was quivery and breathy, but loud enough for him to hear.

  He chuckled. “Not on your life. Not after I spent all afternoon getting you here. We’re through playing the tease game, so just relax and enjoy it.”

  He took hold of her other strap and yanked on them both. Stunned, she cried out, grabbing at her bodice for modesty. “Stop it! I’ve changed my mind.” She was humiliated and hated herself. She knew Meg would be angry, but she couldn’t go through with this. She’d thought the scene with Lyon on the kitchen table had made her feel dirty, but Brice was making her feel damaged. Like the victim of a crime.

  “Come on, baby.” He grunted, his lips nipping at her face, his mustache chafing her skin. “Enough’s enough. It was cute at first, but now I’m getting ticked.”

  Grabbing her wrists, he forced her arms up on either side of her head, thrusting them into the grass. Though she shook her head from side to side, whimpering, he caught her mouth, savagely plunging his tongue inside.

  She wailed and kicked, but his legs were pinning hers, making her flailing worthless.

  She grew terrified. He planned to go through with it against her will! She fought, clawing at his hands, but her efforts were futile. He was much too strong. When he transferred her left wrist over to hold both her arms with one beefy fist, she bounced her hips against his, kicked, cried out, knowing he was freeing up one hand to rip away her suit. She felt those neatly trimmed nails scrape along her shoulder as he jerked her strap down and knew she was helpless to stop him. They were too far away from the party for her cries to be heard over the band music and animated conversation. She lost hope. He was much too strong for her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, turning her face to the side. She might have to endure the violation, but she didn’t want to suffer the memory of the viciousness that skulked in his eyes and twisted his mouth.

  She heard a grunt, then a curse. Or was it the other way around? Without warning, Brice’s weight was lifted away from her, as though he’d levitated himself straight up into the air. How or why that could happen didn’t compute in her numbed mind. All she knew was that she was free of both his cruel restraints and his obscene weight.

  Before she even opened her eyes, the impulse to flee took over, and she rolled away, scrambling toward the beach, sliding and skidding al
l the way to the edge of the water. When she felt roaming surf stroke her ankles, she gathered on her haunches, ready to run. Casting a panicked glance back to see if Brice was coming after her, she stilled, blinked, not sure to trust her eyes.

  Lyon, not Brice, was loping her way, his expression stark, furious. She cowered on her hands, but before she could speak, he grasped her by her arms and lifted her to stand. “Damn it, Emily. Are you all right?”

  She inhaled raggedly, dismayed by the thunder in his inquiry. Her emotions were already in tatters, and he was glowering at her, shouting at her. That’s all she needed! Another irate man snarling in her face! She pushed against him. “Let go! Haven’t I been manhandled enough for one day?”

  The last came out in a sob, and it affected Lyon, changed his eyes, his expression. Suddenly he was holding her against his bare chest, and she could feel the reassuring drum of his heart. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

  She relished the safe haven of his arms, the scent of him, his warm breath against her face, but she knew it was a fleeting haven. Pressing her palms against his chest, she shook her head. “Oh, Lyon...” His name on her lips seemed so right, another foolish notion she tried to shake off. “I’m okay, really. You can let go.” When he didn’t, she couldn’t insist, chancing a look at his face. Remnants of anger lingered in his eyes. “Where’s Brice?”

  He flicked a glance over his shoulder, then looked at her, unsmiling. “He’s napping.”

  She frowned, “Did you knock him out?”

  “I’d rather say he’s consciousness-challenged.”

  She felt terrible about what had happened, but she was more grateful that it was over than anything. Straining, she peered around Lyon’s torso toward where she and Brice had struggled. Protruding from behind a wall of ferns was one lone foot. Very still. “Will he be okay?”

  “Okay enough to stand in the unemployment line and face disbarment proceedings.”

  She shot her gaze to his grim face. “Oh, no, Lyon,” she cried. “It—it was my fault.”

  His brows dipped at her assertion. Feeling deplorable guilt, she shoved against him but was too weak to be effective. “Let me go, Lyon,” she cried, drained. She could feel his muscles flex as he held for another second before he released her and stepped away.

  “You mustn’t blame him,” she mumbled, hating to have to make the admission.

  “Really?” He didn’t sound convinced. “So, you’re saying you asked him to hold you down?”

  She clutched one of her bruised wrists and rubbed, experiencing a surge of disgust. “No. Of course not!”

  He nodded, pursing his lips. “But I gather you didn’t say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ or ‘don’t’?”

  She shivered uncontrollably, her glance veering out to sea. “Yes—yes, I told him to stop, but...”

  “Hell, Emily. Did you ever tell me to stop?”

  The gritted question came like a stunning blow. Of course, she had. She peeked sideways at him. She’d made him stop in exactly this situation, and he’d been a gentleman. He’d let her go—reluctantly, but he’d let her go. Nodding disjointedly, she lowered her glance to the sand, unable to speak.

  “So, who’s fault was it, then?”

  He was right. Brice was a selfish, depraved piece of slime, and if Lyon hadn’t come along, he would have raped her! Reality was starting to settle in, and she felt sick. Running trembling hands through her hair, she whispered brokenly, “I—I need to get his smell off me.” As she headed into the surf, her sloshing became an uneven, unthinking flight. She thrashed and lurched into deeper and deeper water, desperate to get her attacker’s stench off her skin. She knew she’d never smell lime and coconut again without feeling nauseated.

  When the surging ocean was too deep for her to run anymore, she dove beneath the surface, grateful for the cooling rush of water against her flesh. As she came up, she gasped for air, pushing her hair from her eyes. Clearing her vision, she saw that Lyon was almost upon her. The sight of him there, oddly protective, his face drawn with worry, did something to her heart. Lightened it. She managed a brief smile. “I’m fine. Really. You can go back to your party.”

  He eyed her dubiously. “You’re sure?”

  She nodded. “I can take care of myself.”

  His lips twisted ruefully. “Well, you’re welcome, sweetheart. Happy to help.”

  “Oh...” Her smile faded. His teasing made her grasp the truth—that she’d never thanked him for rescuing her. “How did you know to come?” Her teeth chattered, and she hugged herself. She was strangely chilled, though the weather was quite warm.

  He put out a hand. “I think you’re in shock, Emily. I’d better get you back. You might faint.”

  “I’m not a fainter.”

  “Try to keep that in mind.” When she didn’t take his hand, he grasped her fingers in his and drew her beside him. He startled her when he placed a supporting hand around her waist. “If you start to feel light-headed, let me know.”

  The irony of his suggestion was almost too much to deal with, and she had a crazy urge to laugh. Every time he touched her she grew light-headed, but she chose only to nod. “And—thank you for what you did.”

  He didn’t reply as they returned to dry sand and he aimed her toward the party. “Lyon?” She balked. “I can’t go back there. I couldn’t face people right now.”

  He assayed her silently, then nodded, redirecting them through a wooded path toward the house. “Rest. Around nine we’re going to have a bonfire and roast hot dogs and marshmallows. You’ll feel better then.”

  She stared at him. “Hot dogs? Really? I didn’t think you knew about such ordinary activities.”

  He grunted out a deep laugh. “When I was a kid, dear old Dad shipped me off to spend summers with relatives in Texas. I was cheap labor and I ate a lot of hot dogs. Forgive me for bragging, but I know how to shovel manure, too.”

  “A Renaissance man with cow poop on his Italian loafers.” She found herself smiling. He’d never seemed more real, more accessible than at this moment. “Actually, I’ve never been to a weenie roast,” she admitted.

  “Really?”

  “Dad thought cooking on a stick was vulgar.”

  He chuckled morosely. “Apparently our fathers were a lot alike.”

  “A week ago, I would never have guessed we had anything in common,” she mused. A thought struck, and she remembered the question he’d sidestepped earlier. “By the way, Lyon, how did you happen to show up just in time?”

  He shrugged. She could feel it in the tightening of his hand at her waist. “You weren’t fooling me with that coy-kitten act at the table. I knew what you were planning, and I had a bad feeling about Brice.” Reproof glittered in his eyes. “You’d have been better off with Kevin.”

  With his observation, she felt a niggle of disappointment somewhere deep inside. More than a niggle.

  It was a flood of disappointment that turned quickly into an ocean of gloom. For a few crazy minutes she’d allowed herself to float around in a fantasy land where Lyon Gallant actually cared about her! Oh, he knew how to act like a gentleman with a woman, all right. But he’d just made it very clear—again—that he didn’t know how to love one. Didn’t have any desire to try.

  How silly she’d been to personalize his rescue. He’d just engaged in a little analyzing, putting two and two together and coming up with a four that might put a damper on his expensive party. He didn’t care if she lost her virginity, or to whom. She just needed to select better!

  Gouging her fingers beneath his, she wrenched his hand from around her waist. In a desperate rush, she stepped out of his sensual aura. “I tell you what, Lyon, sweetheart! Why don’t you make up a list of suitable candidates for the job.” She whirled to glare at him, her body quaking with fury. He was staring at her, appearing confused—the self-centered, know-it-all man that he was! How dare he have the gall to be confused!

  “Or better yet, why don’t you be a good lit
tle host and pick out somebody you think would ‘do me’ with a minimum of muss and fuss and send him to my room!”

  She whirled away. Unable to look at him any longer, she sprinted unsteadily toward the mansion—away from dreams she’d begun to spin during the flash of insanity she’d experienced within his sheltering embrace.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT WAS after midnight, and Emily watched as the bonfire dwindled and the scent of roasted hot dogs faded along with the voices. Apparently, the party was finally over. She hated herself for skulking on her balcony like a pouty child, wishing she was out there with him—er, them. She’d always imagined a weenie roast as a lighthearted thing to do. As a child she’d never really played as other children did because her father had disapproved of frivolous noise. Lyon’s invitation to join the party had been hard to resist, but she was too torn up by his indifferent attitude about women and sex to bear being near him.

  Still, she wondered if the partygoers had sharpened sticks to poke their hot dogs and marshmallows on, like she’d seen on the Boy Scout special on TV, or if they’d used silver skewers. Probably the skewers, considering the opulence of Lyon’s life-style. She exhaled heavily. Being the coward she was, she would never know for sure. But even from where she watched on her balcony, she did know the cool evening breeze, the scent of fire and cooking food, the laughter mingling with the soft music and whispering surf, seemed terribly carefree and idyllic. Probably the very reason people went off to tropical islands in the first place. For just that sort of back-to-nature, barefoot way of living. Unhappy, she turned away from the rail, half wishing she’d followed her instincts and rejoined the party—at least long enough to taste a roasted weenie. She could have avoided Lyon for fifteen minutes, couldn’t she?