One of the hazards of his job was an overactive imagination. It was something he’d always had—especially as a child. His mother had explained over and over that there were no monsters under the bed, in the closet, behind the bathroom door or lurking outside his window just waiting for the moment he closed his eyes.
He no longer believed in monsters—at least of the make-believe kind. But he’d done enough research on serial killers, rapists, child molesters and the general dregs of society for him to believe wholeheartedly in the twisted, psychopathic possibilities of the human mind. There were monsters in the world, all right, but they didn’t live under the bed. They walked among the rest of humanity, going largely ignored and unnoticed.
Shaking off the eerie sensation, Simon rounded the corner to Marcy’s bungalow. Warm lights burned into the night, welcoming. Stepping up onto the small porch that lined the front of her cottage, he couldn’t stop himself from peeking inside the large picture window…just to get an idea of what he might be up against.
But what he saw was far from what he expected.
Marcy, in a pair of small gray shorts and a bright blue tank top, was dancing around her small space. The furniture was fairly standard for the island. A large four-poster bed made of rich, warm wood. A small dining table with two chairs set against the far wall of the tiny open kitchen. And a plush sofa in a bright red color that surprised him.
The cord connecting her earbuds to the iPod clipped at her waist jerked in time to her movements as she twisted and turned around the entire place. Simon sucked in a breath when she closed her eyes and nearly slammed into the side of the coffee table. But she somehow managed to miss it.
Her hair was down, her skin flushed from exertion. The tight muscles in her calves and thighs flexed as she bounced around the cottage. Her back arched. The round swell of her breasts swayed beneath the worn cotton of her shirt. She didn’t have a bra on.
And suddenly Simon couldn’t swallow.
He’d never seen her like this…unfettered, alive, glowing. He should move. Knock on the door. Logically, he realized that. But his feet wouldn’t budge. He just stayed there, glued to the worn boards of her front porch, and stared.
Until she spun in front of him. Her eyes popped open and connected with his through the clear glass between them.
He was caught. But right now he didn’t care.
* * *
OH, GOD. Marcy was mortified.
Her feet slid against the hardwood floor as she tried to stop her movement midmotion. Her hips were thrust out, her feet pigeon-toed, and her knees collided together in mid gyration.
And Simon just kept staring.
She wasn’t a great dancer. In fact, she’d skipped her senior prom because she was afraid of making a fool of herself. You always heard about the awkward girls with long limbs and gangly arms who grew into their bodies and became tall, beautiful supermodels. Well, she hadn’t grown into hers. Instead, she’d gotten hit twice—awkward and short.
But she loved music, and whenever she turned it on her body just wanted to move. Her muscles twitched. Her feet flexed. Her shoulders swayed, urging her on. But she always made damn sure that she was alone before she ever gave in.
What the heck was Simon doing here? Interrupting her private time. Spying on her.
Scowling, Marcy shot across the room and snatched open the front door. Apparently he’d recovered enough from the shock of seeing her spastic movements, because he was propped against her doorjamb, a bottle of wine in his outstretched hand.
“I brought you a present.”
“What are you doing outside my house in the middle of the night, Simon?”
He frowned, pulling the bottle back against his chest. Pushing away from the frame, his tall, powerful body straightened, towering over her. Marcy felt the urge to take a step back, overwhelmed by more than just the shadow that fell across her. He was too close. And the room was suddenly too warm.
“Come inside,” she grumbled, “before you let all the cool air out.”
Stepping away, Marcy hoped Simon would close the door behind him…because she really didn’t want to reach around him. She didn’t like this man, she reminded herself, even as a familiar and unwanted tingle started at the nape of her neck.
Pushing it away, Marcy went on the defensive, stabbing him with the powerful glare she’d learned to use to compensate for her lack of height. People often dismissed her because of her size, but she’d learned to use their underestimation to her advantage.
Unfortunately, that no longer worked with Simon.
“Why were you spying on me?”
“Spying is such a harsh word.”
“If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…”
“I do not waddle,” Simon said with mock sarcasm.
Verbal sparring with Simon was like arguing with a silver-tongued snake. He always managed to talk in circles, never really answering a question unless he wanted to. She’d often wondered if he’d been on the debate team growing up. If he hadn’t, it was a shame because he most certainly would have dominated any competition.
Taking a deep breath, Marcy asked, “What do you want?”
The smile he flashed at her was lethal for so many reasons. It was charming, no question. Bright. His eyes lowered just a little whenever he did it, connecting with hers and somehow making the whole thing more personal. As if for that moment she was the most important person in the world.
Unfortunately, she’d seen him use the same tactic many times. He was an equal-opportunity exploiter. The problem was that even though she knew his charm was hollow, it always seemed to knock her sideways a bit. Her heart stuttered. Her brain went a little fuzzy, and she found it difficult to concentrate on whatever they were talking about.
She shook her head, trying to dispel the reaction.
“To borrow your shower. And maybe your kitchen.”
“No way.” No way in hell. The last thing she needed right now was Simon invading her space. Her sanctuary. The one spot on the entire island she was guaranteed to find some peace because it was solely hers and no one bothered her here.
“Come on. The crew still doesn’t have the water back on.” He took a step toward her, and then another, crowding into her personal space. Years of refusing to be intimidated by anyone was the only thing that kept her from retreating. “You know you can’t refuse someone in distress.”
The scent of him overwhelmed her, filling her lungs and invading every molecule of her body as she unintentionally breathed him in. Dark, spicy and all male with a hint of something light and…salty. There was nothing artificial about it—about him. Nothing from a bottle for Simon. Nope, he was all natural.
“I really need a shower.” His husky words tripped down Marcy’s spine and she found herself swallowing. Hard. Trying to get control of her senses.
He certainly didn’t smell in desperate need of a shower, but she wasn’t about to point that out right now.
Instead, she licked her lips. She had to. They were bone-dry. And said, “If you’re in distress, I’m the tooth fairy.”
He didn’t hesitate a moment, but popped off a comeback with the straightest face she’d ever seen. “When I’m done with my shower, will you show me your pile of teeth?”
Her lips twitched. Damn it all to hell.
How long could a shower take? Five, ten minutes at the most and then he’d be out of her hair. “Fine,” she groaned.
He was halfway across her bungalow before the word had even left her mouth, flashing another one of those damn smiles at her over his retreating back.
“But be quick about it. I have things to do,” she added in an assertive growl just to remind them both where they stood.
He disappeared into the bathroom, his voice floating back out at her. “Like more dancing? I wouldn’t mind sticking around to watch that show.”
“No. No sticking, no show.” Her face flushed hot with renewed embarrassment and she was grateful he couldn’t see it
from the other room.
“That’s a shame. I could use some entertainment. It’s rather boring in that big building all by myself.” He stuck his head back around the frame of the door.
He was naked. At least what she could see of him. All wide shoulders and taut, tanned skin. The swell of well-defined pecs and just the hint of sculpted abs. A sprinkling of golden hair narrowed to a line down the center of his chest to disappear behind the dark wood of the door frame.
Marcy swallowed. Again. It seemed like the only thing she was capable of doing.
“I’m cooking dinner,” she blurted to keep from staring, or licking her lips or asking him to walk out of that room so she could see what was hidden behind the door.
What was wrong with her tonight?
Sure, she’d…reacted to Simon before—more than she would have liked, considering he was her boss and she’d been down that road before with disastrous results. But nothing she couldn’t handle. Hormones were easily controlled. He was a hot, virile male and it would have been foolish of her to expect not to react to him on occasion.
Maybe she was reacting so strongly because he was inside her home. She realized that in all the time she’d worked at Escape, Simon had never once come to her bungalow. That was it. It had to be.
“Dinner? Any hope of sharing? I’m starving and it’s a little hard to cook without water.”
Jeez, he wanted a lot from her tonight. But he wasn’t going to get it.
“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”
The loud sound of a zipper going down ripped through her tiny bungalow. Marcy’s eyes seemed to bulge for a minute before finding their place back inside her head. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door. The man was either mental or incredibly self-confident. Or possibly both.
“Need I remind you that since you quit this morning this bungalow technically no longer belongs to you?”
“Need I remind you that I tried to leave and you wouldn’t let me?”
He stuck his head back around the doorway one more time. The problem was now Marcy didn’t have to wonder if he was completely naked. She knew. Her mind started doing somersaults and playing tricks. It conjured up images of what he might look like fully exposed.
Unable to take it anymore, Marcy turned her back on the doorway, heading for the kitchen to cover her retreat.
“How about we consider dinner tonight payment for however long you stay?”
“Exactly how long will that be?”
“Until you come to your senses and realize you don’t want to quit.”
“Not going to happen.”
“I brought you wine. The least you can do is feed me.”
And, oh, she was going to need that wine because even as her brain said no, her mouth opened and said, “Oh, all right.”
The damn man laughed as he ducked back inside the bathroom. This time he closed the door behind him. Thank God.
Although the sound of water rushing through the pipes didn’t exactly help her control her wayward thoughts. Instead, it made them worse. The vision of him naked, surrounded by steam, with rivulets of water dripping down his body made her throat feel dry, scratchy and irritated.
Screwing her eyes shut, Marcy concentrated on something else. She pulled some strips of chicken from the freezer, then grabbed bell peppers, onions and squash. Chopping the veggies gave her something else to focus on—and luckily she managed not to nick a finger.
The meat sizzled in the hot skillet. She threw in a splash of soy sauce, Worcestershire and teriyaki marinade along with the veggies. The spicy scent that filled her little kitchen was pleasant and warm and Marcy found a smile curling her lips despite the fact that Simon was only a few feet away.
Cooking was a luxury she didn’t often indulge in, but enjoyed. She usually thought it silly to spend the time herself when a five-star restaurant was only a few steps away from her front door. The chef was excellent, and who wouldn’t appreciate gourmet meals every night?
But there was something reassuring and relaxing about making her own meal, simple as it was.
While everything cooked, she popped the cork on the bottle Simon had brought and poured a glass of wine. As an afterthought, she pulled down another glass and poured him one, as well. Maybe it would mellow them both out enough that they’d end the night without wanting to kill each other.
She threw together a simple salad of greens, tomatoes and cucumbers.
And then waited.
And waited.
And wondered what the heck was taking him so long. His hair might be longer than some guys, but it wasn’t as if it was down to his waist and needed extra conditioning. So it was a little shaggy against his collar… .
He didn’t have a razor or toothbrush. Hell, she realized, he hadn’t even brought a change of clothes.
She stirred the chicken for lack of anything better to do. And found herself staring at the closed door…imagining.
5
SIMON WOULD NEVER TAKE warm water for granted again. The muscles running from the back of his neck down to the base of his spine ached from too much hunching over the keyboard. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d become until the pounding warmth had released the knots.
He probably spent a good five minutes just standing idle beneath the spray, his mind going in pleasant, unproductive circles that he couldn’t ignore.
Reaching down for the shampoo bottle sitting on a small ledge, he squirted a purple glob of the stuff into the palm of his hand. Without thought, he dumped it over the crown of his head and started rubbing.
Only to be knocked sideways when Marcy’s scent overwhelmed him. It was lavender and vanilla, somehow feminine, sweet and powerful all at the same time. Not because of the actual scents but because for the past two years they’d always reminded him of her.
His body responded, his cock leaping to attention with a speed that shocked him. Need, deep and pulsing, whipped through his body and he closed his eyes tight trying to ignore it.
This had been a bad idea.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. He was here, held hostage in Marcy’s bathroom by a raging erection and a desire to possess her that had blindsided him. Well, okay, maybe not blindsided, but surprised him at the very least.
Gritting his teeth, Simon looked around for a bar of soap and realized there wasn’t one. Squinting at the row of bottles, he picked out one that promised silky-smooth skin and popped the lid, bringing it experimentally to his nose. Lavender. Again.
He hadn’t thought to grab a washcloth. What kind of person didn’t have a bar of soap in the shower? The only thing that remotely resembled something useful was a big puffy thing hanging from a hook over the showerhead. He’d seen them before, in other women’s bathrooms, but never stopped long enough to care what they were for. Nine times out of ten, he’d been otherwise occupied and neither party involved had been worried about getting clean. They’d been concentrating on being very, very dirty.
Simon slammed his jaws together as a vision of Marcy, her tight little body wrapped around his waist and her back pressed against the wall of the shower, burst through his mind.
Okay, no puffy thing. Instead, he squeezed the soap out into his hand and began lathering it across his skin. He was going to smell like a pansy when this was over. But maybe that would keep him from acting on the throbbing hard-on jutting out from his hips.
He studiously ignored that entire area on the idea that pretending it wasn’t there was the best course of action. Although that seemed pointless since the lather slipped down his body anyway to part around his erection and slide over his tight balls.
With a hiss through his teeth, Simon gave up. Rinsing the soap from his body, he slammed the faucet off and jumped from the confining walls of the shower. Unfortunately, even the towel he grabbed from beneath the sink smelled like lavender.
Did the woman own stock in the stuff?
Simon reached for the clothes he’d thrown haphazardly into a pile on the
stool sitting in the corner of the room. The fly on his shorts pressed painfully against the ridge of his uncooperative cock. He reached down and tried to adjust for a more comfortable fit, but there wasn’t one. The ache was endless.
With a snarl, he pulled his shirt back over his shoulders, leaving the tail untucked and dangling to hide the bulge. And started thinking unpleasant thoughts.
Starving children in Africa.
Stinging bees.
The workmen outside who hadn’t managed to fix the water.
He waited for the erection to go away.
And waited some more.
Finally he realized it wasn’t going anywhere and that if he didn’t get out of this bathroom Marcy was going to think he’d drowned. And come in after him. His eyes strayed over to the shower and the drops of water that peeled slowly down the pane of glass. Despite all his efforts, the vision of her in there with him returned with a vengeance.
Which would not be good.
Snatching the knob, Simon ripped open the door and walked back out into Marcy’s living area. He was greeted by a tantalizing smell. Thank god it wasn’t lavender.
“Jeez, how much primping can one man do?”
Simon stared at her for several seconds, his brain spinning uselessly on her words. Until he realized what she was talking about. Perhaps her low opinion of him—and apparently his vanity—could work in his favor here.
“It takes a lot of effort to maintain this level of perfection.”
“Please.” Marcy’s lips twitched down on one corner. “Half the time you look like you dragged the first thing out of the closet that you came to. You’ve needed a haircut for months. Pretty soon no one will be able to see those beautiful blue eyes behind the shaggy blond hair.”
“You think my eyes are beautiful,” he teased, flashing her a wide grin.
She groaned and looked at the ceiling as if hoping for help. Her eyes sparkled, just like the water outside their little island when the sun hit it just right. Her jaw tightened, flexing in a way that made him ache to give her another workout for that mouth.
“Your ego is a constant amazement to me, do you know that?”
Rub It In Page 5
