Deliciously Sinful

by Lilli Feisty

  “No, not really.”

  Gently, he lifted her out of the car and shut the door with the heel of his boot. Then he walked to his Hummer and opened the passenger door. After he’d placed her on the seat, he shut the door and got in on the other side.

  He turned to face her.

  “You’re bleeding.” With the hem of his jacket he wiped the rain and blood off her face.

  “I’m fine. Nick?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I told you. I love you.”

  “And what do you want me to do with this information?”

  “Give me another chance? Please, Phoebe. Listen. I’ve just left everything I’ve ever worked for behind: my job, my life in Hollywood, recognition. None of it matters anymore. Because I’d take a day in the forest, or collecting oysters on the coast, or anything that involved a moment with you, over anything else in the world.”

  Her heart was beating like a jungle drum. “What are you saying? That you want to move here? Permanently?”

  His voice sounded gravelly and hoarse. “Yes, but only if you want to be with me.”

  “Nick. Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re saying you just left Hollywood and want to move here and be with me? For good?”

  He nodded. “I know you don’t trust me, and that you think I tried to one-up you with the whole brownie thing, but—”

  She held up her hand. “Nick, I’m the one who needs to apologize about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I jumped to the wrong conclusions. I didn’t trust you. But I know you had good intentions, and I’m sorry I didn’t recognize them right away.”

  For just one second, she actually thought she saw his eyes go just a tad watery at her words.

  She stared at him. “Goddamn you, Nick.”

  He slanted one of those grins at her, the kind that made her heart skip a beat. He took her head in his hands and kissed the wound on her forehead. “Thank you, Phoebe. Your words mean a lot to me.”

  “It still doesn’t negate the fact you up and ditched us!”

  “I know, baby. I behaved horribly. I promise to never do it again.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “Would it help if I told you that on the way here, I got a phone call with an offer to host my own show, and I turned it down?”

  She jerked back. “You did? Why didn’t you take it?”

  “Because I want to be here. In the middle of freakin’ nowhere. With you. That’s what makes me happy.”

  “How can I believe you? Trust you? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “I’ll do anything to make you believe me. To trust me. To understand that deep down”—he pounded his chest—“this is what I want. You. The café. The forest, the beach. And did I say you?”

  He held her to his chest. He was so warm, her shivering body soaked up his heat. She buried her nose in his shoulder. That scent. She couldn’t help it. It got her every time; it was home and sex and connection and earth. And Nick.

  She paused. “Cardamom.”

  He glanced down at her. “Um, pardon me? I kinda thought we were having a moment.”

  “We are. Have I told you I love the way you smell?”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “But there’s something about your scent I never could quite identify. Some spice.”

  “I take it it’s cardamom?”

  Inhaling again, she nodded. “I like it.”

  “I use it every morning to make chai tea.”

  “I like chai tea.”

  He tilted her head up. “Good. Can I make it for you tomorrow morning?”

  Slowly, and biting back a goofy smile, she nodded.

  He kissed her nose. “And the morning after that?”

  “Yes, Nick. And if you’re lucky, the morning after that.”

  His blue eyes sparkled with that thing called happiness he seemed to have developed. “I’m a pretty lucky guy,” he said.

  She tried to look serious. “Well, since you’re going to have me as your girlfriend, you are a pretty lucky guy.”

  He kissed her then. It was a slow kiss, a kiss of promises. Of forests and beaches and redwood trees and chocolate and oysters. It was a kiss of hope. Of trust. Of security.

  Then the kiss deepened, and her body responded. Her breasts ached for his touch, and between her legs a pulse began to beat.

  He held her face to his, and as he explored more of her mouth, as he tasted her and licked her, she wanted to fall into him. Become one.

  When they pulled apart, she was panting.

  “I love you, Phoebe.”

  “You must,” she said, looking around. “After all, we’re here, stranded in the middle of nowhere, and I think I just heard another tree fall. That might keep us from getting back, even in your Hummer.”

  “Nope,” he said, starting the car. “We’re going to make it back safe and sound.” He glanced at her. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “Let’s go home.”

  Ruby Scott is a beautiful, quiet event planner who leads an oh-so-respectable life. Yet the things that go on in her secret fantasies are anything but…

  Bound to Please

  *

  Turn this page for an excerpt.

  Chapter Two

  Ruby, meet Mark St. Crow. He’s the head of the Dark Riders.” Emmett gave her a look that she knew meant Kiss his ass.

  And her first thought was, Okay! If you insist. Because the man standing before her made her heart race. Made her feel all tingly and they hadn’t even spoken yet.

  His head was shaved and gleamed in the dim light, clean and shiny. She’d never been with a bald man; she wondered how the skin would feel beneath her fingers, if she’d be able to trace the bones of his skull. Her fingers curled at the thought.

  She uncurled them and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.” Their palms met and her pulse jumped.

  She took her hand back.

  Young. He looked so very young. But, at thirty-seven, it seemed everyone got younger every day.

  He gazed at her through black-rimmed glasses. Damn. She’d always had a thing for glasses on a man. She’d had a serious crush on an art history professor in college who wore them. At night, she’d study nineteenth-century Italian paintings, then go to bed and think of him as she used her hot-pink bullet vibrator.

  For fuck’s sake, don’t think about that!

  “Ruby. Do you know there are at least forty songs with your name in the title?” Mark asked.

  “Um, actually I didn’t. So you get points for an original twist on an old line.” She cringed. Why had she said that? She could almost feel Emmett’s censure, but when she turned she discovered he, along with Meg, had vanished.

  She looked back to see Mark raising a brow over those bloody glasses. “So are you saying I’m not original?”

  “I don’t know yet. Can you name all the songs?” Was she flirting? That sounded like flirting.

  “Probably. But I want to get paid for my talents. Fortunately, I work cheap. A beer ought to cover it. I’ll even get it myself.”

  She raised a hand to protest. “That’s really not necces—”

  “Be right back.”

  She watched him walk away. Tall and sinewy, his black T-shirt showed off a solid torso, and the short sleeves gave her a nice view of well-defined, tattoo-covered arms. Faded, low-slung jeans—not too tight—wrapped around long legs that carried his form with a confidence that drew her attention. He looked too young for that kind of confidence. So young he could get away with leather bands circling both his wrists and make it look hot.

  In fact, he had a lot of leather on his body. Bracelets, belt, boots. All black, all worn. The sight of all that leather sent a thrill through her, which she quickly stomped down.

  Now he was walking back across the room with his gaze fixed on her. Like she was some ki
nd of target, like he was some kind of predator. Hell, he probably was. Young, gorgeous, talented. She’d go down like a gazelle under a lion’s attack.

  He handed her a chocolate martini, and she could swear she smelled the leather from his bracelets. Which made her remember the wall of leather at the sex shop. There was a specific smell to this type of leather. Woodsy, freshly cut. Sexy.

  No, no. Don’t think about that …

  But of course she did. She thought about the time she’d gone with Ash to the fetish store to purchase suspension equipment. Ruby had been drawn to the wall of floggers and paddles and other mysterious implements; her palms had dampened as she approached all that leather. Nervous and excited just to see the tools, all lined up in neat, erotic rows. She’d wondered how the leather would feel striking her skin. Would it sting a lot? Or a little? Would she like it? Her hand had trembled as she ran her finger over the soft strands of a buckskin flogger.

  “You like them?”

  “W-what?”

  Mark shook his wrist. “These. You were staring at them.”

  “No. I mean yes. They’re lovely.” Lovely?

  That damn brow of his went higher.

  She felt hot. All over. Which compelled her to take a calming sip of the drink he’d handed her. As a rule, she didn’t drink at her own events, but so far she’d broken her own rule twice in one night. First with Meg, now with Mark. Mark something St. Crow.

  “Do you have a middle name?” she asked.

  He tilted his head. “Why?”

  “Um. Just wondering.” Seriously, her legs were trembling.

  “Let’s sit.” Was he reading her mind now?

  He led her to a table in a corner. And the only reason she took the seat he offered was because of Emmett. Really, it was. Emmett wanted to record this band, and, as his wife’s best friend, she felt an obligation to do whatever she could to help out. And if that meant making small talk with a young man who wore black glasses and smelled like leather and looked at her like she was the only woman in the room, so be it.

  She stifled a shiver.

  “You cold?”

  “Nope. Uh-uh. Not at all.” In fact, she was burning up. Conversation. Make conversation. “So. You’re in a band.” Real clever.

  “Yup. Sure am.” Why did he always seem to be holding back a smile?

  She went on. “What do you play?”

  “Everything. Piano, guitar. The Bazantar—”

  “You play the Bazantar?” she said, her eyes wide.

  “On occasion. You know what it is?”

  “It’s a five-string double bass, invented by Mark Deutsch.”

  He stared a second too long. “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  “So am I. That you play it, I mean.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, what else do you do?”

  “I sing. I’m a bit of a control freak about performing, actually.”

  She couldn’t help but find that interesting. Mark St. Crow was a control freak. He seemed the opposite of her, and yet she often referred to herself with that same exact phrase. Well, everyone referred to her that way, didn’t they? “What kind of music does your band play?” she asked.

  “Rock and roll. Punk. Electronic. Everything.” Now he did smile before he tilted his beer bottle to his lips. She surmised that, by now, he must have realized she had no idea who his band was. It didn’t seem to bother him.

  Which was even more interesting. But she shook the thoughts out of her head. She really should be checking in with the caterer, mingling. So she had no idea why she asked: “Didn’t we have a deal? Were you going to name forty songs with the name Ruby in the title?” So now she was asking him to serenade her. Niiiice. Not flirting at all.

  “This might not be in chronological order; I’m a bit rusty.”

  “I understand.”

  He coughed into his hand, cleared his throat. Made a show of it. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh at his silliness. With all this charm, no doubt he had girls falling over him every night. The thought sobered her up, and she straightened in her seat.

  Suddenly she had the distinct feeling that she was being watched and she looked up to find the woman Mark had arrived with staring at her. Tall, with a supermodel’s figure and sparkling green eyes, the redhead was stunning. And, judging from the intense expression on her face, she disapproved of Mark talking to Ruby.

  “What’s up?” Mark asked.

  Ruby tried to shrug indifferently. “Your girlfriend doesn’t look too happy.”

  “That’s Yvette, my singer. She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Are you sure she knows that?”

  “Yeah. I already ventured down that road, and it didn’t work out so well. Hit a dead end, so to speak.” He chuckled; his laugh was deep and husky and made her soften even more.

  So, he’d been with Yvette. Who cared? Ruby had no idea why it mattered that Mark’s gorgeous, talented, soon-to-be-famous ex-girlfriend was staring at them like she would be perfectly happy if a hole opened up and swallowed Ruby alive.

  “Don’t mind Yvette. She’s just overprotective. We go way back.”

  “I don’t mind,” Ruby said as Yvette turned away. “Not at all. It’s great to have good friends. Anyway, I should be going. I have to check on … things.” As if she didn’t have every detail, down to the exact number of hand towels in the bathroom, under control.

  His hand on her knee made her pause. “But I haven’t finished my side of the deal yet. So sit back and listen, my darling Ruby.”

  She flicked his hand away. “I’m not your darling anything.”

  “I know. It’s a song. By Mossa.”

  “Oh.”

  “House music.”

  “I don’t listen to house.”

  “Understood. It’s not nearly as good as the hair-band music you have going on here.”

  She bristled. “Eighties rock is back.”

  “Sadly.”

  She agreed but didn’t say it. And she really wished he would stop smiling like that. It did funny things to her stomach.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted. “So you’re on. List every song with Ruby in the title. And, just for fun, how about you do it by genre?” She smiled innocently.

  “A bit of a challenge, but I’ll give it a try. What should I start with? Not house. Rock? Alternative? Jazz—”

  “Jazz.” Ruby loved jazz and was quite sure this young rock star would be stumped. Which, bizarrely, would please her.

  “Jazz it is. Okay, then. A-hem. Of course we have ‘Ruby, My Dear’ by Thelonious Monk; ‘Ruby, I Need You’ by the Steel Brothers; ‘Ruby’ by Ambrose Akinmusire; ‘Ruby’ by Art Farmer; ‘Ruby’ by Jimmy Smith; ‘Ruby’ by Benny Carter—”

  She froze. “You’ve heard of Benny Carter?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “I am. Not many people know jazz.”

  “How do you know so much about jazz, Ruby So Sweet?”

  “My dad turned me on to it.” She just stopped herself from adding, before he left. “When I was a little girl. Not many people have heard of Benny Carter.”

  “My father was a jazz musician. Upright bass. I’ll never forget the first time he caught me listening to the Ramones. I thought he’d have a heart attack right there in my bedroom.”

  Ah, yes, the Ramones. Their album had come out when Mark was what? Ten?

  She asked, “Was he a successful musician? Your father, I mean.”

  “In his time. Played with some of the greats. Monk, Brubeck, Hancock.”

  She leaned back, studying the way he coolly listed some of the greatest names in jazz. “Impressive.”

  He shrugged, and for just a second his eyes flashed with an emotion she couldn’t place. “At the time. He gave it up when I came along.”

  “Really? Why?”

  His laugh was wry. “The usual. Mom didn’t like the late nights, the travel. The unpredictable income.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  He e
yed her over his beer. “Maybe. Anyway, he taught me everything I know about music. So, Ruby baby. Shall I continue?”

  Nodding, she settled into her chair and listened. And listened. And listened. Finally, she waved him to stop. “Fine! I get it. There are a lot of songs with the name Ruby in the title!”

  “As there should be.”

  She rolled her eyes and bit back a grin. Yeah, he was a charmer, all right. And she’d fallen right into his trap. But why her? Why had he picked her to flirt with? Glancing around the room, she saw half a dozen gorgeous young things, some of whom she’d hired herself as eye candy. And that they were. In her vintage suit and high-buttoned shirt, Ruby felt downright dowdy in comparison. At least her red peep-toe pumps were sexy.

  Straightening her blazer, Ruby took a deep, calming breath. But then she looked up and her heart stopped. Because Mark wasn’t just looking at her; he was scrutinizing her. She found herself pinned under his gaze as if he’d tied her to the chair.

  He took a slow swig from his beer. “I noticed the tattoo on the back of your neck. It’s nice work.”

  She wore her hair in a high ponytail, and her hand went to the cherry blossom tattoo at the top of her spine. “Thank you.”

  If possible, his gaze became even more intense. “It looks familiar. In fact, it looks exactly like something on a piece of art I bought recently. Here, in San Francisco.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. No. It couldn’t be. Ash had promised to never sell any of the photographs he’d taken of her. He was a narcissistic, chronically late, tortured artist who, on occasion, cheated on his girlfriend. But he wasn’t evil.

  Was he?

  Mark went on. “The thing is, this piece I bought? It’s of a woman, bound in rope. It was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen.” Still watching her, he took another casual swig from his beer. “Until now.”

  She met his gaze, silent for a minute. Then she started laughing. High-pitched hysterical giggles that had him looking at her with an expression of confusion.

  Finally, her laugh died out. “So that’s what this is about.”

  “What ‘what’ is about?”

  She flapped her hand between them. “This. You talking to me. You think I’m easy because I posed—past tense—naked in erotic photographs. You think I’ll tie you up, let you worship my shoes or something.” She pushed herself to her feet. “And this is exactly why I didn’t want anyone to know it was me in those pictures. You let someone take a few nude photographs, and the next thing you know, guys are begging you to spank them—”