by Anna Cruise
I pushed it aside. “No grandparents?” I asked. “To take care of you, I mean.”
“No.” He didn't elaborate.
“Were they...dead, too?”
“My mom's parents, yes. They died separately. Cancer, one year apart.”
I hated that cancer had touched his life, too.
“And your dad's parents?”
He shot me a quick glance, his mouth a hard, straight line. “They didn't want me.”
The brown-haired toddler appeared again but this time, I was filled with anger at the image I conjured. Who wouldn't want a kid whose parents had just died? Even in my darkest moments, when I was selfish and greedy and only thinking of myself—which was often, I was happy to admit—I knew I'd take my niece if I had to. If something happened to Abby and West, I'd step up. I'd grumble and complain constantly, but I'd do it. And I knew my parents would, too. Without question.
I shifted again in my seat, shaking my head in an attempt to dislodge all of the images and thoughts swirling through my mind. The conversation was getting too heavy for me. Maybe I didn't want to know Stuart's history. Maybe I should just stick with being light-hearted and catty and sexy and leave it at that.
It was safer that way. Easier.
For both of us.
I reached across the seat and put my own hand on his thigh. He looked at me and smiled.
“I want you,” I told him. The words were a direct counter to what he'd said about his grandparents but he heard the innuendo. I smiled and let my tongue dart across my lips. His grip on my leg tightened. I moved my hand so it sat directly on his crotch. I rubbed my fingers across him and felt his growing response.
“Annika...”
I fumbled with the zipper on his cargo shorts and tugged it down. He let out a haggard breath as I closed my hand around him.
“I really, really want you.”
TWELVE
We pulled off the freeway just before dinner time. Stuart had put the top up on the car when we'd stopped for lunch somewhere in LA and that was all I'd needed to drift off to sleep. I'd reclined the seat, intending to just rest my eyes for a minute. By the looks of the sky outside, I'd slept for a little longer. A lot longer, actually.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“About five minutes from my house.”
I straightened in my seat, my hand flying up to my head to smooth my hair. “How long was I asleep for?”
“Long enough to get here,” he answered, smiling.
I looked out the window as the car climbed a winding road. Walls of tress flanked both sides of the two-lane street. There were no palm trees, no ice plant, just sparse forests filled with towering trees and scrubby brush. The only signs of civilization were the power lines that ran parallel with the road.
Stuart turned right on to a residential street and houses popped up, one-level stucco ramblers with concrete driveways and tiny front lawns. He turned again, a left this time, and the car's engine revved as we climbed higher.
“Do you live on top of a mountain or something?” I asked.
“I wouldn't call it a mountain,” he said. “More like a hill.”
He pulled into a driveway in front of a two-story blue stucco house and killed the engine.
“This is it?” I asked. “Your house?”
He nodded. “The one and only.”
I didn't know what I'd been expecting. My thoughts about Stuart and how he lived his life ranged from him living in a hovel, shirtless, bearded and covered in dirt, to him movie-star glamorous, sporting a tuxedo and driving off in a limo to some Grecian-style mansion. He was like that—a chameleon, constantly changing in appearance. I stole a quick glance at him. He'd showered yesterday but hadn't shaved. He'd changed clothes, sporting a new pair of khaki cargo shorts and a black t-shirt, but the overgrowth on his chin and cheeks gave him a rugged appearance, like he'd just stepped out of some wilderness survival show.
I stepped out of the car and gazed at the house. It wasn't anything special. A well-manicured strip of lawn with box hedges provided a natural barrier between the edge of the yard and the sidewalk. There were flower boxes mounted underneath the first-floor windows, overflowing with pink and purple petunias. A flower bed sat in front of the house, filled with more pink and purple and white blooms, the names of which I didn't know. A bird feeder was mounted on a wooden stake in the middle of the front yard and yellow birds flitted around it, pecking at the seeds in the container.
The blinds on the windows were open and a light in the living room was on. I wondered if he had a housekeeper, someone who he called to make sure things were ready for him when he came home. He obviously had someone take care of his lawn while he was away so I imagined he had someone on the payroll for the house, too.
Stuart reached in the back seat and pulled out both of our bags. He hoisted them over his shoulder and slammed the door shut. “Ready?”
I took a deep breath. I'd never been away with a guy. Never gone on vacation with someone. Never spent anything other than a single night at a guy's house. And here I was, five hundred miles from home, standing in the driveway of a guy I was pretty much infatuated with, basically agreeing to shack up with him for a few days. I tried to focus on the deliciously sinful side of the situation but the domesticity of it all kept rearing its head. And I wasn't sure how I felt about that.
I followed Stuart up the sidewalk and to the freshly painted front door. It was bright white, shiny, not a speck of dirt. He reached for the doorknob and, to my surprise, didn't insert a key but simply twisted it open.
“You don't lock your door?” I asked in disbelief.
He lifted his sunglasses and set them on his head. “Not when someone is home.”
Right on cue, a white-haired woman popped into the hallway. Her face lit up when she saw Stuart, her face dissolving into thousands of deep wrinkles.
“Stuart!”
The old lady was spry; I'd give her that. She covered the hall in ten quick steps, her orthopedic loafers silent on the thick beige carpeting. Stuart enveloped her in a hug, lifting her up and twirling her around like she was a ten year-old. She wasn't much taller than a kid, barely five feet, her floral blouse hanging just as loosely as the flesh on her bony arms. I wondered if he treated all his employees with such unabashed affection. Jealousy spiked inside of me and I tried to quell it.
Jesus, Annika, I berated myself silently. She's the housekeeper and has one foot in the grave. Chill the fuck out.
With the woman still in his arms, Stuart turned to me. His smile was huge, a twinkle in his brown eyes that I'd never seen before. He dropped one arm and motioned to me.
“Annika, this is my 'mom'. Aunt Barb.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Mom, this is Annika. My...” he hesitated, a low chuckle in his throat. “My travel companion.”
THIRTEEN
“I thought we were coming to your house,” I hissed.
Stuart and I were facing off in a tiny bedroom upstairs. Aunt Barb had greeted me warmly, ushering us inside. After a few minutes of small talk, she herded us up the stairs, past a line of orange tabby cats that had suddenly appeared on the steps, four of them lined up one after the other, eyeing us with a mixture of ambivalence and suspicion. I'd followed Stuart, still trying to process what was happening.
“We did,” he said lightly. His bag was open and he pulled out shirts and shorts and stuffed them into a pine dresser plastered with faded bumper stickers.
“Your house,” I repeated, my hands on my hips. “Meaning one you lived in. Alone.”
He pulled out a small black bag and set it on the top of the dresser. “Why would I own a house I'd never live in? I'm in a different country every other week.”
His explanation made perfect sense but still, I seethed. I'd just assumed we were heading to his house, not the childhood home he'd grown up in with his ancient aunt and uncle. His ancient aunt and uncle who were were still alive and who still lived there.
; “But...” I faltered.
He turned to me and smiled. “But what?”
I glanced around the room. It looked like a place that had been frozen in time. Band posters papered the walls and a cork bulletin board was littered with concert tickets and snapshots of Stuart and his friends. Part of me itched to move closer and examine all of them but I couldn't get past the feeling that I'd stepped into some sort of time capsule. Trophies lined a wooden shelf mounted on the wall; he'd played tennis. I didn't know he was a tennis player. Giants memorabilia—pennants and posters and an aerial photograph of the stadium—were everywhere. But the thing that had immediately caught my eyes was Stuart's bed. His beds, actually.
Because there were twin-sized bunk beds pushed up against one wall of the room, both covered with outer-space themed comforters.
“Are we staying here?” I asked.
One of the cats meandered into the room and rubbed against Stuart's legs. He leaned down and rubbed its head. “Why wouldn't we?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Are we sleeping here?”
He straightened and shrugged and looked around. “Why not?”
“So, what? I get the top, you get the bottom?”
He sat down at the black computer desk next to the bed. “I like having you on top.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not what I meant. Those are bunk beds!”
“I'm aware.”
He stood up and grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him. A minute later, he'd thrown me on to the bottom bunk and positioned himself next to me. The mattress squeaked and the wood frame creaked under our weight.
“It'll be a tight fit but we can make it work,” he said, pressing his body into mine. I could feel his arousal against my thigh.
“Your parents are here,” I said, pushing at him. “Or our aunt and uncle or whatever it is you call them.”
“I call them both.” He nipped my ear with his teeth. Goosebumps sprouted on my neck, traveling down my arms. “They're practically deaf. And blind. They won't hear or see a thing.”
“Besides, I've never fucked a girl in my room,” he murmured, his breath hot against my neck. “It's sort of been a fantasy of mine.”
I put my hands on his chest and pushed him away from me. “So this is what this is? You brought me here to fulfill some sexual fantasy of yours?”
His smile appeared, slow and sexy as hell. “You've already fulfilled plenty of my fantasies, sweetheart. What's one more?”
He kissed me, his mouth hot and insistent. His hands settled on my hips, his fingers lifting the hem of my shirt.
But I wasn't done.
“So let me make sure I'm straight on this. You brought your 'travel companion' home to fuck her in your childhood bedroom. Is that right? Does that sum this up?”
He laughed, a low throaty sound that always managed to undo me. “What should I have called you?”
“I don't know.” I thought for a minute. “Not travel companion.”
“Friend?” he suggested. “Sex partner?”
I knew he was goading me, waiting to see what I would say. And I hated that I cared. I'd been prepared for a rendezvous in Brazil, a humanitarian trip and a getaway, all rolled into one. I'd started to prepare myself for it to morph into something more; after all, I'd felt the shift in our relationship when we'd said goodbye at the airport. I hated to admit it—and I wouldn't admit it to anyone but myself—but I was starting to care about the guy laying next to me.
But I didn't know what the hell to do about it, especially when I was in his home and meeting his parents. He'd brought me here and, despite what he was telling me, I knew it was more than because he wanted to finally break in his childhood bed.
I glanced up at him with hooded eyes and my best seductive smile. When all else fails, fall back on what you know, I told myself. Pretend not to care and whatever you do, don't give him the upper hand.
I lifted my shirt and pulled it up over my head. His eyes fixed on the black lacy bra I wore and he sucked in his breath. In one quick motion, I lifted my body up and on to his.
“Sex goddess will do just fine.”
FOURTEEN
“They really are deaf, aren't they?”
I didn't even bother to whisper. After our quickie in Stuart's bed, we'd gotten dressed and come back downstairs and joined Barb and Uncle Tom for dinner. The table was set for four, complete with china plates and cloth napkins and fluted glasses filled with ice water. I'd glanced quickly at the place settings, hoping I wouldn't have to figure out how to use eleven different forks and was relieved to see there was only one.
Barb brought out a pot roast along with bowls of mashed potatoes and broccoli. Tom immediately began to serve, slicing off huge hunks of meat and plopping them on our plates.
His aunt undid her apron and placed it on the oak sideboard before taking a seat at the table. “It's so lovely to meet one of Stuart's friends,” she said loudly.
“Thank you for having me,” I said.
She cupped her ear. “What?”
I repeated myself, a little louder this time.
She smiled and nodded. “It's always a pleasure to have company.”
Tom scooped a huge serving of mashed potatoes. He was taller than his wife by almost a foot, with stooped shoulders and a hunched back. He was mostly bald but thin, wispy strands of white hair clung on stubbornly, unwilling to let go, it seemed. His eyes were the same color as his nephew's, brown and warm and a little too shrewd for my liking.
“You two get settled in?” he asked. I swore I saw a small smile twitch on his lips.
Stuart nodded. “All settled.” His voice was automatically dialed up a couple of notches so they both could hear him.
Barb frowned. “I think you should stay in the guest room. There's more space.”
She was talking to me.
I grabbed my glass of water and took a sip. I hadn't known there was a guest room. And I didn't know what the right response would be.
“We're fine,” Stuart said. “Annika has the top bunk, I have the bottom. It's all good.”
“I don't know...”
He didn't let her finish. “You always said you got the bunk beds so there would be room for my friends. I would think that still applies.”
“Leave them be, Barbara.” Tom's voice was sharp. “There's two beds in there. They'll figure it out.”
I bit back a smile. “I'm more than comfortable where I am,” I told her. “If I have trouble sleeping, I'll move tomorrow.”
Barb worried her lip. “I don't know. Getting in and out of that top bunk seems like a lot of work.”
“She's not seventy, Mom,” Stuart said. “She's twenty. Big difference.”
“I'm not twenty,” I began.
He smiled at me and touched my hand. “I was making a point.”
Tom speared a piece of broccoli and popped it in his mouth. “Tell us what you've been up to, Stu.”
Stuart cut his roast into bite-sized pieces. “Same old, same old,” he said. “I was in New York for a few days last month. Met with some potential donors. Other than that, it's mostly been in the field stuff. Central and South America. Costa Rica. Ecuador. Brazil.”
“You find anyone willing to offer support?” Tom asked.
I ate and listened. This was a side of Stuart's business that I didn't know anything about.
He picked up his glass again and swirled it. The ice clinked against the sides. “A couple,” he said. “Not big donors but I'll take what I can get.”
Tom nodded. “Marcus still helping out? Funding things?”
Stuart picked up his fork and played with the mashed potatoes, trailing the tines through the mound. “Yeah.”
“He's always been your go-to guy.” Tom smiled and the age spots surrounding his mouth disappeared into deep dimples. “Always will be, son.”
“Who is Marcus?” I asked.
“What, dear?” Barb asked. She had a dot of potato on her chin and Stuart reached across the table and dabbed his n
apkin at her mouth. She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
I cleared my throat and spoke louder. “I asked who Marcus was.”
Barb started to respond but Stuart cut her off. “He's a family friend.”
“And he's a big donor?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I felt a twinge of irritation. Stuart had accused me of not listening during his speech at San Diego State and he'd been right. He'd spoken about his organization and I'd tuned him out, more concerned about trying to figure out a way to seduce him than to listen to his talk. Now that I wanted information, now that I was asking questions, he was suddenly tight-lipped.
“How big?” I asked.
Stuart looked at me. “Big.”
I lowered my voice. “Is this something we're not supposed to be talking about?”
“Excuse me, dear?” Barb said.
I ignored her. “How big?”
“We can talk about it later.”
“Why can't we talk about it now?”
Stuart lifted his napkin from his lap and set it on his plate. He'd barely eaten half of his food. Most of mine still sat untouched.
“Thank you for dinner,” he said to his aunt, forcing a smile. “But I'm not terribly hungry.”
He stood up.
I stood, too. “Me, either.”
He gave me a long look, then turned on his heel and walked out of the dining room.
I glanced at the table. Tom was still eating, shoveling a forkful of potatoes in his mouth, his eyes on me. Barb's gaze bounced worriedly between Tom and the doorway Stuart had just walked through.
I waited for a few seconds before making my decision.
I dropped my napkin on the table and hurried after him.
FIFTEEN
It took me ten minutes to find Stuart. He wasn't in his bedroom. I checked the remaining rooms upstairs—his aunt and uncle's room, a hall bath, and the guest bedroom Barb had mentioned. All were empty.
