Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3)

by Sylvia Pierce

  She stepped out of the taped perimeter, putting some much-needed distance between them.

  “My bedroom is obvious,” she continued, “the door being the logical boundary, and that door will remain closed and locked at all times while I’m inside. I’m on a very tight deadline and I can’t be disturbed.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said.

  “Great. All the other areas in the house are shared, meaning we each get half—I’ve marked off those boundaries as well, and I expect you to respect them without argument.”

  Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he said, “Which one of us gets the shower? Or are we sharing that?”

  Layla felt her cheeks flame.

  “The kitchen and bathroom have schedules,” she plowed on, “since you can’t really divide those. So you’ll see on the chart here…” She scurried over to the dining room table and grabbed the chart she’d written up, along with a list of house rules for him to sign. “You’ll see what time slots you’ve got for bathroom time and meal preparation. Oh, that reminds me. You’ll need to pick up your own groceries, do your own dishes, laundry, et cetera. We also have quiet hours. It’s all here in the rules.”

  He took the papers from her hands, scanning her notes, scrutinizing them line by line. The muscles of his shoulders were tight, his forearms flexing as he flipped the pages.

  With his eyes on the paper, she took a moment to take in the scenery, following a bead of sweat as it slid from the hollow of his throat, down the center of his muscled chest. Again she fought the urge to touch him, to trace that same path with her fingertip, to feel his muscles clench and release in response to her lightest touch.

  “Wow,” he said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts. When she looked up, she found him watching her, barely containing a smirk. “You’ve been productive today, Sunshine.”

  She folded her arms over her chest and nodded, barely suppressing her own smirk. She knew the tape was over-the-top enough; the schedule and terms were just the icing on the crazy cake. There was no way he’d sign it, no way he’d be willing to put up with her antics for an entire week.

  Score!

  Layla was immensely pleased with herself. She had him right where she wanted him. She just needed to hear those three little words:

  I’m outta here…

  “Got a pen?” he asked.

  “A… a pen?”

  “I’m not going to sign this in blood, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

  Reluctantly, Layla pulled a pen out of her bun and handed it over, dumbfounded. Was he seriously thinking about staying?

  Maybe I should’ve used more tape…

  “You know,” he said, scribbling his autograph on the last page with a flourish, “if you spent this much time on actual work, you might be able to meet those tight deadlines of yours, Layla Hart.”

  He handed over the pen and papers, then left her gaping after him like a beached fish.

  I never told him my name. I haven’t even signed this stupid contract yet…

  He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, tossing his shirt and shorts out into the hallway.

  A moment later, he was leaning out through the doorway, his arms and chest glowing. Behind the doorframe, he was totally naked again, ready to hop into a hot, relaxing shower.

  “Hey, Layla?” The gravely, seductive sound of his voice sent a burst of heat through her body. “I’m real good with sharing, so feel free to take me up on that shower invite now. Or tomorrow. Consider it an open invitation. No expiration.”

  With a rakish smile and a wink that warned of the best kind of trouble, he was gone again, the bathroom door open and the invitation hanging between them, desire pulsing between Layla’s thighs like a steady drum.

  Layla closed her eyes, trying to bring herself back to reality.

  You’ve got a deadline.

  He was singing now, riffing some old rock ballad in the shower, just loud enough for her to hear.

  You’ve got to stay focused.

  His voice was so raw, so sexy.

  It’s a bad idea.

  Layla bit her lip, imagining what it would feel like to just throw her inhibitions out to sea, strip off her clothes, and step into the shower with him.

  You can’t. You promised yourself you wouldn’t fall again.

  Fall? No. She didn’t want to fall. She just wanted to feel strong hands on her body, sliding over her wet skin, touching her, commanding her.

  Keeping her eyes closed, she imagined him singing softly in her ear as he slid between her thighs, his weight crushing her deliciously against the shower wall. She ran her hands across her breasts, brushing over the nipples that had stiffened in the wake of his invitation.

  Layla nearly groaned in pleasure. It had been so long since she’d taken a lover, her nights so lonely.

  It didn’t have to mean anything. All she had to do was take ten steps, drop her clothes, and—

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Layla yelped, her eyes flying open at the sound of Trick’s voice. She was still standing right where he’d left her, so wrapped up in her fantasy that she hadn’t even heard him turn off the shower.

  Another missed opportunity.

  He was back in a towel again, his hair dripping water all over his shoulders and onto the hall floor, watching her curiously as he awaited her response.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Just… I’m working. Visualizing. Are you… are you finished in there?”

  Trick nodded and turned toward the bedroom before realizing his mistake, then turned right around and stalked into the living room, his strides long and purposeful. He smiled as he passed her, the clean scent of his soap trailing in his wake.

  Turning his back to her, he dropped the towel.

  “Oh my God!” she shrieked, forcing herself to turn away. “What is it with your constant need to expose yourself?”

  “What is it with your constant need to hang out in my bedroom?” he asked. “Last night, today… Some guys might get the wrong idea.”

  Layla looked down. Sure enough, her feet were inside the perimeter again.

  Damn it.

  She took a step backward, cursing her own stupidity.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him fish out a pair of basketball shorts and a clean T-shirt from the pile of clothes she’d left for him on the couch.

  “Show’s over,” he said, finally dressed. He bent down to pick up the towel. “You can stop pretending that you weren’t watching.”

  “I wasn’t watching.”

  “Maybe I should sell tickets.”

  “I mean, it’s kind of hard to avoid when I’m standing right here and you’re just indiscriminately dropping your towel. Your room doesn’t have a door.”

  “Hey, you made the rules, Sunshine.” Trick flashed his infuriating, panty-melting grin. “Now you gotta live with them.”

  Chapter Eight

  He gripped her strong, supple legs and parted her thighs, burying his face in her willing flesh.

  “I've been imagining this moment all day,” he said, pressing a kiss to her most sensitive spot. “The whole time I was on my run, all I could think about was running straight back to

  Delete, delete, delete.

  Layla erased the whole last paragraph. What was going on with her? Marco Sorenson, the hero in her Royal Hearts on Fire series, did not run. He sauntered. He stalked. He stormed. But he most certainly didn’t run.

  So why the hell was he suddenly running?

  You know why.

  Layla almost laughed at that ridiculous thought. She was not thinking about Trick Harper. The man was a beast—definitely not romance novel material.

  Okay, fine. So he’d been holding up his end of the bargain so far, keeping to his assigned bathroom and kitchen times, staying out of her space. He’d honored her rules about not bringing guests into the house—the last thing she needed was a ringside seat to his legendary sexcapades. He’d even gone to the store incognito at som
e point, stocking up on his own food and replacing the stuff he’d eaten from her stash.

  Still. That didn’t make him a good guy. A good guy would’ve given up the cottage the moment he realized they’d been double-booked. Instead, they’d been dancing around each other for two days, doing their best to avoid crossing paths.

  Other than his wicked sense of humor—the man was fluent in snark and innuendo—he’d actually seemed pretty tame for a rock star. Intense about his work, but also much more serious and subdued than she’d expected, especially given everything she’d read about the infamous Trick Harper online the other night.

  Not that she was stalking him or anything. Just that she wanted—needed—to know who she was sleeping with. Figuratively, of course.

  Layla rolled her eyes, chiding herself. She couldn’t believe she’d let this go on as long as it had. If she were here on vacation instead of up against Stephanie’s insane deadline, maybe she’d have time to deal with him properly.

  Yeah, I’d like to deal with that man properly, all right…

  Enough.

  Forcing Trick from her mind, she dove back into her manuscript, skipping ahead to another chapter. She’d made great progress yesterday, and as long as she kept up the pace, she’d be able to turn something in at the end of the week, hopefully saving her relationship with her editor and her contract.

  “You’re mine, Lizbeth.” Marco kissed her fiercely, marking her, possessing her. She’d given him her heart long ago, but now Lizbeth was ready to give him her flesh, the innocence she’d been forced to save for another man, but belonging only—always—to Marco. The only man she’d ever loved. The man she’d finally chosen for herself.

  “Sing to me, Marco,” she panted. “That song you were singing in the shower the other day, when you came back from you run, all hot and sweaty and

  Delete, delete, delete.

  Layla slumped forward in her chair and sighed. “I’m doomed.”

  She supposed it was a good sign, really—fantasizing about another man. A different man. Namely, one who was not the Asshole Without a Name. Obsessing over the AWaN was the primary reason she’d gotten so dreadfully behind on work in the first place. He was the main source of the heartache that had thrown her life and career into a shambles.

  Still… fantasizing about any man was a bad idea. When it came to the opposite sex, all roads led to heartache. The only place she could ensure a happily ever after was in her stories. Putting her characters through hell and back, only to give them the sweetest, happiest ending they deserved? That’s what Layla loved most about writing.

  Assuming she could still write.

  Forcing herself up out of her chair, Layla took a break for a much-needed stretch, breathing in the clean, salty air. Every window in the house was open, the warm ocean breeze drifting lazily in, the sound of the waves like a calming, familiar lullaby in the distance.

  If there was a better place in the world to write, she couldn’t think of it. In fact, everything about the beach cottage—the day—was perfect.

  Everything but one.

  As if on cue, the foul beast in the living room belted out a half-finished chorus, sending shivers cascading across her skin.

  “My runaway girl, ‘cause that’s what you do best. You can’t fight the world, so you’re runnin’ from your mess…”

  Layla blew out a frustrated breath. Okay, so he could sing. That didn’t mean she wanted to listen to him crooning about some long lost love. The man had probably never been in love in his life, let alone gotten his heart smashed to pieces. What business did he have singing about heartache? He’d probably caused more than enough of it for a lifetime. In fact, there were probably dozens of women—hundreds, even—sitting in beach cottages all up and down the coast, crying on the couch, writing songs about him.

  “Yeah she’s my runaway girl,” he sang, whaling on the guitar. “Oh-oh yeah…”

  Ignoring the goose bumps sprouting on her arms, Layla dug out her heavy-duty, noise-cancelling headphones, plugging the jack into her computer and taking her seat. Next, she cranked up the volume on her music and lit another incense stick, fanning it to distribute the smoke. She was at her creative best when she established a calming, spa-like environment, which she’d been endeavoring to do all morning.

  There was no rock guitar at the spa, but Trick apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. Every time she was about to get into the zone, the sound of Trick’s guitar broke right through her walls—and her noise-cancelling headphones—killing the mood.

  Banging on the wall didn’t help, either. She tried. Multiple times.

  Stupid insolent celebrity, used to getting whatever the hell he wanted, whenever the hell he wanted it, singing about broken hearts the whole damn day. She still couldn’t believe he’d actually refused to leave. She’d thought he was just pulling her chain, but no. They were roomies, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  Just write. You have to make this work. You have to finish this book, or you may as well just pack it all up and go home. For good.

  Layla shook her head. Quitting was not an option.

  With renewed determination, she went back to Marco and Lizbeth, who’d been waiting for eight years and six books to finally consummate their undying love.

  She was cranking along pretty good, the climactic hot and steamy scene pouring out of her fingertips and onto the page. Her writing muscles may have been stiff, but they still worked; aside from a few clunky sentences, she felt pretty good about the words, the rhythm, the flow.

  “Lizbeth, you’re so beautiful. The way you touch me… everything you do drives me crazy.” He kissed her again, greedily drinking her in as she fisted his hair, pulling him closer.

  After an age, Lizbeth finally broke their kiss, her eyes searching his face.

  “I need you,” she said desperately, wantonly. “All of you.”

  Positioning himself at her soft, warm entrance, he leaned forward, whispering in her ear one last time. “Are you certain?”

  “Take me,” she said. “Make me yours, Marco. I’m—

  “Son of a… fuck!”

  Trick.

  Of course.

  Layla pushed her glasses on top of her head and slammed her laptop shut. If it wasn’t the singing, it was the cursing, shattering her concentration at the worst possible moment—for Layla and her characters.

  Deep breaths. Deep, calming breaths…

  In the blissful silence that followed, Layla counted to ten, then twenty, hoping that the frustrated curses meant he’d given up for the day. She re-opened her laptop and was just about to settle back in with Marco and Lizbeth when Trick resumed his screeching, shredding the guitar, howling as if he were playing in an outdoor arena rather than a tiny one-bedroom beach cottage.

  Worst of all, now he sounded like he was faking it.

  Another too-loud chorus, another volley of curses, and Layla made an executive decision: it was high time to march out into the living room and tell him exactly what his problem was.

  Chapter Nine

  Layla was totally fired up, more than ready to give Trick Harper a piece of her mind. But by the time she got to the living room, he’d already shifted gears.

  It was the same song—the one about the runaway girl—but the screeching, the guitar shredding, the cursing had vanished. Even the tension she’d come to associate with Trick working was suddenly absent, leaving in its place a calm serenity as he plucked a soft melody on the strings, his voice slowly rising from a gentle hum into something that made her weak in the knees.

  Standing in the hallway, watching from across the room, Layla was mesmerized. Trick sat on the couch, eyes closed, his body swaying with the rhythm of the song, a spiral notebook balanced on his knee. As he picked out the chords, the muscles in his forearm rippled, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

  She nearly forgot why she’d gone out there in the first place. His voice—his real, unfiltered, unforced voice—wa
s so… God, she didn’t even have the words for it. There was so much pain there, so much deep and soulful honesty, it made her ache. Whatever he was singing about now, Layla freaking believed him.

  He hit a high note, a soft falsetto, then dropped back down to his usual gravelly tenor, and something buzzed inside of her, fluttering in her stomach as if he were singing to her.

  The thought made her dizzy with desire.

  Layla shifted on her feet and realized—belatedly—her panties were wet.

  Damn him.

  She was about to turn around and slip back to the bedroom unseen, locking herself away from the temptation, but Trick chose that exact second to stop playing and open his eyes. Across the room, she met his gaze, and for a moment, there was total silence.

  The moment seemed to stretch out for an eternity, all jokes and jabs gone, nothing between them but some shared understanding of what it felt like to lose someone. Something. Some crucial part of yourself you could never, ever get back, no matter how hard you tried.

  The way Trick was looking at her… looking into her… it was like he could see everything about her, all the dark and ugly parts she’d been trying for months to hide. And suddenly, without reason or warning, her eyes welled up.

  When he finally looked away, Layla was equally disappointed and relived. She blew out a breath and blinked away the tears before they fell.

  Before he could notice them.

  “That was… that was nice,” she said, forcing a smile.

  Trick looked up at her again and flashed a grin, the playful prankster rushing back so quickly, Layla wondered whether she’d completely imagined the tender moment between them.

  Shaking out of her reverie, she marched into the living room, determined to finish what she’d set out to accomplish. She was this close to giving Marco and Lizbeth their big moment—and this close to losing her contract if she didn’t make it happen.

  She needed quiet.

  She needed to concentrate.

  She needed to work.