The Wild Side

by Isabel Sharpe

  Riley emerged from the kitchen holding a plastic bottle shaped like a bear. He advanced on her and squeezed a line of honey down her belly, onto her legs and between them. “Here’s your damn honey.”

  “Stop it.” Melissa held out her hands to catch the stream, trying to shield her body from the golden liquid as if it might burn her. “You’re scaring me. Stop it.”

  He stilled, closed his eyes and took deep breaths, drawing into himself until she could see some of the tension starting to abate. She reached and gently took the honey out of his tight fingers. What was he fighting? Why was he fighting so hard?

  “Riley, are you—”

  “I’m sorry, Melissa. Truly sorry. I’m finding this…difficult for some reason.” He took another deep breath. “I’m sorry I scared you. I don’t know what… I would never hurt you, you understand?”

  Melissa nodded, her fear and shock receding. She hadn’t a clue what had just happened, why he was so determined to restrain himself sexually when he obviously wanted her, but she did believe he hadn’t meant to do anything more than blow off some steam. That his anger was directed at himself, not at her.

  Never mind she’d just about had a heart attack in the process.

  “You okay?” He met her eyes, concerned, sheepish, still tormented.

  “A little shaken.” She glanced at the honey. “A little sticky.”

  He reached out, swiped a drip of honey from her stomach and brought it to his mouth. “Sticky but sweet. You want to shower? I’ll wait.”

  “Okay.” She got up from the bed and hurried to the bathroom before she dripped honey all over Rose’s Oriental rugs. Or before she dripped tears of frustration and disappointment, aware part of her still wanted him to lie on her, spread the honey around between their bodies, join with her the way men and women had been joining for millennia…so it was a damn good thing he’d nipped that in the bud by reverting to psycho-man.

  The guy operated on a more intense, more passionate level than anyone she knew. Totally controlled, then savage and exciting when his control slipped. She had a feeling it didn’t slip often. Something had gotten to him, shaken him up. Maybe he just wasn’t used to women like her. Didn’t know whether to feel paternal or sexual—the whore-versus-the-virgin thing. His usual fare was probably Xena, Warrior Princess, or women named Tawni and Bambi, with huge breasts and zero hips.

  “Melissa?”

  She turned, just inside the bathroom, to see him striding toward her, tall and magnificently bare chested. To her surprise, he leaned into the room and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on her mouth. “Take your time.”

  Melissa nodded, closed the door and slumped against it, reliving the warm pressure of his lips, feeling like she’d just been through a hyphenated hurricane. Storm, then calm, then another storm, now into new peace—but after that kiss, a peace tainted with something dangerously warm and fuzzy that was making her very nervous.

  She pulled off the underwear and dumped it into the sink, showered quickly and wrapped herself in a rose-colored towel, making a mental note to take it back to her place to wash with the honey-coated lingerie.

  A strange squeak sounded through the door, like wood being tortured. Melissa stood still, hand to her throat. What was he doing now?

  For some reason, the ensuing silence wasn’t reassuring. Instinctively, she turned on the water in the sink so he wouldn’t know she was listening. Okay, so maybe she was being a tad paranoid. After all, attacking a woman with honey wasn’t exactly excessive force with a deadly weapon. There must be a nice, safe, reasonable explanation for all the bizarre noises emanating from Rose’s living room. Right?

  Of course, there was also the escaped mental patient possibility, or the ex-con psychopath, or perhaps a graduate of the Ted Bundy School of Dating. Her instinct told her to trust Riley, but what did she know? She’d like to be able to think other people might be fooled, but she could tell when someone was warped underneath. But then so would everyone.

  She whirled and marched to the door. This was ridiculous. The man had probably moved a chair and its legs had scraped on the floor. Her imagination was way out of line.

  The bathroom door opened silently under her gentle push. Melissa waited a beat, then stuck her head out into the room and froze.

  Riley stood in front of Rose’s dresser, methodically searching through the drawers. Melissa blinked. Please don’t let him be looking for lacy nothings to take home and try on. Even a bestial slut from hell had her limits.

  Riley turned his head as if he’d heard her thoughts. Their eyes met.

  Melissa stepped into the room, feeling suddenly very calm and in control, even naked under a bath towel that wasn’t hers.

  “What are you doing?”

  He grinned a sly grin and held up a tiny scrap of elastic and lace. “Looking for inspiration for you. You looked fabulous in red, but I can’t claim to be up on all the current styles of lingerie. Seemed like Rose might be a good research subject.”

  “Oh.” Melissa nodded, feeling totally foolish and strangely disappointed. Obviously her thrilling trip to the dark side hadn’t been dark and thrilling enough, so her imagination, fueled by Penny’s nervous speculation, had added all sorts of dangerous and exciting and totally ridiculous possibilities.

  The problem was that if he kept exploding all the dangerous and exciting and totally ridiculous possibilities, she was left with the strange longing she felt when he talked about his life, and the strange longing she felt those times he kissed her like he meant it.

  And taking in the infinitesimal likelihood that someone like Riley would experience similar strange longings for someone like Melissa made that the most dangerous possibility of all.

  7

  SLATE DREW HIS PAINTBRUSH down the doorjamb, leaving a glistening trail of pristine white. Big improvement. He glanced across the porch at Rose, absorbed in touching up a window frame. Paint smudged her forehead and speckled her short hair. Her features were set in lines of intense concentration, a blessed relief from the eager smile she usually kept plastered on. Now, lost in the task, she’d relaxed her guard, become more natural.

  They’d been working for two days solid, cleaning, painting, repairing. Ever since that first afternoon, when Rose had offered out of the blue to help fix up the place, and he’d looked around and suddenly seen the cottage through her eyes.

  Gray, dusty, peeling, unadorned. How had he let it get to that point? Somewhere along the way, with the stress and grief and sheer time involved nursing his mom, he’d stopped paying attention.

  He dipped the brush again and painted down farther, watching the sanded, graying wood refreshed to a satiny white. Rose had embraced the project—obviously something she’d welcomed to stave off the boredom of being stuck here, so far removed from her party life. She’d been a tremendous help, seeing what needed to be done, offering suggestions for further improvements, and pitching in, even when the going got messy.

  Other than that, she was driving him completely crazy.

  There were moments he thought he’d tapped into who she really was—tiny flashes of life, of spirit, even temper, that he’d want to grab and hold on to, extract into a whole person, shattering the careful cocoon of blandness she’d wrapped herself in.

  Of course, given what he knew of her from Riley and the FBI, the insulting irony was that she probably thought she’d made herself into the kind of woman who would please him. He wiped disgustedly at a splatter of paint on the floor. As if he could possibly find a spineless female attendant irresistible.

  He wrapped his brush in plastic and sauntered over to watch her work. She left that horrible wig off now, thank goodness, but still plastered on the makeup with a vengeance, as if she needed more of a mask to hide behind, and wore his mother’s clothes rolled up here and tied together there to show as much of her body as possible.

  He glanced at the firm bare skin around her waist. That was driving him crazy, too, but in an entirely different way. The woman
was beautiful, sexy as hell and smart—when she forgot herself enough to show a brain. He went to bed frustrated every night, knowing she was sleeping in the same house, in his old bed, feminine and desirable even in threadbare flannel pajamas.

  What made his frustration worse was that he could have her if he wanted. She’d been broadcasting you-can-if-you-want-to messages around the clock. But he didn’t want her this way, didn’t want her doctored up in some grossly misguided effort to please him. He wanted her free, natural, coming to him because she wanted him, not because she thought he wanted her.

  In the meantime, he was ready to lose it.

  “You missed a spot.” He pointed carelessly and purposely smudged her work, trying, as he’d been trying for two days, to get a rise out of her.

  “Oh, gosh, Slate. Sorry about that.” She kept her face down, making him hope she was cursing him black-and-blue under her breath. “Maybe you should do the windows. You do a better job than I do.”

  “Yep. I really do. But then men are generally better at these things, don’t you think?” He tried to keep the smile off his unshaved face, wondering if it would be too much if he scratched his belly and belched.

  “Really? I didn’t realize.” She rose from the near-perfect job and surveyed it critically. “Doesn’t look too bad, though. For a woman.”

  Slate raised his eyebrows. Was he imagining that bite in her tone? Well, well. He might just have managed to aggravate Ms. Rose. Hallelujah.

  “Maybe you’re tired.” He made his own tone soothing, condescending, the tone used by men accustomed to blaming female hormones for their own mistakes, and had the grim satisfaction of seeing Rose flinch. “Want to take a break? Go down to the shore for a bit?”

  “Sure, if you’d like to.”

  Slate stopped himself from shouting Who cares what I want, what do you want? as he’d been stopping himself all weekend. He nodded tightly. “Yes. I’d like to.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Out on the steps to the uneven shore path, he gestured for her to precede him, wondering if she’d try faking any more falls. She’d tried that the first day while he was showing her around. A giant dramatic spill over nothing. After he realized she was just bestowing on him the royal opportunity to have her in his arms, he’d shrugged and curtly told her to pick herself up.

  Right away he’d caught his first glimpse of True Rose: surprise, a flash of hurt, anger, then the recalculations spinning through her crafty brain. He could almost imagine them. Michael Slater, male file AB-364. Sunday, July 2. Continue subservient act at full force, but stand by for deletion of further helpless fall activity. Subject does not appear responsive.

  In front of him, Rose batted away a spruce branch and strode through the raspberry plants, not seeming to mind the thorns scraping the ridiculous patches of bare skin she insisted on preserving. Slate’s instincts began broadcasting some fascinating feedback. Rose was not just a tad annoyed, she was royally p.o.’d. He quickened his pace, anxious to press his advantage, hating to torture her like this, but not seeing any other way to get to her.

  And he really, really wanted to get to her.

  He caught up with her at the shore. They clambered out on the rock ledge, Rose’s breath coming in short pants, her color high. Could he detect a trace of wetness on her lashes?

  “You scratched yourself.” He pointed to her calf, where an angry red scrape had been slashed across her pale skin. “That’s what you get for rolling up your pants like that. I’m surprised the mosquitoes haven’t eaten you alive.”

  She whirled to face him, smile glued on her face as if she didn’t dare allow her lips to relax for fear of what she might say, eyes sparking rage, hands clenched into murderous fists.

  She was gorgeous. He wanted her. He wanted her in a way he’d wanted very few women. Possibly none.

  “Come at me, Rose.” He whispered the words, raised his hands in front of him, beckoning with his fingers, unable to resist the best chance he’d had so far to get past her barrier. “Come on. Say what you want. I can take it. Tell me what I am. A pig. A jerk. Come on. Let me hear it.”

  She parted her lips, took in a quick rush of air as if she were about to speak. Slate waited, every muscle tense. Come on, Rose. Come on. You’re safe with me.

  For a second he thought he’d won. Thought he’d been able to push her over the edge, that she was about to abandon Suzi Spineless and let loose the verbal abuse he richly deserved.

  Instead, she turned away and stared out at the ocean, gulping breaths of the spicy sea breeze, as if forcing herself to relax.

  He lunged forward without thinking, grabbed her arm and turned her back around. “Don’t do that. Don’t disappear from me.”

  He watched in unbearable frustration as she shut down, as the life went out of her face and eyes, as she retreated into that bland creature he’d grown to detest.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice was smooth, careful. “I don’t know what you mean, Slate. You seem to have this idea that I’m hiding something from you. That I’m someone different from the woman you see every day. I’m sorry if I’m not who you want me to be, but this is who I am.”

  “Bullshit.” The word erupted out of him, angry and savage in the peaceful beauty of the scenery around them. “You’re much more, Rose. I know it, I’ve seen it. I don’t understand why you keep that fabulous woman locked away. I don’t understand.”

  For a second the life flared again in her face, then faded into confusion and uncertainty before she carefully stamped it out, like a good, responsible Girl Scout on a camping trip. “I don’t know what— I don’t know how to be what you want.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.” He took a deep breath to ease the shaking frustration in his voice, and forced himself to continue in a low, even tone. “I don’t want you to be anything for me. I want you to be yourself.”

  “I am myself. I am always myself.” She gave a little laugh, supposed to be a careless giggle, but which sounded quavery and miserable. “Who else could I be?”

  He stared into her face, her blue eyes tinged with anguish under the colored layers of shadow, her too-red mouth only a few inches away, and felt crushing disappointment. How could he tell her any more plainly? He didn’t want the damn Girl Scout. He wanted Rose, free and vibrant, as he’d glimpsed her agonizingly few times, as he could only imagine she could be. “Rose, you haven’t been yourself for so long I think you’ve forgotten how.”

  She tightened her lips, wrapped her arms around herself. “That’s a horrible thing to say to someone.”

  “Yes. It is. And I damn well wish it weren’t true.”

  He dropped her arm and turned away, wanting to throw something, sock someone, run ten miles uphill without stopping. Instead, he stared out into the bay, at the islands cloaked with pines turned yellowy-green by the sunlight. The incoming tide sloshed little waves onto the base of the ledge at his feet. Gulls squawked and wheeled out over the bay. Boat engines roared and faded into the distance. Behind him Rose was silent. Was it even remotely possible to reach her? Would she ever allow herself to listen hard enough to hear what he was saying? He couldn’t bear to think of the waste—a woman like Rose going through life denying herself every honest part of it.

  “Slate, what’s that?”

  Her cheerful tone was forced—casual conversation, tea-party chatter. He turned irritably and followed her pointing finger. A large bird flew past, showing a white head and dark body, graceful wings beating a slow, unhurried rhythm. His irritation subsided into the familiar thrill of watching the magnificent creatures. “An eagle. There’s a pair nesting on Jonas Island. You can see the nest in one of the trees if you know where to look.”

  “Show me. Please.”

  He came up beside her, recognizing her peace offering for what it was, and accepting reluctantly. The war was still his to win. He leaned in close and pointed so her eyes could follow the exact path of his finger, and so he could innocently indulge his need to be near h
er. Her hair blew in the breeze and tickled his cheek. She smelled of paint and pine instead of that horrendously sweet perfume she’d worn the first day or so.

  “Right there.” He held his arm steady, straight out. “That tree next to the nearly dead one with the green topknot.”

  “Oh, yes! I see it.”

  The eagle approached the island; a second bird rose from the trees as if in greeting. “There’s Mrs. Eagle, see her?”

  “Yes, yes!” Rose clapped her hands like an ecstatic child, gave in to natural ebullient laughter. “Oh, Slate, it’s fabulous.”

  He grinned and shook his head. Two birds had accomplished in ten seconds what he’d been trying and failing to do for days. “They return to the same nest every year, keep adding on to it. Some nests can get to be six feet across.”

  “No kidding.” Rose turned rapturous eyes on him—eyes blue and unselfconsciously joyous. He felt pulled in by them, lifted, pumped and riding a testosterone rush he hadn’t experienced in years. She made him feel so damn good.

  “What…else?” Her smile faltered, as if she suddenly realized he was staring at her with all his hunger out in the open. “The eagles…”

  He stepped closer so he had to look nearly straight down to see her face, and put his hands on her slender, bare waist. “They mate for life. One male, one female…for their whole adult lives.”

  The words came out huskily and hung in the sea air between them. Rose’s eyes widened; her lips parted; she started to back away. “Slate…”

  He pulled her against him and kissed her as if he’d been waiting for this kiss his entire life. The push of her hands against his chest slowly relaxed and, unbelievably, she responded, pressed herself close, wrapped her arms around his neck. He lifted her off the ground and swung her slowly around, still kissing her, giddy like a kid. So sweet. So good.

  She broke off the kiss and buried her head in his shoulder, her breaths heaving almost into sobs. Slate put her down and stroked her back as if he were comforting a child, wildly triumphant. He’d done it. God bless him, he’d done it. She was his.