The Red Diary

by Toni Blake

  "Oh!" She yanked her hand back to see a large flat thorn embedded there. This was much worse than when she'd pricked her finger on Nick's rose the other night bright blood surrounded the thorn, trailing down her thumb onto her wrist. Letting out another whimper, she dropped her shears and dashed for the house.

  Throwing open the door, she held her bleeding thumb close against her, hoping not to drip on the white berber as she passed over it to reach the kitchen. There, she turned on the cold water and held her thumb beneath the flow, hoping it might dull the sharp sting.

  "What the hell happened?"

  She jerked her eyes up to find Nick rushing toward her from the back door.

  Clenching her teeth. she lifted her hand from beneath the faucet to show him, then thrust it back under the running water. "Damn," he said, then came closer. "Here, let me get it out."

  "No." The thorn was in too deep; she couldn't even think about letting someone rip it out at the moment.

  "Don't be a baby," he said, but his gentle tone softened the words.

  She pulled in her breath and looked at the steady stream of blood still being washed away by the water. She was being a baby, and she didn't like Nick seeing it. Drawing her hand back slightly, she said, "Oo it over the sink."

  He stepped up close, gently balancing her hurt hand in his palm.

  She shut her eyes and gritted her teeth tighter. "Do it quick."

  She tensed, then a fresh burst of pain bit into her and she knew the thorn was gone. They both looked down at her still-bleeding thumb.

  "Hold it back under the water," he instructed, then grabbed a handful of paper towels and went to the refrigerator. She heard him open a door and shuffle the ice, returning a minute later with a few half-moon cubes bundled in the paper. "Here." Cradling her hand in his palm again while he pressed the ice firmly against her thumb, he said, "Pressure'll stop the bleeding."

  She avoided looking at him, and instead focused on their hands, intermingled, touching. His were warm and rough and tan. They stayed awkwardly silent until he peeked under the paper towel to find the bleeding mostly stopped. "Do you have any hydrogen peroxide?"

  Tempted to lie, she warily admitted, "Yes." "Where is it?"

  "Upstairs bathroom."

  When Nick grabbed her other hand and started dragging her toward the stairs, she said, "This isn't necessary." "Yes, it is," he replied, pulling her up the steps, "unless you want it to get infected."

  "How does a guy like you even know about hydrogen peroxide?"

  "A guy like me," he snipped over his shoulder, "spent a lot of time cleaning up his little brother's cuts and scrapes. Now where is it?"

  She pointed to the hall bathroom where she kept her first-aid stuff, then followed Nick inside. "Under the sink "

  Nick let go of her only long enough to find and uncap the bottle, then reached for her hand again, holding her thumb over the small sink bowl while he splashed the peroxide on her cut. She hissed at the sting.

  "Bandages" he asked.

  She rolled her eyes at his surprising thoroughness and pointed toward a drawer in the vanity. "I really could have done this myself," she said as he wrapped the adhesive strip around her thumb.

  "But I don't get the idea you would've," he replied, and as their eyes met, his expression softened. "Still hurts' "Not so much," she admitted, somehow feeling even more like a baby for making such a big deal out of it.

  Turning toward the mirror, she stowed the peroxide back under the sink, then dropped the Band-Aid box in the drawer, trying to ignore how close they still stood to each other now that the mini-crisis was over. It made her think of other times when they'd been this close, even closer. Why is he still here? Why isn't he leaving?

  When she rose again, Nick remained so near that she bumped into him, but neither of them moved. Their eyes met in the wide mirror.

  She knew that look. It instantly speared straight down through her. She felt it in her heart; she felt it between her thighs. How had things changed so quickly-in a heartbeat? She gazed helplessly back at him in the glass, a prisoner to his dark gaze. He slid one large hand tentatively around her waist, his fingers splaying lightly across her bare stomach, and for the first time, she regretted the bikini top; her nipples jutted visibly against the pink Lycra. When he lowered a delicate kiss to her shoulder, she drew in her breath, sensation sprinkling through her.

  But this couldn't happen, it just couldn't. And she was going to say no. She had to.

  Yet then why was she arching her neck and letting him kiss it now? Why was she soaking in those sweet, hot kisses as if she were lost in the desert and his lips delivered drops of water?

  When his hands reached up to cup her breasts from behind, his thumbs raking deliciously across their pebbled tips, she knew she was lost to him. The intimate touches spread through her, leaving her overcome with sheer pleasure. "Nick."

  "Don't talk, baby," he whispered throatily.

  But she wanted ... something, she didn't know what.

  Communication? She just wished he cared, even a little. She longed to uncover the softness inside him. "Nick, please ... " His hands stilled on her breasts, and he stopped kissing her neck to peer in the mirror. "Do you want me to stop?" Her lips trembled. This was such a mistake. And she could forgive herself for such a blunder once, but how could she let herself do this again, give herself to him, knowing he would only-

  "Do you?"

  "No," she breathed.

  ''Thank God," he murmured deeply. Then his caresses came harder, firmer; she cried out when he lightly pinched her nipples while raining still more kisses on her bare shoulders. And now that she had surrendered, there was nothing to do but bask in it, drink it in, relish every glorious touch and kiss.

  When he slid one hand between her legs over her shorts, she sighed at the pleasure, moving instinctively against it. He leaned into her from behind, and the hard column of his arousal pressed into her rear.

  ''Tum around," he murmured, sounding as breathless as she felt.

  When she faced him, they both worked at each other's zippers. Need spiraled through Lauren's body, just as it had the other night, just as it did whenever she was near him. She freed him from his pants, savoring the incredible feel of him in her hand, no longer too shy to touch him there. He pushed her shorts and panties to her bare feet, where she stepped free of them. His hot breath came like a pounding heartbeat as he lifted her to the smooth marble sinktop, and she parted her legs, oh so ready.

  Yet he stopped then, reaching in his back pocket.

  Jerking out a thin wallet, he rummaged inside until he pulled out a flat foil packet. For some reason, it stunned her. "You carry those on the job?"

  "Gotta be prepared," he claimed without even a hint of amusement, and she imagined him having sex with housewives all over Tampa Bay while he was supposed to be painting their houses.

  ''You didn't use one the last time."

  "I know, I forgot-wasn't prepared. Wasn't really expecting things to happen that fast."

  As he ripped into it, she grabbed his wrist. "Don't." He met her gaze. "What?"

  She felt desperate and needy and wild, and she wasn't about to stop and analyze it now. "I ... I've only been with a few guys, and I know I'm all right. And I'm on the pill. Have you ... have you ... ?"

  "I've always been careful," he said. And she believed him.

  "'Then don't," she pleaded. "I want to feel you, like the last time. I want to feel it when you come in me."

  He released a sharp breath as he let the condom fall from his fingers. She was pleased to have shocked him and wanted to shock him further. "Now," she said, parting her legs wide.

  He lowered his gaze there, and she clenched her teeth in frustration, wanting him inside her, but she also liked the heat in his eyes, so she didn't rush him again.

  "You're incredible," he whispered in her ear as he pushed into her moist flesh.

  "Oh, yes," she moaned at the perfect intrusion.

  He thrust
with hard, even strokes, and she met each with a tiny groan.

  Nick loosed one hand from her bottom to reach inside her bikini top, freeing her breasts from the stretchy halter, and she pushed up his white, paint-speckled shirt so her chest would rub against his. She wrapped her arms around his wide back, savoring the feel of him, the smell of his skin, and they worked together in a smooth, unbroken rhythm for a long while, the only sound that of their breathing.

  The hot friction soon built inside her, and she knew soon it would happen again, that sweet release would crash down over her like a tidal wave, covering her, drowning her, for a few, long, glorious seconds. And then she was crying, "Nick, I'm coming," and he was whispering, "Ab, yeah, baby," as she clung to him like he was a life preserver and she adrift at sea. When the waves had finally passed and the world began to seem normal again, she quickly realized it really wasn't, because Nick was still inside her, still pumping into her, each powerful stroke reverberating through her. "Come," she whispered without even considering her words. "Come in me."

  "Pull me into you," he breathed hot near her ear.

  "Hard."

  She lowered her hands to his butt, wishing he wasn't wearing pants, wishing she could feel his bare flesh in her hands, and she pulled him against her as hard and deep as she could, then heard him moan and knew he was emptying. She stayed motionless in order to feel the small. warm bursts inside her.

  He went still, too, and his arms closed around her, and they stayed that way for a long minute that she wanted to cling to, grab on to somehow, keep from ending. Just like the last time they'd reached this part. His heart beat against her breast. But then, just like the last time, he drew back, not looking at her as he pulled down his shirt and zipped up his pants. Her heart went hollow watching, seeing how quickly she'd fallen from the center of his attention. She felt even worse than she had the other night-this time she'd known how things would end, and she'd let it happen anyway.

  And as he took a step toward the door, a jolting idea struck her. "Is that what this is about?"

  He stopped, looked back. "What?"

  "You being who you are, our fathers being who they are." The possibility had just hit her. "Is that why this is happening?" Nick made sure he never let his expression change, then shrugged. "Don't be so dramatic, Princess. We aren't exactly Romeo and Juliet."

  "My point precisely." She pulled her bikini top back into place, then reached down for her shorts. "Are you just here to use me, Nick?"

  Shit, he thought. He shouldn't have told her who he was. He felt transparent. ''No,'' he said, wondering if it were a lie or the truth. "That's not the kind of guy I am."

  "What kind of guy are you?" she asked, zipping her shorts, then peering accusingly into his eyes. She looked beautiful, evená with anger shimmering in her gaze. And he had a fleeting urge to go back to her, take her in his arms-more than a fleeting urge-but he had to ignore it. It hadn't been easy to pull away, but she was Henry Ash's daughter. He'd done pretty well his whole life not caring for anyone particular woman, not getting bogged down in relationships, and this was definitely the last woman he could truly start caring about. She'd made him want to matter to her, and God knew there were complicated feelings for her swirling around the back of his head, but he still didn't believe anything real could ever be between two people from such different worlds.

  "Look, I knew who you were when Sadie called me with this job, but I'm here to make money, that's it. The fact that you and I are hot for each other has nothing to do with that. I know you told me on the beach you're not into casual sex, but ... I'm afraid it's all I can give you."

  She looked away from him, toward the wall, and he feared she might cry. Something in his heart twisted miserably and he turned and walked out, heading for the stairs, so he wouldn't have to know whether or not she did. He was an asshole and he knew it.

  As he reached the foot of the stairs, her white cat came trotting up with a meow. "Don't you start with me, too," he muttered. Once back outside, he stopped on the patio and let out a large sigh. Damn, he was shaken up. Being inside her was so ... he didn't even know a word for it, but it was heat and perfection and roughness and ... something sweet, all combined. It would be a good idea to leave. Immediately.

  He packed his stuff as quickly as he could, throwing it haphazardly into his van, and trying not to think about how he'd held her afterward, how he really hadn't wanted to pull away. Holding her had been so easy. Carrying her to her bed would have been easy, too. But pulling away had been the only move he knew to make.

  As he backed out of her driveway, he looked up at the windows, thinking he might catch some glimpse of her looking out, but he didn't. Pressing his foot to the gas pedal and leaving the princess's mansion behind, he felt lousy, and not just because he'd acted like a jerk almost always acted like a jerk with her-but because deep inside he knew he'd rather be back there with her than driving home alone.

  Chapter Ten

  Nick went through the closet in the spare bedroom. looking for shades of blue. He came up with azure cloud, aqua ice, Jamaica blue, Havana lake, cornflower, and summer night. It was hours until sunset, and the natural light cascading through the floor-to-ceiling windows couldn't be matched by anything artificial. Plus the view of the ocean inspired him as he turned toward the blank canvas propped on an old easel.

  Elaine had bought the canvases for him as a Christmas gift years ago, back when they were both in high school. Though he'd never used them, it was the kind of thing they'd kept; they never threw anything away that could possibly have a use someday, even if they had no idea what that use might be.

  Dipping a brush into the blob of Jamaica blue on his pallet, he started with bold brushstrokes that gave instant life to the white canvas and sent an old, familiar thrill shooting through his veins. And that thrill would have to be enough-he wasn't having sex with Lauren Ash anymore.

  He would finish the job at her house, and that was it.

  He'd go back to being her house painter and nothing more, just like she'd wanted, and he'd take out his frustrations with the paintbrush and canvas when he came home at night.

  He couldn't let himself be close to her any longer, because it made him want to stay close to her. He hadn't liked hurting her today, hadn't liked seeing the pain in her eyes when he walked away, hadn't liked the pain he'd felt himself. But staying had been impossible. Their families' history stood between them and, as before, it had driven him away.

  He'd seduced her once to prove his worthiness, and yes-maybe even to hurt her. But twice-well, what happened this afternoon hadn't been planned. It'd just happened in the dim lighting of the little room, the result of all those intimate touches involved in caring for her cut. He'd looked at her in the mirror, and blood had surged to his groin. After that, he hadn't thought. just acted, just done what his body told him and soon got lost in her. I want to feel you. like the last time. I want to feel it when you come in me. Nick stilled his brush as her words washed over him again, his body tingling at the hot memory. But you can't have any more of that. No matter how hot, no matter how nice. Stick to painting, the one thing you're good at. Paint her house, paint the ocean, paint whatever it takes to get her out of your mind.

  And that's just what he intended to do. No more fooling around with the Princess of Ash Builders. Somewhere along the way, she'd dulled the edges on his resentment, but nothing real could ever exist between them. Now he just wanted to look the other way, just wanted to go back to the life he'd carved out in spite of Henry Ash and before Lauren Ash. Reaching for another brush, he blended Havana lake with the cerulean strokes already stretching across the white expanse. And he thought of Lauren's ocean fantasy and regretted not kissing her between her thighs when he'd had the chance.

  Lauren moved through the next day in a haze. She ran errands-to the bank, the office, the dry cleaners-and worked diligently on a spending analysis due at the end of the month. She kept busy at times when she might normally have slowed down or
taken a break, all in a desperate attempt to keep from thinking about what had happened in her bathroom yesterday. Now, as she peeked in the oven to check the small pan of lasagna she'd put in for dinner, she found it hard to keep her mind occupied elsewhere. Or maybe she'd not really succeeded at all. She'd stayed busy, but hadn't Nick and memories of his hands, his body. been flirting around the edges of her head and heart all day anyway?

  The intense pleasure during the blissful moments of their coupling had made her forget about the hurt that would come after. And it had come-Lord, had it come. He might have said all he had to give was casual sex, but it hadn't been casual to her. In fact, it had been the most profound sexual gratification she'd ever experienced with a man, and it was making her ... care for him. Need him. Not just for those few minutes, but in her life, in some way that mattered, lasted, counted for something. That sounded insane to her, given how little she really knew him, but that didn't stop the emotions coursing through her.

  At least the first time, she'd felt she was the center of his world for a little while. And he'd brought her a rose-the rose-and despite the suddenness of it, and the abrupt way he'd left, there'd been something about it she could call romantic. But yesterday he'd just made her feel like something to be used and tossed aside when he was done. Again she wondered how many women he'd had such fifteen-minute liaisons with on the job. She remembered now that he usually painted new construction. but there were still women around sometimes, weren't there? She suddenly wondered if he'd slept with Karen or Melody, the pretty Ash sales reps who often toured sites with clients during the painting phase. She thought of the countless female real estate brokers who staked out under-construction condos in order to stir up early interest in buyers. "Damn it," she said, stomping her foot on the ceramic tile. What difference did it make who Nick slept with? She knew she was one of many, just a nameless, faceless woman in the crowd.