Great Dane (Sensuous Seasonings)

by Brice, Dee

  You’d think—after ten years apart—we could find something to talk about. She’d followed Dane’s meteoric career rise in various newspapers’ business pages. His success on Wall Street had gained him business contacts far above those of her power-hungry parents. Through the society pages, Jen also had followed Dane’s social climb. Hardly a week went by without his picture appearing above the fold—a different, glamorous, well-heeled female on his arm.

  “Jen.” His soft voice broke her regretful reverie. His now smooth fingertips eased napkins from her hands, then twined through hers.

  Sighing inwardly, she allowed him to lead her across the lawn to a doublewide chaise. In the past they’d shared it often, gazing at the stars and making up names for those whose names they’d forgotten.

  She sank down on the terrycloth cushion, then looked up at the timeless heaven. Dane must have turned out all the lights, the stars shone so brightly. As usual at this time of night, at this time of year, Venus glowed brighter than any other star. Planet, she corrected as Dane’s light aftershave wafted to her. Drawing in a shallow breath, her fingers linked together, she fought the lure of his unique scent, her desperate need to touch him.

  His fingers on her chin urged her to look at him. She met his gaze, noting how his eyes seemed impossibly bluer in starlight. When she’d first seen him, she thought those eyes would freeze her soul. Then he grinned and she saw the dark blue surrounding his pupils and the outer rims. And how his smile warmed the lighter blue and melted her bones. His eyes still had that power. They could seduce her into forgetting the past. Remind her of every sigh, every touch, every kiss as if they’d happened mere minutes ago.

  He drifted his thumb down her cheek, over the seam of her lips. She bit her tongue, denying the impulse to lick that digit and then suck it into her mouth. Hooking her fingers around his wrist, she eased his hand off her face.

  “Why did you come here today?” she asked, wishing she’d bitten her tongue in half before asking that question.

  “It’s your birthday. I couldn’t let you celebrate… It’s the first since your parents moved to DC. Right?”

  “I’m surprised you remember. My birthday I mean.” She tilted her head back, refocusing on the midnight black sky dotted with starry diamonds.

  “I remember everything about you.” Ignoring her soft snort of disbelief, he went on. “The way your skyhook looks easy to block but drops—nothing but net. The way you poke your tongue between your lips when you shoot free throws. The way you stand your ground when somebody taller and heavier charges straight at you.” His hand grazed hers. When she didn’t move it away, he linked their fingers, pressing their palms tighter. “What happened to the WNBA?”

  She chuckled. “I’m holding out for the big boys and the NBA.”

  He laughed. And just like that the vise around her heart loosened. The ache remained, but friendship now seemed…renewable.

  His thumb rubbing over her palm sent sensuous ripples straight to her pussy. Her brain sent frantic messages. Tell him to stop! Move away. Her body had gone deaf, content to drift in the erotic haze he created. He’d always affected her like this.

  Maybe I need to make love with him one more time. Maybe he isn’t as wonderful as I remember.

  “You still use lavender soap,” he murmured, his thumb still caressing her palm. “I can smell it on your skin.”

  Shrugging, she withdrew her hand from his. Her body might crave everything he offered, but she couldn’t risk her heart again. “I like the scent.”

  “It still drives me crazy.” He retrieved her hand, linked their fingers. “I was in Provance last June. The lavender was in full-bloom, bringing back all sorts of memories.”

  Don’t ask. “Memories?”

  “Of you. Of your shower. Of us.”

  “What were you doing in Provance?” She didn’t want to remember the shower or the things they’d done there. She’d already relived every sensuous second. Now, her skin tingled with those memories. Their kisses. Their hands exploring every inch of each other, each touch arousing new sensations. His cock sliding in and out while the water—pounding on their heads and shoulders—added to the bliss, to her feeling engulfed in his love.

  “Jen.”

  Just her name murmured in that low, rumbling baritone sent shivers all over her skin. Tears burned her eyes as she tried to pull free. His fingers tightened around her hand, preventing her escape.

  “You can’t run anymore.”

  Glaring, she snapped, “You did! And you kept running for ten years.”

  “I know. Now I’m going to tell you why I left you.”

  She pulled against his implacable grasp, but still couldn’t free herself. “What if I don’t want to listen? What if your excuses are ten years too late?”

  “What if you’re still too young to hear the truth?”

  Blindsided, she could only stammer, “T-too young? I was old enough for you to seduce, but too young for you to stick with? What? I couldn’t stimulate you above your waist? You knew you’d end up bored to tears? Is that why you left me—without even saying goodbye?”

  “Jen.”

  “Don’t touch me! When you… Just keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Promise you’ll hear me out,” he said, his hand like a manacle around her wrist.

  Knowing how stubborn he could be, she nodded. He let go. To avoid further contact, she folded her arms across her chest and stared up at the stars, certain—no matter what he said—she wouldn’t believe him.

  His sigh tempted her to look at him, but she didn’t. At last he began. “Ten years ago—no more like twelve—a young man of twenty-three fell in love with a sixteen-year-old girl. Her father recognized what was happening to the two youngsters and warned the young man to keep his distance. Not only was his daughter too young, but the young man had no way to support them. At least the father realized the young man’s intentions were honorable. Two years later, when the girl… Are you keeping up?”

  “When she turned eighteen and he couldn’t be arrested for statutory rape… Is that keeping up?”

  “Yeah. I would have said when she made her feelings clear to the young man, they made love for the first time. And they made love again and again throughout the long, hot summer. But the young woman still had a lot to learn about herself and the world. And the young man still couldn’t provide the kind of life he wanted to give her. He also wondered if distance would change her feelings. If she would fall in love with someone else. Marry and be happy with someone else.”

  “She—I almost did marry someone else.”

  “Twice. I read about your engagements in the newspapers. The first engagement happened just after you graduated from Mills. A Stanford tennis star, if I remember correctly.” He looked at her for confirmation.

  “When he turned pro and had women falling all over him, he decided he wasn’t ready to settle for just one woman in his bed.”

  “That must have hurt.”

  She shrugged, but still felt a twinge of hurt pride. “Actually—after a year or two—I felt lucky. I didn’t have to suffer his infidelities headlined in newspapers around the world.”

  They lapsed into a familiar, almost comfortable silence. Then Dane said, “You got engaged again, about three years ago.”

  “Uh-huh. An older man of forty.” She flashed at wry smile at Dane—a See-I’ve-always-gone-for-older-men kind of smile—then added, “I was his fourth—no fifth—trophy fiancée. I’ll give him credit for not putting any of his women through a messy divorce. Or maybe he was simply frugal.”

  “Or maybe he’d learned from his father how costly divorces can be. Emotional wear-and-tear as well as expensive monetarily.”

  “In my case, we didn’t marry because… Never mind.”

  Dane took her hand. “Because?”

  She pulled, but couldn’t free herself. She sensed Dane would never let go if she didn’t tell him. Which tempted her to keep quiet so she could excuse herself for cling
ing to him. Instead, she admitted, “He got tired of having three people in his bed.”

  Looking pleased, making no pretense about who the third person was, Dane grinned. Jen thought about punching him, but decided putting him in the hot seat would prove more interesting. “What about you? Any close calls over the last ten years?”

  “Nope.”

  “Dane.”

  “I’m not a monk, Jen. But Davidson men are…”

  “Are what? Notorious womanizers? Notorious—”

  “Notoriously faithful. My father and mother met in middle school and he never looked at another woman.”

  “You looked.” Jen wished she didn’t sound so resentful. So jealous.

  “Looked a lot. Took a few to bed. Had a couple of long-term affairs. Never got engaged. Never wanted to marry anyone but…”

  Jen’s heart beat so hard she thought it would break her ribs. It beat so fast she felt like she’d run a thousand sprints up and down the basketball court.

  “Never wanted to marry,” he corrected, sounding a little sullen. Like he wished he hadn’t said what he said.

  Her heart plummeted to her knees, then dropped all the way to her feet. Couldn’t the damn man just say the words? Couldn’t she? But—even if they confessed they had loved each other—where did that leave them now?

  “Why did you really come here, Dane? One last fu—One last time for old times’ sake?”

  “Something like that. Yeah, something just like that.”

  Chapter Three

  Her fingers tightening around his hand told him his verbal blow had hurt her—hurt her deeply. Not what he’d intended at all. But some long-buried atavistic instinct made him want to shout, Damn it, Jen, you’re mine! You weren’t supposed to fall in love—shit, make love to anybody but me! And yet he couldn’t blame her. He’d taken a score of women to bed and had no right to deny Jen equal pleasure. But he knew Jen. Knew she wouldn’t give herself to any man she didn’t care for deeply. He’d liked the women he’d bedded, but had developed no emotional ties to any of them. When the affair ended, it ended. No hard feelings. No regrets. Physical satisfaction sure, but no ties. He’d made certain of that. Any woman he slept with knew going in to expect nothing more than sex. But Jen…

  “Damn it, Jen, I didn’t mean—”

  “Maybe you didn’t mean to say it, but you meant it.” She stood, forcing him to let go or stand up as well.

  He stood, then let go of her hand. He kept his eyes focused on her bowed head. The silky black curls hid her face, but his fingers itched to push them back. Expose her ear to his tongue tracing the delicate shell. She liked that. A lot. Just when he decided he’d risk touching her—losing her—she glanced up, her dark eyes unreadable.

  “I thought something similar. I thought I could exorcise you if I…if we…”

  “Made love—”

  “Had sex one last time.”

  He waited for her to continue. And waited and waited. At last—just when he thought she’d leave him waiting for the rest of his life—she said, “Yes.”

  “Yes what?” Impatience shone in her eyes, making him say, “I don’t want any misunderstandings, Jen. Yes what?”

  “Yes, I’ll make—have sex with you. Yes, I understand it won’t mean anything to…either of us beyond a satisfying fuck.”

  Even in starlight, he could see her blush. When she didn’t correct herself or deny she’d said the word, he tallied a point in her favor. And silently vowed he’d change her mind. She’d want to stay in his arms for the rest of her life. Even if he had to chain her to his bed to prove it.

  “Not here.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t have sex with you here.”

  That suited him to a T. He didn’t want the memories of their younger selves getting in his way tonight. Tonight he’d prove to her that they could and would build new memories.

  “I know where we can go,” he said.

  “Where? Never mind. I’ll change and meet—”

  “You’re fine as you are.”

  She glanced down at her grass-stained shift. “Not feeling real sexy here,” she complained, her voice soft and shy. And sexy as hell.

  “You will. I promise.” He held out his hand. When she took it, his held breath eased out.

  Hand-in-hand they walked to his car. When he held the door for her, she flicked him an impatient look, fought to fasten her own seatbelt, then huffed a sigh and let him deal with it. Without another word, he rounded the hood, then settled in the driver’s seat. The Jaguar’s powerful engine purred.

  “Nice wheels,” she said as the low-slung car smoothly and easily climbed the steep driveway.

  “Aren’t you going to beg me to let you drive?”

  As if remembering all the times she had begged, she chuckled. “If you’re really nice to me, I’ll beg when we start back.”

  If he had his way, she’d beg long before then.

  At the top of the drive, he turned south on Highway One. She shot him a questioning glance he ignored. Shaking her head, she stretched out her long legs and leaned back her head. The soft music from his CD player lulled her to sleep.

  Some things never change. He was content to let her sleep. She’d need all her energy when he got her home.

  Once he cleared the Pacific Grove exit, traffic thinned, but picked up again around Carmel before dwindling to an occasional vehicle heading north to Monterey. The two-lane road twisted, forcing him to keep his attention on his driving. He’d rather look at Jen, but too many local drivers thought they owned this stretch of road and passed on dangerous curves. Northbound tourists frequently pulled across the southbound lane to reach the coastal turnouts so they could view the ocean. Tonight, however, it was too dark to see much—even a breeching grey whale headed for its birthing grounds.

  South of Nepenthe—the restaurant closed for the night—he turned left, heading up a narrow gravel-paved driveway. His passenger awoke. As if she knows we’re home. He was pleased he needn’t wake her for her first sight of his house. Their home.

  “Not much to see right now,” he apologized when she shot him a puzzled look. “I don’t want strangers dropping in, so the outside lights turn on only when I flip the switch.”

  “Where are we?” she asked, climbing out of the car before he reached her side. “Other than in California.”

  “A little south of Nepenthe. You remember Nepenthe?”

  “Great hamburgers, fabulous view.”

  He laughed. “For such a skinny broad, you sure think about food a lot.”

  “Not all the time,” she rebutted, rubbing her tummy. “But I could go for one of your fabulous frittatas.”

  Opening the front door, he bowed her through it, saying, “Welcome…to my home.”

  He left the lights off, wanting the Pacific Ocean to be the first thing she saw. With a full moon now riding high, he knew she could find her way around his sparse living room furniture.

  She wandered down a couple of steps, her gaze seemingly focused on the ocean. When she reached the wide windows, she turned to him. “It’s beautiful. Reminds me of Tin House.”

  “That gas station above JP Burns State Park? If there’s that much mold in this house, I’ll fire myself and hire a maid.”

  “I meant the view. And the fact that Tin House is above the fog line. Besides, it was two service stations put together and the dining room had flocked wallpaper. What wasn’t destroyed by the mold,” she amended, blinking when he turned on the lights. Looking around, she spotted the adjacent kitchen and grinned. “Wow. Gas cook top, granite counters. All the accoutrements a chef could want.”

  “Stick around, I’ll teach you how to cook.”

  “Living on my own, I learned.” She glanced at him as she crossed to the kitchen island then plopped on a barstool. “Or was that a hint I should make the omelet?”

  He stood where he was at the foot of the stairs to the second floor. “I’d like to show you the rest of the house first.”


  His eyes fastened on her face, he didn’t miss her lips tightening or the can’t-wait-to-get-this-over-huh? thought in her dark eyes. Then her face blanched, making him wonder who she feared more—him or herself?

  Tilting her chin, she said bravely, “Okay. I wouldn’t mind freshening up. I guess I can borrow your comb.”

  “I think you’ll find everything you need. Upstairs.”

  With a curt nod, she crossed to his side. “Lead on.”

  Sliding his fingers down her bare arm, he took her hand. She tensed, but left her hand in his. Together they climbed the oak stairs. When they reached the second floor, he stood patiently while she gazed at the ocean through the glass wall to her right. It ran the length of the hall, ending at the double doors to his bedroom suite. Without prompting, she headed in that direction. Releasing her hand, he followed, admiring the gentle sway of her hips. She paused at the doors, then opened them and stepped inside.

  His recurring held-breath eased out. At least he hadn’t made a fool of himself by carrying her over the threshold.

  “The bathroom’s to your left,” he said when she glanced back at him. After she’d closed the bathroom door, he couldn’t help himself. Toeing off his canvas loafers, he padded to the door and pressed his ear against it. He could make out her mutterings, but couldn’t understand the words. Hearing water running in the shower, he fought the impulse to join her. He had time—he hoped—to build new shower memories with her. But not tonight. Or at least not yet.

  He dimmed the bedroom lights, opened the drapes and the sheers behind them. His gaze focused on the ocean—serene now. Soon waves would pound the fragile shore as the full moon cast its eternal pull. Just as Jennifer’s return to the bedroom pulled on him. He could feel her coming nearer, see her ghostly shadow in the dark glass, smell her unique scent—devoid of lavender. He’d bought unscented soap and shampoo for her, put his own aftershave and deodorant in the guest bathroom, ensuring nothing would remind her of her home, her own bedroom, her memories of what they’d done there.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered as if they stood in a church.