“You can’t keep me at arm’s length forever, my little beauty. I want you. Will you come to me?”
GEORGETTE HEYER, Devil’s Cub
Sugar Beth let herself inside the carriage house, flicked on the light, and screamed.
“Welcome home, my dear.” Colin slouched in the darkest corner of the room, one hand draped over the arm of the wing chair, the other clasping a crystal tumbler of scotch. The collar of his dress shirt was unbuttoned, and Gordon lay at his feet, one ear flopped over the toe of a polished black Gucci loafer.
“Don’t you ever scare me like that again!”
“I warned you about locking your door.”
She dropped her purse on a chair and shrugged off the jacket she’d tossed over a sweater and a short denim skirt. “You could at least have turned on a light.”
“I wanted to brood.”
“Well, stop it.”
He crossed his ankles, disturbing Gordon’s comfortable perch. “Come now, you must be accustomed to finding angry men on your doorstep. We had a date.”
“You had a date. I wasn’t asked.”
“I believe I left you a note, and we also spoke about it when we talked on the phone.”
“A one-way conversation.”
“I’m not going to sneak around.” He set down his drink with a thud and rose. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
“You’re the one who has to live in this town, dawg.”
He rose to his feet so he was looming over her. “This is your bizarre idea of protecting me.”
“No matter how much the good citizens of Parrish fawn over your famous self, you’re still an outsider, and the welcome mat can be snatched away at any minute.”
“That’s my concern. I won’t have it, Sugar Beth. Any of it.”
“You sound like one of your Victorian ancestors.”
“I don’t need anyone’s protection,” he said, advancing on her with slow, menacing steps. “And I especially don’t need the protection of a woman whose life plan seems to start and end with selling a painting she can’t find.”
“And aren’t we being supportive tonight?”
“Believe it or not, you can live a decent life without diamonds and furs.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gucci.” She moved away.
He curled his hand over the back of the wing chair. “I enjoy the luxuries my money buys, but I don’t need them, and I sure as hell wouldn’t sell my soul to get them.”
“Once again proving you’re the better person.”
“Sugar Beth . . .”
The low note in his voice suggested the time had passed for another wisecrack. “I’m not a total idiot,” she said. “I’ve never intended to support myself with the painting. I’m going back to Houston and get my real estate license.” It had been such a good idea—it still was—but she needed to work hard to inject any enthusiasm into her voice. “I have a lot of contacts there, and I want to sell high-end real estate. But that’s hard to do without an impressive car and a decent wardrobe.”
“You? Sell real estate?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing. It’s a perfectly respectable career. But I can’t see you doing it.”
“I’ll be terrific at sales.”
“Until some demanding client pisses you off.”
“I can be tactful.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Ah, yes, you’re a master of tact, all right.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m simply pointing out what you seem determined to ignore, but then I believe we’ve already discussed your difficulties staying in touch with reality. Witness your lamebrained idea to work at the bookstore.”
“I’m not talking to you about that anymore.”
“Then let’s go back to your plan to sell minimansions.” He was getting steamed up again, and she gave him an uneasy glance as he moved away from the chair. “You need a realistic method of supporting yourself, not some scenario based on finding a painting that was probably destroyed.”
“I know! I’ll go to auto mechanic school.”
“That does it.” With no more warning than the flare of those aristocratic nostrils, he backed her right against the wall. He looked ferocious as he pulled her into his arms and growled, “God help me, I’ve never wanted to do violence to a woman, but we’re either going to make love or I’m going to beat you.”
That finally made her smile. “I choose door number one.”
He muttered a dark curse, then crushed her lips with his kiss. At the same time, he shoved his hands under her denim skirt . . . and she didn’t do a thing to stop him.
Within seconds, her hose and panties were gone. He clasped the backs of her thighs and lifted her against him. A china vase crashed to the floor near Gordon’s head, sending him scurrying into the kitchen. She wrapped her legs around Colin’s hips. He fumbled with his clothes. Shoved himself inside her.
She was ready for him.
He thrust deep, then groaned and began to withdraw. “No condom.”
She pushed against him, not letting him go. “It’s all taken care of.”
“Thank God.”
He pressed her back to the wall, his fingers digging into her bottom. She took his mouth and gave herself up to the hot, wet rub . . . the sounds and scents . . . his fierceness . . . his care.
She was falling in love with him.
The knowledge had been there for days, but she’d refused to examine it, and now she couldn’t, not when his eyelashes lay in tough dark spikes against his cheekbones, and he felt so good inside her. She sucked at his bottom lip. He moaned, drove deeper, and she abandoned herself to the tumult.
After it was over, she let him pull her upstairs where they took off the rest of their clothes and made love again, this time more slowly and with a tenderness that nearly undid her. She was losing her battle to keep the barriers between them in place.
When they were finally satiated, they took a bath together. She fastened her hair on top of her head. He sat behind her, his big knees bent, an elbow propped on the edge of the tub. “What did you mean about the condom?” His soapy hand stroked the curve of her breast. “When you said it was taken care of?”
The rosy glow from Tallulah’s ancient red Christmas candles made the old bathroom seem like a place out of time. If only that were true. She didn’t want to answer his question, but he had the right to know. “I had an ectopic pregnancy when I was twenty-two, a few other problems. I am, you’ll be pleased to know, incapable of mommyhood.”
He pressed his lips to the side of her neck. “You can’t catch a break, can you?”
He’d stirred dark waters, and she couldn’t manage a reply.
He stroked her other breast, gave her time to recover. Eventually, he tucked a lock of wet hair behind her ear. “How long has it been for you?”
She drew a spiral in the soapy water on his knee. “Emmett got sick two and a half years ago.”
“You hadn’t had sex in nearly three years?”
“Not with another person.”
He chuckled. One of the candles sputtered. He shifted his leg to a position that was only marginally more comfortable, dabbled with her earlobe. She rested the back of her head against his shoulder. Falling in love wasn’t exactly a red-letter event, since she’d done it so many times before. It was her old weakness, but she’d believed she’d gotten past the point where she didn’t feel alive unless she fancied herself in love. Apparently not. At least she was smarter now, and she knew exactly what she had to do about it.
“We need music,” he said. “Bach, I think.” But instead he began singing “Ain’t She Sweet” in a surprisingly mellow baritone, which made her smile despite her mood. When he was done, he caressed her shoulder. “Promise me you’ll tell Jewel you changed your mind, darling. Promise me you’ll stay at Frenchman’s Bride.”
Men had called her a lot of things over the years—honey, sweetie, babe, bitch—but never darling. “My days at Frenchman’s Bride are over, Your Grace.”
“Why, pray tell?”
In spite of herself, she had to smile. “Being a kept woman and all that.”
“You’re hardly a kept woman. You work for me.”
“Sleeping with the boss and all that.”
“You’re determined to be difficult. Fortunately, I’m in an exceptionally fine mood.”
“You should be after what I did to you tonight.”
That managed to distract him for a couple of minutes. Not long enough, though, because he soon returned to the subject at hand. “We’re going to approach this rather amazing chemistry we have in a logical fashion.”
“Okay, but I’m having my lawyer draw up an ironclad prenup to make sure I get Frenchman’s Bride after our divorce.”
Instead of scaring him to death, she’d amused him. “You won’t put me off that easily.”
“You should be shaking in your boots. Except for one thankfully short-lived period during the worst of my drinking days, I tend to marry my lovers.”
“Now, however, you are a wiser, more mature woman.”
“Not that wise, dawg, and I’ve got a powerful hankering for you.”
“Stop toying with me. I’m not so easily frightened. I’ll admit that what’s happened has been fairly astonishing. We seem to be one of those odd flukes of nature . . .”
Easy for him to talk about flukes of nature. He didn’t have a neurotic compulsion to fall in love with everything in pants.
“. . . and I believe I’ve come up with a rather tidy solution to our dilemma.”
“I don’t have to write a term paper, do I?”
“Not unless you plan to make it highly erotic.” His thumb found a tight muscle in the back of her neck, and he gently kneaded it. “What we most need is time, a chance to let this thing between us run its natural course.”
“Colin, you only like low-maintenance women, remember?”
“I like you well enough.”
“Be still, my heart.”
She sensed his smile.
“You really are an extraordinary woman.”
“And I’m not even at the top of my game.” Her defenses weren’t as strong as they should be, and it was time to take harsher measures. She fumbled for the plug with her toe. “You might remember that I’ve caused you nothing but trouble since I got here. And, forgive me if I’m hurting your feelings, but I’ve lost my taste for getting involved with the wrong sort of man. Or any man, for that matter.”
“Nonsense. I’m exactly the right sort. No one could be safer for you than me.”
The naked, workingman’s body pressed hard against her didn’t feel the least bit safe. “How exactly do you figure that?”
“We understand each other perfectly. I’m sarcastic and unpleasant. You’re headstrong and manipulative.”
“Bless our hearts.” She located the ring on the plug and tried to work it free.
“Exactly. Neither of us entertains any fantasies about the other, so we’re not in much danger of letting things get messy, now are we?”
The plug gave. “I’ve been married three times. Messy’s my middle name.”
“Which is exactly your problem. You get married. With me, that pressure will be off you from the beginning.”
Something ached inside her—not the fact that he didn’t want to marry her; she’d never go down that road again—but the knowledge that she was incapable of the uncomplicated, loving relationships that came so easily to other women. The time had come to play it straight, but she couldn’t do it with his body pressed so close, and she rose from the tub before she spoke.
“Making love with you has been the first thing that’s felt really good in a long time, but no matter how much I’ve been rationalizing it, this was a backslide for me.”
The hand sliding up her leg stilled at her calf, and he went all haughty on her. “I’m not some bloke you picked up in a bar.”
She stepped out of the water and wrapped herself in a towel. “You may find it hard to believe, but I do know how to take care of myself, and having an affair with you isn’t the way.”
“A little late to decide that.”
“You were more temptation than I could resist.”
He looked more thunderous than appeased.
“The worst part is, I’m just starting to realize we’ve screwed up a nice friendship.”
“Nonsense. We haven’t screwed up a thing.” Water sluiced over the hard planes of his body as he rose, and the gleam of candlelight over those ropey muscles made her want to sink back in the tub with him. “It’s possible to be both friends and lovers. Preferable, actually.”
“Not in the Universe of Sugar Beth.” She put more distance between them as he stepped from the tub. “It tends to be all or nothing with me, Your Grace, and the fact that I’m standing here without my panties four months after my husband died means I’m pretty much back to my old tricks.” Her voice faltered. “Which is a lot more depressing than even you can imagine.”
“He was in a coma long before he died. And from what you’ve said about the kind of man he was, I can’t believe he’d have expected you to live the rest of your life in mourning.”
“You’re missing the point. This isn’t good for me.”
“It was bloody well good enough for you half an hour ago.”
He refused to understand, which made it time to hit him with her full arsenal. “I don’t tend to separate sex and the illusion that I’m falling in love.”
The instant wariness in his eyes told her she finally had his attention. “Sugar Beth, you don’t honestly believe . . .”
“That I’m falling in love with you? Why not? Look at all the practice I’ve had. And if that’s not enough to send you running for the hills, it’s sure enough to make me grab for a pair of Nikes.” She took in a little air so she could get through the rest. “That’s why I’m dumping you.”
His concern faded, and indignation took its place. “Like hell. I’m not one of your toy boys, Sugar Beth. You can’t toss me aside just because you’re having one of your snits.”
“Have you listened to what I’ve said?”
“Every word. And all of it twaddle. You’re far too accustomed to having men roll over at your command. Well, this man doesn’t roll.”
“I’m sure your brain will kick in any minute now.”
He wrapped the threadbare towel low on his hips, spoiling a magnificent view. “There’s no need for all this drama.”
“Let me make it a little clearer. I’ve been involved with enough painful relationships to last a lifetime, and I’m not doing it again. Ever.”
“Agreed. Pleasure only.”
“You’re either stone-deaf or the stupidest man on earth.”
“Stop being so stubborn.”
She clutched the towel tighter and headed for her bedroom. “If you want to be an idiot, go ahead, but you’re taking that long walk to the gas chamber all by yourself. This affair is over.”
His voice drifted over her shoulder, low and full of purpose. “That, my dear, is what you think.”
