Daring in the Dark
JENNIFER LABRECQUE
If there hadn't been a 24-hour blackout…Tawny never would have confessed to Simon about his starring role in her explicit dreams. After all, Simon was the best friend of her fiancé, Elliott. Besides, Simon despised her. Didn't he?Simon never would have had the chance to spend a night with the woman he'd wanted since he met her. If only he hadn't had to break the news about her fiancé's indiscretions first. Still, Tawny didn't seem all that heartbroken–and Simon was quite prepared to kiss any lingering hurt all better….They never would have given in to temptation and lived out every one of their fantasies. The night was magical, life changing. But would the magic last when daybreak–and Elliott–arrived early the next morning…
“I’ve started having dreams about you,” Tawny admitted. “About us.”
“What kind of dreams?” Simon watched the candlelight flicker over her features.
“Sexual dreams. Explicit sexual dreams,” she said, shifting restlessly on the sofa.
Heat surged through him, and Simon fought to keep his voice neutral. “They’re just dreams, Tawny. Why would you let a few dreams interfere with a real relationship between you and your fiancé?”
“Because I’m having them every night. It’s gotten to the point that being asleep is the best part of my day. And I’ve been feeling guilty as hell, because the sex I have in my dreams is so much better than what Elliott and I have in reality.”
Her words seduced him, fired along his nerve endings, tightened his body as if she’d actually trailed her hands over him.
Tawny slowly moved closer to him. “Do you know the first thing that came to mind when I heard you were coming over this evening?” The touch of her fingers on his arm nearly burned him. “I thought maybe we could exorcise those dreams.” She drew in a deep breath. “Because as it stands now, Simon, I’m afraid you’ve ruined me for any other man.”
Dear Reader,
The idea for this story came from the movie Love Actually–in the subplot of which one character is in love with his best friend’s woman. Of course, be it the blessing or bane of a writer, while I loved the premise, I was driven to put my own spin on it. I was burning to write this story, especially since the characters had already taken up residence in my head. So I was thrilled when my editor approved the idea.
Things got very interesting when we slotted it for the 24-HOURS: BLACKOUT series. Hmmm. Take one besotted best friend (Simon), one unfaithful fiancé (Elliott) and one woman at the center of it all (Tawny), set the entire book within a twenty-four-hour time frame and plunge New York into a blackout, trapping the hero and heroine in her apartment. Together. In the dark. On a hot summer night. To say it was a challenging story to write is an understatement, but it was also great fun.
I hope you enjoy Simon and Tawny’s journey to discovering their own happy ending, one that gets better after midnight. I’d love to hear about your blackout story. Drop by and visit me at www.jenniferlabrecque.com, or snail mail me at P.O. Box 298, Hiram, GA 30141.
Enjoy the heat….
Jennifer LaBrecque
Daring in the Dark
Jennifer LaBrecque
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Rita Herron, Susan Kimoto and Rhonda Nelson for all the times ya’ll have talked me off the ledge and through the story.
Acknowledgment:
Thanks to John Wehr and his photojournaling of the 2003 NYC blackout at www.johnwehr.com/blackout.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
1
HER HEAD DROPPED TO HIS shoulder, but still she watched the mirror. She knew not to look away. Every time she stopped looking, he stopped touching…and his touch drove her crazy. And yes, watching in the mirror made it so much more intense, so much hotter. His fathomless eyes met hers in the reflection. Her, on his lap, her back against his chest, her legs spread. He reached between her thighs and his long fingers parted her, opening her to his touch and his pleasure. His fingers were dark against her bare, pink flesh, sliding into her yawning, hungry portal…oh, yes…felt so good…please don’t stop…watching…wanting…oh, almost there….
The shrill ring of the bedside phone shattered the moment, pulling her out of the dream. Her body tight, her thighs wet, Tawny groped for the phone. “Hello.”
“Were you napping?” Elliott said, his normally cheery voice sounding just a bit forced. Of course, she could just be transferring the tension that lingered from being poised on the brink of orgasm in her dream. Or it could be Elliott criticizing her, which seemed to happen more and more frequently. It was almost like spending time with her parents.
“Hmm.” As an event planner for a group of Midtown attorneys, her hours weren’t nine to five, Monday through Friday. “Last night was the cocktail party for that German client, remember? Then the partners had a lovely working breakfast at six-thirty this morning. Just what I wanted to do, crawl out of bed at four-thirty on a Saturday. Anyway, there’s no sin in an afternoon nap.” Intense sexual arousal and guilt lent her voice a husky note. “Did you work very late last night?” Elliott invested incredible hours in his art gallery, but it was paying off with a growing reputation and clientele.
“Late enough.” He sounded uncharacteristically terse.
Maybe it really was just her. She was wound so tight and ached so badly she wanted to cry. Or come. She should laugh, confess to her husband-to-be that she’d just been having the most awesome dream sex and that she still desperately needed to come and ask him to help her out.
Once upon a time she would’ve thought laid-back, easygoing Elliott would get off on a round of afternoon phone sex and talking her into an orgasm. But she wasn’t so sure anymore. Lately he’d been neither laid-back nor easygoing. And what if somewhere along the way she revealed he wasn’t the man spreading her thighs and leading her to ecstasy in her dreams? And what if the man she’d agreed to marry “till death they did part” couldn’t pick up where the dream left off and get her to that magical place?
He continued and the opportunity was gone. “I thought I’d come over after the gallery closes this evening.”
“That’s fine as long as you bring dinner and we stay in.” If he called this late in the day, she sure wasn’t cooking. Elliott was more into clubbing and being seen than she was. A quiet night at home suited her.
“Staying in works. I wanted to talk to you.”
Tawny propped up on her pillow. She and Elliott talked often, but when someone announced they wanted to talk… “What?”
“It’s too complicated to go into over the phone.”
“That’s a lousy thing to do. Bring it up and leave me hanging.”
“Sorry. But let’s leave it till tonight.” It wasn’t her imagination. He definitely sounded strained.
“Okay…” Sex. It must be about sex. Of course at this point her brain was one-tracking.
“Thai sound okay?”
“Sure. You know what I like.” Elliott couldn’t possibly miss her flirtatious innuendo. Maybe he’d initiate a little phone sex without her asking.
Elliott cleared his throat, as if her teasing left him uncomfortable. “Um, yeah, I’ll pick up chicken curry.”
Nix the phone sex. “Chicken curry sounds good.”
He cleared his throat again. He was either nervous or coming down with something. “I thought I’d bring Simon along.”
Her hand tightened on the phone even as her internal temperature slid up the sizzle scale. “Simon?” She licked her suddenly dry lips and rolled over onto her belly. “Why would he want to come to my apartment? He’s avoided me like the plague ever since the photo shoot. He obviously dislikes me.”
“He’s a busy guy. I don’t think he dislikes you. Simon’s just…”
“Dark. Brooding. Cynical. Intense. I think that about covers it.” And sexy in a shiver-down-her-spine, her-head-needed-to-be-examined kind of way. But that didn’t seem the most prudent observation to make about her fiancé’s best friend.
Elliott laughed and Tawny was thankful it didn’t bother him that she obviously rubbed Simon the wrong way. Sometimes she wondered if Elliott didn’t prefer it that way, but she’d dismissed the notion as unworthy of Elliott.
“Simon’s just Simon,” he said. “Can he come, too?”
Could he come? She grew wetter still, her whole body flushing and her nipples pebbling harder. Intense, brooding Simon, with his faint British accent, had been the one in her dream.
“Tawny?” Elliott prompted on the other end of the line.
She squirmed on the hard mattress. “No. I don’t mind if he comes.” Simply saying it aroused her even more. Guilt and shame fed the dark lust Simon inspired in her on a nearly nightly basis. Now it was getting even worse—she’d only taken an afternoon nap. He was her fiancé’s best friend, he despised her and every night he was the source of soul-shattering sex in her dreams.
“We’ll see you a little after nine then.”
She hung up and closed her eyes. Why was Simon coming with Elliott? Why the three of them? What would they do?
With her body strung tight and humming with arousal, a dark fantasy bloomed in her. The three of them, here in her bedroom. Elliott, golden haired and fair, Simon, dark. Two sexy men intent on touching and tasting every inch of her, all with the singular purpose of pleasuring her.
She blinked her eyes open and reached into the drawer of her bedside table, pulling out her vibrator. She couldn’t go through the afternoon this way.
Elliott was her fiancé. He was funny and generous and warm, most of the time. She might not have control of her dreams, but she was wide-awake now.
Despite her best efforts to focus on Elliott, it was Simon she came for as she shuddered her way to an orgasm.
“YOU LOOK LIKE HELL,” SIMON Thackeray said as he carefully placed his camera case in an orange vinyl chair in Elliott’s inner sanctum and sat in the matching chair.
Blond, good-looking, outgoing and possessing a sense of style that always left him looking as if he’d just stepped off the pages of GQ, Elliott turned heads in a crowd. A girl in college had once likened the two best friends to Apollo and Hades. They were foils in both looks and personality. Elliott, sunny and outgoing, Simon, dark, quiet, withdrawn. But Elliott had sounded weary and worried on the phone when he’d asked Simon to stop by. He didn’t look any better than he’d sounded. “What’s going on?”
Elliott perched on the edge of the stainless-steel desk and swung one leg. “We’ve been friends a long time.”
Simon nodded at the obvious. Since they’d met in a photography class in junior high, where they’d discovered a shared love of art and a friendship that had weathered the years. Elliott had thrown out a lifeline that saved Simon from drowning in his own loneliness. Conversely Simon had anchored Elliott, provided him with some much-needed stability. Elliott’s parents were warm and outgoing, but volatile.
He wasn’t so sure he would’ve pursued a career in photography if Elliott hadn’t believed in him and pushed him. And Simon had provided invaluable contacts when Elliott had decided to open a small gallery.
“You know you’re the brother I never had,” Elliott continued. “I’ve always thought I could tell you anything. Share anything.” Once upon a time Simon had felt the same way. Until he’d discovered that there were some things you couldn’t share with your best friend. Like being in love with his fiancée. “I hope you’ll always be my friend.”
Simon sighed at Elliott’s penchant for melodrama. If Elliott hadn’t parlayed his art-history degree and eye for art into owning a gallery, he could’ve given Broadway a run. “Elliott, unless you’ve ax-murdered a little old lady, I’m going to always be your friend.” Simon shrugged. “I’d probably be your friend even then. Why don’t you just tell me what this is all about?”
“I’m gay.”
“Right.”
First Elliott called him in and gave him the big friendship spiel, now he was fooling around when Simon had a photo shoot scheduled in forty-five minutes. Elliott had a warped sense of humor and a piss-poor sense of timing.
Elliott knotted his hands together. “This isn’t a joke. I’m serious. I’m gay.”
Simon sat, stunned. Elliott was…gay? How was that possible? They’d been best friends for over a decade. Simon was the odd straight guy in a profession that attracted homosexuals like a homing device, yet he’d never once suspected Elliott of anything but blatant heterosexuality.
For God’s sake, Elliott was engaged to Tawny, slept with her on a regular basis and he’d just announced he was gay? “When…how…”
“Perhaps bisexual is a better estimation.” Elliott ran his manicured hand through his short blond hair. “I’ve found myself increasingly attracted to men over the last several years.” He shook his head and offered a harsh laugh lacking in humor. “Don’t worry. Not you.”
Quite frankly Simon could give a toss if Elliott was attracted to him or not. Well…maybe he was a bit relieved Elliott hadn’t professed undying love or lust for him, but he’d definitely missed something along the way.
Simon clearly recalled the first time he’d seen Tawny. It’d been here in the gallery, outside Elliott’s office. Simon had dropped by during a private event—a cocktail party and private viewing Tawny had arranged for her company. She’d been engrossed in an animated discussion with the caterer. One look at her and his world had shifted into sharper focus. Then she’d disappeared and he’d sought out Elliott, intent on discovering who she was, only to learn Elliott had beat him to the punch. Before Simon had opened his mouth, Elliott had announced he’d met his dream woman and arranged a date with her. Intuitively Simon had known it was the same woman. And he’d been right.
“What was this six months ago when you told me you’d just met the woman of your dreams?” he asked.
“She was hot and sexy and so different from the other women in New York, I thought she might cure me.”
She’d been a bloody cure?
Simon pushed to his feet and walked over to the window overlooking the street, needing to look at something other than the friend he wasn’t sure he knew any longer. Elliott had always been a bit self-absorbed, but this….
Outside, Manhattanites shared the sidewalk with tourists. Customers thronged from the electronics store across the street to the corner falafel stand and the shops in between. A cabbie flipped off a delivery van who cut him off.
Like a strip of negatives laid out before him, he saw in his head photos, moments in time committed to memory. He’d wagered the more he was around Tawny, the more he knew of her, the more his attraction would diminish. Instead with every encounter he’d found himself increasingly drawn to her, discovering that her spirit, her wit, her spunk, ran even deeper and surer than her physical beauty.
And he’d held himself increasingly aloof. Afraid he’d betray himself with a careless glance, a misplaced remark, he hid behind sardonic comments. He’d still held out hope for himself, for a recovery, even after Elliott proposed. He’d get over her.
It had been the photo shoot, the day he’d spent photographing Tawny, at Elliott’s request, that he knew he was deeply, irrevocably in love with her. He gripped the windowsill and rocked on the balls of his feet, looking inward instead of at the busy street outside. It was the only time he’d ever spent alone with her and he’d glimpsed something so sweet, so elusive, that to end that day had bordered on physical pain.
And she’d been a bloody cure for Elliott. He turned around to face Elliott, struggling for an even tone. “And was asking her to marry you part of the cure or did you consider yourself cured at that juncture? I’m a bit confused. Is this a twelve-step program?”
“Does it make you feel good to be such a sarcastic bastard?”
“Not particularly.” Simon felt a foreign urge to pound Elliott’s head against the cinnamon-colored wall. “You asked her to marry you when you knew you felt this way? When you knew you were attracted to men?”
Elliott colored at Simon’s censure. “But I’m also attracted to her. I thought if I threw myself into the relationship enough these feelings would go away.” He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. He began to pace the room.
“But they didn’t and you cheated on Tawny?”
Elliott squared his shoulders defensively. “Just once. Last night. You know Richard, the acrylics painter we’re featuring? I’ve caught him looking at me, watching me a couple of times. Anyway, we were working late last night, shared a bottle of wine and one thing led to another.”
Perhaps this was one big mistake Elliott was blowing out of proportion through guilt. Elliott was also a bit of a dramatist, and guilt distorted the clearest picture, as Simon well knew. “Did you have too much wine? Were you drunk?”
His blue eyes solemn, Elliott shook his head. “No. That’d be an easy excuse. I wasn’t drunk. I was intrigued. I thought I’d try it and know for sure, one way or the other.” He scrubbed his hand over his forehead. “I liked it. I have feelings for Richard.”
Simon squelched a frown of distaste. This shouldn’t be any different than listening to Elliott talk about a woman. But it was. Vastly different. Simon held up a staying hand. “I neither want nor need details.”
“I wasn’t offering them. That was merely by way of clarification,” Elliott said, clearly put out. “I’ve got to tell Tawny. She deserves to know.”
“Bloody right she deserves to know.” The risks associated with homosexuality slammed him in the gut. Concern for both Tawny and Elliott sharpened his tone. “I hope you used a rubber.”
“Of course I did.” Elliott slumped into a chair and dropped his head onto the back. “That’s just one of the reasons I need to tell her. If we stay together—” that knife twisted in Simon’s gut “—she has to make an informed decision.”
“You like sex with Richard but you’re going to sleep with Tawny?” Simon said.
Elliott creased a sheet of paper between his fingers. “I love her. What’s not to love? She’s sexy, smart, warm and generous. But we’re not setting off any fireworks in the bedroom. I’m attracted to her, but it’s not as exciting as it is with Richard.”
Elliott had just handed him far more information on several fronts than he’d ever wanted. And he was driving Simon mad, fidgeting with that piece of paper. “Would you put the paper down?” Elliott shot him a look but tossed it onto the desk. “So you don’t want to break off the engagement?” Simon asked, his head beginning to throb from tension.
“I don’t know. She’s a great woman. I need some time to think. I guess whether we break off the engagement is up to her.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “This is going to be a hell of a conversation.” Elliott drew a deep breath and whooshed it out. “Come with me to tell her.”
“No.” This was between Elliott and Tawny. And talk about a conflict of interest. Simon wanted her, but not with a broken heart or as a rebound lover. However, she would be available if this went down the way he thought it would.
Elliott braced his hands on the desk and leaned toward Simon. “Please. I need you for moral support. This is going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”
Elliott hated facing unpleasant tasks alone. From the time they’d met and become fast friends, he’d dragged Simon along to face teachers, professors, his parents. He’d always maintained Simon was stronger than he was. But for once Simon wasn’t being dragged into Elliott’s mess. This time his friend was flying solo.
He shook his head. “It’s private, Elliott.”
“You were there when I proposed,” Elliott argued.
Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “And if I had known you were going to propose, I wouldn’t have been.” Outgoing, give-me-an-audience Elliott had chosen a double date to propose. Simon recalled the agony that had ripped through him when Elliott had presented Tawny with a yellow-diamond engagement ring over dessert. Simon’s date, Lenore, had thought it quite romantic.
“This is a mess. I need you there when I tell her. I called her and asked to come over tonight after the gallery closes.” He stopped pacing and faced Simon, the length of the room separating them. “I told her you were coming, too.”
Simon squashed the adolescent urge to ask Elliott what she’d said about him coming round. He and Elliott had always supported each other. They’d always watched one another’s back. But he wasn’t sure if he could bear to see the hurt and betrayal on Tawny’s face. Nor did he have the right to witness that. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Please, Simon.”
But he hadn’t exactly been coming through for Elliott all the nights Simon had lain in his lonely bed and made love to Tawny in his head. His conscience smote him. He had no business going. He didn’t want to go. But he owed Elliott, whether Elliott knew it or not, for every licentious thought he’d ever had about Tawny. For all the times and all the ways he’d had her in his head.
Guilt did crazy things to men—left them agreeing to things they would otherwise run away from.
“Okay, I’ll go. But I’ll have to meet you there,” Simon said. He stood and picked up his equipment bag.
Elliott dropped into his chair, his relief evident. “Nine o’clock. Her place. Do you remember the way?”
He’d dropped her off once with Elliott. “Sure.” He shifted the camera bag to his shoulder and turned for the door.
“Simon…” Elliott said.
He turned again to face Elliott.
“You’re a good friend.”
Righto. He was a good friend to be obsessively, compulsively in love with his best friend’s woman.
2
TAWNY GLANCED AT THE CLOCK on her dresser. Fifteen minutes until Elliott and Simon arrived. She discarded her skirt on the closet floor and defiantly pulled on a pair of shorts. She’d gotten home from running errands and had plenty of time to shower and shave her legs. And now she was dithering about what to wear. As if it mattered.
Her fiancé and his best friend, the guy who disliked her intensely, were coming over with take-out Thai. After a year of living here, one of the things she still loved about New York was the variety of fabulous food within blocks, even if a Southern-girl transplant couldn’t find grits or sweet tea.
She looked over the clothes in her closet. It wasn’t as if they were going anywhere or she was looking to impress anyone. She picked up a faded T-shirt from her very first 5K run and promptly discarded it. Nah, Elliott had a thing about her dressing up, even if they were staying in. And even though she wasn’t entering a beauty contest, her Southern upbringing drew the line at having anyone over and wearing that.
She laughed at herself. And no, she still couldn’t bring herself to wear white after Labor Day or before Easter. She might be living on Manhattan’s Upper West Side but she’d always be Tawny Edwards with Savannah, Georgia, sensibilities. Funny, she’d come to New York to find out who she was and what she was about. She smiled. Wouldn’t her mother be surprised that the rebellious Edwards family screwup still adhered to the rules of white?
She settled instead on a halter wrap. Casual but sexy. And more important, cool—a major plus considering how stinking hot it was outside. She finished dressing and closed the closet door on the discarded clothes littering the floor. She pulled her hair up and clipped it haphazardly with a giant barrette underneath. Even with the air-conditioning cranked, the sweltering heat seemed to seep inside.
She spritzed perfume behind her ears and, on a defiant whim, sprayed it between her breasts. Simon might not like her, but dammit, he’d at least like the way she smelled.
She sang along with a Roberta Flack remake playing on the radio in the other room. She loved the evening program—Sensual Songs and Decadent Dedications—which offered a nice mix of old and new love songs. And who cared if she was off-key?
She tugged at her shorts. She’d skipped her run this morning and she felt it in their snug fit. Some women were blessed with svelte, slender bodies that actually fit into sylphlike fashions. She, however, didn’t belong to that club. She’d learned long ago that eating half of what was on her plate and exercising every day was the only thing that kept her from resembling the Pillsbury Doughboy in drag. Petite and curvy all too easily slid into short and fat.
Tawny made the mistake of double-checking her behind in the mirror while she sang about him killing her softly with his song. Ugh. It was still there…all of it and then some. Elliott was right. The last time they were in bed, he’d mentioned that her butt had gotten bigger. Not exactly what she’d wanted to hear, but she supposed the truth sometimes hurt.
She’d seriously considered having her ass liposuctioned with her last bonus, but what if those fat cells relocated to her thighs or some other equally heinous body destination? Unwilling to risk fat-cell transference, she did an extra set of butt-killing donkey lifts every other day. And from the looks of things, it was time to make that a daily habit.
An outraged yowl in the other room diverted her attention from the shortcomings—or rather the over-abundance—of her behind. She went into the kitchen and dumped a measure of cat food into the empty bowl by the refrigerator.
“Uh-huh. You’re as close to wasting away as I am.” She laughed and snatched Peaches up for a quick hug before he squirmed out of her arms. “But I understand. I’m hungry, too.” She put him down in front of his food bowl.
Peaches, a five-year-old declawed Maine coon abandoned by his former owner and promptly rescued from the animal shelter on his last day before the big E—as in euthanasia—in no way resembled a peach in either coloring, countenance, or personality. However, Tawny had named him that because it reminded her of her Georgia roots without bringing home too close. Which probably made no sense to the rest of the world but perfect sense to Tawny.
One might reckon that Peaches would be grateful to have been snatched from the jaws of certain death and appropriately fawn over his savior. One would be wrong. It had been Peaches’s arrogance in the face of his impending demise that had stolen Tawny’s heart and sealed the feline’s fate.
The sound of the buzzer reverberated through the apartment and Tawny’s heart thudded in her chest. Simon and Elliott. The idea of coming face-to-face with Simon had tormented her all afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since he’d begun to invade her dreams, and subsequently her body, in a most satisfying, but totally disquieting, manner.
She swallowed and turned the radio down on her way to the door. Peering through the peephole, her heart hammered even harder as Simon’s lean face stared—not at the door but down the hall, as if he’d actually prefer to be anywhere rather than outside her apartment.
On the radio Etta James crooned in a low, sultry voice, about her love coming along at last and the end of her lonely days, which did nothing to dispel Tawny’s nervousness and the sexual anticipation curling through her.
She mentally slapped herself around. Get a grip. So in her dreams she’d had wild monkey sex with Simon. By no stretch of her overactive, oversexed imagination was he her own true love coming along.
She squared her shoulders, pasted on her best loaded-with-Southern-charm smile, slipped the locks and opened her door. “Hi, Simon.”
“Hullo, Tawny.” It was wickedly unfair the way his voice, with its hint of British accent, revved her engine. That was one thing about her dreams—he always talked to her during sex and it always turned her on. This was no dream, but she’d been conditioned and felt a familiar heat stir within her.
She looked past him. “Where’s Elliott?”
“I had a shoot today so we came separately,” he said without a glimmer of a smile in the depth of his dark eyes.
Tawny stepped aside. “Come in.”
His dark hair, cut close and combed back, lent his lean face an ascetic look. She felt his body heat as he stepped past her into the room, his camera equipment slung over his shoulder. This was much worse than she’d anticipated, far more potent than any dream. His clean, subtle scent teased her. In her dreams his scent didn’t entice her as it did now. She caught her breath and strove for a light tone.
“How was your photo shoot?”
“Fine. It went quick. I’ve shot Chloe before,” Simon said.
The name evoked an image of a tall, thin, beautiful model. Tawny didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse at hating the unknown, unsuspecting Chloe—that was the price paid by thin, beautiful women without an ass the size of a principality.
A few weeks ago, after their engagement, Simon had photographed Tawny at Elliott’s request. Elliott possessed an eye for art, but he wasn’t an artist. Simon, however, was a genius with a camera. She wasn’t a professional model and it had taken an entire day of Simon working with her, cajoling her, but her photographs had been fantastic. She’d seen herself in a different way. She’d seen strength, but also a sensual vulnerability.
He’d been patient and almost charming, as if when he got behind the camera he forgot himself or perhaps he could truly be himself.
During the shoot, she’d thought she’d finally reached Elliott’s best friend, won him over. It had been a magical day. But then afterward he’d retreated even further behind a wall, cooler and more aloof than ever. Mercifully their paths hadn’t crossed since.
Except at night. In her bed. In her dreams. The night following the photo shoot she’d dreamed of erotic, explicit sex with Simon. And every night since. Now the object of her writhing lust stood in her apartment, having spent the day photographing some skinny model. Tawny bit back a bitchy comment.
“I haven’t seen you to tell you I thought the photos you took of me were great. Not that I’m great, but the photos were. You’re very good at what you do.” Whoa. Instant image of him bringing her to orgasm in her dream. “I mean, you’re good with your camera.” She closed the door. Tawny, honey, find a brain cell and grab on to it. She sounded like a dithering idiot.
“You’re very photogenic. You have a great smile and good bone structure,” he said.
He spoke very matter-of-factly. He could’ve been discussing the weather. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to pound as if he’d just claimed her beauty equal to that of the legendary Helen of Troy. She felt as gauche as she had when she’d been a third-grader and Henry Turner had pulled her braids. Except she’d liked Henry Turner. And while she might have toe-curling dreams about Simon, she wasn’t altogether sure that she liked him.
“Thank you. Your equipment should be safe here.” She indicated a spot between the door and the antique cupboard to the right. Hauling that monstrosity up when she’d moved last year had been a party. “Would you like a drink while we’re waiting on Elliott? Red wine?”
Simon placed his camera and equipment on the floor next to the cupboard with more care and consideration than many mothers with babies. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Absolutely.”
Earth to Tawny. She should stop admiring the way his black T-shirt hugged his shoulders and the lean line of his back. She should also stop eyeing the fit of his jeans over his very fine—make that extra fine—ass.
He stood, pivoting to face her in one fluid movement. He arched a questioning brow. “Need any help?”
Don’t mind me. I was just checking out your eye candy. “No. Going right now.” She indicated the sofa with a flick of her wrist. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
She fled the room, silently urging Elliott to arrive soon. Those dreams were seriously messing with her head. She’d felt as if his gaze, hot and consuming, had licked across her shoulders bared by her halter top and across her buttocks snugged into her shorts.
She leaned against the counter and dragged in a calming breath, dismissing her ridiculous notions. Simon had been his usual remote self since he’d arrived. The only heat she’d felt from him had been a product of her own twisted, overactive, inappropriate imagination.
She reached past Peaches to the small wine rack atop the fridge and pulled out a bottle of cabernet. Peaches, who spent most of his time on top of the refrigerator, offered her a lazy slit-eyed look.
Tawny uncorked the bottle. “You know, normal cats curl up on a bed or in the corner of the sofa or drape themselves across a chair back. Why do you camp out on top of the refrigerator?”
Of course, the cat didn’t deign to answer. Tawny pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet. She personally thought Peaches liked to render himself inaccessible. And what did it say about her that she loved that damn cat? “Don’t mind me. I’m leaving now.”
She went back into the den.
Simon sat on her purple chenille sofa studying the room. Self-consciousness surged through her, knowing he was seeing her personal space through the eyes of an artist. Her taste tended toward eclectic. She favored reproduction art, the occasional antique and furniture more comfortable than stylish.
She placed the wine and glasses on the bamboo chest that doubled as a coffee table. Simon focused his attention on her, and she wished contrarily that he was eying her apartment once again instead. The glow from a stained-glass floor lamp at the corner of the sofa backlit him. Dark hair, dark slashing eyebrows above dark eyes, unsmiling visage, black T-shirt and jeans. He was a dark angel come to torment her.
His eyes snared her. The room shrank to just the few feet separating them. If this was one of her dreams, she’d join him on the couch, where she’d nibble and lick her way past his perpetual reserve until they were both getting naked….
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
“Thanks, I’ve got it.” Don’t mind me while I stand here like some whacked-out nympho and fantasize about taking your clothes off while we wait on Elliott to show up. She disgusted herself. “Glass of wine coming right up.”
She managed to pour two glasses. She handed him one, taking care not to touch him in the exchange.
“Were you talking to someone in the kitchen?” he asked. Surely that wasn’t amusement lurking in the austere Simon’s eyes.
She sat in the armchair on her side of the coffee table, the farthermost point away from him in the confines of her tiny den. Avoiding even the most casual physical contact seemed a good plan. “My cat.”
“And does it talk back?”
Whaddaya know? Simon actually owned a sense of humor. “No. He’s a typical male. Selective hearing. He only talks if it concerns his empty belly. Or the remote.”
“My kind of cat.” Simon’s spontaneous grin did crazy things to her insides. He silently held his glass up in a toast and then sipped.
His fingers, long and lean, wrapped around the glass stem and reminded her of her afternoon dream and where his fingers had been then.
Simply thinking about it left her wet and wanton again. Great. She’d sit here across from him, drinking wine, waiting on her future husband to show up, and wind up with a wet spot. Stop. She would not sit around fantasizing about this man. It was wrong. Guilt churned in her gut. Thinking about Simon turned her on faster and hotter than Elliott’s actual touch.
She only had to make it through the evening. A few short hours. And next week she was signing up for therapy. Alison, one of the executive secretaries, saw a therapist weekly. First thing Monday morning she’d ask Alison for a referral. This thing for Simon was getting out of hand. God knows what would happen if he’d offered a smidgen of interest or encouragement. What kind of woman ran around in perpetual lust for her fiancé’s best friend? And it had actually started her thinking, quite hard, as to exactly how she felt about Elliott and whether marrying him was such a good idea. She and Elliott were good together. They got along well. They had fun. But it was nothing like the dark passion with Simon that haunted her dreams. Toss in a vague sense of discontent with her bedroom time with Elliott….
Did she break it off with someone based on hot dreams about someone else? Which came first? Her discontent with Elliott or this dark sexual attraction to Simon? Was she truly attracted or just scared of commitment? Definitely time for a therapist.
“Good wine. Thanks,” Simon said.
“Sure.” Nervous, she swigged her wine instead of sipping and promptly choked. Then choked some more. Dammit, she couldn’t catch her breath.
Simon skirted the chest and took her wineglass from her. He knelt down and, as if conditioned by her dreams, she automatically spread her legs to accommodate him. He grabbed her shoulders. “Can you breathe? Nod your head.”
She nodded yes. But he didn’t take his hands from her bare skin. Finally the choking fit ended. She was left with him kneeling between her thighs, his fingers curled around the curves of her shoulders, her face hot with humiliation, her body hotter still at his proximity.
“I’m…fine,” she said, her voice wavering. Not from her choking spell but from his touch, the brush of his body against her bare legs. The reality of his touch was a thousand times more potent than a mere dream. Did his hand tremble against her shoulder or was it her own reaction?
Simon released her and stood abruptly. Still between her legs, he looked down at her. “You might want to save the chugging for Kool-Aid or beer,” he drawled. He turned on his heel and picked up his own wineglass to sit once again on the sofa.
Bite me. Tawny hated him at that moment. How could he be so concerned and considerate one minute and then snide and nasty the next? She ignored his comment and focused instead on Elliott. She glanced at her watch. Almost nine-fifteen.
“Elliott should be here soon. I hope so. I’m starving,” she said. Yeah. Simon had just spent the day photographing one of the skin-’n’-bones set and she’d just presented her well-padded ass as starving. “Well, not starving, obviously, but hungry.” She simply couldn’t say or do anything right in front of him.
And then it didn’t matter because she wasn’t in front of Simon. She was in utter pitch-black darkness and sudden silence.
“What the hell?” Simon said.
Her sentiments exactly.
“SIMON?” PANIC FILLED HER voice.
“I’m right here,” he said. He stood, blind in the dark. He bumped his shins against the chest. Cautiously he put his wineglass down.
Damn good thing he did because Tawny grabbed onto his arm, startling him, the uncustomary tremor in her voice reflected in her fingers. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a thing about the dark.”
Moving slowly, he felt his way around the furniture until he reached her side. He’d never experienced such absolute darkness. He couldn’t see her, but he felt her body heat, smelled her perfume, felt her energy pulsing in her hand on his arm, heard the soft pant of her panic. “A thing?”
“Yeah, I don’t like it worth a damn.” Her laugh verged on pathetic and tugged at his heartstrings. As if everything she did didn’t tug at them. “Curiosity got the better of me and I managed to lock myself in a closet for a couple of hours when I was four. I was terrified. Ever since, the dark freaks me out.”
She laughed again, and if he hadn’t been so tuned in to the nuances of her voice, he might’ve missed the nervousness still lurking behind it. Against his better judgment—touching her, as he’d found a few minutes ago, was definitely bad judgment—he caught her hand in his. “It’s okay. I’m here. Does your building lose power often?”
“Twice before. But it was always during the day.” Her voice sounded surer, less panicked, and her hand was steadier. She tried to pull her hand from his. “I’m fine now.”
Her slight breathlessness gave her away. She wasn’t fine, but she was doing her best to give that impression. He fought the urge to pull her closer, wrap his arms around her soft vulnerability and reassure her everything was okay. Instead he contented himself with clasping her hand tighter. “Well, I’m not. I’m blind as a bloody bat in here. Where’s your flashlight?” he asked.
She turned into him and her cheek brushed against his shoulder, setting his heart racing. It was agony to be so close to her, touch her, smell her.
“I don’t have one. It got broken when I moved and I keep forgetting to replace it.” Her breath feathered against his neck and her hair teased along his jaw.
“Okay. No flashlight. Move on to plan B. Where’s a window?”
Her fingers curled around his. “My bedroom. There’s one in the bathroom, but it’s small.”
“Okay. Lead on to your bedroom.” Despite the dark, he closed his eyes when he spoke. Under different circumstances…
“This way.” She tugged him by the hand and within seconds he ran into something hard.
“Ow. Damn.” Obviously the wall.
“Sorry,” she apologized, her disembodied voice beside him.
He rolled his shoulder. “I take it you didn’t hit the wall.”
“No. I’m in the doorway.”
Brilliant. She was laughing at him. Actually banging into walls was rather funny but hard on the shoulder.
“Walking beside you isn’t going to work. I’ll walk behind you.” He braced his hands on her bare shoulders. In the dark he could well imagine her naked. Correction. It was as if she was naked, the way he’d imagined her so many times before. Her shoulders were soft, her skin like warm, supple suede. Her scent surrounded him, seduced him. He ached to pull her back into him, to lower his head and kiss the delicate skin at the back of her neck, shower kisses along the curve of her shoulder. He wanted to absorb her heat, her taste, her.
Longing pierced his very soul. To have her in his arms but still out of reach was cruel beyond measure. Just one taste of her… He leaned forward and she swayed ever so slightly back into him, tensing beneath his fingertips. Wisps of hair brushed his face. What the hell was he doing? He jerked his head back.
“Simon?” The husky way she said his name always curled heat through him.
“Give me a second to get my bearings.” Clothes. He needed to touch clothes. “How about this?” He grasped her full, round hips just below the curve of her waist, the same way he would if they were dancing in a conga line. Yeah, or having sex from behind.
“That’s fine.” Her voice sounded strained. Or maybe it was just him. This proximity had him near daft.
“Okay. Lead the way.” Sod it if he sounded harsh. Better she think him rude than randy.
He walked behind her, keeping a firm grip on her hips, trying to ignore the sweet sway beneath his fingertips. Wouldn’t she be impressed? While she fought off a panic attack, he was getting a stiffy from merely touching her and inhaling her scent with every breath he took.
In the room behind them Tawny’s cell phone rang. She hesitated, tensing, turning slightly in the direction of the ring. Simon tightened his hold on her. “Just keep going. We don’t have a chance of getting to it before it goes to voice mail. Not to mention banging the hell out of us along the way.”
They resumed their dark journey. Almost immediately Simon’s cell vibrated at his side. “Hold on. Someone’s ringing me.” He plucked his cell off his side and flipped it open one-handed, keeping the other hand on her hip. “Thackeray here.”
“Simon, are you with Tawny?” Elliott asked without preamble.
“Yes. She’s right here.”
“I just tried to call her and she didn’t answer.” Elliott’s voice held a petulant note.
“It’s pitch-black in her apartment. She couldn’t get to it in time. Where are you?” Bugger, Elliott. He should be the one here with his hand on Tawny’s hip, tortured by the feel of soft flesh and her womanly scent. Except it wouldn’t be torture for Elliott because she wasn’t off-limits to him.
“I’m at the gallery. We don’t have any lights either.”
“Why are you there? What’s going on?”
“I don’t think we’re under siege, if that’s what you mean. I think it’s one of those blackouts like we had a couple of years ago. I was running late. Richard and I had a few things to iron out and then everything shut down.”
Simon welcomed the dark. Tawny couldn’t see the expression on his face. He didn’t give a farthing about Richard and Elliott’s details, but if Elliott had been here with take-out Thai as arranged, then Simon wouldn’t be holding on to Tawny in the dark. Alone. Tempted nearly beyond measure.
“Excellent. How long do you think it’ll take you to get here?” Simon asked, deliberately keeping his voice neutral.
“We’re locked in. When the electrical system is compromised, the security system goes into total lockdown.”
This was getting better and better. “You’re locked in at the gallery?”
“That’s it in a nutshell.” Simon heard the murmur of another man’s voice in the background followed by Elliott’s breathless laughter. “Listen, you don’t have to stay with Tawny. I’m sure she’ll be okay.”
Hot anger lanced him at Elliott’s careless, cavalier regard for Tawny. This afternoon he’d been annoyed with Elliott. Now Simon was furious with his friend. Did he not know or simply not care that the woman who met life head-on was terrified of the dark while he was cozied up with his new lover? What the hell had he been doing hanging out with Richard instead of meeting at Tawny’s the way he’d set it up? Where did Elliott get off taking that proprietorial tone when he told Simon he didn’t have to stay? And there was no way he could say any of that to Elliott with Tawny listening.
“Of course, I’ll stay with her until the power’s back on. I wouldn’t dream of leaving her alone.”
She moved closer to him, and without thinking he tightened his hand on her hip. They’d both shifted during his phone call and now her left hip nudged his, his hand was still on her other hip, his arm wrapped around the curve of her back. This was bad—very, very bad. How long would he be trapped in this apartment with this woman who drove him crazy? Who touched him somewhere deep inside? Who seemed to slip past every barrier he’d ever erected? His body thought it brilliant, his mind recognized it as a big mistake.
“No. I said you don’t need to stay,” Elliott snapped.
What the hell? Simon didn’t want Tawny to know Elliott was so bloody self-absorbed that he’d have Simon leave her alone in a blackout. Better that his selfish friend appear the considerate fiancé he should be than wound her with the truth. “Don’t give it another thought. I won’t leave until the electricity’s restored.”
“Whatever. Go ahead and play Sir Galahad.” Elliott, the bastard, actually sounded peevish.
Simon hung up on him and put the phone back on his hip. “That was Elliott. He’s fine. He thinks this is a blackout. He’s stuck at the gallery with the acrylics painter. In the event of an electrical failure, the security system locks down.”
“Apparently Elliott asked you to stay. You don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be fine.”
Piss it all. This was a fine conundrum. He’d never wanted to leave a place more in his life, to flee the hounds of hell nipping at his feet—those beasts of longing and desire that made it nearly unbearable to be in her presence. On the other hand, he didn’t think she relished being abandoned during a blackout and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her alone. He knew it had been sheer terror and a gut response when she’d clenched his hand earlier but now she didn’t want to be an obligation.
“I know I don’t have to stay, but I’d rather not have to make my way home without benefit of the subway. Do you mind if I stay until the power’s restored?”
“Not at all. I’d like for you to stay if you want to.”
He tried to lighten the moment. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me until then.” Please let it be sooner than later.
Her laughter sounded more relaxed and he knew he’d done the right thing. “Okay. Looks like we’re stuck with one another.”
He wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, but in that moment…she moved…he moved…in the inky black, and his hand closed over her breast. For several stunned moments he could only stand there, his hand wrapped around her soft breast, her nipple stabbing against his palm through her shirt material.
Like a sudden summer storm, the atmosphere shifted and thickened. A sexual charge pulsed between them. For one daft moment, he could have sworn she leaned into his touch, pushed her pebbled point harder into his hand. Want slammed through him, his universe reduced to the feel of her breast in his palm, the hot desire that left him rigid. She uttered a muted, in-articulate sound. He wasn’t sure if it was a moan or a protest, but it served as a dash of cold water.
He yanked his hand away. “I’m sorry. That was an accident.”
“Of course it was…I’m sure…you’d never…”
“How far are we from your bedroom?” he asked, his tone as tense as his body.
“Simon…”
She thought he only had to touch her breast and he was ready to throw her down and have his wicked way with her? Ready to fondle her and taste her until she was so caught up in their passion she’d forget all about the dark? Unfortunately she was right. And if she was his, he’d do just that. But she wasn’t his. “The window—that’s where the window is, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Was that relief or embarrassment or both in that single syllable? He left it alone.
They navigated the short hall to her bedroom, past the bed and over to the window. Tawny opened the curtains and raised the blinds.
The city lay shrouded in darkness, reminiscent of a well-rendered charcoal sketch, dark skies with the looming shadows of darker buildings against it. In the distance auxiliary-lit buildings stood, glowing sentinels guarding the city. Up and down the street, candles, flashlights and headlamps provided illumination.
Despite the muffled noise of people and the inevitable bleating of car horns, the darkness isolated them, stranded them on the island of her apartment, removed from the rest of civilization.
Dark clouds scudded across the sky, obliterating the bit of light the night sky might have afforded.
“A storm’s coming in,” she said.
“It looks like it. Do you have any candles?”
“No flashlight, but I have lots of candles.”
She released his hand and turned. Her bedside table stood a few feet from the window. She opened the drawer and felt around. She held up a long object. “My flamethrower.”
She flicked a long-nosed, handled lighter and lit a candle by her bed. She crossed the room, lighting two wall sconces. They flanked a painting of a semi-dressed woman reclining on a divan. Very sensual. Like her. Like the room.
A sleigh bed dominated the windowed wall. A comforter in an elegant paisley pattern of bold reds, cinnamon and gold lay atop it. Matching gold-fringed pillows were piled against the headboard invitingly. A mirrored dresser filled the wall space between the bedroom door and wardrobe. Tawny moved over to a large triple-wicked pillar candle on her dresser.
She turned to face him, smiling. “I told you I had plenty of candles.”
She was even more beautiful with candlelight dancing across her face, flickering over her bare shoulders, casting the valley between her breasts into a mysterious shadowy place he longed to explore. Her smile faded and the perfume of the candles wafted around them, exotic scents that conjured pImages** of hot sex, that stripped away his reserve and left him a man who ached for the woman he wanted and couldn’t have. Her lips parted and he could have sworn he glimpsed a reciprocal heat in her eyes.
“You shouldn’t burn them all. We don’t have any idea how long the lights will be out.” Nothing like a little censure to dissipate a mood.
“I have plenty. I’ve got a thing for candles.”
“What else do you have a thing for?” he asked, his tongue moving faster under the circumstances than his internal censor. And he was only human. They were alone in her apartment, in candlelight, her bed was right there and less than five feet separated them.
She wet her lips, as if her mouth was suddenly too dry and he felt another stab of familiar guilt—this time for making her uncomfortable. “That was a joke. My misguided attempt at humor. Do you have a radio with batteries so we can find out what’s going on out there?” Definitely time to introduce the real world. He needed outside stimuli to keep from drifting off into another fantasy of just the two of them.
“My boom box uses batteries.” She opened her closet door and stepped over the pile of clothes on the floor. She knelt down and bent over. He should look away, direct his attention to the painting on the wall, check out the dark New York skyline. Hell, watching paint dry would be better, far more noble, than staring at her on her knees with her amazing, enticing, drool-inspiring bum in the air.
She backed out of the closet, boom box in hand, and stood. She flipped the switch. Nothing happened. “Okay. Batteries that aren’t dead would be a bonus.” She upended the radio on the bed and opened the battery compartment. “Six C-cell batteries. I’ll have us fixed up in no time. I keep extras on hand.”
She rounded the bed to the bedside drawer where he stood. She pulled out two batteries and tossed them onto the bed. She dug a bit more, pulling out a third. “Three isn’t going to do it.”
Her skin glimmered in the soft light, her eyes were soft and luminous, her scent issued a siren’s call. He thrust his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. He’d been mad to agree to be here tonight. “No. I’d say it’s rather obvious we need three more.”
“I’ve got it covered.” Her smile said she was tired of him being a jerk. And he was tired of being a jerk, but it was better than giving in to his impulse to ease her onto the bed, peel her clothes off and become intimately acquainted with every delectable inch of her naked body.
She delved back into the drawer—obviously command central in her bedroom—and pulled out…the biggest vibrator he’d ever seen. Well, actually, he didn’t believe he’d ever seen a vibrator firsthand before. It was quite…large.
“Simon, meet Tiny.” Tiny was pretty intimidating from a man’s point of view. Not that he suddenly felt inadequate or anything. She unscrewed the bottom, dropped two batteries out and replaced the top. She put it back in the drawer and then pulled out a much smaller dildo with a smaller stem on the top of it. “This is Enrico and Bob.” She waved the toy in his general direction.
“Um, I gather the little guy is Bob because he…”
“Yep. You got it. He bobs up and down.”
Simon reminded himself to breathe—but not too heavily. This was going great. He should’ve abandoned her, along with his principles, and gotten the hell out of her apartment when he’d had the opportunity. He’d only thought it was hot before. He was burning up now. “I guess this answers the question as to what else you have a thing for.”
She pulled out a single battery and tossed it onto the bed atop the others. “There you go. Six C-cell batteries, and I promise they’re all in working order. Why don’t you put them in?”
3
MAYBE SHE’D GONE A TAD too far introducing her vibrator boys by name, but she’d had enough of his quiet sarcasm and disapproval. According to Elliott, Simon’s demeanor stemmed from being first-generation American. His father, a Brit, had relocated to New York before Simon was born to curate some museum or another. She didn’t care if his father was next in line for the British throne, she was tired of Simon’s hot-and-cold attitude. And if she was honest with herself, she was none too pleased with herself that he turned her on to the nth degree and annihilated her composure. Around him she couldn’t seem to think of anything beyond sex. With him. She’d nearly made a fool of herself when he’d put his hands on her shoulders. And then when he’d touched her breast…she’d come close to begging him to take her then and there, hard and fast, against the wall, in the hallway. Simon brought out a sensuality in her that she’d never known before and in some aspects frightened her with its intensity.
Silently Simon loaded the batteries into her boom box. His hands weren’t quite steady as he fumbled with the last one. Maybe the close confines were getting to him, too.
The radio blared to life. “…so, it looks like it’s a good old-fashioned blackout brought on by the incredible demand for a little air-conditioned relief from the triple-digit heat. Unfortunately, the lights are out across the Tristate area and authorities tell us they’re not sure when they’ll have the lights back on. It looks like it’s going to be a hot night, so just settle down where you are and stay put. In honor of the blackout, we’re going to open the lines for requests and dedications that have to do with hot and summer. And I guess we’ll be seeing a bunch of newborns nine months from now. Hey, you’ve got to pass the time somehow. Let’s start this set with an oldie, ‘Love The One You’re With’.” Tawny reached over and turned it off.
Trapped in her apartment with Simon for the night? Tawny bit back her panic. Danger signals exploded in her brain—her, Simon, candlelight—and already it felt as if the temperature in her apartment had increased a few degrees.
“Well, we can forget take-out Thai. Are you hungry?” Sure, leave it to the fat girl to bring up food, but dammit, she was starving. And it took her mind off sex. And Simon. And sex with Simon. Well, probably not, but she was still hungry.
He grinned and she was totally disarmed by the flash of his white teeth in the dim lighting. “I’m famished. I could chew nails.”
“I don’t keep much food on hand. There’s a deli a block and a half away. Do you think it would still be open?”
“It should. During the 2003 blackout, food stores were selling out because they didn’t know how long their power would be out. Better to sell it than let it ruin. I’ve even got some cash on me. Let’s give it a go.” He smiled with a touch of self-conscious eagerness. “And I wouldn’t mind burning a roll or two of film.”
Duh. He was a photographer. Of course he’d like to be taking pictures. And it was incredible how his whole demeanor changed when he talked about photography.
“Sure. Food and photographs. Works for me,” she said.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than lightning flashed and thunder boomed overhead. Rain fell in a sudden onslaught. Nothing, it seemed, was subtle or happening in small measure tonight.
“Or not. Okay. That’s it. I’m not planning anything else tonight because everything I plan gets trashed,” she said with a nervous laugh. They were stuck here. She picked up a small votive to lead the way back down the hall. “I’m not a culinary queen, but nails shouldn’t be necessary,” she said.
She didn’t comment when Simon blew out the other candles in the room before he picked up the radio and followed her. She had enough candles in the closet to carry them for a week, but it wasn’t worth arguing the point.
She was more than willing to bury the hatchet between them since they were stuck here together.
She snagged her wineglass on the way into the kitchen. “Good wine is a terrible thing to waste.”
“Ah, something we agree on.” Tawny waited for Simon to exchange the radio for his glass and the wine bottle. Given the minimum square footage of her apartment, they’d have no trouble hearing the radio from the kitchen. He followed her into the other room. Within a few seconds, several candles illuminated her galley kitchen.
“What’s that?” Simon asked. She followed his gaze to the top of the fridge. In the semidarkness, Peaches resembled a blob of prey more than a feline.
“Peaches, my cat. He likes the top of the refrigerator. He’s the one with a bad attitude and selective hearing.”
“Poor fella. You’d have a bad attitude, too, if you were a guy called Peaches.” Simon made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat and surprised Tawny by reaching up to scratch the cat behind the ears. Peaches promptly hissed and swatted.
“He’s not Mister Friendly.”
“Neither am I,” Simon said with a self-deprecating smile as he leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Well, forget it, I’m not adopting you if you find yourself abandoned,” she said with a teasing smile, despite the flutter in her tummy at the thought of making Simon her own. “You’d probably be as bad-tempered and ungrateful as he is.”
“Duly noted,” he said with another smile that doubled her heart rate. “Why do you keep the wretch?”
“Because it was love at first sight on my part.” She glanced away from him. That almost sounded as if she had declared herself in love with Simon at first sight. A totally ridiculous notion. “He’ll come around sooner or later.”
Simon quirked a sardonic brow in the direction of Peaches. “I believe you’re an eternal optimist.”
“Call me Pollyanna.” She opened the refrigerator door and peered into the black hole, considering their limited food options. “The microwave or the oven won’t work. I’ve got leftover pizza. And I can throw together a fruit salad. How does that sound?”
“Better than nails.”
Tawny laughed, enjoying his quiet teasing and relaxing into his company. She pulled out the food and closed the fridge door. “Are you always so gracious and enthusiastic?”
“Yes, except when I’m in a bad mood.” He sipped his wine, and as if the camaraderie between them was unacceptable, she could almost see him retreating. She wanted him to stay. “It was monumental bad timing that I wasn’t the one delayed and Elliott isn’t here with you instead.”
Elliott. Right. Her fiancé. She twisted her ring with her thumb. Guilt flooded her. She hadn’t spared Elliott a nominal thought since his phone call. She shrugged. “It’s an emergency. We all do the best we can. I’m sure Elliott would rather not be trapped in the gallery with that acrylics guy. And while you might not be thrilled to be here, it’s better than being stuck on the subway.”
She pulled out the chopping board, a knife and a bowl.
“And why would you think I’m not thrilled to be here?” he asked.
She went to work chunking the fresh pineapple. She almost said she wasn’t as dumb as she must look but thought better of it. “Should I believe you’re thrilled to be stuck in this apartment with me?”
“Would you believe me if I told you there was no other place I’d rather be?” Something in the depths of his eyes stole her breath.
She laughed to cover her breathlessness and cored an apple. “No. I think there’s probably a list a mile long of places you’d rather be, but you’re too nice to say so.”
“Quite. I’m such a nice guy.”
“Be honest. Wouldn’t you rather be at your girlfriend’s? Or if the photo shoot had gone a little longer, you’d be with Chloe.” Okay, she admitted it. She was fishing. They’d double dated several times with Simon. Each time it had been a different woman. But after the photo shoot, Simon had always begged off whenever Elliott invited him along.
She added diced apple to the bowl and reached for a banana. His love life intrigued her. Not that it had anything to do with her. But if she was having head-banging sex with him in her dreams, she could at least know about his love life.
“I don’t have a girlfriend and Chloe isn’t my type,” he said, shrugging. A thin, beautiful model wasn’t his type? She looked at him considering the implications. Maybe he was…
“And no, I don’t mean not my type that way. I’m not gay. Chloe’s a nice woman, but she doesn’t do a thing for me.”
Whew! She shouldn’t be so relieved. She sectioned an orange. What kind of woman was his type? Who would appeal to a self-contained man like Simon? And why didn’t he have a girlfriend? In a dark, fiendish way, he was spine-tingling, toe-curling sexy. “So, what kind of woman does something for you?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Sure you have. Everyone has a type they go for,” she said.
“I don’t really have a type.”
He seriously needed to loosen up a bit. She mixed the fruit together. “Sure you do. I bet if you stop and think about it, there’s a certain type of woman that attracts you, that makes your blood run a little hotter.”
“Is this some kind of game, Tawny? Do you want me to say it’s a woman like you?” His voice was low, dangerous in its quiet intensity.
Wasn’t that exactly what she wanted? To know that for all the times she’d writhed, screamed his name in the middle of an orgasm, woken up wet and spent, that he wasn’t totally immune to her? Yes and no. The only game she was playing was with herself, and it was a dangerous one. She looked away from his dark-eyed gaze, glad to busy herself with getting two bowls out of her cabinet. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve made it abundantly clear how you regard me. I’m just surprised you’re not still seeing Lenore. You made a nice couple.” Lenore had been Simon’s date the night Elliott had proposed. The tall, willowy blonde had been a perfect complement to Simon’s urbane dark looks.
She divvied out the portions and they sat at the small wrought-iron table she’d tucked in the corner.
Simon shrugged. “Lenore is nice. That’s why I quit seeing her. I’m in a bit of an unrequited love and it didn’t seem fair to date her when my head and heart were otherwise engaged. Delicious, by the way,” he said, indicating the fruit and pizza. “Thank you.”
“Glad you like it.” His other words slammed into her. A dark jealousy coiled through her at the thought of a woman capturing the distant Simon’s heart. This mystery woman must be a paragon. Beautiful, sophisticated, thin, witty, probably a couple of Ph.D.s under her belt. Unwisely, unwittingly, instinctively Tawny hated her. Hated her for capturing his heart and hated her for tossing it aside.
So of course she said, “I’m sorry. That’s a hard place to be. Do you want to talk about it? About her? Sometimes talking it over with someone, things aren’t as hopeless as they seem.” She couldn’t seem to shut up, hell-bent on atoning for her lust. “Maybe I could help you figure out a way to win her over—you know, another woman’s perspective.”
She bit into the pizza, finding something else to do with her mouth other than babble on. Simon regarded her over the rim of his wineglass, his expression indecipherable. “You’re offering aid with my dismal love life?”
It could prove to be just the cure she needed to get over this…thing for him. She nodded and swallowed. “Sure. Why not?”
He placed his empty glass on the table. “That’s generous, but she’s unavailable.”
Ouch. “She’s married?”
“No. But she’s in a serious relationship.”
That merely irritated her. Was Simon truly in love or was it the unavailability factor? People, especially men, always wanted what they couldn’t have. Put a taboo label on it and they had to have it.
“Until she says I do, she’s not unavailable. You’ve got to decide how important she is to you. If you’re willing to forego other relationships, she must matter a lot. Wake up, Simon, and smell the coffee. What’re you gonna do? Sit around in some weird celibate state—”
“I never mentioned celibacy.” Simon tried to pull a haughty look on her.
Tawny rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. If you won’t date a woman because you don’t want to be unfair, then you’re certainly not sleeping with anyone.” Alarming how much that pleased her. So of course she worked even harder to push him. “You’re gonna moon around in a celibate state for a couple of years or even the rest of your life because she’s in a relationship but not married? How bad do you want her?”
“With every fiber of my being.”
His quiet intensity sent a shiver down her spine and pierced her heart. What was wrong with her? Who he wanted and how much he wanted her had nothing to do with Tawny.
“Then it’s time for you to fish or cut bait.”
“THANKS FOR YOUR ADVICE to the lovelorn. I’ll keep the ‘fish or cut bait’ in mind.”
Wasn’t that twisted? The object of his unrequited affection—and hence intense guilt, as she was engaged to his best friend—sat across the table, bathed in candlelight, wearing a sexy halter top and shorts and advising him to put a move on her. At least, that’s what he’d interpreted her charming colloquialism to mean.
Tawny topped off her wineglass and refilled his at the same time. “Well, I think you should go for it. What have you got to lose?”
What did he have to lose if he went for her right now? “Really nothing, other than those small matters of pride and self-esteem.”
“It’s pretty hard to wrap your arms around those and snuggle up to them. Or enjoy a glass of wine or a candlelit bubble bath with them either.”
He struggled to keep his expression one of sardonic amusement while inside her words played out in his head as snapshots of the two of them. The irony of sharing a glass of wine with her in candlelight nearly slayed him. He was an absolute masochist to participate in this conversation. Bugger that, he was a masochist to even be here.
“But a glass of wine sooner or later is gone, eventually the candles burn out, and the water grows cold, so perhaps one has to make the more long-lasting choice.”
“Except that life is fleeting. Tomorrow may not come before the wine stops flowing or the water cools.”
“Am I in the company of a hedonist?” he asked, very clearly recalling his recent introduction to Tiny, Enrico and Bob, her on-demand boyfriends.
She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Life is short and it’s a shame to waste opportunities. This woman could be the love of your life and you’re letting her slip away. And who knows? She may feel the same way about you.” He really was a pathetic sod. He was flattered she didn’t consider him so repugnant she couldn’t imagine a woman attracted to him. “Maybe she just doesn’t know it yet. Or she could be shy and afraid to tell you.”
Simon laughed. Neither of those came to mind in a Tawny word-association exercise. Other than her aversion to the dark, she’d never displayed either characteristic. “I don’t think shy or fear are factors when it comes to my lady.”
Tawny leaned her elbow on the table and pursed her lips, tapping one finger against the corner of her mouth as she eyed him consideringly. She had a truly lovely mouth, full but without the collagen bloat so popular these days.
“Well, maybe this is some kind of courtly love.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. You know, chivalry and all. Knights only loved their ladies from afar. Maybe you’re just afraid to declare yourself because you aren’t truly physically attracted to her. Maybe you wouldn’t know what to do with her if she actually reciprocated your attraction,” she said. She crossed her arms as if she’d neatly solved a little puzzle.
His boyhood days of envisioning himself as a bold knight were long gone. There was nothing courtly or chivalrous about the maelstrom of emotion she evoked in him. He absolutely burned for her. And he’d had enough of her speculation. It was time for this conversation to end. He knew one sure way to kill the conversation and prove to her just how far removed he was from her romanticized notions.
He traced his finger along the edge of his glass and smiled at her across the table, offering her a glimpse of the dark passion seething beneath his surface. “I don’t know about courtly love.” He chose his next words very deliberately—crude and base—to make a point. “I do know I would fuck her senseless for a week, given half a chance.”
Her eyes grew huge and she swallowed hard, but she didn’t look away. “Oh. Senseless…a week…well, then.”
Okay. Perhaps he’d gone a bit over the top there. “I apologize if I shocked you.”
She raised her chin. “I’m not shocked at all. I think all that passion is…well, hot. I’m not sure there’s a woman alive who wouldn’t want to know a man was so hot for her he’d like to—” she paused and emphasized the very words he’d uttered “—fuck her senseless for a week. As long as somewhere in the week he wanted to work a little conversation and getting to know her into the sexathon.”
Far from offensive, it sounded sexy and exciting when she threw his words back at him. Especially when she drawled it in that low, honeyed tone with a glint in her eye that spoke more to interest and arousal.
Simon was knee-deep in muck but apparently lacked enough sense to stop wading. “I’ve never operated solely from a state of lust. Her brain and her personality are half the appeal. Otherwise I’d only want her for half a week. And I wouldn’t worry about senseless.”
Her naughty smile wrecked him. “You are wicked, Simon Thackeray.”
Forget muck. This felt like dangerous sexual flirting and he needed to stop. And he would. Soon. He leaned forward, drawn by the heat in her eyes, lured by her smile. “Perhaps my love languishes unrequited because I’m too wicked to love.”
She shifted forward, her knee brushed his and the contact surged through him. A seductive smile curved her lush mouth. “I seriously doubt that. Don’t you know that all that wickedness just drives women to distraction?”
All he truly knew was that she drove him beyond distraction. Beyond caution. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”
“The last time I checked, I was a woman, so I suppose so.” There was something in her eyes. Something that said she knew how utterly wicked he could be and she liked it, despite herself.
Which was ridiculous because he’d been very careful to limit his exposure to her. He raised his brow in question. As if she suddenly realized what he’d seen in her eyes, she blinked and it vanished. She leaned back into her chair, putting a distance that existed beyond mere space between them. Thank God one of them had some sense. “What do you do with all of that pent-up…energy?”
Egad, the woman was relentlessly curious—no trouble at all believing she got herself locked into a wardrobe—which was yet one more reason he’d taken himself out of her and Elliott’s sphere. For one moment he considered telling her he jerked off often, just to see if it would shock her into no more questions, but that tactic had already failed once. And quite simply he couldn’t bring himself to be so crude. He opted for the truth.
“I run. A lot. At this point, I’m probably hovering in marathon-training range.” He laughed at himself. “And never underestimate the efficiency of the proverbial cold shower.”
As it stood now, a cold shower sounded better and better on more than one count. Sweat slicked him and her skin glistened with a fine sheen of moisture. He was a sick beast when a woman sweating struck him as sexy.
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