Crossing the Line: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel (7 page)

He grins behind my hand, his gaze devilish.

“Nonetheless,” I say as I drop my hand cautiously, “that’s what you wanted. Not a time capsule made by an amateur scrapbooker.”

“I think it’s sweet. But you’re right. I probably wouldn’t have appreciated it then.” He reaches behind me and flips the album closed. “Can I hang onto it now? I’m sure there’s some photos in there I haven’t seen.

“And definitely some you won’t want to show a woman until the third or fourth date.” I pause. “Not that there’s any risk of that with you.”

He makes a face at me, then stands and picks up the book. “You never know.” He checks his phone for the time. “I’m going to grab a haircut before we have to get packed up for tonight, okay? Be back in an hour.”

He’s at the door before I finally speak up. “Noah, wait.” I push up from the bed, so I can look in his eyes when he responds to me. “I don’t want you to feel trapped. If this is just about what I want, and you don’t really want to be a part of Elementary, I can find someone to do your work. Seriously. It’s not worth you being unhappy.”

He faces me, his gaze clear. “I’m part of this, Ella. We’ve both put in crazy hours and given up pieces of our lives to make this successful. And while spreadsheets and business plans might not have been my first choice for a career, I’m good at them, and when I’m in the zone, I love doing it. Just let me deal with whatever it is that has me in a funk. And I promise you: no more blackouts or crazy drinking.”

I nod. It’s the truth, at least as far as he can see it right now. Whether it will be enough over time...I don’t know.

CHAPTER 7

GETAWAY

T
he party goes on much longer than intended, but the results are astounding. Two people ask for business cards and schedule meet-and-greets with us to go over our event options, and Noah is, of course, complimented over and over again for his role. All of the actors are, but Noah’s performance is of the highest caliber. Maybe I’m only noticing because of our conversation earlier, but he really is amazing. His timing, the small nuances of emotion he adds to both serious and funny moments, his ease of covering small flubs on occasion. The man can improv like no one I’ve ever seen.

I’m quiet on the way home, and when my phone buzzes with a text message, Noah glances at me from the driver’s seat of our van. “Mystery man or wrong number? Who might it be, dear sister?”

I stick my tongue out at him but don’t look. “Clearly a wrong number because no one who knows me would message me this late at night.”

We drop the actors off at their subway stop, then make our way home. The upside to Brooklyn is that street parking is often free; the downside is that makes the spots highly competitive, so Noah lets me out at our door. While he circles the block, I slip inside our apartment to check my phone in private.

I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day. And I already miss that little sigh you make when I’m inside you.

Despite the heat rising in my face, my insides melt. And I do something I’ve never done before: I sext.

Hm. Well, your cock
was
a lovely surprise this morning.

If my cheeks weren’t already flaming from his message, they would be now.

Any chance I can offer a repeat performance tomorrow? Surely last night deserves an encore.

I bite the inside of my lip, start to respond, but then shove my phone in the bowl of apples on the table when Noah comes in the door. I pretend as though I’ve been cleaning up in the kitchen.

“I’m going to bed—I’m beat.”

“I bet,” I say nonchalantly. “You were great tonight. Really.”

He grins, his handsome face haggard with exhaustion. “Thanks. I have my moments.” But the topic is too sensitive to feel comfortable, and he disappears upstairs.

I dig my phone out of the fruit bowl.

What were you thinking?

It’s seconds before he responds.

What if I picked you up in the morning and surprised you with our destination? Would you be able to stay overnight?

I snort. Who wouldn’t want to be whisked away to a mysterious location for hot sex? Of course, there is a tiny voice in my head that reminds me that I don’t know Ian all that well. But I ignore it in favor of my sex drive, which seems to be in overdrive the last few days.

I could probably arrange that. What time?

Ian shows up in a small Audi, shiny and dark. It’s long before my brother will be awake, so I take the moment to enjoy our kiss on the sidewalk, the feel of Ian’s strong arms around me enough to make me want to drag him into the house and tackle him on the couch. But the supple leather and seat heaters beckon, and I’m toasty as we head out of the city.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

He flashes me a smile. “When we get there.” He reaches over and takes my hand, our fingers meshing easily.

I can’t get over how natural this feels. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way with anyone so quickly. And I keep reminding myself, I don’t really know him. And what about his illustrious reputation in the gossip news about being a playboy? I’m pretty sure it’s Mick Jeffries who’s the player, but if we’re known by our friends…

“So tell me about you.”

I chuckle. “I was about to ask the same question.”

“We have an hour. You first.”

I wore leggings and a long tunic sweater, and the warmth of the leather seeps into my thighs. “I think I’ve told you everything.” I ponder for a moment. “I love cupcakes, but I don’t like cake.”

He laughs and squeezes my fingers. “That’s definitely important to know.”

“Your turn. One thing you love, and one thing you don’t.”

He ponders, then answers. “Early mornings, and alarms. I love the sunrise, but I hate the abominable beeping of my clock.” He mock shivers.

I nod in agreement. “One of my favorite things to get rid of when Noah and I started doing Elementary full-time.”

“I’m very jealous.”

“I love coffee, but I hate sweet creamers.”

His grin turns bashful. “Glad I didn’t add any to your coffee on Thursday evening.”

“Let me guess: you love it?”

“Yep. The sweeter, the better.”

“Ew! That’s it. Take me home. I can’t date you,” I tease, crossing my arms.

He laughs but taps my knee with a finger. “Let’s see if you can make sense out of this one: I love horses—my stepfather has a small horse farm—but I’ve never been on one.”

“Scared?”

“Cautious. And to be fair, I was in every sport I could be growing up so there wasn’t much time. He’s determined that I’ll ride one of his, but I’ve managed to evade his offers thus far.”

I grin and pat his hand with my free one. “I promise: it’s not that scary. I practically grew up on horseback.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I, like many other little girls, wanted my very own horse. So I took lessons for years, then worked at the farm in exchange for riding time when I was a teenager and we couldn’t afford lessons anymore.”

He’s quiet for a few moments. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Of course.”

“I get the impression that after your parents passed away, you and your brother didn’t have much else beyond each other. I might have just interpreted it that way—“

“No, you’re right.” I stare out the window as the highway rushes by, feeling like a vacuum is sucking the pleasure out of the air. “We didn’t, really. My mother’s parents filed for custody of us, rather than letting us go to our godparents, which had been our parents’ wishes. Blood is thicker than water in the courts, and our grandparents won.” I chew my lip for a moment before continuing. “They aren’t bad people, and it’s not like we were abused. But our mom didn’t want us with them because, just as they were with her, they aren’t loving people. They made sure we had clothes and food, but Noah and I shared their basement. Anything we wanted, we had to earn the money for and buy. And on one hand, that’s a good lesson for kids. But there was no affection towards us, ever. To this day, we don’t hear from them unless something is wrong, and even then…if we don’t contact them, it’s rare that they’ll reach out. And we get blamed for not being more attentive every time we do try to talk to them.”

He doesn’t interrupt, and I continue after a breath. “Our parents weren’t perfect—they argued a lot, in large part because they were both hot-headed, passionate people. Our mom was an art teacher at a community college, and our father was in marketing as a graphic designer. The two of them could go at it for hours.” I shake my head at a particularly intense memory. “But they loved us, and each other, and even when they did argue, it was more…I don’t know, more focused on the issue they disagreed over. Never about each other. They took us to see our grandparents on holidays only, and even then, it was for short visits. My mother hated going to see them.” I shake my head to clear it. “Anyway, they weren’t awful, and we weren’t horribly damaged from it. But they weren’t great, either, and I sound ungrateful when I say that.”

He releases my hand and lays his palm on my knee. “No, you don’t. It’s honest, and you are, perhaps, a bit fairer than you should be. I have a friend—Casey—who had parents like that. They were in the same social circles as my own, but for some reason, they always thought throwing money at him would substitute for affection. And as he could tell you, it doesn’t.”

Something in his tone suggests it didn’t end well. “What happened to him?”

“He tried taking his life twice when we were in high school, so he actually moved in with my family for a while. But for Casey, it’s never enough. He made another attempt in college.”

“Oh my God, I’m sorry.” I trace his knuckles, wishing I could say something more comforting, but lacking the words.

He lifts a shoulder. “He’s better now. Most days, at least. And he’s a good guy—most days at least—no thanks to his parents.”

We don’t say anything for a few minutes, and then he speaks. “I love yogurt, but I hate it frozen.”

His return to our game brings a smile to my face. “Frozen yogurt is a total cop out. Ice cream all the way.”

We’re nearing our destination when the road signs start to give him away.

“Connecticut, eh?”

He grins. “My aunt recently opened a bed and breakfast in downtown Greenwich, and I thought it might make for a nice night away.” He waits a beat and then admits, “Plus, it’s the only place I could get last minute reservations.”

“Is this the aunt from Italy?” I ask as we take the next exit.

“No, that’s my dad’s sister. This is Aunt Ray, my mom’s sister.”

And when we pull up to a large Victorian home, a couple of streets back from South Beach Avenue, my breath catches. Though winter’s barren landscape washes out the massive white facade, the beauty of the old architecture shines through.

“Holy buckets, this place is incredible.”

He nods as he pulls into the small lot. “I thought you might like it.”

When he opens my door, I step into his arms, enjoying the warmth of his mouth against the dire chill of the air. Then he retrieves our overnight bags from the trunk and takes my hand.

The interior is both quaint and luxurious, with period furniture that has been reupholstered with modern fabric and prints. I say as much to Ian.