Flirting With Disaster (11 page)

The bulb blinked on as she turned it.

He kissed her neck.

“Oh,” she said softly, her hand falling away from the light. He’d thought it was a sound of shock, but her head immediately tipped forward, giving him more of her neck, and he realized the sound was pleasure. So he gave her more, kissing her again, opening his mouth against the side of her neck, scraping his teeth over her skin until her small hum became a soft groan.

The scent of her skin was already so familiar. It chased the smell of paints and thinners from the room. Lust shot through his gut.

Living in Judge Chandler’s basement meant he hadn’t had enough privacy to relieve the nagging stress from the last time he’d kissed her, so he was right there again, completely aroused and wanting more. He slid his hands over her shoulders, wanting to feel her soft skin again.

Isabelle reached one hand up and slipped her fingers into his hair to pull him more tightly to her neck. He sucked her flesh. Just a little. He couldn’t risk leaving even the faintest mark, but damn, he wanted to press his teeth harder to her when she groaned and arched into him.

Winter air swept over them. Her nipples were rock hard and pressed to the thin fabric of her top. He wanted to touch them. Wanted to make her shiver under his mouth.

He raised his head, already breathing hard. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say.

Isabelle laughed and turned in his arms. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he said, half meaning it. He reached past her to switch off the light and shut the door so they wouldn’t be so exposed, but those brief seconds of trying to distract himself were ruined by his awareness that her hands were sliding around his waist. They were all twisted up with each other, a loose twine of limbs that felt strangely natural with someone he’d known for only a few days.

“I like that you’re having trouble resisting,” she murmured, leaning back a little to look up at him.

He glanced down. “Your necklace is distracting.”

“Oh, it’s my necklace, is it?”

“Yes,” he said, an out-and-out lie. He proved just how false it was by very carefully touching a finger to a silver coil and then letting it slide down. The edge of his finger grazed over the skin above the fabric of her shirt. He traced it again.

Isabelle shivered. “Mmm. Come here.”

Expecting to be tugged closer, he was surprised when she slipped past him and grabbed his hand. “What?”

“My etchings.”

“No, no, no,” he said, but he let her drag him to the far side of the room.

“I’m a good artist,” she said.

“I know. I can see that. It’s just not to my taste and I’m not exactly—”

An easel light flicked on, and for a moment, all his brain processed was the pale flash of her arm moving away from the lamp, but then there were more parts of her illuminated. He blinked, confused and fascinated at the same time. So much of her, pale and exposed and...naked.

This painting was another anatomy painting in a way, but it wasn’t medical. It was...erotic. Or just real and honest.

It was Isabelle from chin to hip, naked and completely unadorned but for a white flower she held in one hand.

Her face dipped slightly to the left, showing just the curve of her bottom lip, tipped in that secret, small smile. There was her pale neck. And her strong shoulders and delicate collarbones.

Her breasts, full and round and lovely, and just beginning to get a little heavier with age. Her nipples were dark and drawn tight, pebbled at the edges of her areolae, as if she were chilled.

There were so many details to take in, as if it were a photograph instead of a painting. She’d hidden nothing, even capturing the faint paleness of a few stretch marks at the fullest arc of her right breast. Then the lines of her abdomen curving out into full hips. And just at the bottom of the painting, the shadowed edge of her pubic hair, dark and curled.

“It’s me,” she said, the words calm and simple.

“Yes,” he breathed. Then, “It’s amazing.”

“Thank you.”

He tore his eyes away from her nudity for a moment to glance at her face. She looked pleased with what she’d done.

“Why are you showing me this?” he asked hoarsely.

She smiled, not looking away from the painting. “To make you a little crazy.”

He laughed at her audacity, and though he tried to keep looking at her, his eyes were drawn back to the canvas. “Jesus, Isabelle. It’s beautiful.”

“Well, either it will drive you crazy—which will be nice for both of us—or it won’t. And if it won’t, then there’s no point wasting any energy on this, is there?”

His synapses were a little confused. He wanted to reach out and shape her nakedness with his fingertips, but she was standing right next to him with real curves and heat and daring. His gaze bounced to her and back to the painting again.

“I’d better get back to the party,” she said, turning away from the easel. She dragged one hand over his shoulder, setting his nerves on fire. “But you should think about me tonight when you go to bed.”

“What?” he asked, forcing his eyes off her painted nipples and onto her retreating back.

She flashed an indulgent smile over her shoulder. “I know you’re on duty tonight. I’ll try not to bother you. But later, when you’re alone, think about me.”

His eyes flew to the open doors and the kitchen beyond, and he kept his voice low. “You’re trying to shock me again.”

She shrugged. “Not really. I’ll think about you, too. I already have.”

The meaning of her words slapped into him as if he’d landed flat on the surface of a pool. He’d never talked about this with a woman, never had a woman
ask
him to masturbate to her. And he’d certainly never been told that she’d already done the same for him.

“Don’t forget to lock that door,” she drawled, her hips swaying as she walked away with that confidence that drove him mad. “Wouldn’t want a bad guy getting in.”

Goddamn it. She
was
driving him mad. He was here to do a job—two jobs, actually—and neither of those involved getting into her bed. Not necessarily.

Tom winced at that cruel thought. No. He wouldn’t sleep with her for information. But he couldn’t shake the truth that she might be more willing to open up to him if they were intimate.

“No,” he growled to himself. He couldn’t have sex with her just to find out more. Those two things were separate. He wanted to sleep with her, and he also needed information. If those two things intersected, so be it.

The skin on his arms prickled, but he ignored it. If someone needed help, you took care of that whether they liked it or not. Isabelle didn’t want help. She didn’t want interference. But he’d give it anyway.

She reminded him a little of Michael, actually, before his brother had lost the greatness of his personality. Bold and brave and wild, and looking at the whole world with chin held high.

And like Michael, she’d never ask for help, even if she was drowning. Her pride scared him. And it turned him on like crazy.

He shut off the light illuminating her nude portrait, set his face in its best impassive expression and went out to join girls’ night.

* * *

I
SABELLE
WATCHED
AS
S
OPHIE
, Lauren and Veronica slammed down their shots of vodka and grinned at each other. “I hope some of you are spending the night,” she said before downing her own shot.

Sophie and Lauren raised their hands.

“I have a chauffeur,” Veronica said with a wobbly smile. She was definitely starting to loosen up.

The oven timer buzzed, and for once, Jill didn’t jump up. Instead, she poked her toe into Isabelle’s thigh. An empty sangria glass dangled from her fingers. “Quiche is ready. Where’s the salad?”

Isabelle winced. “Oops. I forgot about the salad.”

“Isabelle!” Jill yelled.

“I’m sorry! I got busy and... Look!” She held up her own glass. “It doesn’t matter. We have sangria fruit! That’s the best kind of salad.”

Lauren nodded. “She’s got a point, Jill.”

Jill didn’t look appeased. “I just want all of you to know that I brought Isabelle’s favorites, and this isn’t a menu I’d normally create. Or at least there’d be vegetables!”

Isabelle jumped up to head for the kitchen. “There’s spinach in the quiche. I’ll get it out of the oven.”

“Try not to forget between here and there,” Jill mumbled.

But all seemed forgiven when Isabelle brought her another sangria and the first plate of quiche. The fact that Jill had let Isabelle do the plating—okay, the triangle of quiche was a little lopsided—showed just how relaxed she was after that drink. Or she was exhausted. Isabelle gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You okay?”

“A little regretful, but that’s to be expected.”

They both looked up to see the other women watching curiously. “Marguerite and I finally ended it,” Jill explained and was greeted with moans of sympathy.

By the time Isabelle got quiche to the other women, everyone was telling breakup stories. Isabelle hurried back for two more plates, one for her and one for Tom, who’d just come in the front door.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Everything’s good. I’ll take this to the kitchen.”

“You can stay,” she said.

“No, I don’t want to be in the way.”

She bit back a sigh as he walked away. She’d been trying to drive him mad, but now she was the one suffering. She wanted to touch him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to suck his fingers into her mouth and make him moan. But she was apparently having a sleepover with friends. Damn it.

So all she could do was eat her delicious quiche and drink another sangria and offer horrified laughter at the other women’s stories.

“Speaking of exes,” Lauren drawled. “I finally saw Steve over the holidays.”

Sophie squealed. “Please tell me you were with Jake.”

“I was. And Steve has lost more hair.”

“Perfect,” Sophie said. Lauren’s ex-husband had sneered about her new relationship with his old friend, laughing that it wouldn’t last long. Not with a bitch like Lauren.

Lauren grinned. “He tried to act cool about it, offering Jake a beer like they were still good friends, but after that bitch comment, Jake doesn’t want much to do with him.”

They all toasted to that.

“Isabelle,” Lauren sang, “I bet you’ve got a good breakup story.”

“Nope.”

“Come on. You weren’t born a confirmed bachelorette. Who’s this guy?” She pointed behind her at the painting.

Isabelle smiled. That one she could talk about. It wasn’t Patrick. It wasn’t anyone who’d broken her heart. She glanced toward the kitchen and lowered her voice. “He replaced my roof a few years ago.”

The women howled and catcalled.

“Oh, my God!” Sophie yelled. “Was there porn music playing when he showed up with his big roofing hammer?”

“No, but there was porn music playing later.”

Poor Veronica spit out part of an orange, and Sophie patted her back before she pointed at Isabelle. “You’re a naughty girl.”

“Maybe, but only on occasion. It’s not easy to lure men all the way up here.”

Jill was the first one to look toward the kitchen, but eventually all the women glanced that way before turning their grins on Isabelle. She just shrugged and smiled back.

“Veronica,” she finally said to change the subject. “You must have some good stories. Didn’t you live in New York City? Was it just like
Sex and the City
?”

Veronica coughed again, shaking her head. “It was okay. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I had a lot of fun, but I ruined all my street cred by moving back to my hometown at twenty-five.”

“Are you kidding?” Isabelle asked. “I didn’t even go away for college. I lived at home the whole time. You’re doing great.”

“Oh, where’d you go to college?”

Isabelle realized she’d walked right into a question she didn’t want to answer. Panic flooded her veins, but she kept her face calm. “You’re not getting out of it that easily. Tell us a New York story.”

“I don’t have any big breakup stories. It was mostly a lot of dating. A couple of dumps by text, that sort of thing.”

“That’s something I’ve avoided,” Lauren chimed in. “There’s a distinct advantage to dating Wyoming men in their forties. They don’t text much. I am trying to introduce Jake to the joys of sexting, though. He’s at the firehouse quite a few evenings. Sometimes I need a little jerk material.” She nudged Veronica. “Maybe I’ll write to you to ask how I can convince him to do it. He’s worried he’ll send a text to one of his guys.”

Veronica nodded. “Now,
that
would be a good letter. Make sure he writes to me if that happens.”

“Dear Veronica,” Lauren intoned in a deep voice, “I’m the captain of a small-town fire department...”

Isabelle continued. “And I never thought something like this would happen to me.”

Veronica looked a little confused by the
Penthouse
reference, but she was the youngest of the group. Jill, on the other hand, guffawed and slapped the arm of her chair.

Lauren held up the fork she’d been using to spear fruit from her sangria. “We should all start sending Veronica fake letters asking for advice and see if she can ferret them out.”

“Please don’t,” Veronica said. “It’s hard enough to try to filter out the fictional ones.”

“How do you do it?” Lauren asked.

“Well, mostly I have to take them at face value. Because in all honesty, the ones I think are probably fake are often the ones that get the most follow-ups from real people. Sometimes from the letter-writers themselves, and sometimes from readers saying, ‘It meant a lot to know someone else has gone through this.’ People have crazy lives.”

Sophie shook her head. “Tell me about it. My mom disappeared when I was five, and that was just the start of that screwed-up story.”

The sangria was making Isabelle too sensitive. She knew it was. But she still reached out and wrapped her arm around Sophie. “I’m so sorry.”

She couldn’t imagine what that must have been like for a little girl. To live without a mom, wondering if she’d just walked away from her family. She’d lost her own father like that but as an adult, and it had still been devastating. Isabelle couldn’t say that, so she swallowed her tears and said, “My mom died in a car crash when I was sixteen. With how hard that was, I can’t imagine being five and not even knowing what happened.”