Here Comes Trouble (11 page)

All shiny wet and slippery looking, he ached to run his hands over her, bring her up to that fever pitch, the way he had in the kitchen. She’d responded to him so honestly, so openly, it had driven him half crazy. Her plea for him to take her where she stood had pushed him the rest of the way there. At the moment, though, she was simply standing, not even looking at him, seeming lost in thought. Was she wondering about him, after that call, or having second thoughts about the choices she’d made, getting intimate with a virtual stranger? He could hardly blame her, he supposed.

But, right now, he was more distracted by the fact that even doing nothing, she had his undivided attention. Okay, so she was nakedly doing nothing, and he had just been buried deep inside that slender frame, being held so tightly he’d thought he might just die from the pleasure of it. But still…he’d had sex before. Even good sex. Usually he found his mind drifting to the next game or event, or to a job-site issue with Dan, or…something other than the partner he’d just been intimate with.

And that’s when it hit him, the difference. Not that he’d made love to her in that kitchen. That had been all about sex, about slaking needs and taking and pleasuring. But, right now, watching her, thinking about that vulnerable part, the part that had taken a good long time to get to where she could let her defenses down with him completely, the way she obviously wanted to. Yes, he was thinking about that part, all tangled up with the way she’d followed his request to leave the rest of him out of the equation and just take him as she got to know him…he had a lot of respect for that. Especially given her self-proclaimed curious bent.

But it was that first part, the vulnerable part, that had kept her talking for a lot longer than most women would have, given his ready state and the fact that he had all but pushed her up against the wall in his desire to have her. He’d wanted to take her, to have her, to slake needs, his…and hers. And they’d done all that, and more.

So, it was curious now, not that he wanted her again, but that the needs behind it were different. He wanted to…what? Romance her? That wasn’t really it. And he didn’t know her well enough to call it lovemaking. That felt like something that required at least reaching some deeper level of affection. And it wasn’t that he felt sorry for her, for what the last person she’d trusted with her heart, her body, had done to her. He hated that, to be sure, but that wasn’t why his heart felt all kind of wobbly and weak when he looked at her.

He merely knew he wanted to give her pleasure, and take care of her in a way that wasn’t just about slaking needs and having mind-blowing sex. He wanted to give her…more. Get her off that wobbly, vulnerable edge, at least where this was concerned. Bring that other part he knew of her, the direct, confident part, to this. All of this.

He was reaching for her without really knowing what in the hell he was actually thinking, or even wanting. Maybe this wasn’t about her at all, or that sad look he’d seen in her eyes, or the way she’d had to talk herself into having sex she obviously wanted. Maybe this was about him. He wasn’t sure he really cared. And he knew he was tired, damn tired, of thinking about every last thing. He just wanted to feel. To do what felt natural, what felt right, and to hell with everything else.

Because, for once, maybe for the first time ever, there was nothing else.

He took her shoulders, gently, in his hands, and she didn’t jump, so she’d been aware he was standing behind her all this time. But she hadn’t turned, hadn’t looked at him. He turned her to him, into him, into his arms. It was a confined space, a small circle of curtain surrounding them, filled with steam and the spray of hot water. He tipped her mouth up to his and took it slowly, in a deep, searching kiss. It wasn’t about demanding or claiming, or anything even carnal, really. It was just about connecting, joining, feeling. His eyes had drifted shut, so it took him a second, or maybe two with the water cascading down over them, for him to taste the saltiness on her wet lips.

He paused, opened his eyes, and blinked away the water to see that there were tears on her cheeks. Confounded, he didn’t know what to say, or do for that matter. But then she was weaving her fingers into the hair at his neck, urging his mouth back down to hers. And he knew he should be concerned, should worry that whatever this was for him might be construed differently by her. But her mouth was on his, seeking, tasting, feeling. And it was exactly what he wanted.

So he kissed her back, pulled her more fully into his arms, and kissed her until the salty tang went away. She was slick and lithe and perfect in his arms. Her fingers dug into his scalp, and their kisses became deeper, longer, if not more urgent. His body recharged slowly, and grew achingly, fully to life. She moved against him, trapping the length of him between her belly and his. He thought, briefly, about the scratches, but when he tried to shift back, she dug her fingertips in deeper and urged him to stay where he was by sliding her tongue more deeply into his mouth.

This was what he wanted. Her, all of her, the parts that were direct, the parts that were a bit needy, all wrapped up into this. Into him. Eventually he shifted and reached for the soap that hung from a rack hooked to the overhead spray. He squeezed some in his hand and began stroking the lather into her skin. The tight quarters prevented him from moving too far down, much less crouching, but what he could reach he took his time with. She was making small whimpers, deeper moans, when he slid his hands between her legs. He pulled her back against his chest and soaped her breasts with one hand, while bringing her to a slow, shaking climax with the other.

She tipped her head back on his shoulder as her body continued to quake and shudder. He leaned down to kiss her throat, but she turned, captured his mouth…then squeezed soap into her own hands.

Never in his life had he felt anything like this. Her hands were warm, slippery, foamy, searching, sliding…stroking. She moved in against him, used her shorter, smaller stature to tease his nipples with her teeth, her tongue, while sliding her hands around his hips, sinking her fingers into the rounded cheeks, careful not to stroke his back, even while trapping the throbbing length of him between them.

He groaned, long and loudly, tipping his face up to the spray as she slipped her hands around the front, and moved enough so that she could stroke the length of him, again and again. He ached to feel her mouth on him, or better yet, bury himself inside of her again. But their confines made both an impossibility.

She stroked and kissed and nibbled her way across his chest. He sunk his fingers into her hair, framed her face, and then finally reached up and gripped the circular shower rod over his head as her hands worked their magic on him. He wanted her, to do this for her, but hadn’t expected the tables to turn so swiftly, so erotically, so…

Her grip tightened, oh so perfectly, and he didn’t even have a chance to prepare. Climax surged up, ripped through, and was upon him before he could even catch his breath. He grunted, growled, and shook as he came. Her hands never left him, her mouth shifted to soft kisses to the center of his chest. Just over his heart.

His knees were weak, but he pulled her to him, into his arms, and just held on. She slid her arms low around his waist and held on just as tightly, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder.

He could feel both of their hearts thundering, but neither spoke. The water gradually turned cool, and he somehow found the wherewithal to grope behind him and spin the antique lever knobs to off without freezing or scalding them.

She started to move, but his hold on her instinctively tightened. He wanted to say…something. Let her know what he was feeling, find out what the tears were all about, and about a million other things he’d never once been compelled to want to find out. Easy enough to say that it was the mind-blowing climaxes doing the talking, but it felt like a cop-out, even now.

“Kirby—”

The damn phone chose that moment to start ringing again.

He supposed he should be happy it hadn’t lit up five minutes earlier.

But this time she did move, did reach through the damp curtain for the towels folded on the rack just beyond the side of the claw foot. “I really should—”

“Kirby,” he said, a little more insistently this time, tipping her chin up to his.

She didn’t avert her gaze, but what he found there didn’t answer any of his questions. The tears were gone, but in their place was something he couldn’t see through, couldn’t read. “Please,” was all she said.

He let her go.

She didn’t flee, exactly, but it was close to it.

He stepped out, dried off, and wrapped the towel around his hips. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. He could hear her in the next room, her office, talking quietly on the phone, too quietly to hear the actual conversation. He could only assume it was business. He thought about waiting, but maybe it was best to give her some room. So, after giving a quick scan of the foyer, making sure no one had suddenly shown up looking for a room while he was having the time of his life in a little claw-foot tub, he ducked through to the kitchen, scooped up his clothes, and hers, left hers draped across the back of the kitchen chair, and found the back way up the service stairs to the third floor. Handy to know, he thought, as he made the climb carefully in the tight little turnabout and high, stubby wooden steps. Good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic.

He entered his room, saw the remnants of the kitty supplies, and thought it felt like about a million years had elapsed since containing demon kitty had been his immediate concern. “Amazing what can happen in a single day.” And he knew. He’d won millions in less than twenty-four hours. Lost a bit, on occasion, too.

He couldn’t be entirely certain until some time had passed for him to think on it properly, for it to sink in properly, sort of like winning another championship bracelet or a record-breaking pot. But he was pretty sure this was going to rank right up there.

He pulled back the bedspread, dropped the towel at his feet, sprawled face first onto the fresh, cool, white linen, and dropped immediately to sleep.

W
ell, Kirby had gotten it half right, anyway.

The whole wild and crazy spontaneous casual sex thing—that part she’d figured out. The part about not falling apart and crying afterward because she was already getting emotionally involved? Yeah, that part she had to work on. She wondered if Brett even knew. He’d stood behind her, under the spray, for quite some time before reaching for her. She’d tried, desperately, to stop the tears, but in the end had worked on being really quiet about it. Had he known? Is that why he’d reached for her?

He’d been…different, that second time. Less intent and hungry, more…she wasn’t sure how to describe it. Not as intent, no, but maybe all the more intense because of it. He’d been…gentler. Thorough. Like he’d had his appetite slaked the first time and now just wanted to savor the intimate contact. She wasn’t sure which had been more effective in destroying whatever defenses she’d built up in the past few years. Any physical defenses she’d built were gone before he’d pulled her pants down in the kitchen, but she’d thought, after waking up next to him on her bed, that her emotional defenses were shot, too. Hence the tears in the shower as the totality of the step she’d taken, and what it meant, what it signified to her, personally, hit her fully.

But that second time…yeah, she’d still had emotional defenses left to shatter as it turned out. She was thankful for the phone ringing and the stupid vendor asking whether she was wanting to stock up on wine and champagne for high season. She wasn’t sure what she’d have said to Brett. As it was, she’d asked the vendor if perhaps he was high, or if he’d bothered to notice that with no snow, there was no season, of any level.

Yes, perhaps it was best that she’d said her first post-earth-shattering-moment words to a salesman…and not to the man who had been responsible for all that world shaking.

At the moment, she was hiding. Unashamedly. She’d stayed in her office for a bit after ending the call, chicken that she was, and when she’d gone back to her room, Brett was gone. She’d dressed, paced, laundered towels and bedspread, paced some more, then finally climbed the stairs to his room. His door was closed, and there was no sound coming from behind it. His bike was still parked out front, so she assumed he was in there. Probably sleeping.

She’d crept down the back way to the kitchen, only to find her clothes and panties folded in a pile on one of the kitchen chairs. Mortified and kind of amazed at herself still, she’d added them to the laundry, set out a bottle of wine, along with some cheese and crackers, in the front parlor, in case he came down. It was part of his room and board, after all.

Then she’d grabbed the legal pad and pen she’d started her garden design on and headed outside again. Kind of full circle, a bookend to how and where it had all started. She sat, cross-legged, between the trees and the open hillside on the side of the house, supposedly dreaming up her garden pattern and subsequent planting schedule. But the pad remained empty of sketches and lists. Instead, she found her gaze drawn to Brett’s bike. Again. And her mind replaying what Thad had said on his answering machine message.

What happened next? she wondered. Was that it? A casual, if mind-blowing, fling? Did he hop on his bike now and head out to parts unknown, never to be seen again? Much less go to bed with. Or…did he stay? And, if he did…then what? How did she act? How should she feel? More importantly, how
would
she feel? She drummed her pencil eraser on the yellow lined paper. She didn’t know what to do with what she’d done. She supposed she’d always assumed her casual lover assignation, when she’d finally had one, wouldn’t be at the inn but somewhere else. That she’d come back, resume her life, then decide if and when she would see the guy again. Control. Calling the shots.

She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Yeah, I’m in control all right.” He was under her roof and very admittedly already under her skin. She sucked at casual. One time—okay, technically two times—and she was already spending way too much time thinking about him. All of her time, actually.

Not that she had much to distract her, Kirby argued silently. After all, it was the most exciting thing that had happened since…well since she’d almost killed herself falling out of her own tree, but before that? In a very, very, far too many verys, long time. Naturally she was going to think about it, ponder it, analyze it. She felt the weight of her cell phone in her hoodie pocket and was tempted, for about two seconds, to call Aunt Frieda. Frieda wasn’t her actual aunt. Kirby had no idea if she had actual blood relatives left anywhere. Frieda, who had worked at the resort and taken Kirby in when she was sixteen and had left her most recent foster family when they’d told her they were packing up and moving to Texas.

Frieda had been one in a long line of resort folks who had kind of adopted her after her biological mother, a teenager working at the resort, had left her in the manager’s office with a note pinned to her onesie and taken off for parts unknown. She’d bounced in and out of foster homes and state-funded homes, but had always stuck around the resort because that was really home to her. Frieda had let her stick around until she finished her college degrees, and had become as close as anyone had ever come to being Kirby’s family. Longest she’d ever stayed in one place, that was for sure.

But while Frieda was solidly supportive of Kirby’s goals, and proud of the career she’d launched after graduation, and the business she was trying to start now, she hadn’t been a huge fan of Kirby’s relationship with Patrick. Given the way it had ended, clearly Frieda had been the better judge of character. So Kirby couldn’t quite imagine how she’d start a phone conversation that needed to be steered in the direction of how she’d had wildly satisfying animal sex in her own kitchen with a virtual stranger. Who happened, apparently, to be kind of famous. If you liked poker. And was also maybe filthy rich.

Of course, Patrick hadn’t exactly been hurting, but this was a different scale and sort of wealth. At least so she imagined given what Thad had said. Patrick was born into money, but he always seemed to have all of his ready assets tied up in this investment scheme or that new development deal. She had no doubt he’d always be successful as he was a born wheeler and dealer. Why she hadn’t realized that skill would naturally extend from the boardroom to the bedroom, she had no idea.

Complete naïveté where men were concerned was only a partial excuse for her inability to see what had always been right in front of her face. She supposed it had more to do with her wanting what she’d never had. Stability, a family, someone she could truly count on. A foundation. And in her mind, the older, more mature, well-established Patrick was easily all those things. And he’d chosen her.

She sighed and thought again about the man who was sleeping right now on the top floor of her inn. Brett hadn’t chosen her, he’d just taken advantage of an opportunity. As had she. She had no idea if he was stable or wise, or what he did with his earnings, much less what had put him in such a quandary that he’d taken off on his motorcycle and headed out for parts unknown. Certainly if she was looking for stable and steady, a new foundation, so to speak…he certainly didn’t seem like a very wise candidate. But then, on paper, Patrick had been perfect.

And Patrick had never once made her feel so…understood. Not in the way Brett had within their first five minutes talking to one another. Possibly merely a side effect of launching a relationship with one of them rescuing the other from a near-death experience, but that instant intimacy couldn’t be completely discounted, either. She’d had a more frank, open, and intimate conversation within a day of knowing him than she’d had with…well, pretty much anybody, save Aunt Frieda. In years. Even where Patrick was concerned. Not that she hadn’t been open with him, but she realized now, after seeing the intent way that Brett focused and truly listened, that Patrick hadn’t been paying the least bit of attention to her. Not really. Other than as he had to do to get her to do whatever he wanted.

“Damn, I was a pathetic idiot, wasn’t I?” It was a rhetorical question. She just wished she could be more certain of the decisions she was making right now. It was a bit disconcerting, more than a bit really, to realize that even after everything she’d been through, both with Patrick and with launching the inn, there were still going to be things she had no clue how to deal with.

Which, of course, would all resolve itself when Brett got on his bike and rode right out of her life. But what she did between now and then could matter afterward. And moving forward. Why make more stupid mistakes if they could be avoided?

She glanced at the house and wished she could convince herself that continuing to mess around with Brett Hennessey wasn’t going to be a mistake.

The fact that she’d cried—cried, for God’s sake—in the shower was proof enough she couldn’t handle this…whatever the hell it was. It certainly didn’t feel casual, but what the hell else could it really be? Sure, it was understandable to get emotional. She was forty years old, and Brett Hennessey was only the second man she’d ever let—who’d ever really touched—ever gone—the first to truly…She closed her eyes.

Yeah. It was understandable.

She opened her eyes again and forced her attention back to the legal pad. Did she want vegetables? Or just flowers? Was she willing to do the work to have fresh tomatoes on her table? She decided she was. But mostly she wanted flowers. Aunt Frieda had taught her the joy to be found in planting with her own hands, growing things in the dirt…and enjoying the vivid colors, the spicy scents, the organized chaos of beauty that was a well-planned garden.

So first…the flowers. She was sketching out an outline of the house, the property lines, and had just started to fill in a few dotted line areas for proposed beds, when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She pulled it out, shaded her eyes, and read: Front Desk. Which meant the call was from a guest. And she only had one of those.

She froze. The phone vibrated in her hand again. What did she do? Pretend to be Kirby Farrell, hostess? Or Kirby Farrell, recent recipient of a multiple orgasm in her own shower, thanks to said guest on the other end of the line?

Yeah, she was never going to try having a fling with a guest, ever again. Ever.

It vibrated again, which did other vibratory things to her senses that she really didn’t need to be reminded of at the moment. She pressed
TALK
before her nerve gave out. “Front Desk,” she said, then made a face at herself. She was such a loser. A dork loser who suddenly felt a lot more like a woman who’d only had two lovers in her whole life, than a woman who’d single-handedly bought, built, opened, and was running her own business. Sort of.

“Ah, yes. This would be Room Seven.”

God, just his voice was enough to make her melt into a puddle of goo. Good thing she was already sitting down. “Yes, what can I do for you?” She squeezed her eyes shut and swore under her breath. Double dork!

To his everlasting credit, and her merciful thanks, there was no sexy chuckle, or knowing retort. Although maybe that she could have found a way to respond to outright.

“Well,” he said, then it sounded like he groaned a little. Stretching, maybe? Which meant, what, he was just waking up? From sleeping? In that big sleigh bed…naked, maybe?

“Since you treated me to dinner last night, I was thinking I could return the favor.”

“I thought we’d already gone over that. I owed you. Certainly more than a dinner.” Okay, so she really, really needed to just shut up. Right now. Because Lord knew she’d given him a lot more than dinner, all right. She sure hoped he wasn’t misconstruing—surely he wouldn’t think that she’d ever—

“Then can I just ask you to join me? I eat alone a lot, and I kind of liked having some company last night.” He said it sincerely, not a shred of innuendo in his tone.

It was like the whole interlude in the kitchen, in her shower, hadn’t happened. Like they’d jumped from dinner last night to right now. And, to her surprise, she was very okay with that time-space continuum. “I—yes,” she answered, no analysis this time, going with her gut. “I’d enjoy that.” It was, after all, the honest truth. Perhaps not the wisest course, but…it was just dinner. And who knew? Maybe it would get them back on some kind of host–guest footing that she’d have a clue what to do with. “What time? Did you need some info on the local places?”

“I just need directions to the closest market. Grocery store.”

“Grocery—you’re cooking? Here?” She might have sounded a bit squeaky on that last part.

“I prefer smaller crowds.” There was a pause, then, “Is that okay? I promise I won’t burn the place down. And I clean up.”

“You really don’t have to go to the trouble. There are several places that have good takeout if you just want to—”

“I’d really like to cook. You wanna help?”

“I, uh—”
Yes, Kirby. Yes, you do. Just say yes, for God’s sake.
It didn’t have to be so complicated, did it? It was just dinner. “Sure,” she said. “Okay. That sounds like fun.” And it did. See, simple. Right. “What time?”

“What is it now?” She heard him make a little groaning noise as he, what, rolled over? In bed? Naked?

Her body reacted like it had been zapped with a live wire. And the wire’s name was Brett. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Nothing was ever simple.

“It’s almost four thirty. How about we head out at five?”

“We—wait, what?”

“To the store? I thought you were going to help?”

“I thought you meant cook.” Now was when she might want to explain about her lack of actual cooking skills. There was a reason her inn didn’t serve dinner. But he was talking, so she didn’t push it. She’d tackle the jobs she could.

“I did. But shopping is part of the deal. Or can be. You can show me around. Cut down on errand time. Are you game?”

You have no idea, she thought, wanting to swat at her treacherous body, which was so game he could have stripped her naked right there on the lawn. Yeah, she was definitely going to have to figure out what her code of conduct was going to be…and how in the hell she was going to pull it off.