Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3) (5 page)

H
e gripped her strong
, supple legs and parted her thighs, burying his face in her willing flesh.

“I've been imagining this moment all day,” he said, pressing a kiss to her most sensitive spot. “The whole time I was on my run, all I could think about was running straight back to

Delete, delete, delete.

Layla erased the whole last paragraph. What was going
on
with her? Marco Sorenson, the hero in her Royal Hearts on Fire series, did
not
run. He sauntered. He stalked. He stormed. But he most certainly didn’t run.

So why the hell was he suddenly running?

You know why.

Layla almost laughed at
that
ridiculous thought. She was
not
thinking about Trick Harper. The man was a beast—definitely not romance novel material.

Okay,
fine
. So he’d been holding up his end of the bargain so far, keeping to his assigned bathroom and kitchen times, staying out of her space. He’d honored her rules about not bringing guests into the house—the last thing she needed was a ringside seat to his legendary sexcapades. He’d even gone to the store incognito at some point, stocking up on his own food and replacing the stuff he’d eaten from her stash.

Still. That didn’t make him a good guy. A good guy would’ve given up the cottage the moment he realized they’d been double-booked. Instead, they’d been dancing around each other for two days, doing their best to avoid crossing paths.

Other than his wicked sense of humor—the man was fluent in snark and innuendo—he’d actually seemed pretty tame for a rock star. Intense about his work, but also much more serious and subdued than she’d expected, especially given everything she’d read about the infamous Trick Harper online the other night.

Not
that she was stalking him or anything. Just that she wanted—needed—to know who she was sleeping with. Figuratively, of course.

Layla rolled her eyes, chiding herself. She couldn’t believe she’d let this go on as long as it had. If she were here on vacation instead of up against Stephanie’s insane deadline, maybe she’d have time to deal with him properly.

Yeah, I’d like to deal with that man
properly
, all right…

Enough.

Forcing Trick from her mind, she dove back into her manuscript, skipping ahead to another chapter. She’d made great progress yesterday, and as long as she kept up the pace, she’d be able to turn something in at the end of the week, hopefully saving her relationship with her editor
and
her contract.

“You’re mine, Lizbeth.” Marco kissed her fiercely, marking her, possessing her. She’d given him her heart long ago, but now Lizbeth was ready to give him her flesh, the innocence she’d been forced to save for another man, but belonging only—always—to Marco. The only man she’d ever loved. The man she’d finally chosen for herself.

“Sing to me, Marco,” she panted. “That song you were singing in the shower the other day, when you came back from you run, all hot and sweaty and

Delete, delete, delete.

Layla slumped forward in her chair and sighed. “I’m doomed.”

She supposed it was a good sign, really—fantasizing about another man. A
different
man. Namely, one who was not the Asshole Without a Name. Obsessing over the AWaN was the primary reason she’d gotten so dreadfully behind on work in the first place. He was the main source of the heartache that had thrown her life and career into a shambles.

Still… fantasizing about
any
man was a bad idea. When it came to the opposite sex, all roads led to heartache. The only place she could ensure a happily ever after was in her stories. Putting her characters through hell and back, only to give them the sweetest, happiest ending they deserved? That’s what Layla loved most about writing.

Assuming she could still write.

Forcing herself up out of her chair, Layla took a break for a much-needed stretch, breathing in the clean, salty air. Every window in the house was open, the warm ocean breeze drifting lazily in, the sound of the waves like a calming, familiar lullaby in the distance.

If there was a better place in the world to write, she couldn’t think of it. In fact, everything about the beach cottage—the day—was perfect.

Everything but one.

As if on cue, the foul beast in the living room belted out a half-finished chorus, sending shivers cascading across her skin.

“My runaway girl, ‘cause that’s what you do best. You can’t fight the world, so you’re runnin’ from your mess…”

Layla blew out a frustrated breath. Okay, so he could sing. That didn’t mean she wanted to listen to him crooning about some long lost love. The man had probably never been in love in his life, let alone gotten his heart smashed to pieces. What business did he have singing about heartache? He’d probably caused more than enough of it for a lifetime. In fact, there were probably dozens of women—hundreds, even—sitting in beach cottages all up and down the coast, crying on the couch, writing songs about
him
.

“Yeah she’s my runaway girl,” he sang, whaling on the guitar. “Oh-oh yeah…”

Ignoring the goose bumps sprouting on her arms, Layla dug out her heavy-duty, noise-cancelling headphones, plugging the jack into her computer and taking her seat. Next, she cranked up the volume on her music and lit another incense stick, fanning it to distribute the smoke. She was at her creative best when she established a calming, spa-like environment, which she’d been endeavoring to do all morning.

There was no rock guitar at the spa, but Trick apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. Every time she was about to get into the zone, the sound of Trick’s guitar broke right through her walls—and her noise-cancelling headphones—killing the mood.

Banging on the wall didn’t help, either. She tried. Multiple times.

Stupid insolent celebrity, used to getting whatever the hell he wanted, whenever the hell he wanted it, singing about broken hearts the whole damn day. She still couldn’t believe he’d actually refused to leave. She’d thought he was just pulling her chain, but no. They were roomies, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

Just write. You have to make this work. You have to finish this book, or you may as well just pack it all up and go home. For good.

Layla shook her head. Quitting was not an option.

With renewed determination, she went back to Marco and Lizbeth, who’d been waiting for eight years and six books to finally consummate their undying love.

She was cranking along pretty good, the climactic hot and steamy scene pouring out of her fingertips and onto the page. Her writing muscles may have been stiff, but they still worked; aside from a few clunky sentences, she felt pretty good about the words, the rhythm, the flow.

“Lizbeth, you’re so beautiful. The way you touch me… everything you do drives me crazy.” He kissed her again, greedily drinking her in as she fisted his hair, pulling him closer.

After an age, Lizbeth finally broke their kiss, her eyes searching his face.

“I need you,” she said desperately, wantonly. “All of you.”

Positioning himself at her soft, warm entrance, he leaned forward, whispering in her ear one last time. “Are you certain?”

“Take me,” she said. “Make me yours, Marco. I’m—

“Son of a…
fuck
!”

Trick.

Of course.

Layla pushed her glasses on top of her head and slammed her laptop shut. If it wasn’t the singing, it was the cursing, shattering her concentration at the worst possible moment—for Layla
and
her characters.

Deep breaths. Deep, calming breaths…

In the blissful silence that followed, Layla counted to ten, then twenty, hoping that the frustrated curses meant he’d given up for the day. She re-opened her laptop and was just about to settle back in with Marco and Lizbeth when Trick resumed his screeching, shredding the guitar, howling as if he were playing in an outdoor arena rather than a tiny one-bedroom beach cottage.

Worst of all, now he sounded like he was faking it.

Another too-loud chorus, another volley of curses, and Layla made an executive decision: it was high time to march out into the living room and tell him
exactly
what his problem was.

L
ayla was totally fired up
, more than ready to give Trick Harper a piece of her mind. But by the time she got to the living room, he’d already shifted gears.

It was the same song—the one about the runaway girl—but the screeching, the guitar shredding, the cursing had vanished. Even the tension she’d come to associate with Trick working was suddenly absent, leaving in its place a calm serenity as he plucked a soft melody on the strings, his voice slowly rising from a gentle hum into something that made her weak in the knees.

Standing in the hallway, watching from across the room, Layla was mesmerized. Trick sat on the couch, eyes closed, his body swaying with the rhythm of the song, a spiral notebook balanced on his knee. As he picked out the chords, the muscles in his forearm rippled, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

She nearly forgot why she’d gone out there in the first place. His voice—his real, unfiltered, unforced voice—was so… God, she didn’t even have the words for it. There was so much pain there, so much deep and soulful honesty, it made her ache. Whatever he was singing about now, Layla freaking
believed
him.

He hit a high note, a soft falsetto, then dropped back down to his usual gravelly tenor, and something buzzed inside of her, fluttering in her stomach as if he were singing to her.

The thought made her dizzy with desire.

Layla shifted on her feet and realized—belatedly—her panties were wet.

Damn him.

She was about to turn around and slip back to the bedroom unseen, locking herself away from the temptation, but Trick chose that exact second to stop playing and open his eyes. Across the room, she met his gaze, and for a moment, there was total silence.

The moment seemed to stretch out for an eternity, all jokes and jabs gone, nothing between them but some shared understanding of what it felt like to lose someone. Something. Some crucial part of yourself you could never, ever get back, no matter how hard you tried.

The way Trick was looking at her… looking
into
her… it was like he could see everything about her, all the dark and ugly parts she’d been trying for months to hide. And suddenly, without reason or warning, her eyes welled up.

When he finally looked away, Layla was equally disappointed and relived. She blew out a breath and blinked away the tears before they fell.

Before he could notice them.

“That was… that was nice,” she said, forcing a smile.

Trick looked up at her again and flashed a grin, the playful prankster rushing back so quickly, Layla wondered whether she’d completely imagined the tender moment between them.

Shaking out of her reverie, she marched into the living room, determined to finish what she’d set out to accomplish. She was
this
close to giving Marco and Lizbeth their big moment—and
this
close to losing her contract if she didn’t make it happen.

She needed quiet.

She needed to concentrate.

She needed to work.

She needed to stop thinking about Trick singing in her ear from behind, pushing her against the wall, shoving her thighs apart, taking her to a place she’d never, ever been…

“Need something, Sunshine?” he asked.

Layla blinked, her cheeks hot under his unwavering gaze. “I… I… yeah. Yes. I do need something.” She cleared her throat and approached the couch, stopping just in front of him. “Trick, I’m trying to work, and—”

“
Lay
la.” He cut her off, strumming the opening chords from the classic rock song she’d been named after.

“Wow,” she deadpanned, rolling her eyes. “I’ve
never
heard that before! Is that an original Trick Harper creation?”

“Aww, you don’t like it?” he asked, still playing. “I thought every woman wanted a song named after her
.
”

“Oh, I
used
to like it, until I was about ten, and Billy Fink started singing it to me on the playground, and after that, none of the kids let me live it down. Not the song, and not Billy’s annoying crush, which I did
not
reciprocate.”

“No?”

“He smelled like bologna, and he copied off all my tests.”

“Ten-year-olds are such assholes,” he said. “At least your name doesn’t rhyme with dick.”

When she didn’t respond, he said, “Okay, so you’re not here to reminisce about your childhood love life. What can I do you for?” He stopped playing long enough to scribble something in the notebook balanced on his leg, then went back to plucking chords, adjusting the tuning pegs as he did.

He was barely paying attention to Layla.

“Trick,” she said. “I realize your work requires a certain amount of… noise. But I’m up against a major deadline here, and I really need quiet.”

Lowering his voice to a mocking whisper, he said, “Then maybe you should type a little softer. Seriously, Layla. I can hear you all the way out here. You’re gonna sprain your wrist, banging around like that.”

Layla was quickly losing her cool. “It’s not the typing, Boy Band. It’s the screaming.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. Or, you were. The last version was better. Good, I mean. I liked it. At least, the part I heard. I didn’t hear that much. Only some. It’s not like I was spying on you or anything. I just came out and… well, like I said, it sounded okay.”

Oh my God, shut yourself up, woman!

“Yeah, well. Thanks,” he said half-heartedly. “Tell it to the record execs.” Before she could ask what he meant, he forced out a cough, waving his hand in front of his face. “What are you burning in there, anyway? It’s making my eyes water.”

“It’s a custom blend of Sandalwood and Frankincense. To increase creativity and focus. Maybe you should try it.”

“It smells like hippies at the farmer’s market.”

Layla scoffed. “We can’t all be creative genius rock gods. Some of us need our rituals.”

“Oh, I’ve got rituals.”

“Licking tequila out of a woman’s navel before a gig doesn’t count.”

“Says you.” Trick raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a grin. “I was actually just thinking about going for a walk down the shore, see if I could pick up a little… inspiration. And a bottle of tequila, obviously.”

He looked at her, that spark of mischief in his eyes a dead giveaway. He was totally screwing with her, but still. That hot streak running down her spine wasn’t anger.

It was jealousy.

Which was ridiculous on so many levels. For one thing, he’d already propositioned her at least a dozen times, and she’d shot down every one. For another, despite all wet-panty evidence to the contrary, she wasn’t interested in him—not as a friend, not as a casual fling, not as anything. He was an irritation, something she had to endure for the week unless she caved in and went to the hotel, which was just not happening.

Stumped for the moment, she flopped down on the couch next to him and put her head in her hands. Unfazed, he returned to his playing, alternately humming and jotting down notes.

“You know,” Layla finally said, turning to face him again, “I meant what I said. I liked the song. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re actually pretty good with that thing.”

For some reason, this made him laugh. Not the controlled, charming laugh he’d obviously perfected as part of his image, but the real one. Unguarded.

He nudged her shoulder with his. “From the looks of things, you’re not so bad yourself, Sunshine.”

“I don’t do music.” She inched sideways, trying to put a little more distance between them. Maybe sitting next to him was a bad idea.

“I’m talking about your writing.” Answering her unspoken question, Trick nodded toward the built-in bookshelf on the wall at his end of the couch. Three rows were filled with Layla Hart’s many creations—signed editions she’d left here over the years for the owners and guests.

Layla wanted to smack herself in the forehead. No wonder he’d figured out her name that first day. Her picture was on the back cover of every book.

“But what I want to know is,” he continued, that glint in his eyes still sparking like a warning, “who the hell is Jonathan, and why is he letting you shack up with the likes of me for a week?”

Layla’s heart stopped beating. She felt the heat, the color, everything drain instantly from her face.

Jonathan. The Asshole Without a Name—at least, until Trick had mentioned him. Layla had dedicated her last five books to him, gushing declarations of love and adoration that only embarrassed her now.

“He’s… he’s no one,” she managed. “Not anymore.”

Trick looked like he wanted to push for details, but thankfully shifted gears.

“I think it’s awesome that you write. No idea how you finish a book, though. I can’t even get through a song.” He blew out a frustrated sigh. “Obviously.”

Grateful for his tact, she jumped on the subject change. “Can I ask you something?”

Trick nodded.

“That song you were singing when I came out—that sounded totally different from your usual stuff.”

“My usual stuff?” He pointed at her, his lips curved in another grin. “I knew you were a closet fan.”

Layla bristled. “Hardly. I just happened to come across one of your albums online, and…” She waved it away. He was totally missing the point. “Take this how you will, okay? But when I saw you playing before—when you didn’t know I was watching—you seemed totally at peace. But earlier, right before that, and even on your albums… I don’t know, it’s different. It’s like… like you’re not really into it or something.”

Layla bit her lip, looking away. She shouldn’t have said that. Any of it. Not everyone wanted constructive criticism, especially from a writer who was having enough trouble finding her own muse.

But when she chanced another look at him, he was watching her curiously, nodding his head.

“You’re dead right, woman.”

“I…” Layla trailed off. She wasn’t expecting the conversation to go this way. She didn’t know him, and didn’t want to presume to understand his process. She’d already overstepped, overstayed her welcome. She really should get back to her own work.

“But unfortunately,” he continued, “I have an image to maintain. It’s not just the music—it’s the whole package. What you heard just now? The song you said you liked? Hell,
that
Trick Harper is the farthest thing possible from the Trick Harper created and managed by the record execs.”

Layla understood the dilemma. She was fortunate to be able to write what she loved, and her characters had been with her so long, they were practically family. But a lot of her author friends had been pigeonholed early on, forced to keep on writing what their publishers or readers expected, even when they wanted to branch out or try something completely different.

“So which one is real?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“Doesn’t matter. Gotta keep up the image,” he said. “Give the machine what it wants. At least until I fulfill the contract.”

“When does that happen?”

“Few more months, most likely. Gotta wrap up this song, record it, release the album. I head out on tour next month for about twelve weeks.”

“And then what?”

“Then… then I don’t know. But as soon as I figure it out, I’ll tell you. Deal?” Smirking again, he held out his hand.

Layla took the offered handshake, her skin warming instantly at his touch. He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand and then let her go, but his touch lingered, her skin tingling with little shocks of awareness.

“We’re not so different, you know,” he said lightly, nudging her shoulder again. “We both tell stories, right?”

“Yeah, but mine have happy endings. At least, when a rock star isn’t practicing in the living room, breaking my concentration and cock-blocking my poor hero.”

Trick cracked up.

“Shit,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“What?”

He leaned in close, his breath tickling her neck. “We just had an actual conversation.”

Now it was Layla’s turn to laugh. “Don’t tell anyone. My reputation as a ball-busting harpy would be ruined.”

“Nah, you’re not a harpy, Sunshine. A ball-buster, yeah. But no harpy.” He rose from the couch, setting his guitar back into the stand and shaking out his arms. “I need a change of scenery, not to mention dinner. Thinking about checking out that Shake Shack joint. Interested?”

Yes.

“No. I… I think I should probably get back to work.” She forced a smile, hoping he couldn’t hear her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t go out with him—not for dinner, not for a walk, not for anything.

Because for an entire fifteen minutes—at least, until Trick had mentioned his name—she hadn’t thought about her ex-husband at all.

And that scared the living shit out of her.

Thinking about him—about the pain he’d caused—that’s what kept her strong. Kept her stuck, maybe, strapped with the worse case of writer’s block she’d ever experienced—but it kept her from getting interested in other guys. From putting her heart out there, even the tiniest bit.

Trick—with his sea-blue eyes and honey laugh and raspy, soulful voice—he was making her forget.

And she was in danger of letting him.

That could
not
happen.

“I should get back to work,” she said again, rising from the couch. “I’ll scrounge up something later.”

“Suit yourself.” Something like disappointment flickered in his eyes, but then he just nodded and headed for the door.

Back at her desk, Layla stared at the words on the computer screen, willing new ones to appear.

Nothing came.

Finally, she shut down her laptop.

Marco and Lizbeth’s climax would have to wait. For what, she didn’t know—she had seven unanswered voicemails from her editor looking for an update; time was clearly not on her side. But getting anything done with that beast in the house was proving damn near impossible.

Stop lying to yourself, girl.

Layla set her glasses on the night table and flopped backward on the bed, closing her eyes. Her hands instinctively pressed against her heart, stemming the rush of emotion and pain. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t Trick Harper—not even when he
was
screaming and shredding. It also wasn’t her apartment or the lack of sunshine in Seattle, or the wrong spa music, or bad incense, or any of the dozens of other excuses she constantly told herself for why she couldn’t get her work done.