“This is Dylan. You like dogs?”
“Sure.” She liked them when they didn’t like her too much. The whole jumping, slobbering thing wasn’t ideal, but Dylan seemed well-behaved, greeting her with a restrained sniffing bout and wagging tail.
She looked around while petting him, at good quality furniture, chairs and sofa upholstered in teal and beige with rust accents, and bright coordinating silk pillows. Looked at the television, but no recliner; at landscapes and prints on walls painted a pale orange; at lamps with multiple arms snaking out, tiny colorful shades on each bulb. At smooth stone sculptures on the mantel of the beautiful fireplace; at a tall, narrow vase filled with curly willow on an end table. In short, she looked everywhere but at him.
“Nice house.”
“Mom’s an interior decorator. The living room was my Christmas present, but I think it ended up more her present than mine. A little too decorated for my taste, but it’s comfortable.”
Darcy nodded, a fish out of water in Troy’s elegant house. Even a mistake-glance at him brought back their skin-on-skin passion all night long at the hotel, and she wondered how she’d stay out of his bed this time and whether, if he made a move, she’d end up caring about anything but getting naked with him again.
“Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love it.” More like needed it.
“Beer? Gin? Vodka? Tequila? Or I could open a bottle of wine.”
“Wine would be nice. Red, if you have it.” She was curious what he’d offer, moved around his living room, observing, touching, anything to hide her horrible awkwardness.
“Red wine coming up. Have a seat.” He disappeared into the kitchen, which Darcy was dying to see, but refused to follow him, puppy style, especially since Dylan already had that job.
She blew out a breath and perched on the edge of the teal couch, pushing at magazines scattered on his coffee table:
Men’s Health, National Geographic, Newsweek.
So. They were going to have a talk. In Darcy’s experience, talk was a euphemism for screaming first, lapsing into furious silence second.
She couldn’t wait.
“Here you go.” Troy brought two balloon glasses of red wine on a tray with a bowl of roasted almonds and offered them with easy grace. He was younger than she was by at least five years, but in this warm, stylish house she felt like an outclassed child.
He settled himself on the couch a cushion away, too close and not close enough. She could still catch his scent, was still yearning for the feel of his mouth. Happily, Dylan jumped up between them and settled, head on Troy’s lap, tail thumping occasionally next to Darcy’s thigh.
Darcy sipped her wine; no surprise, it was excellent.
“So, Darcy, you showed up here expecting to spend the night with Quinn.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, but his face was tense, and his free hand rested on his lap in a fist.
Guilt.
Darcy drank more wine, annoyed at her instant reaction. What did she have to feel guilty about? They’d signed no contract; hell, they hadn’t even exchanged names. “That’s right.”
Troy abruptly got off the couch and paced the length of the room, no longer bothering to hide his agitation.
He was jealous. It hit her with a combination of horror, more guilt and a tiny thrill. She’d hurt him by agreeing to be with someone else. After only one night together.
That was crazy. If he’d wanted to do some other woman as beautiful and desirable as Quinn was handsome and desirable, thrash around in bed with her all night long, Darcy couldn’t care less. She wouldn’t blame him at all. You got happiness where you could.
For good measure she even made herself picture it. Troy all over some wildly hot female, like…Candy’s model-gorgeous best friend, Abigail. Perfect.
The image stabbed like a knife slipped between her ribs.
Aw, hell.
Troy stopped pacing, stood on the other side of the room, hands on his hips. “Why Quinn?”
“He was there. He was willing.”
Troy snorted. “Unlike me.”
“You…” Darcy closed her eyes, prayed for guidance, not to hurt him, but to get out of this intact. “You were too intense.”
“Really.” Troy moved back across the room toward her, speaking more quietly. “Too intense for what?”
“For me to keep seeing you.”
“Because…”
“Because I’m not interested in starting a—”
“Relationship, so you said.” He pushed impatiently at his hair, which fell back over his forehead. “The thing that interests me is that I went back over the night we had together, and I’m willing to bet everything I own that I said nothing about starting a relationship. I gave you no reason to think I was into anything but your incredible body and what it could do with mine. My email through Milwaukeedates only said I wanted to see you again. I don’t think that’s up there with asking for commitment on the first date.”
Darcy could only stare, brain whirling. Why had she assumed? He’d said something that night, hadn’t he? About her being his girlfriend? About the two of them long-term? Objected to her conditions of anonymity?
She couldn’t come up with anything. But he had to have. Because otherwise…
“I’m thinking the idea of our starting a relationship had to have come from you.” The silence in the room when he paused felt oppressive; she wanted to stand up and yell, or hurl her glass against his wall so it shattered. “Which means, Darcy, the fear came from your own feelings for me. For what we could have together.”
She put her wine down, stood. “I should go.”
“Ah.” He grinned, but not with pleasure. “Too close to the mark?”
She took a few steps toward his front door. “I don’t think—”
“Running away again, Darcy? Is that your answer to everything that touches you?”
She whirled on him. “You have no idea.”
“Tell me and I will have an idea.” His jaw set, his eyes were blazing; she had to hold herself back from sparking passion between them again. “Tell me everything and I’ll understand completely. Until then I’m just thinking you’re one closed off woman hiding a terrified little girl, not grown-up enough to give herself over to passion as intense as what we shared.”
Darcy started to shake. She’d never felt this combination of fear and rage and desire so intensely in her life. She’d never felt anything as intensely in her life as what she felt around Troy. And yes, that made her want to run.
“I can tell you that I’ve had quite a few women in my life. Most of them were bad relationships, some were decent, but none started out with even half the power of what we shared. And I want to know what that is.”
“It’s called lust.”
“Really.” He was close now, standing in front of her, making her lift her chin to meet his eyes. “Lust, and that’s it.”
“Yes.” Her voice gave her away again. “Male-female attraction, pheromones, electricity, whatever, but nothing—”
He launched a solid right-on-target attack on her lips that made her burn for him all the way down, then fight instinctively for her pride and her control and her sanity, setting herself against his hard chest, trying to budge the iron of his arms holding her at the same time she responded to his kisses with all the passion she couldn’t seem to control around him.
Troy didn’t give, didn’t acknowledge her weak struggle, but pushed until her back hit the wall and he pressed his body against her, the hard bulge in his jeans finding her softness unerringly, making her burn hotter still.
She clutched his shoulders, aroused out of her mind not only by the contact, but the male force of his determination to have her, to claim her. The rhythmic push between her legs told her in no uncertain terms what he wanted from her, and within ten seconds, she wanted it as much as he did.
Damn him. Damn this power he had, damn the way she responded to the sleek muscle under her fingers, to the male scent of him, to the way his hands explored her, demanding, possessive, so sure of the territory of her body, her most private possession.
How could the pleasure be this strong when only agony would follow?
Her top and bra were yanked up; her breasts spilled free into the cool room, covered immediately by his warm mouth, sucking and pulling one nipple, the other rolled between his fingers, stroked by his palm.
She moaned, her head bumping against the wall. His other hand snaked up her skirt, dipped into her panties; his fingers brushed the clipped hair between her legs, then slid deeper, seeking and finding her moisture.
“Troy.” Everything she wanted from him was contained in that syllable. He teased her, tantalized her with his fingers and hot mouth until her legs nearly gave way and she had to push back hard to stay upright.
He went to his knees at her feet, pushed up her skirt, hauled down her panties and buried his mouth between her legs, sending slippery warmth over her clitoris, jamming her spine against the wall.
Darcy cried out at the sensation, at the bold strokes of his tongue. His finger joined, slipping inside, pushing rhythmically, finding a place deep inside her that nearly made her scream from pleasure. Her hair fell over her face, her body broke out in a sweat. Her head banged back, but there was no pain. Nothing except this man and his tongue and hands on her.
She heard herself moan and pant, her hands scrabbled to clutch something, to brace herself. She found nothing, reached helplessly up the wall, legs opening higher, giving him more and deeper access until her climax started an inevitable climb, a powerful wave that came from a distance, gathered everything in her and burst into a blinding finale.
Over and over she pulsed, losing her ability to stand, sliding down the wall to collapse in a sweating, panting heap on the floor of his living room.
He was out of his pants already, his erection proud and rigid, straining toward her as if he had a homing device, and she was home.
The sight was beautiful, rekindling her arousal. She got to her knees, took him in her fist, keeping her eyes fixed on his erection, too vulnerable to meet his gaze after the way she’d exploded against his mouth. She worked her hand in a steady, gentle rhythm, while the fingers of her other hand explored and manipulated the soft sacs of his testicles.
Thirty seconds he stood it, then moisture spread from the tip of his cock. He reached down for his jeans, yanked a condom out of the pocket and rolled it on.
If he made love to her face-to-face, she’d be lost. Her softie heart would weaken; she’d start thinking she was falling for him. Everything would go to hell from there.
She got to her knees on his carpet, fell forward onto her hands and lifted her skirt so her bare ass faced him and there would be no question what she was offering.
He groaned, knelt behind her and steadied her, pressed the head of his penis against her opening, a push that relented only to push farther, deeper inside her. She was plenty wet; another push slid him in all the way, making her moan and arch her back with pleasure.
For one blissful second, he held still, hands firm on her hips, cock filling her. Then when she thought she’d go mad unless he moved, he began to ride her, slowly, then faster, slapping against her, his fierce rhythm echoed by his harsh breathing. Instinct told Darcy he wouldn’t last long, and she felt a thrill of feminine power. She was not the only one flattened by this wild emotion passing between them.
Another minute, maybe less, and his breath stopped, his rhythm faltered, then sped, stopped altogether and he pushed hard, then again, contracting into her.
Darcy closed her eyes, overwhelmed by his ecstasy, almost more than she had been by hers.
Was this destined to evolve into love?
No, no.
With love always came pain. And fear. And disappointment.
Troy wrapped his arms around her and brought her up to her knees, her back to his chest, kissing her neck, her cheek, her hair. She turned her face and their lips met in a kiss so tender her eyes threatened to fill with tears.
And once again, from the depth of her wounded, beaten and still-naive soul came hope that somehow with this man she’d find the love she’d craved her entire life.
7
TROY CAME BACK INTO THE LIVING room, having disposed of the condom, to find Darcy dressed and looking ready to leave.
No. She was not leaving. Not after this miracle of finding her again.
“Got what you came for?”
Her face fell. “I should go.”
He came to a stop a few feet away, jammed his hands on his hips to keep from reaching for her. Touching her was like a drug he craved. She fit his hands. Her breasts, her gorgeous ass, her firm belly, all of her enticed him, called to him. Around her he was completely depraved. “Why?”
“Because…” Her expression became slightly panicked.
“Because if you stay, you might enjoy yourself? And that would be horrible, to have a good time with me, because then you might want to see me again and that would be the worst thing that happened since the black plague?”
She laughed in surprise; he had to cement his hands harder. When she laughed the tension fled from her face and body and she came irresistibly alive. “Maybe not that bad.”
Dylan approached, wagging his tail, sniffing curiously at Darcy’s knees. Troy had a brainstorm.
“Tell you what. I have to walk Dylan. Come with me. Fifteen minutes, half an hour tops. I think even you can handle that level of commitment.”
Her smile faded, but she didn’t look as defensive. “I guess I can.”
Good dog, Dylan.
He made sure his face didn’t show triumph. “Let’s go.”
They took Troy’s usual route, out onto his street, toward the lake, then north for a short time on Lake Drive, which wound along Lake Michigan’s shore, dotted with some of the city’s most spectacular homes, then another left. If everything went well, he planned to extend the walk considerably, maybe tempt her successfully into spending the night.
“Nice to live near the lake.”
“It is.” He’d taken the lead from her, providing small talk, hoping to be able to sense the moment when he could take the conversation in a more personal direction. There wasn’t much he didn’t want to know about her, but he knew enough already to understand that if he pushed too hard, Darcy would clam up like a…clam. “Did you grow up in the city?”
“Waukesha. We lived on both floors of a duplex.”
“We…”
“Mom, Dad, my younger sister and me.”
“They still around here?” He paused to let Dylan sniff a particularly inviting spot off the sidewalk, and to add his territory mark if it turned out to be necessary from a dog perspective.
“They are.” She spoke grimly. “Brit lives in Glendale. Married with kids. My parents are still in Waukesha. Not married.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. They split the day after Brit graduated high school. They should have done it years sooner.”
“Not happy together.” Stating the obvious, but he wanted her to keep talking.
“Not happy. Dad’s an alcoholic, Mom’s an enabler. He’d throw fits, she’d respond with passive aggressive crap until she finally blew and threw something at him.”
“Great relationship role model for little girls.”
“I’m sure it’s why I’ve done so well.” She snorted. Their fingers bumped. He stuffed his into his pocket to avoid taking her hand.
“We look for what we know.”
“I know not to look.” She sent him a glance he couldn’t decipher. “What about your family?”
“We lived one of those perfect-family lives that wasn’t so perfect. Dad was not a drinker, but he was something of a dictator. I spent a lot of time trying to protect my mother and younger brother, which wasn’t my place.”
“I did that, too.” Something in her tone made him turn to look at her. She was watching him almost eagerly, and he had to battle again the need to touch her, kiss her, make her his for the rest of time. The least successful way to keep a woman like Darcy was to try to. “I also felt it was my duty to protect my mother and my sister from Dad’s temper and his irrational need to control. It doesn’t work.”
“No. It doesn’t.” They continued walking, Dylan’s leash jingling in the darkness. “I guess that means you clashed most often with your father.”
“You might say that.” She spoke dryly but he felt he knew intimately the pain behind her words.
“That was my job, too. He came down hardest on my younger brother, put the most pressure on him. Tom paid him back by becoming an unemployed addict.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you in touch with him?”
“Occasionally. He’s hard to reach.” Troy sighed. “Literally and figuratively.”
She nodded beside him, a simple gesture, but he felt she understood. “And your mom?”
“She stuck with him. Her capacity for denial is infinite.”
“I thought my mom’s was, too. But when Dad was fired for drinking and she had to get a job, suddenly she realized she wasn’t helpless. And then he realized the same thing, so he came down on her even harder. How dare she not need him? How dare she enjoy her life?” She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “Well, it’s done now. They got rid of us, got rid of each other, but kept the hatred and anger, which is so gosh darn healthy.”
“This have anything to do with your reluctance about relationships?”
“Maybe. I don’t know how you get rid of wiring that deep.”
“I don’t, either.” To put it mildly. Troy was always falling for manipulative women, Debby being the latest and most consummate damsel in distress. Everything that happened to her was an emergency. Everything that didn’t happen to her didn’t register. And there he’d been, Sucker in Shining Armor, trying over and over to rescue and protect her from the big bad world. Only after she’d used him up did he really understand that she didn’t want to be rescued. Without her distress Debby would become merely another damsel—her biggest fear.
“Are your parents still together?” Darcy asked.
“Yes. Still living the perfect country club life in River Hills, where I grew up.”
“And here you are slumming in Whitefish Bay.”
“Guilty as charged.” He sent her a rueful smile. “I did make it to L.A. for college, so I haven’t been an East Sider all my life. Only a mere eighty-five percent.”
“Tiny fraction.” She turned toward the lake while they let Dylan sniff again; the breeze blew back her hair; her face was pale and serene in the light from the streetlamps. She looked like an ivory statue of a goddess.
This time Troy responded to his instinct, turned her toward him, pressed his lips to her temple, then reached lower and found her surprised mouth, cool from the night air.
She exhaled when he drew back. “What was that for?”
“The hell of it.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her again, as lingeringly as he dared. “And because you are too beautiful not to touch. It would be a complete waste of my time keeping my hands to myself.”
She made a scornful noise, but had to hide a smile. He released her and kept walking, following Dylan’s insistent tug, trying to hide how deeply her kisses rattled him. Nearly as much as her recent openness, so different from the last time they were together, when she wouldn’t even tell him her name. Troy was daring to hope, a dangerous pastime. He was in this too deep already. Hell, he’d been in too deep the second they made eye contact at Esmee Restaurant.
Silence stretched; they turned left on the next street. Troy waited, full of questions, but hoping she’d start asking this time so she wouldn’t feel under interrogation.
Twenty seconds later, his patience was rewarded. “Who turned you onto arak?”
“My friend Chad. His mother is Lebanese. He also recommended Esmee.”
“Where do you know him from?”
“High school friend. Got me the job at SoftCare, Inc., where he works in sales. We also compete in triathlons together a few times a year.”
“Ah.” She flashed him a flirty grin, visible under a streetlight. “That explains the flawless bod.”
“Thanks.” He barely managed to hide the charge he got out of her compliment. “What explains yours?”
“Ha!” She laughed. “Not even close. But thank you.”
“You’re no judge.” He nudged her with his shoulder; their fingers bumped again. He did take her hand that time, for a few steps, then squeezed and released before she could balk and pull away herself. She moved off for a few steps, then came back, which made him absurdly happy.
“What is SoftCare about?”
“We provide care management software to client companies that have to keep track of patients.”
“Which means…”
“Which means really sick people can have all their information in one place and a nurse care manager coordinates all the medical care, works with the families, et cetera.”
“You do what there?”
“I’m the IT director. I manage the technical stuff in-house to make sure the company runs smoothly. I help the sales force make recommendations to potential clients.”
“And you wrote a book.”
“Justin wrote the book. I did the geek stuff, the online interactive part. People read the chapter either in book form or online, then work with the hands-on demos to learn how to maintain and get full use from their PCs, troubleshoot when things go wrong and so on.”
“Sounds brilliant.” She bent to pet Dylan, who’d crossed to sniff something near her feet. “If the book takes off, will you quit your job?”
“Only if I have something satisfying to do instead. Volunteer work, maybe. I’d love to teach basketball, maybe mentor kids, get them turned onto fitness in some form. Maybe get certified to counsel drug and alcohol addicts. Probably in some sense an attempt to make up for not being able to help my brother, Tom.”
She looked up, her face soft with sympathy. “That’s an honorable goal.”
Troy shrugged, trying to hide his pleasure at Darcy’s admiration, and trying not to feel envious of Dylan with her hands all over him. That had to be a new low, wishing he was a dog. “Tell me about Gladiolas.”
“Most of the time it’s hell. But it’s my hell, and I signed on for it, so I suppose I love it.”
“You suppose…?”
“I do.” She sighed, straightening to continue their pace. “It’s everything I’ve wanted and worked for. It got me sober, gave me something to live for. The hard part is realizing most restaurants don’t survive, and trying not to look at this as my only shot.”
He nodded. Similar to how he felt about her, even though it was ridiculously soon after he met her to be having those worries. “But Gladiolas is doing really well.”
“So far. But…stuff happens.”
He glanced at her. Her mouth had set into a tight line again. His instinct prodded him. There was more there. “Like what, for instance?”
“Like some jerk you fired gets back at you by opening a nearly identical restaurant in the same town.”
“Oh, nice.” The pain in her voice made him want to find whoever this guy was and punch him out. “Is this a done deal?”
“He’s opening at end of the month. Got a wealthy investor, ideal location.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.” She pushed her hair back with both hands, then let it fall. He felt she needed more from him, but he had nothing to give. He’d learned with Debby that if he tried to solve a partner’s problems, he only ended up responsible for issues that weren’t his to fix, and she ended up incapable of acting on her own behalf.
“Tell me how you got into cooking.”
“Mom was a terrible cook, so I did most of the food in our house. I always loved it. Seemed natural to get a job in a kitchen as soon as I could work. The chef took me under his wing, got me to stop self-destructive behavior and sent me on the straight and narrow.”
“Drinking.”
She nodded. “Chip off the old block. I was able to stop the abuse without giving it up. My sister Brit is in recovery, has been for nearly a decade.”
“Good for her.” He slowed their pace. She wasn’t only talking, she was pouring out her life. The contrast with the other night was stark. Did she just need anyone to listen, or had she decided to trust him? He didn’t think she’d tell him all this if she was never planning to see him again. The thought made him want to jump around like a kid.