Читать книгу Minute by Minute - Jo Leigh - Страница 11

“OH, ALEX. IT’S…”

He grinned as he drove their cart to a clearing that overlooked their beach, one he’d scoped out before she’d gotten there. Her reaction was exactly how he’d pictured it. Better. Her hand had gone to her chest—flat palm just under the sweet spot on her neck. It was a nice hand. No jewelry. Her short nails were neat and painted the palest pink.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, scanning the magnificent vista.

“Wait till you see inside.”

She turned to him again. “You were thinking about relocating?”

“View now. Questions later.”

“Promise?” she said.

“There’s a phone but you don’t have to use it. There’s no TV. And I don’t think we can fill five whole days with scuba diving, so yeah. I promise.”

“I plan to be unbelievably intrusive. Rudely so,” she said.

“As long as we’re talking quid pro quo,” he said, thinking of all kinds of questions he’d like to ask her.

“Hmm.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” he asked.

She put her hand on his arm. “You must stop that immediately.”

“What?”

“Asking me about the worst that can happen. I know it works for you. You say it, and in your head, the worst can’t possibly happen, because you’ve said the magic words. But they’re not magic for me. I do think about the worst, and I don’t just go for a quick visit. I linger. I buy new drapes.”

“Okay. Consider it done.” He’d never thought about that phrase, although he knew he used it often. For him, it was a pressure release. More of a saying than a practice. But clearly, for Meg it meant a lot more.

“Really?” she asked, her brows raising in surprise.

He nodded. “The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable, and that’s the truth, too.”

She laughed.

“Now what?” he said.

“What I just said. What you just said.”

“That was funny?” Alex asked, sounding surprised.

“No. I don’t do that,” Meg stated.

“Talk?”

“No. Put it out there. Not until I know someone really well, and most of the time not even then. But we’ve been together for two hours, and I said what I meant. And,” she said, leaning toward him, widening those beautiful eyes, “nothing horrible happened.”

He looked at her so long he almost crashed into a palm tree. But once they were steady on the path again, he nodded. “You know what?”

“What?” she asked.

“This is gonna be interesting.”

THE BUNGALOW WAS something out of a dream. Thatched roof, wooden steps leading up to a balcony. The ocean as pure and clear as if it had just been made.

With the scented breeze nudging her hair, teasing her skin, she let Alex tackle her big suitcase while she grabbed her small one. Her sandals clicked on the boardwalk as she stared down into the water, watching a little something dart behind a slightly bigger something.

When she stepped up onto the balcony, she was torn between seeing what treats lay inside and just standing there breathless with wonder.

It was the brush of his hand on the small of her back that made her decision, and after a shiver of sheer happiness, she went the rest of the way inside.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

His chuckle, rumbling, deep, was the perfect first sound in this perfect paradise. Shiny, geometric patterns of wood made up the floor and the walls. The staircase to the loft was made of thicker wood, like flattened tree branches. Windows opened to the ocean, to the white sand.

Then there was the bed. It was right out of a Humphrey Bogart movie, complete with white mosquito netting and lush white pillows on top of an obscenely thick comforter. The couch, a rattan affair with thick blue cushions, looked inviting and comfy, and everything, everything smelled of the sea.

“You like?” he asked.

She turned. Alex stood with his arms across his chest, like the inventor of the wheel. His dark brows lifted and his teasing lips blossomed into a full-out, take-no-prisoners grin. She couldn’t grin any harder herself. Her cheeks actually ached from the attempt. “It’s heaven.”

He rose up on the balls of his feet. “Damn straight.”

How could she resist? He couldn’t even stay on the ground, he was so pleased. She walked right up to him, looked into eyes that were dark blue, not brown, and touched his cheek with her fingertips. “It’s hard to believe it’s real.”

“Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s still New Year’s Eve and we’re still drunk.”

“That would explain so much,” Meg said, leaning in. And then her lips met his. Softly. Learning. Slightly parted.

His breath snuck inside, and it was sweet and a little minty. She felt his hand slip to her waist, but there was no pressure, just contact.

She moved closer, parting her lips. He followed her lead, not forcing anything. Until she licked his bottom lip. Then he pulled her tight against him, from breast to thigh, and the kiss went from sweet to hot in one blazing second.

Meg froze. Just…froze.

Alex, to his credit, backed off immediately. Even more to his credit, he didn’t seem the least freaked that she’d freaked. He smiled, tilted his head to the right, but he only said, “Why don’t you get unpacked? Check out the room, and don’t forget to look at the guest services book. Remember,” he added pointedly, “anything you want, anytime you want it.”

“Thanks, Alex,” she said. She went to her big suitcase and hauled it up to the bed. “Where will you be?”

He gestured upstairs. “Figured I’d put on some trunks. Get ready for some fun on the beach. Come back down when you’re done.”

She watched him walk up the wooden staircase, her gaze moving down from his shoulders to his waist, to his long legs. As soon as he disappeared, she sat down with a whuff.

The kiss had gobsmacked her in a major way. A normal person would have been pleased. Would have wanted more. Would have shouted yippee from the roof. But no. Not her.

It hadn’t been that long, had it? She’d gone out just last…

Spring.

God, she was such an incredible loser. Instead of finding herself a nice, hunky guy to share her bed, what did she do? Slept with a three-legged Labrador retriever and a blind cat. Yeah. That was healthy.

The good news was she still had time to get her act together. Alex didn’t seem upset, or even that surprised, which worked in her favor. The bad news was, what the hell was her problem?

She stood and unzipped her suitcase, amused at how much she’d packed. She could have fit the necessary clothing in her overnight case. She wouldn’t be needing her jeans, or much of anything but her bathing suits and sundresses.

It made putting things away a lot easier. All her makeup, which she didn’t even think she’d use, was in one case. Her hairbrush and dryer, another. And then there was the large, economy box of condoms she’d picked up in a haze of optimism.

Time. That’s all she needed. Time to feel as if the man in the bungalow was the same man she liked so much. That she knew so well.

That knew her.

Holy crap, she’d told him so much about herself.

She felt her cheeks fill with heat. They hadn’t actually had cyber sex. Not really. But the man definitely had a starring role in a lot of her fantasies.

Which they’d discussed. In detail.

Not him, per se, but the fantasies? Oh, yeah.

She knew he liked things intense. That he preferred women who gave as good as they got. That he was a very oral kind of guy. And that he had a thing for white panties.

He knew that her tastes weren’t exactly vanilla.

She looked at the box of condoms. She should have wished for courage at that fountain.

ALEX SPLASHED MORE WATER on his face, then leaned on his arms while he dripped into the sink.

He was in trouble. The kind that reminded him of what it had been like to be seventeen. It had sucked. He’d had no control over his dick, he’d been tongue-tied and stupid, and he’d stuttered when he was around women. Make that any woman. Except his mother and his aunt Esther. Theoretically, he’d outgrown that stage of development.

He raised his gaze to the beveled mirror. He wasn’t a kid anymore, not by a long shot. He was a professional. Maybe that should be ex-professional, but still. He’d won prizes. So why was he feeling like…Like he was seventeen again?

He was pretty damn sure he hadn’t been a jerk with her. Yeah, he’d kissed her, but she started it.

Oh, yeah. Mature. That was him all over.

They had five days. Five days to talk, to let her feel comfortable with him, to get to know each other. But damn, he wanted her.

She knew things about him that he’d never told anyone. Not even Ellen. And he’d been in love with Ellen. At least, he used to think so.

Now, he wasn’t sure. About Ellen, about his work, about his whole goddamn life. What he was sure about was this. Bringing Meg here. Getting away from everything that screwed with both their heads.

And he’d do whatever it took to make sure that it went perfectly. Even if that meant he’d have to suffer.

He laughed at himself. Loudly. Suffer? Please. He was in paradise with a gorgeous woman who got his jokes. Even if they never…

Ah, bullshit. She wanted him. She just didn’t know it yet.

“What’s so funny?” she asked softly.

He turned, and there she was. He hadn’t even heard her come upstairs. She’d pulled her glorious mane back into a loose ponytail, which made her look, however improbably, more beautiful. She had this flimsy little scarf thing on that couldn’t hide the itsy-bitsy bikini underneath.

Seventeen was generous. He was all the way back at the first day of puberty. “What?”

“You were laughing. I heard you down the stairs.”

“Remembering an old joke,” he said, lame as that was.

“I’d like to hear it,” she persisted.

“You’re too young, and we need to go to the beach,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

“A moral imperative?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Then I suggest you get out of those jeans,” she teased.

Alex blinked. Then kicked the bathroom door shut.

MEG LOOKED AROUND the loft, searching for clues. She ran her hand down her thigh as she wandered to his bed. Actually, the bedside table. There was a book there, facedown, and she had to pick it up, see what he was reading. Up Country by Nelson DeMille. She liked DeMille, but she hadn’t known Alex did.

What she did know was his taste in music. Jazz. Obscure jazz, on vinyl, to be precise. It was how they’d met.

Next to the book was a portable CD player, and when she flipped it open, she smiled. Art Tatum. She had this exact LP, and they’d listened to it together, him in D.C., her in L.A., while they’d typed to each other.

Her father had been a collector. He’d loved the big bands. There were rare days, days when he was actually home, that she’d walk into the living room to find the music blaring on their ancient hi-fi, and her parents doing the Lindy Hop, with wide, bright smiles on their faces.

She’d first learned to dance by standing on her father’s shoes as he’d moved her around the room. Jazz had been her childhood soundtrack, and hearing certain songs, even now, brought her right back to the moments, large and small, of growing up with her slightly nutty folks.

After her father died, leaving her his practice, she’d gone back to that old love. She’d searched for others who shared the passion. That’s where she’d first run into Alex. In a chat room for jazz fans.

He was a collector also, and at first, their conversations had been exclusively jazz-centric. He wasn’t so much into the big bands as he was the singers. Billie Holiday. Cab Calloway. But they’d understood each other, right from the get-go. They had this shared language, which made the conversations flow.

Then they started chatting about other things. He lived such an interesting life. As a columnist for the Washington Post, he was at the cutting edge of politics, and damn, he wasn’t afraid to say what he felt. That was one of the things she liked most about him. She never had to wonder.

Her life seemed so mundane in comparison, but he always wanted to hear her stories. Her practice was more like the veterinarians of old, or at least of small towns. She treated everything from hamsters to llamas. On her mountain, an enclave of ex-hippies and old coots, there was every kind of creature, and she was the only vet. The only one they trusted, at least. Because her beloved father had trusted her, and that was sacrosanct.

She checked Alex’s bathroom door. It was still shut, and she wondered what the hell was taking him so long. All he had to do was put on some trunks. Then she turned back, wondering if she dared open the drawer. It was a pretty nosy thing to do. She wouldn’t care for it one bit if he invaded her space like that. But then, she’d never said she was fair.

She did it. She opened the drawer really carefully, even knowing the door behind her could open the next second. And she burst out laughing.

Condoms. The exact same brand that she’d put in the exact same drawer next to her bed.

She covered her mouth to muffle the sound when the door opened behind her. Spinning around, she shoved the drawer closed with her hip and tried to look innocent.

“What?” he asked.

“What?” she asked back.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m just warm.”

He walked toward her slowly, studying her far too intently. “I think your nose just grew, Pinocchio.”

“I was snooping. Are you happy now?”

He nodded, but his scrutiny didn’t end. “And what did you learn?”

“That you like DeMille. And Tatum.”

“Art or O’Neil?”

She laughed, moving away from the drawer. “How about that walk on the beach?”

He smiled back, and although they’d only met that afternoon, she knew without a doubt that he knew she’d peeked in the drawer. Which was only fair, she supposed.

“Did you remember your sunscreen?”

“Yes, in fact, I did,” she said.

“Good. I wouldn’t want that beautiful nose to burn.”

Her fingers went to said nose in a moment of adolescent shyness.

He winked at her, and her hand moved from her nose to her tummy, which had gone all mushy. Then he led her down the stairs, through the bungalow, then onto the incredible white sand.

She hadn’t bothered with shoes, because, why? And the feel of the sand under her feet was unlike anything she’d experienced before. She was used to Southern California beaches, where the water was cold, the sand dirty, and you had to watch every step because you never knew where a pop top was hiding.

This was pristine and soft. The water was perfect, not as warm as the air, but not too chilly. “Oh, man, this is—”

“The farthest thing from Washington, D.C., I could think of.”

“No, I think that would be Antarctica, but hey, this works, too,” she said.

“You’re cute. Anybody ever tell you that?” Alex quipped.

“And yet, somehow, I can’t hear it enough.”

His grin was as warm as the sunshine as they wandered down the beach. There were birds in the distance, and although she couldn’t see them, she imagined exotic plumage and long beaks, all courtesy of the Discovery Channel and, in the distant past, her own studies. She should have been used to palm trees, but these were actual natives, not like the ones in L.A., and she had to fight back the urge to touch every one.

She turned to the other thing she wanted to touch, letting her gaze wander over his chest. Not perfect—no six-pack there—but it was nice. Strong. And so were the thighs beneath his blue trunks. “So why did you really do this?”

“Birthday present,” he said quickly.

“No, that was the excuse. What’s going on?” she asked.

He kicked some sand and increased the distance between them by a hair. “Things have been…interesting with work.”

“Interesting as in the old Chinese curse?”

He smiled, nodded. “I used to love waking up in the morning. Seriously. I couldn’t get enough. Nothing mattered except the work. This was even before the column, when I was learning the ropes at the Post. Everything was exciting and challenging, and I was on the side of the White Hats for truth, justice and the American way.”

“And now?”

“Haven’t you heard? Gray is the new white. And my hat’s become a bit tarnished.”

“Oh.” She tried to see his eyes, but he was assiduously studying the sand. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really,” he said.

“Is it just work? Or are things not peachy in your personal life, either?” she asked.

“What personal life?”

“Ah, that’s a tune I know by heart,” she said, sighing.

“Honey, you wrote the music.”

She stopped. It took him a minute to realize that she wasn’t next to him, but then he came back.

“We’ve chatted pretty much every night for eons, talked about everything from Nietzsche to your obsession with white panties, and this is the first time I’m hearing you’re unhappy with your work?” she said.

He shrugged.

“But your column is doing so well.”

He looked at her with such troubled eyes that she hardly knew what to do. “Let’s go swimming,” he suggested.

She reached to pull off her cover-up. “We didn’t bring towels.”

“Oh. Not good. You go on in. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He hesitated, and she wasn’t quite sure why. That look was still in his eyes, that combination of hope and despair that made her want to hold him. With a slight shake of his head, he turned back to the bungalow, jogging easily through the sand.

Just yesterday she’d told herself over and over that she knew this man. That she’d spent a year getting to know him. They’d shared secrets. Big ones. And she didn’t know something as huge as his unhappiness with his work?

What else didn’t she know?

She tossed her cover-up to the sand and walked into the surf. The waves brushed her legs and then her thighs. The water was a little chillier than she’d first thought, but nice. She lived an hour from the beach in L.A. and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in the ocean.

He was right. She had written the book on working too much. It had to stop, or she was going to lose it big time. The only problem was, she didn’t know how to stop it.

The first step was to stop thinking about it. To stop thinking altogether. And the best way to do that was to have oodles of hot, sweaty sex. Having seen Alex’s super pack o’ condoms, she surmised that he needed the exact same thing.

Anesthesia by orgasm.

It worked for her.