Читать книгу Indulge Me - Joanne Rock - Страница 11

DARCY POSITIVELY FLOATED through her house. She kept laughing for no reason, drifting into one room, looking around hardly seeing a thing, frowning, hands on her hips, then laughing again and tilting into another room, whirling in a circle as if she’d gone completely over the edge.

Maybe she had. No, she’d done something much better. Last night she’d achieved a state of total—okay, near total—confidence and had walked into the master bedroom, knowing “Garrett” was working at her window, able to see everything. And in spite of the fact that her hands were shaking a little and once in a while she could barely draw a breath, she’d shown him…everything.

Could the evening have been any more perfect? No, and no, and no again.

He’d been a wonderful lover. Not that she had so many to compare him to, but she couldn’t usually come the first time with someone and…wow. Well. She had. Almost twice, but the second one had surprised her so much she’d ruined it by paying too much attention. Like when you were about to sneeze, if you thought too hard about it, the urge stopped.

Not only a wonderful lover, he’d been sweet. Gentle. And when he looked deeply into her eyes and kissed her…

Well, never mind. This wasn’t about falling in love or wildly inappropriate degrees of emotionalism, considering she knew nothing about him except he was a painter. And very considerate. And handsome in a non-obvious way and sexy as hell and sort of familiar in that way strangers were sometimes.

After, in case he thought she was the kind of idiot who fell for every guy she slept with, she’d made sure not to act as clingy and vulnerable as she felt. Thank God, because he’d left the microsecond he could, as if he had rockets in his shoes. Obviously he didn’t consider last night the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Which was fine. What she wanted, actually. After the paint job was over she’d never see him again. The whole thing would be just as neat and tidy as she’d planned it.

She tried to dance into the dining room but her body didn’t feel much like dancing all of a sudden. Maybe she was feeling wistful over him because he was her virgin seduction and she’d always have a soft spot for the experience. And for him. Understandable, really, and not based on anything but him being her first fantasy-come-true. She’d been so sensible through her relationship with Greg and this had been so wild and—

No, not really that wild. Carnal, sure, but sweetly carnal if such a thing were possible. Tender almost. Lovely. He’d wanted to shower instead of hop on immediately and ride his way to oblivion. Consideration for her; she’d liked that a lot. Not to mention the smell of her favorite vanilla soap on his skin had been quite the aphrodisiac. But it was the look in his eyes and that odd déjà vu feeling that had really touched her in a deep place she—

Anyway, enough of that. She wanted to call Molly and find some way to trumpet her success without any told-you-so triumph since Garrett hadn’t turned out to be a diseased-stalker-serial-killer, but it was way too early, just after 6 a.m. Darcy was usually a late sleeper but adrenaline had woken her with the dawn this morning after a fitful sleep. She’d call Molly later, after Molly had gotten her kids to preschool and Bruce to work.

Right now Darcy had better remember she was still on planet earth and get busy. There were plenty of her family’s possessions to go through and get rid of before the house sold. Some had already been doled out to Dad’s relatives. The things Darcy wanted were moved into long-term storage, ready for her own place, wherever and whenever she chose to settle down.

An hour later she’d gone through her dad’s study, occasionally weepy, mostly stoic, and made piles—give away, sell, toss. She’d paused over a painting of a ship on Lake Michigan for quite a while. Derek Houston had painted it for Dad probably a quarter century ago. For decades Derek was their backyard neighbor over on 64th Street. He’d died some years ago, but his widow, Marjory, still lived there, or had last spring, last time Darcy had been around. Confidentially, Darcy hated the bright surreal colors and crooked lines, but she hated to give the painting away even more, since her dad had loved it so much. Derek’s widow should have it back.

She glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. Marjory would be up by now. When Darcy was a girl out of bed for school at six-thirty every morning, bleary-eyed and annoyed at the hour, she’d seen her neighbor drinking coffee in her yard, watching birds at her feeder even on the coldest mornings. Darcy could take the painting to her right now. One less thing to do later.

With the canvas carefully swaddled in enough bubble wrap to protect an empty robin’s egg, Darcy took the shortcut, pushing through the arbor vitae that Dad had planted ten years earlier at the back of the yard for privacy, now a thick tall row of sentry trees. The painting she lifted over the back fence then dropped gently to the ground, and followed with a quick climb over. A jump and she was in the Houstons’ yard, then on their driveway, remembering other climbs here to retrieve over enthusiastically tossed balls or Frisbees.

Marjory Houston had been wonderful when Dad was in bad shape before Darcy moved him to the hospice. She’d baked cookies to tempt his appetite when he started losing so much weight, offered to stay with him now and then so Darcy could get some relief. Darcy felt guilty that during the past year spent in Madison to be closer to Greg, she hadn’t visited or called to see if Marjory needed anything.

The last twelve months had been a strange combination of selfless and selfish. Selfless because she’d stayed to help Greg through the long painful struggle back to his old self, physically and mentally, even though she’d wanted out of the relationship. And selfish because she’d spent too much time in self-pity and resentment, and stopped nurturing friends and therefore herself.

She stepped up the brick steps of Marjory’s walkway, grinning at the stone lions pompously posed atop waist-high brick columns on either side, as if Marjory lived in Versailles and not a typical Midwestern bungalow. It would be good to see her. A slice of Darcy’s childhood, precious for still being around.

The doorbell echoed through the house. Was she home?

She was. Footsteps, then the door swung open and—

So did Darcy’s mouth.

“Hi.” He was obviously very surprised to see her, but not nearly as very surprised as she was to see him. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing here?”

He looked taken aback. “I live here.”

“You live here?”

“I think that’s what I just said.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. Somehow she’d forgotten that or hadn’t noticed and now she was even more flustered because it was extremely sexy.

“Where is Marjory?”

“Ah. Marjory.” His smile dimmed. “She had a stroke. We had to put her in an assisted-living facility.”

“Oh, no.” She hugged the painting to her, feeling even more guilty now for not keeping up with her neighbor and friend, staring at the last person she’d expected to see. Then something he said penetrated.

“You put her in an assisted-living facility?”

“I’m her great-nephew.” Then he stuck out his hand as if they hadn’t spent the previous night sweating and straining toward gigantic climaxes together, but were meeting for the first time.

“Tyler Houston.”

Oh, my Lord. Tyler Houston. Big brother of Katie, her erstwhile track teammate, and awkward little brother of Cameron Houston. Cam was every schoolgirl’s bad-boy dream come true; true to form, he’d met a wasteful and tragic end in early adulthood. No wonder Tyler had looked familiar. Trust Darcy to think that sense of déjà vu was some sign from the universe rather than the simple fact that she actually did know him. Vaguely anyway.

“I’m…” She took one hand away from the bubble-wrapped painting to shake his, and her perspiring skin made an embarrassing sucking-tearing sound as it separated from the plastic.

“Darcy Wolf.”

“Wow. Darcy Wolf.” He shook her hand, staring at her as if she were the big bad one. Then he dropped his arm and chuckled, but not as if something were funny in a good way.

She was pretty sure she knew what he was thinking. Both of them had gone into last night as a fantasy, the chance to leave behind their real identities and follow a powerful attraction to its passionate conclusion without baggage or expectations.

Now it turned out they had a shared past, more parallel than intertwined, but related certainly. There were many people Darcy didn’t want to find out that she’d stripped to seduce a workman at her house, and he would know a lot of them. In fact, Molly’s husband, Bruce, was a distant cousin of his.

She’d bet Tyler was about as happy to discover who she was as she was to discover who he was. Namely: not.

“Well.” She could feel herself blushing and stupidly clutched the painting harder as if she could cool her face that way. At least she’d told no-longer-Garrett that he was her first seduction, so he couldn’t tell anyone she probably made getting naked for strangers a habit. On the other hand, he might be enough of a gentleman not to tell anyone at all. That would be nice. “Tyler Houston. Imagine that. Ha.”

Her intense discomfort amused him apparently. Or something did. “Come on in. I don’t have to leave for your house for another fifteen minutes. The coffee’s still hot and I have a blueberry cake that should be finished.”

“Oh, you know…I just wanted to drop this off for Marjory.” She held out her ludicrously padded package, feeling a panicked need to run from this complete reconfiguration of her last twelve hours so she could think the new version through.

“It’s a painting. By Mr. Hous…uh, your great-uncle. I wanted Marjory to have it back.”

“Thanks.” He took the painting. “You don’t want to keep it? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh. Well.” She moved her hair back behind her shoulders, where it never wanted to stay, desperately trying to think of some reason not to keep the artwork other than loathing. “I’m just…I…Well, she should have it.”

He winked and she felt a little fizzy in response. “I didn’t like his work, either. But Aunt Marjory was proud of him. She’ll appreciate this, thank you.”

“My dad loved the painting. He hung it in his study, over his desk.”

“That’s nice to know.” His eyes warmed with sympathy and her fizz got fizzier. “I heard about your dad last year. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I miss him, but I’m glad he’s at peace now.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t figure out who you were. I assumed the house had been sold by now and that you were the new owner.”

“No. The old one.” She took a step back, frantic to escape. This was horrible. How did you have a polite catching-up conversation with someone as if you hadn’t seen him in years, when last night…

“Sure you won’t have coffee?”

“No. No. No, thanks.” She grimaced. Think she could say no a few more times?

“Okay.” His eyes cooled. “See you later.”

“Uh. I’m probably going to be out most of the day.”

“Right.” His lips scrunched into a line; he turned back into his house, lifting his hand. “Bye.”

Darcy nodded idiotically at the back of his head, then turned and fled up 64th Street, not feeling entitled to the shortcut anymore. She turned right on Clarke, south on 63rd, into her house and directly to her phone, desperately needing Molly.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“Hi, Molly. Um…I need to…Last night…”

“Uh-oh, crisis.” Molly sighed. “I had three already this morning. Can’t find favorite shirt, didn’t like breakfast, left shoes across the street at Ricky’s house.”

“Sorry, I know you’re swamped.”

“For you, I can handle it. Just don’t call me Mom or honey.”

“Deal.”

“So?”

Darcy wrinkled her nose and launched herself into furious back-and-forth pacing across the now-rugless hardwood floor in the living room. “Last night. You know that painter I told you about?”

“Uh-oh. You did it…or rather, you did him?”

“Yes.”

“And now begins the fallout. Won’t say I-told-you-so, but want to.”

“No, last night was fine. More than fine. Perfect. He was…”

She stopped pacing, unable to tell her best friend, whom she told absolutely everything, any details. “Well, it was perfect.”

“I’m getting the perfect part, but you’re not in crisis over that.”

“No. So. This morning, I go to Marjory Houston’s house to take back one of her husband’s paintings.”

“The hideous one from your dad’s study?”

“Yup. Only it’s not Marjory Houston at the house.”

“No, she’s at Royal Oaks.”

“Instead it’s…Well, it’s…”

“Tyler Houston lives there now.”

“Right. Him.”

“And?”

“Him, Molly. Him.”

Molly’s gasp came over the line loud and clear, followed by a giggle. “Oh. My. God. You seduced Tyler Houston?”

“Apparently.”

Molly of course only saw the humor in this disaster and helped herself to a good long belly laugh at Darcy’s expense.

“You didn’t recognize him?”

“Why would I? I only saw him a few times that I can remember, and that was over ten years ago. He’s at least five years older than me, and let’s face it, sort of invisible next to his brother.”

“But you can see him now, I take it.”

“He grew up.” She pictured him coming into her room naked except for the towel and then naked without the towel and couldn’t help a dreamy smile. If only he’d stayed Garrett. But even now, knowing he was Tyler didn’t change that last night was perfect.

“So what now? When are you going to see him next?”

“I’m not.” She started pacing again. “Obviously.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it was only an accident that he turned out to be a real person. While he was a fantasy, the entire experience was amazing.”

“Oh, give me a—”

“I’m serious.” She directed her pacing to the ugly brown couch by the front window and sprawled on it. “And I want more.”

“You just said you weren’t going to see him.”

“No. With someone else. A different fantasy. Last night was amazing, Molly. I felt so free and powerful. And sexy, like movie-star sexy. The most amazing high I’ve ever had. I want that again.”

“Okay, now you’re scaring me.”

“No. I’m telling you, it was incredible.”

“Yeah, I hear heroin gives a pretty good high, too. Doesn’t make it a good idea.”

“Honestly.” Darcy gave a boring beige throw pillow a good solid punch. “Do all people start parenting everyone they know after they have kids?”

“Only when they need it.”

“Molly…”

“You know, the more I think about it, you and Tyler could make a really good couple. He’s smart, funny, really sharp. He’ll be teaching at UWM next fall. Bruce admires him, and you know Bruce, he doesn’t suffer fools.”

“I know that about Bruce.”

“So why not? Is he interested? I mean, obviously he was last night. What guy wouldn’t be with your, er, charming offer on the table. But this morning?”

Darcy scrunched up her mouth. He had looked at her sort of eagerly now that she thought about it. He had invited her in for coffee. Her insides started to warm and soften. His eyes were such a gorgeous color. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, often both. They made her—

Wait, what was she thinking? “Whether or not he’s interested is beside the point. I’m not interested.”

“Why not? He’s a hell of a catch.”

“I’m leaving town in a few weeks. Why would I want to start something? The only thing I have room for is fun.”

“Right.” Molly made a characteristic scoffing sound and Darcy could picture her disapproving face as if she was in the room next to her. “So. Then, uh, tell me, what’s your next big fun?”

“Well…” She tipped her head to one side, wondering why Molly had asked the question so oddly. Maybe because she didn’t really want to know? But Darcy did. What other fantasy could she fulfill? Another of her favorites popped into her head as if it had been waiting impatiently for its turn. “Next I’m going to dress in a sexy, black-leather-mini outfit, stiletto heels, killer makeup and strut into a bar baring my bad-assed attitude for all the world to see.”

Molly made a choking sound. “I need antacids just listening to this.”

“Aw, c’mon. Haven’t you always wanted to be a hot confident babe-ola just for a little while?”

“No, for God’s sake, and you know why? Because I have a brain, that’s why. Fantasies are called fantasies for a reason, and that reason is this. Because. They’re. Not. Real.”

Darcy frowned. Not that she expected sensible, practical, anti-glamour Molly, who met Bruce in high school and never looked back, to jump up and down at her idea, but she sounded stretched extra thin and had the day before, too. “Hey, girl. Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

“No. Nothing is bothering me.”

Darcy let the silence hang. “Moll…”

Molly sighed. “Bruce.”

“Bruce…what?”

“He’s…started going to some personal trainer.” Her sentence accelerated like a sports car. “So what, suddenly he hates the fact that he’s getting old and fat when he’s been a work in progress for years and years?”

“Bruce is working out?” She tried to picture beefy jolly Bruce breaking a sweat over anything but a Packers game on TV. “Bruce?”

“He met this woman through his work, selling her the usual physical therapy equipment. She offers to train him, which she does on the side. He accepts. She’s young, stunning, looks like Angelina Jolie. I haven’t seen her, this is his description. He talks about her all the time, how great she is, how strong she is, how smart she is…”

“Molly, you’ve been married eight happy years. Bruce is not going to cheat on you. He adores you. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“It’s a fantasy, Darcy. Fantasies are powerful and they’re dangerous. I’m telling you this now, before you get hurt or hurt someone else.”

“This is an entirely different situation.”

“Right.”

Darcy drew down her brows and punched the couch again, torn between annoyance and sympathy. “I’m not out trying to tempt husbands. I just want to have some irresponsible self-indulgent fun for a change.”

“Okay, okay. Maybe I’m a little touchy on the subject.”

“I understand, I really do. And I would so not worry. Bruce looks at you like you could walk on Lake Michigan.”

“Thanks, Darce. I’ll try not to.” Molly took a deep breath.

“So…when are you going to do this hot-babe routine? What bar?”

Again the odd tone. Darcy frowned, not sure whether to call her on it or not, and decided not. “I hadn’t really thought that far in advance. But…let’s say Saturday. Starlight City. Ten o’clock.”

The second she set the date, place and time, everything felt right. She knew she was going to go through with it. She would put the post-fantasy awkwardness with Tyler behind her and march forward, guns blazing, use her newfound powers to reduce Milwaukee’s men to quivering mounds of needy testosterone.

“Blech. Starlight City? Total meat market.”

“Ya think?”

Molly groaned. “Just be careful. Use condoms. Take Mace and pepper spray and a whistle. Don’t take him to your house or go to his, find a motel, one of the cheap ones with thin walls so people can hear if you scream. And if you haven’t called by midnight Saturday, I’m calling 9-1-1.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Promise?”

She made sure Molly could hear her sigh of exasperation.

“Cross my heart and hope to get massively laid.”

“Ack! Dear God, I won’t live through this.”

Darcy giggled. “And, honey, really don’t worry about Bruce. He probably just got a wake-up call about his weight and possible health problems and is excited about taking care of himself.”

“I hope so, Darce.”

“I know so.”

She hung up the phone, allowed herself to be one hundred percent sure that Bruce would never cheat on Molly no matter how hot this personal trainer chick was, then grabbed her purse and headed for the garage. The painters would arrive soon, including tempting Tyler, and she was going to visit poor Marjory at Royal Oaks and then…

She had some über-hot black leather to buy.