Читать книгу The Dare Collection 2018 - Taryn Leigh Taylor - Страница 15

MAYA SET OFF that night with a whole lot more trepidation than she intended to let show.

The ancient stairs littering the village—so charming and picturesque by day—were a lot more difficult to navigate in heels. Still, she forced herself to do it. Very, very carefully. She’d slicked herself into a little black dress, put on her most delicate pair of heels and settled a luxurious cashmere wrap in a deep rose around her like a cape. It was more than enough to combat the cool December night.

It did not, however, do much for her nerves.

She made her way down the stairs to the piazza again—a lot more slowly than she had before, thanks to her heels—heading for the gleaming bar she’d seen in the grand hotel where she’d taken yoga that morning.

The stairs were steep and far more treacherous on a cold night, especially given the shoes she’d chosen to wear, but it was amazing how righteous indignation fueled her. It kept her moving when she might have turned around. It burned right over the snap of the cold air, the uneven stairs and the fact she could be tucked up in her lovely suite with a paperback right this minute instead of out here...“rolling around the village,” as Charlie had called it.

She did not want to think about Charlie the handyman, and so, of course, he was all she could think about. He could go straight to hell. She would like to send him there herself, in fact. Every time she thought about the way he’d pinned her there against the wall, then worse, made her beg...

Well.

Her body responded instantly and enthusiastically to even a hint of that memory, but Maya was still furious.

She had stormed away from him again, expecting that at any moment she would feel those beautifully weathered hands of his on her again. But he hadn’t followed her. When she’d looked over her shoulder at the top of the next flight of stairs, there was nothing below her but shadows.

And she had told herself that she was grateful for that—not disappointed or, even worse, hurt—all the way back up the hill to the hotel.

Maya had been so grateful, in fact, that she had stewed on it for hours, while her own flesh seemed to conspire against her. She was too overheated. Too needy. She wanted all the dirty, delicious things she knew he could do to her—and she had no idea how to handle wanting like that. She’d always enjoyed sex, vanilla or otherwise. Who wouldn’t enjoy sex? Orgasms were always a delight. But she’d never hungered for a man’s touch, so wildly and deeply and insistently that she thought she might actually make herself sick if she couldn’t touch him again.

You need to snap out of this, she’d lectured herself. Repeatedly. This is all misplaced emotion. These are feelings you have for Ethan, focused on Charlie because he’s here. That’s all.

She was sure that must be true. Even if she’d never thought about sex and Ethan in these terms. She’d never thought something might happen to her if he didn’t touch her. She’d never felt as if she was at war with her body—as if it had its own needs and desires, regardless of what she wanted.

Still, it didn’t make sense that she should feel this much—or anything—for a stranger she happened to have slept with repeatedly, so she told herself it was the situation. Not him.

And the best way to make certain that was true, the way it should have been, was to do precisely what she’d told him she would. To do what she’d meant to do all along and explore her options, not settle on one man and create whole worlds around him the way it seemed she always did.

She had never allowed herself to enjoy being single. Surely it was high time she took advantage of the fact she was entirely without ties or, here in Italy, responsibilities of any kind.

When she got down to the piazza, she took her time walking across it, breathing in the crisp night air. The Christmas lights gleamed brightly and happily, transforming the square where she’d sat earlier. In the thick, enveloping dark with its suggestion of fog from the water, the lights shined like cheer. Hope.

All that sparkle soothed her as she made her way across the square and ducked into the grand hotel. The hotel was one of the Amalfi coast’s most famous and beloved locations, splashed across postcards featuring glamorous people from way back when. It was known for its luxurious summers, but even here at the end of the year it was special.

Maya slowed as she walked into the grand, soaring lobby, featuring a selection of evergreens in its center, roped with lights and gold and silver balls—far more impressive tonight, set against the dark backdrop of the windows over the ocean, than they’d seemed this morning. Pretty music played from on high and everything smelled deep green and faintly like cinnamon.

The fact that she was here in December and that Christmas was coming hit her harder than it had before.

So hard she was tempted to go a bit wobbly.

Everybody feels lonely at the holidays, she told herself crisply as she skirted the massive trees and headed for the bar. She wasn’t lonely. She was on her own. They weren’t the same thing.

Maya intended to illustrate the difference to herself tonight.

She’d spent most of the day psyching herself up for this. According to every man she’d ever met, any woman could walk into any bar anywhere on the planet and find a man to have sex with her.

Maya planned to put that theory to the test.

Because as the hours after her hot, humiliating episode with Charlie had inched past, Maya had grown more and more disgusted by her own behavior.

Not that she’d had sex with Charlie in the first place, because of course she couldn’t regret that. That had been the correct impulse, she’d decided. She’d felt something like victorious that she’d stepped off the plane and found him so quickly. No one could claim that she was broken if she was already tearing up the sheets with someone else. No one could possibly think that she was mooning around after Ethan if she was having explosive, impossibly good sex with a man who could eat the likes of Ethan for breakfast.

And, sure, she had some concerns about how broken her heart wasn’t and how easy it was to imagine a life without the man she was supposed to have just started a whole new life with...

But today she’d understood, with an uncomfortable level of clarity, that she had thrown herself into the Charlie thing not just because he was the most beautiful man she’d ever met—and not simply because she had no idea sex could be a driving compulsion instead of a pleasant pastime until him—but because she had been keeping a mental scorecard.

The trouble with that was, she was the only one playing.

Her conversation with Lorraine had brought that home. Had she expected that Lorraine might fall all over herself to assure Maya that it had all been a mistake? Had she called so that when Lorraine told her to come back—when Lorraine told her that she’d ended things with Ethan now that the horror of the wedding day and life without Maya had shown her the error of her ways—Maya could swan back to her old life? Had she imagined that Charlie could be her tit for tat when she took up her carefully plotted-out life with Ethan again?

Was that why she hadn’t really grieved the loss of that life?

She wanted to deny that she had ever thought such a thing, because she didn’t want to be the kind of woman who would ever consider taking back a man who had cheated and humiliated her, no matter what, but there was something in her gut that told her otherwise.

Maya walked into the bar, all dimly lit reds and golden wood, and smiled sweetly at the bartender as she ordered herself a vodka martini. The first sip went down crisp and good, hitting her belly and warming her up from the inside out.

Kind of the way Charlie did—but she wasn’t going to obsess about him tonight. Charlie was entirely too dangerous for the likes of her, anyway. A fling with a man like Charlie was one thing, but she hadn’t taken her own honeymoon in defiance of literally everyone she knew to tangle herself up with some other man. She could already hear the heavy sighs from her sister if she were to admit to such a thing when she got home. She knew perfectly well how Melinda would view a holiday fling with a lethal-eyed American she suspected had a less than perfectly legal background, if those functional tattoos of his were as Sons of Anarchy as she imagined.

On the other hand, if Maya were to use the weeks she had left to give herself the kind of Christmas gift all the magazines she pretended not to read—unless she was in a doctor’s office—told her she should want to give to herself.

No-strings sex. With as many men as took her fancy. Because she was a third-wave feminist and sex positive and whatever else she was supposed to be these days. The truth was, she’d never had time to while away her days worrying too much about her love life.

Maya had always focused on one man at a time, because how could she be expected to juggle all her work and school commitments and date a variety of them? She’d had two boyfriends in college. Another for most of law school. And then Ethan. She felt confident she knew everything there was to know about the particular joys of sex with intimacy, inside the bounds of a committed relationship.

At some point today, it had occurred to her that dumping all her feelings on Charlie was a knee-jerk reaction based on those experiences. Emotion was something people in intimate, committed relationships did—it was the point, she’d always thought—but this trip wasn’t about that.

This was her time to do things she hadn’t done with her newfound independence. And the one thing she’d never done was joyfully and deliberately slept around. By choice and design.

If the debacle with Lorraine and Ethan had taught her anything, it was that she needed to take a step back from intimacy and commitment and focus a little more on honesty, excellent sex and her own damned self.

And that meant she was going to have to learn how to pick up men in bars.

A fancy hotel bar in a faraway Italian hotel in the middle of the off-season, festooned with Christmas lights and featuring a suggested dress code at the door, seemed like the perfect place to practice.

After all, Maya had a certain stature back in Toronto. If she was going to start going out on the prowl—as Lorraine had always called it, she thought with a wince—she would have to figure out how best to do that in ways that could never come back to haunt her in the light. She would have to learn how not to embarrass herself or, worse, her firm. Or worst of all, her family. That meant she had to be careful how she went about things and certainly couldn’t use one of those dating apps. The very thought made her shudder.

This would have to be her new normal.

She swirled her drink in her hand, letting her gaze move around the dimly lit space. How hard could it be? She’d never propositioned a man before in her life, but she’d done that already this vacation, too. Charlie hadn’t been wrong. She was the one who had started things between them. She was the one—

If all you’re going to do is sit here thinking about Charlie, you’re defeating the purpose, she snapped at herself.

She applied herself to the task the way she would with any other project. She’d overheard her colleagues talking about how, when they went out to bars, apparently all they had to do was set foot inside and they were besieged by all kinds of men. “Beating them off with a stick” was the phrase she’d heard, more than once.

Maya swiveled around on the bar stool, waiting for the siege. Assuming a little encouragement wouldn’t go amiss, she smiled anytime she caught a man’s eye when he wasn’t sitting with a woman or a family. There was that one in the corner who was fiddling with his drink in a way she liked, his eyes hooded and his lips full as he looked back at her, like every Italian fantasy she’d ever had without realizing it. There was the older gentlemen at a nearby table, exuding a distinguished, authoritative air, who kept pausing in his conversation with two other far more portly and even older men to look at Maya appreciatively. And yet one more, entirely too young for her, who was nonetheless offering her a cheeky, suggestive grin from farther down the length of the bar.

Was it that easy? Did she simply...choose one? Because if it was that simple, it suggested to her that she’d simply failed to notice male interest for most of her life. Not, of course, that interest led to sex—but maybe that was the point all the men she’d known had been making. If she wanted it to turn from eye contact into sex, it could. And wasn’t that revolutionary?

She ordered herself a second drink and wondered why the drinks and her realizations didn’t make her feel more...buoyant inside. Why the thought of doing whatever she had to do to transform one of those smiles or heated glances into more filled her with something too much like sadness.

But she was not going to sit here mooning over Charlie any longer. She was not.

Maya squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and started to turn in her seat again to make a choice and get the ball rolling—no pun intended—when a hard hand came down on the nape of her neck.

Then held her there.

With a certain gentle implacability that should have infuriated her but instead made her melt. Everywhere.

“I wouldn’t do it if I were you.” Charlie’s drawl was low and laced with a fire that swept through her, lighting her up like one of those Christmas trees. “The pouty one in the corner is Alessandro. Known con artist. He prefers rich, bored housewives to play with in the summertime, but he’ll take anyone this time of year. On the very off chance he could make you come at all, he’d fleece you on the way out.”

Maya tried to turn to glare at him, but he wouldn’t let her. His hand kept her in place—unless she wanted to make another scene—and she felt the heat of him in the moment before she felt him behind her, not quite pressing into her. There was no mirror behind the bar, only polished wood, and she gritted her teeth, wondering how a man she’d never seen in anything but battered jeans and maybe a T-shirt had wandered in past the prissy hostess out front.

“The old man is an expat from somewhere cold. Denmark. Norway. One of those. The wife stays behind in Rome collecting pretty young boys to call her own, but he likes it here, where he can relax. Rumor is he’s a kinky motherfucker, so maybe you’d like that as part of your downward spiral. Though you don’t really strike me as the golden-shower type.”

Maya stiffened and then hated herself for it, because of course he could feel it. “I don’t remember asking you for consultation,” she managed to say.

“And the kid would be energetic, I’ll give you that.” Charlie sounded amused, though the grip he kept on her neck suggested otherwise. “I doubt he’ll last that long, but the upside is he’d be ready to go again pretty quick.”

“Lucky for you, then, that you’re not planning to sleep with any of them.”

Charlie’s hand tightened at her neck, and her curse was that she liked it.

“Are you planning to sleep with them, Maya? Or are you looking for a cheap, petty revenge fuck because you’re pissed at me?”

“I beg your pardon. That sounds like you’re talking about feelings, which I was under the distinct impression was forbidden.”

“Here’s the thing, babe.”

He spun her stool around, and it couldn’t have taken more than a second or two, but that was ample time for Maya to reflect on the fact that she didn’t find that word—babe—as offensive as she should have. As she would have if anyone else had called her something like that. Not the way he said it.

But then he was in front of her, and her heart kicked at her. He was dressed in a dark, impossibly well-fitting suit that did uncomfortable things to her body while it made a symphony out of his. It was obviously bespoke, tailored to his every muscle and sinew, making his rough power elegant. A different kind of raw.

His hard, gorgeous face was grave as he stared down at her. Those blue eyes of his, on the other hand, blazed.

And in case that possessive grip on the back of her neck had failed to announce to the entire bar that he was claiming her, he made it worse by stepping too close and wedging himself between her knees.

“Step back,” she hissed at him, aware that if she moved too much—or at all—her dress would roll too far up her thighs and expose her to the entire bar.

She could tell that he knew it, too.

“Here’s the thing,” he said again, that blaze in his eyes like a terrible fire deep inside her. “I don’t feel like sharing you.”

Her stomach flipped over, then dripped like fire deep into her pussy. But it was more than that. His words rolled through her, changing her and ruining her in one fell swoop.

Because the truth was, she didn’t want a random man in a bar. She wanted him. But surely there was something wrong with her for that. Surely she should want to prowl, totting up her numbers and having healthy, no-strings sex with as many men as possible, the way she kept reading women her age were meant to do.

She scowled at him. “You don’t get to decide. I’m not a possession.”

“Maybe not.” Charlie shrugged. “But I’m possessive.”

“Really.” She didn’t believe him. Or maybe she wanted to believe him a little too much. “Is that a thing you do? You have sex and then get all possessive? Does that happen a lot?”

He did something that made his eyes glitter even more and sent something like chills shuddering down her back. Except she wasn’t the least bit cold.

“I’m not generally a possessive guy when it comes to women,” he said after a moment, his voice gruff. And she had the distinct impression he was as overwhelmed and furious about it as she was. But no—that was a story she was telling herself. That was what she wanted to see, not what was real. “But for you, I’m willing to make an exception.”

“Lucky me.” She held his gaze and tried to look like the sexually liberated woman she should have been but never had been. “But I think I’ll pass.”

She wanted to sweep off somewhere—possibly to the washroom to have a cry—but she couldn’t move without exposing herself to the whole bar. And he settled into his stance, even widening it a little. Effectively trapping her.

He didn’t have to say a word. He just...kept her right there, her pulse a disaster and that blazing fire too hot and wild inside her.

“You can go straight to hell,” she threw at him.

“I can guarantee you I will,” Charlie said. There was a different note in his voice then, tangled through with what she might have called sorrow or self-disgust, if he’d been someone else. “But we’re not debating what’s going to happen to me when I’m gone. We’re debating what you’re going do with that tight little pussy while you’re here.”

Maya should have been appalled that he was speaking to her like that. That he was using such vulgar words. And she was horrified, certainly—but at herself.

She made herself look all the way up the acres of his chest, despite the fact he was dressed like a captain of industry instead of a handyman, which should have confused her more than it did. “I have no intention of entering into another relationship, though I’m sure you wouldn’t use that word. And if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be with you.”

“Sure.” His crooked grin was much too smug. “That’s why, every time you see me, you get so wet.”

“That was before you threw me up against a wall in the middle of the village.”

His grin got even cockier. “You were soaking wet then. I bet you are now, too. Should we check?”

Her breath shuddered through her. Out of her. He was electrifying—because he wasn’t anything like the men she knew, all of them as worried about public perception as she’d been. Charlie wasn’t like them. He wasn’t like her.

Maya had absolutely no doubt that if he wanted to, he would go right ahead and get his hands on her—right here in this high-class bar—in a way that would get them both arrested.

And the craziest part was she didn’t think she’d do a single thing to stop him.

“Charlie...” she managed, breathing out his name like it was a prayer.

His blue eyes were so bright they hurt. She held her breath.

“There you are,” came a plummy, rich voice that hailed from the British Isles. “I thought you’d run for the hills after that tedious exercise.”

Maya blinked, confused. An expression she couldn’t read crossed over Charlie’s face. He muttered something she couldn’t hear, so there was no reason it should pierce the wall of her chest and make her heart ache.

The same way she ached when he stepped back to a respectable distance.

“So sorry to butt in,” the man standing there beside Charlie said in the same merry way. “Your man raced off after yet another disgracefully boring business-owner’s dinner and I confess I followed, grateful to get away. I have no idea why they insist on boring us to death, as if the taxes aren’t sufficient to that purpose.”

Maya gaped up at the man, dressed in another gloriously bespoke suit that whispered of the kind of wealth and consequence that could afford that level of artisanal tailor. Exactly as Charlie’s did.

Something kicked in her at that. Something she didn’t want to face.

“I beg your pardon,” the round-faced British man continued, smiling down at Maya. “I’m Sebastian Fawkes-Morton, owner and proprietor of a far more modest establishment than the glorious hotel our Charlie owns. What I would give for his view!”

Maya stared up at Charlie, pieces she hadn’t wanted to put together slamming into place. His presence here, dressed like that. His total unconcern about his job. His nonchalance about ordering food into a guest’s room where he’d been lounging about half-naked.

As she gazed at him, he watched her, his expression daring her to get it. To make the logical connection.

“Hold on a moment,” she heard herself say from very, very far away. As if she was trapped in another dressing room, hair and makeup exquisitely prepared for another wedding that would never take place. “The hotel. You own it?”

Charlie’s eyes had never been so blue. Beside him, the man let out a whoop and surely risked death by pounding Charlie on the back.

“This is one of the long-lost St. George sons, my dear!” he crowed, putting the final nail into the situation. It felt like he was hammering it directly into Maya’s head. Because everyone knew about the late Daniel St. George and the hotels—and wealth—he’d left to the sons he’d never met. The kind of wealth that made it deeply, breathtakingly humiliating that she’d ever believed Charlie was any kind of handyman. “That hotel is his birthright!”