“Something’s wrong, all right.” Another long pause. “What would you think about—” Meg’s pitch rose half an octave as she rushed through her words. “What would you think about me hooking up with Ted?”
Lucy shot up in bed, wide awake now, but not certain she’d heard right. “Hooking up? As in—?”
“Yes.”
“With Ted?”
“Your former fiancé.”
“I know who he is.” Lucy shoved back the sheet and dropped her legs over the side of the bed. “You and Ted are a … couple?”
“No! No, not a couple. Never. This is just about sex.” Meg was talking too fast. “And forget it. I’m not exactly thinking clearly right now. I should never have called. God, what was I thinking? This is a total betrayal of our friendship. I shouldn’t have—”
“No! No, I’m glad you called!” Lucy jumped up from the bed. Her heart was racing, her spirits soaring. “Oh, Meg, this is perfect. Every woman should have Ted Beaudine make love to her.”
“I don’t know about that, but— Really? You wouldn’t mind?”
“Are you kidding?” Lucy was dizzy, light-headed, giddy at this astonishing gift from the gods. “Do you know how guilty I still feel? If he sleeps with you … You’re my best friend. He’d be sleeping with my best friend! It’ll be like getting absolution from the pope!”
“You don’t have to sound so broken up about it,” Meg said dryly.
Lucy did a little hop skip over the shorts she’d abandoned on the floor.
And then in the background, she heard it. Ted’s voice, deep and steady. “Tell Lucy hello from me.”
“I’m not your messenger boy,” Meg snapped back.
Lucy swallowed hard. “Is he there right now?”
“That would be a yes,” Meg replied.
The old guilt washed over her. “Tell him hello from me then.” She sank back on the edge of the bed. “And that I’m sorry.”
Meg stopped talking directly into the phone, but Lucy had no trouble hearing her. “She said she’s having the time of her life, screwing every man she meets, and dumping you was the best move she ever made.”
Lucy jumped up. “I heard that. And he’ll know you’re lying. He knows things like that.”
Ted’s response to Meg’s fabrication was as clear as a bell. “Liar.”
“Go away,” Meg snarled at him. “You are totally creeping me out.”
Lucy clutched the phone. “Did you just tell Ted Beaudine that he was creeping you out?”
“I might have,” Meg said.
Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Lucy tried to pull herself together. “Wow … I sure didn’t see this coming.”
“See what coming?” Meg sounded annoyed. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” Lucy gulped. “Love you. And enjoy!” She hung up, jumped up, pressed the phone to her chest. And danced around the room.
Meg and Ted. Meg and Ted. Meg and Ted.
Of course.
Of course, of course, of course! Ted wasn’t a player. He didn’t sleep with women he wasn’t seriously attracted to. And he was attracted to Meg, Lucy’s screwball, screw-up best friend, who wandered the world without a plan and cared nothing about earning anyone’s good opinion.
Meg Koranda and Mr. Perfect. Her rough edges and his smooth surfaces. Her impulsiveness and his forethought. Both of them blessed with brains, loyalty, and gigantic hearts. It was a crazy, unpredictable match made in heaven, although from the sound of their conversation, neither of them seemed to realize it. Or at least Meg didn’t. With Ted, it was hard to tell.
Lucy had no trouble imagining the battles they were having. Meg blunt-spoken and confrontational; Ted laid-back on the surface, steely underneath. And as she thought about them, the missing pieces of her own relationship with Ted finally fell into place. The only rough edge between them had been Lucy’s inability to relax with him, her feeling that she had to be on her best behavior to justify being Ted’s partner. Meg wouldn’t give a damn about anything like that.
They just might be perfect for each other. If they didn’t screw things up. Which, since Meg was involved, seemed highly probable. But whether they worked out or not, one thing was certain. If Meg and Ted were in bed together, Lucy was finally off the hook.
AFTER THAT, SHE WAS TOO worked up to get back to sleep. The house’s spotty air-conditioning had left her bedroom uncomfortably warm. She opened the sliders, fetched her flip-flops to protect her bare feet from the splintery deck, and stepped outside.
Threatening clouds tumbled in the sky. She pulled her damp cami away from her breasts. With the wind, the distant flash of lightning, and the dark mystery of the lake for company, she finally felt liberated from her guilt.
A movement caught her eye, a figure—broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, with a distinct long-legged stride—coming around the side of the house. As he passed the picnic table, he paused to look back, but she was standing too deeply in the shadows for him to see her. He crossed the yard, moving more quickly. When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, looked back again, then headed down to the water.
Maybe he had insomnia, too, but why was he being so furtive? She decided to find out. She stepped off the deck. On her way across the yard, she tripped over the horseshoe stake. It hurt like crazy, but no way was Viper letting a little thing like a stubbed toe hold her back.
Limping slightly, she made it to the steps. She didn’t see him below, only the single post light glowing at the end of the dock. It reminded her of The Great Gatsby and the fascination English teachers had with that book instead of something most teenagers might actually want to read.
As she descended to the dock, she was careful not to let the slap of her flip-flops betray her, although that seemed unlikely with so much wind. When she reached the bottom, she carefully made her way across the creaky boards toward the dim glow of mustard light oozing from the open end of the weathered boathouse.
The fishy smell of storm-whipped waters joined the odors of old rope, mildew, and gasoline that had seeped into the wood. An opera she didn’t recognize was playing softly. As she slipped inside the boathouse, she saw Panda sitting on the bench seat in the stern of the powerboat, his back to her, his bare feet propped on a cooler. He wore a T-shirt and shorts, and his hand was buried inside a giant bag of potato chips. “I’ll only share,” he said without turning, “if you promise not to talk.”
“Like my only pleasure in life is talking to you,” she retorted. And then, because she liked the idea of being rude, “Frankly, Panda, you’re not intelligent enough to be all that interesting.”
He recrossed his ankles on the cooler. “Tell it to my Ph.D. adviser.”
“You don’t have a Ph.D. adviser,” she said as she climbed into the boat.
“That’s true. Getting my master’s was all my brain could handle.”
“Your master’s? You are so lying.” She plopped onto the cushion next to him.
He smiled.
She stared at him. Long and hard. “Tell me you don’t really have a master’s degree.”
His smile turned into fake apology. “Only from Wayne State, not an Ivy.” He snapped a potato chip between his teeth, then bent down to flick off the music. “It’s one of those night and weekend degrees favored by us working slobs, so it doesn’t count in your world.”
That bastard. She glared at him. “Damn it, Panda. I liked you so much better when you were stupid.”
“Look on the bright side,” he said as he held out the chip bag. “I’m still no Ted Beaudine.”
“None of us are.” She reached inside and grabbed a handful. “He and my best friend are hooking up.”
“Meg?”
“How do you know M—?” She moaned as the salt from the chip hit her tongue. “Oh my god, these taste so good.”
“Meg and I had an entertaining chat at your farce of a rehearsal dinner.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re totally her type.” She stuffed more chips in
her mouth.
“Meg’s my type, too,” he said as a clap of thunder shook the boathouse. “Can’t see her with Ted, though.”
But Lucy could, and right now that was all that counted. Rain began pummeling the roof. She grabbed more chips and curled her toes around the edge of the cooler next to his feet. “Do you have any other goodies stashed away down here?”
“I might.” His eyes were on her bare legs, and he didn’t seem all that happy with what he saw. They were tanner than usual, but there was nothing wrong with them, other than a bruise on her shin starting to turn yellow. She also had a small chip in the blue polish on her big toe from tripping over the horseshoe stake. She hadn’t worn blue polish since she was a teen. She remembered painting Tracy’s baby toes that same color when it was just the two of them.
His gaze moved up her legs to her striped sleep boxers. His frown reminded her of the bra and panties she wasn’t wearing underneath. “What are you offering?” he said, his eyes lingering on her thighs with that same expression of displeasure.
“Offering?” She tugged on the boxer’s soft cotton leg openings, unwisely as it turned out, because pulling them down showcased a fair amount of stomach. Or maybe she’d done it on purpose to retaliate for his attitude. She no longer knew what she was thinking when it came to Patrick Shade. She dropped her feet to the deck. “How many loaves of bread have I baked for you?”
“The bread covers your rent, not my junk food.”
“Says you.”
“I guess I could share.” His gaze was on the move again, skimming her body until he reached her collarbone, dropping back to her breasts, where the thin fabric barely hid anything. He no longer seemed quite so critical, and as another clap of thunder shook the boathouse, she felt something shift inside her, a treacherous vibration, a risky thrum that had nothing to do with the stormy weather.
His eyes met hers. He nudged off the cooler lid with his bare foot, a gesture that shouldn’t have been nearly so enticing. She broke his gaze and looked inside, but instead of seeing an icy nest filled with beer and soda, she saw a treasure chest of chips, pretzels, Doritos, licorice whips, malted milk balls, cheese curls, and a jar of peanut butter. “El Dorado,” she whispered.
“Forbidden fruit,” he replied, but when she looked up, he was staring at her, not at his stash.
The rickety old boathouse became a secret cave—dimly lit and seductive. A trickle of rain coming through the leaky roof splashed her shoulder. He reached out, dabbed a drop with the tip of his finger, and dragged the moisture into the hollow of her collarbone. Her skin pebbled. “Stop it,” she said without any conviction.
He didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about. A raindrop hit her thigh. He saw it but looked away and reached into the cooler. “You’re probably not interested in this.” He pulled out the peanut butter.
“So wrong.” Even she wasn’t sure whether she was talking about the peanut butter or something more dangerous.
The boat swayed at its mooring, and a shift in the wind sent a wet blast through the open end of the boathouse. Drips from the leaky roof had begun hitting the deck and, more damaging, the food stash. “Come on.” Panda picked up the cooler and carried it to the boat’s cabin, ducking as he entered.
Their relationship had changed today, and following him was fraught with peril. She liked thinking of him as the bad guy, but today had altered that. On the other hand, his vasectomy, not to mention that incredible body, made him irresistible.
Viper followed him.
The cabin was small, with only a tiny galley and a V-shaped berth in the bow. Panda set down the cooler and sank into the navy-blue vinyl cushions. He gave her a lazy smile, then opened the peanut butter jar, scooped up a glob with a pretzel rod, and held it out to her.
Two consenting adults … One vasectomy … An ex-fiancé who, on this very night, was making love to her best friend … The stars were in perfect alignment.
Lucy accepted the pretzel and sat on the cushion across from Panda. “I don’t even like peanut butter very much.”
“It’s the deprivation,” he said. “It makes you want what’s forbidden all that much more.” The way he gazed at her across the narrow space—straight into her eyes—made his meaning clear.
She had the perfect smutty prop in her hand, a pretzel stick with a dollop of peanut butter clinging to the tip. Another woman might have made the most of it, but Viper didn’t feel like it. She snapped off the end between her teeth. “I’m the only one eating.”
“I got a head start.” He opened a bag of licorice whips but didn’t take any out. He simply gazed at her. Not at her legs or her breasts. Just at her, which felt even more intimate. His voice came to her in a husky vapor. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“I know.”
“I keep trying not to think about how much I want you.”
Her skin prickled. “How’s that going?”
“Not well.”
The cabin was too warm, too close, but she wasn’t leaving. Darts of heat zipped through her. She wanted this man with his tarnished eyes, inky hair, and powerful body. But she wouldn’t make the first move.
That wasn’t a problem for him. Ducking his head, he closed the short distance between them, took what was left of the pretzel from her hand, and put it aside. “You make me crazy,” he said.
“Glad to hear it,” she replied, “but I really don’t want to talk now.”
He smiled his outlaw’s smile, settled into the cushions, and pulled her up with him into the point of the bow. Only the faintest light penetrated their cave, enough for her to see the brief flash of his teeth before he turned her beneath him and lowered his head to kiss her.
She hadn’t wanted his kiss in that ratty Memphis hotel room, and his guilt-filled kiss at the airport had brought only confusion, but this was perfect.
Her lips parted. Their tongues met in a dirty dance of thrust and parry—a delicious overture to sin. His hands were under her cami, hers under his T-shirt. She felt muscle and tendon, bone and sinew. He abandoned her mouth and used his teeth to torture her nipple through the thin cotton. He wedged his bare thigh between hers. She rubbed against it, locked her arms around him.
A crack of lightning hit too close, bringing with it a brief return to sanity. She moved her lips against his shoulder. “We can’t do this without a condom.”
His breath fell warm across her nipple. “I thought you didn’t want to talk.”
“Vasectomy or not, you need—”
“All taken care of,” he said in a husky rasp.
Did he carry them with him? The implication temporarily distracted her, but then he was kissing her again, and the question slipped away.
The thunder rumbled overhead. The boat rocked at its mooring. They pulled at their clothes, and when they were naked, explored. That night in Memphis had been as much about cutting her ties with Ted as it had been about sex, but this was different. Not an anonymous coupling with a virtual stranger. She knew her lover now, and tonight was inevitable.
Her breasts nested in his hands … His hips gripped under her palms … Their kiss deepened. He nudged her thighs open, and she didn’t consider resisting.
He parted her with his fingers. Unfolded. Searched. Invaded textures moist and soft.
She moaned. Let him play. And when she could stand it no longer, she became the aggressor, rolling to her side, using cheek, hands, and lips to savor the feel and strength of him.
When he could tolerate no more, he twisted her beneath him again. Fumbled with something. Mounted. He hooked his hands behind her knees, separating them, raising them. His body pressed to hers. The hard core of him, full and thick.
Smutty little words hoarsely uttered.
Soft, rough commands.
And he was inside her.
Outside, the storm howled. Inside, it raged just as fiercely. Finally it erupted.
HER SWEETNESS WAS TOO MUCH for him. As she dozed in the dim light, he studied the fall of h
er dark lashes on her pale skin, made even paler by that black hair. He traced the curve of her cheek with his knuckle. Beneath all that tough talk, she was confused and vulnerable.
A warning siren fired in his brain. An explosion. The grit of sand, taste of whiskey, bite of memory. He shoved the darkness away.
She opened her eyes and gazed into his. “That was nice.”
Too sweet. Too good.
“Nice?” He dropped his arm over the side of the cushions and touched the bag of candy. One of the licorice sticks had fallen out. He picked it up and nudged her ear with his lips. “Get ready to retract that.”
“Why?”
He dangled the licorice in front of her. “You keep forgetting that I have a mean streak.”
She stirred beneath him, those green-flecked eyes alive with interest. “I guess I’m in trouble now.”
“Big-time.”
He nipped her bottom lip with his own, and then he whipped her with the licorice stick. Flicks at her nipples. The soft skin of her stomach. Her open thighs. Between.
“Evil,” she moaned when he stopped. “Do it some more.”
And so he did until she snatched the licorice away and returned the pleasure. Except he’d unleashed her secret dominatrix, and she wasn’t nearly as careful as he’d been. When he told her he’d had enough, she told him to beg, and what could he do after that but punish her?
He bent her over the cushions, gave her rear a soft smack, and exacted retribution. Or tried to. Because the whole episode was getting foggy in terms of who was doing the punishing and who was being punished.
Outside the boathouse, the storm began to calm, but inside, it had just begun.
Chapter Seventeen
LUCY SNIFFED LIKE A DISAPPROVING aunt. “That was way too perverted for me.”
“I could tell.” Panda tried to remember the last time he’d lost himself like this with a woman. They were wedged in the stuffy berth, their bodies pressed together, their skin sticking to the vinyl cushions, and even though he could feel her, it wasn’t enough. He extracted his arm, rolled to his elbow, and flipped on one of the small, battery-powered lights mounted in the bow.