CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WAS A LONG WAY UP, HE THOUGHT, LONG ENOUGH FOR HIM TO sense her nerves. She was skilled at hiding them, but he’d learned how to read her. Especially now when he was aware of her every move, her every breath.
They climbed the graceful stairs to her wing where the quiet was so absolute he swore he could hear his own heartbeat. And hers.
She stepped into the bedroom—big, filled with quiet colors, art, photographs, the soft gleam of furniture he imagined had served generations.
She locked the door, caught his raised brow.
“Ah . . . it’s not usual, but Laurel or Del could . . . Anyway, I’ll take your jacket.”
“My jacket?”
“I’ll hang up your jacket.”
Of course she’d hang up his jacket. It was perfectly Parker. Quietly amused, he stripped it off and handed it to her.When she crossed to a door, went inside, curiosity had him following.
Closet wasn’t a big enough or fancy enough term. None of the closets he’d ever owned or seen held curvy little chairs, lamps, or an entire wall of shoes. In an alcove—and closets didn’t generally run to alcoves—a lighted mirror ranged above some sort of desk or kneehole cabinet where he assumed she fussed with her hair and face, but the only thing on it was a vase of little flowers.
“So is this everybody’s closet?”
“Just mine.” She tossed her hair as she glanced back. “I like clothes.”
As with closet, he didn’t think like was a big or fancy enough word for Parker Brown’s relationship with clothes. “You’ve got them color coordinated.” Fascinated, he skimmed a finger over a section of white tops. “Even, what do you call it, graduated, like a paint fan.”
“It’s more efficient. Don’t you keep your tools in order?”
“I thought I did.There’s a phone in here.”
“It’s a house phone.” She took her own out of the purse she set on a drawer-filled counter.
“Need to make a call?”
“It needs to charge,” she said, walked by him and out.
She could give tours in this closet, he thought, taking another moment. Have cocktail parties. Hold board meetings.
When he went out, she’d set the phone on the charger on the nightstand closest to the terrace doors.And to his continued fascination began to fold down the bedspread—comforter—whatever it was.
He just leaned on the wall and watched her. Brisk and graceful, he noted, as she smoothed out, folded, smoothed. Parker Brown would never just fall into bed.
No wonder he’d never felt about any other woman the way he felt about her.There was no other woman remotely like her.
“I don’t make a habit of this.” She set the folded cover on the bench at the foot of the bed.
“Folding down the bedspread?”
“Bringing men here. If and when I do—”
“I’m only interested in you and me.You’re nervous.”
She turned to walk to the dresser. Her gaze met his in the mirror as she unfastened her earrings. “You’re not.”
“I want you too much to be nervous. It doesn’t leave any room.” He walked to her now. “Are you finished?”
“What?”
“Overthinking, second-guessing.”
“Nearly.”
“Let me help you with that.”
He took her shoulders, jerked her against him. The hard, hot demand of his mouth helped. Quite a bit.
Even as she lifted her arms to circle his neck, he tugged her sweater up and off in one quick, impatient move. He tossed it on a chair.
“You can hang it up later.”
“You don’t hang sweaters.”
“Why not?”
“It—” Her breath sucked in when he skimmed his hands over the thin chemise, over her. “It ruins the shape.”
“I like yours.” He pulled off the chemise, tossed it on the sweater. “Nice.” He trailed his fingers over the lacy cups of her plum-colored bra. “It’s the kind of color coordination I can get behind.”
Her laugh ended on a shaky gasp as his hands slid down, his lips roamed down. As he knelt down. “Malcolm.”
“Better take off the shoes.” He tugged the short, inside zipper on the boots. “Wouldn’t want you to forget yourself and wear them to bed.”
“Are you making fun of me or seducing me?”
“I can do both.You’re not the only multitasker in the room.”
Once he’d pulled off her boots, he ran his hands up her legs. “Now these are the Holy Grail.”
“You’ve seen my legs before.”
“Not like this.” He unhooked her pants, slid the zipper down, then guided her pants down her legs with his hands. “No, not like this.” He lifted them one at a time to free them from the pool around her feet.
He ran his hands up, calf to thigh to tease the edges of plum-colored lace.
Her phone rang.
He looked up, his eyes sharply green, almost feral. “Not this time.”
She shook her head. “No, not this time.”
He sprang. His movement so quick both her vision and her mind blurred. His mouth didn’t merely take but possessed while those rough-palmed hands raced over her, setting off charges under her skin. The nerves that had ridden there exploded into pure, primitive need.
She tugged at the buttons of his shirt. Her hands wanted flesh, too.Wanted to take it, to own it.When she had it, the muscles, the ridges, the rough and the smooth, need leaped to craving.
She tried to satisfy it, her mouth on his throat where the blood beat hot, her teeth on his shoulder where muscles tensed like wires. But the claws of it only sharpened.
He could have taken her there and then, hard and fast. She wanted him to, heard herself tell him to, to feed and sate that craving before it ate her alive.
He swept her up. It wasn’t like being carried to bed but like being dragged into a cave. And she reveled in it.
When she was under him, she arched up, pressed urgently against him.
“Now. Now, now, now.”
He managed to shake his head. “You’re killing me.”
He couldn’t want so much and end it almost as it had begun. But the whiplash of lust was brutal, and she was a storm raging, slashing under him, around him, over him. Her body, so firm, so arousing with that silky skin over disciplined muscle, eroded control. He needed more of it before he took all.
Not to savor, since he knew savoring would drive him mad, but to devour in great gulps of greed.
Those perfect breasts possessed at last by hands and mouth while her nails dug into his back, his hips. Those incredible legs, open for him, winding around him, the muscles of her long thighs quivering as he did what he liked. All he liked.
And that face, the cool, classic beauty, flushed now, fierce now, eyes deep and blue, lips hot and avid.
He drove her up once, his hands rough, ruthless, for her, for himself. He wanted to see her break for him, rise and shatter. She cried out, her nails digging deeper. And as she broke, he plunged into her.
She cried out again, a strangled sound that gasped out pleasure. That pleasure, wild and whippy, blew through her like a gale, again, again, until there was nothing else.
Lost in the speed, drowned in sensation, she drove as she was driven, with a kind of dark fury.
He thrust deep; she rose high, their bodies sheened with the sweat of effort and greed. She saw his face above her, the tumble of dark hair around it, those feral eyes fixed on hers.
She tried to speak, to tell him . . . something. But all that would form was his name.
When the phone rang, she only heard the frantic pounding of her own heart.
She lay stunned under him, breathless from the storm and from the full weight of him that had dropped on her like a stone.
They’d torn each other to bits, she thought, in every way but bloody. She’d always considered herself open and responsive in bed—with the right partner—but this had been like a pitched battle with one goal.
Give me all you’ve got, then give me more.
Which, she concluded, explained the sensation of mild shock and smug satisfaction.
She liked to think he felt the same, or he’d just dropped into a coma. Not a heart attack, at least, since she could feel that beat slamming against her.
When she lifted her hand to his hair, he grunted.
Not comatose then, but a . . .
“You’re a flopper,” she told him, and his head shot up.
“What?”
“You’re a flopper, which is why . . .” The sheer insult on his face turned on the light in her brain. “Oh God, not that way.” Laughter bubbled up, fought to get past the anvil on her chest. She gasped with it, waved her hands in the air, fought to get words out through the uncontrollable giggles. “After.You flop after.”
“I’m a guy, which you should’ve figured out by—”
“Not that way either.” More laughter, helpless, finally rolling free when he shifted. She sucked in air, had to sit up, hold her own ribs. “After-after. You just collapse.” She slapped one hand on the other.“Dead weight. But it was all right because I’d stopped breathing anyway somewhere between the third and fourth orgasm.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He shoved the hair out of his face. “You count orgasms?”
“It’s a hobby.”
Now he laughed. “Happy to add to your collection.”
She didn’t cover herself, and he admitted he’d thought she’d be the type to grab for the sheets once the heat of sex cooled a little. But she sat there, rosily naked, smiling at him.
“You’re full of surprises, Legs.”
“I like sex.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed.”
“I often forget I like sex during extended periods when I’m not having sex. It was nice to be reminded.”
She reached out, traced a finger over the cross-hashing scars over his hip and thigh. “That had to hurt.”
“That’s from the big one. Mangled me some.”
“And this?” She brushed the thinner lines over his ribs.
“Yeah.There, the shoulder. A few others here and there.”
“This?”
He glanced down at the sickle-shaped scar on his right thigh. “That’s from another gag. A little miscalculation.You don’t have any.”
“Scars? Yes, I do.”
“Baby, I’ve been over every inch.”
“Here.” She rubbed a fingertip a few inches above her hairline on the left side of her head.
He sat up, gave a rub himself. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Well, it’s there.” And seemed, ridiculously, a point of pride now. “Four stitches.”
“That many?”
“Don’t brag.”
“How’d you get it?”
“We were in Provence, and it had been raining all day. When the sun came out, I ran out onto the terrace. I was seven. I slipped and went headfirst into the iron railing.”
“Wounded in Provence.”
“It hurt just as much. How about these?” She frowned at the thin, almost even grouping of horizontal scars on his left shoulder blade. And felt his body tense this time when she touched them.
“No big. I got knocked into a locker. Metal louvers.”
She left her hand where it was. “Your uncle.”
“It was a long time ago. Got any water handy?”
Ignoring the question, she leaned over, laid her lips on the scars. “I never liked him.”
“Me, either.”
“Now I like him less. I’ll get the water.”
She got up, walked into the closet. He was sorry to see she’d pulled on a robe when she came back with two little bottles.
Cold ones.
“You’ve got a fridge in there?”
“A small one built in. It’s convenient. And . . .” She twisted the top on her bottle. “Efficient.”
“Hard to argue.” He saw her eyes slide over to her phone, had to smile. “Go ahead. No point in you being distracted.”
“I promise our brides round-the-clock availability. And even if I didn’t,” she added as she walked over to pick up the phone, “some of them would call whenever they got an itch. A wedding can and does take over the world when it’s yours. Clara Elder, both times,” she said when she checked the display. She switched to voice mail.
He heard her sigh, watched her close her eyes as she sat on the bed.
“Bad news?”
“Hysterical, weeping brides are never good.” When she listened to the second message, she opened the drawer of her nightstand, took out a roll of Tums, thumbed one off.
“What’s the problem?”
“She had a fight with her sister, who’s also her maid of honor, about the dress she wants her to wear.The MOH hates it, and according to Clara, the groom took the sister’s side, resulting in another big fight with him walking out of their apartment. I have to return her call. It may take a while.”
“Fine.” He shrugged, glugged down some water. “I get to see how you fix it.”
“Appreciate the confidence,” she replied, then hit the key to return the call.
“Want something stronger than water?”
She shook her head. “Clara, it’s Parker. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the phone quicker.”
She lapsed into silence during which Malcolm could hear the hysterical bride’s voice if not the words. High-pitched, full of angry tears.
So, he concluded, the strategy was to let her vent it out, pour out the anger and tears to a sympathetic ear.While Clara vented, Parker rose to open the terrace doors. Cool air blew in, lightly scented with the night. Malcolm appreciated the way it fluttered Parker’s robe.
“Of course you’re upset.” Parker all but cooed it. Cool air, he thought again, over hot temper.“No one can really understand the stress of all the decisions and the details but you. Naturally you were hurt, Clara. Anyone would be. But I think . . . Um-hmm. Ah.”
She continued to make soothing and agreeable noises as she closed the doors again, walked back to the bed to sit.And this time rested her head on updrawn knees.
“I understand exactly, and you’re right, it’s your wedding. It’s your day. My sense is that Nathan wanted to help—Yes, I know that, but let’s face it, Clara, men just don’t get it, do they?”
She turned her face, offered Malcolm a smile and eye roll. “And sometimes they just step in it, then can’t figure how to get out. I really think Nathan was trying to smooth things over with you and Margot because he hated for you to be upset. He just went about it clumsily.”
She listened again, and Malcolm could hear the bride’s tone clicking down several levels.
“It’s not that the details aren’t important to him, Clara, it’s that you’re more important.Anger and stress, Clara, on both your parts. You know he adores you, and he knows, too, how much you and Margot mean to each other. No.” She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t think you were wrong.”
She mouthed: Yes, I do.
“I think emotions got the best of everyone. And, Clara, I know how much you’d regret it if your sister wasn’t standing beside you on the most important day of your life.Yes, the dress is important. It’s very important. I think I can help there.Why don’t we all meet at the shop next week? You, Margot, and me. I’m sure I can find something that makes you both happy.”
She listened another minute or two, adding soothing noises, directing the solution in easy tones.
“That’s right.Why don’t you call Nathan now? Yes, I know, but how happy are either of you going to be if you let this fester between you? The dress is important, but nothing’s more important than you and Nathan starting your life together . . . I know you will.” She laughed. “I bet. I’ll see you and Margot Tuesday. That’s what I’m here for. Good night.”
“Good job.”
Parker blew out a breath.“She wants her sister to wear celadon, which the sister hated. Said it makes her look sallow, and having met Margot, I’m sure it did.”
“What the hell is celadon?”
“It’s kind of a celery color. A good sister shouldn’t want her MOH to look sallow, but a good MOH sucks it up and wears what the bride wants. It’s basic wedding rules. So, huge fight, which continues via phone, drawing the MOB in, who wisely kept her mouth shut.Then the poor groom tries to defuse the situation, telling the furious bride that it’s no big, just pick another dress. It’s all about you and me, baby. To which the bride explodes, and so on and so forth.”
“So it’s all about celery.”
She laughed. “The celery is the MacGuffin. It’s about power, control, emotions, stress, and family dynamics.”
“You got her to agree to a different dress and call the guy all without telling her she was stupid.”
“That’s the job. Plus she wasn’t stupid so much as too focused on the minutiae, which she should leave to me.”
“And the minutiae is why you keep Tums in the nightstand?”
“They help when furious, crying brides call at night.” She pushed her hair back over her shoulders, studied his face. “I have to get up early.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No, I don’t, but if you stay, you need to know I have to get up early.”
“It’s handy because so do I.” He set the water down, then reached out to pull her hair back over her shoulders. “Why don’t we take round two a little slower?”
She linked her arms around his neck. “Why don’t we?”
HE HEARD THE BEEP, OPENING ONE EYE TO THE DARK. HE FELT Parker stir beside him then reach over to turn off the alarm.
“I should’ve asked you to define early,” he mumbled.
“Full plate today, and I want to get my workout in before it starts.”
He opened both eyes to read the clock. Five fifteen. Could be worse. “I wouldn’t mind a workout. Next time I’ll bring some gear.”
“I’ve got extra gear if you want to use the gym.”
“I don’t think yours’ll fit me.”
She turned the light on low as she rose and, swinging on the robe, walked to an adjoining door. “Just a minute.”
In just about that minute, while he contemplated catching another half hour of sleep, she came in carrying a gray T-shirt, gym shorts, and socks.
“Del’s?”
“No. I keep a supply of various things for guests.”
“You keep clothes for guests?”
“Yes.” She dropped them on the bed. “And as you can see, it’s a useful habit. Unless you were just making noises about a workout.”
“Give me five minutes.”
She took little more than that to change into a sexy red tank and pants that hit just above her knee. She pulled her hair back into a tail. And hooked her phone on her waistband.
“How many days a week do you put in on that body, Legs?”
“Seven.”
“Well, from my perspective, it’s worth it.” He gave her ass a quick pat that had her blinking. “In memory of Uncle Henry.”
Laughing, she guided him to her gym.
He stopped in the doorway. He’d seen their setup at their beach house in the Hamptons, but that was small change compared to this.
Two treadmills, an elliptical, a recumbent bike, Bowflex, free weights, a bench press—not to mention the huge flat-screen and the glass-fronted fridge holding bottles of water and juice.Towels, he noted, neatly folded, alcohol wipes, killer view.
“Convenient,” he said, “and efficient.”
“For years it’s mostly been Laurel and me using it, with Emma and Mac making the occasional visit. But recently it’s been getting a lot more traffic. I think we’ll add another elliptical and bike, maybe a rower. So.” She took a towel from the pile.“I catch up on the morning news while I do a couple miles, but there are a couple of iPods if you want music.”
“Of course there are. I’ll take a run with tunes.”
Different world, he thought as he set himself up on a treadmill. It beat the hell out of the setup he had at home. Classy, sure, but it damn well was efficient. He had a fondness for efficiency.
Plus it wasn’t a hardship to take his run while Parker took her strides beside him.
He put in a solid three miles before moving on to the free weights. While she used the Bowflex, they sweat in companionable silence.
He hit the fridge for water while she unrolled a mat and started some sort of yoga deal and seemed to flow from one tricky position to another.
“You’ll have to show me how that works sometime.”
She rose from basically bending herself in two and moved into some sort of long, fluid lunge.“I’ve got a really good instructional DVD for beginners.”
“Of course you do, but I think I’ll let you do the instructing. You’re fucking beautiful, Parker. I’m going to grab a shower, okay?”
“I . . . Sure. I’m going to be about fifteen minutes.”
“Take your time.”
He walked out, his mind full of her, then spotted Del, dressed in sweats, heading toward the gym. Del stopped, an almost comical freezing of motion.
Here we go, Malcolm thought and kept walking. “Hey.”
“Hey?” Del goggled at him. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Nice gym. I slept with your sister, and you can take a swing at me like you did at Jack over Emma, but it’s not going to change it. It’s not going to stop me from sleeping with her again.”
“For fuck’s sake, Mal.”
“I gave you fair warning, and I didn’t push her. And I can tell you that part wasn’t easy. She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met, and that’s on every level I can come up with. If you’ve got a problem with it, Del, I’m going to be sorry, but that’s not going to change anything either.”
“Just what the hell are your intentions?”
“Jesus.” Malcolm dragged a hand through his hair. “That’s a serious question? My intentions are to be with her as often as I can, in bed and out. She’s beautiful and she’s smart and she’s funny even when she doesn’t mean to be. And goddamn it, she’s got me by the throat.”
Del took a minute to pace back and forth. “If you screw this up, if you make her unhappy, I’ll do more than take a swing at you.”
“If I screw this up, you won’t have to take a swing at me. Parker would already have flattened me.”
He left Del muttering to himself and hit the shower.
He’d just finished dressing when Parker came in.
“Should I apologize for my brother?”
“No. If I had a sister I’d probably punch first, discuss later. It’s cool.”
“Our relationship’s more complicated than most siblings’. When our parents died, he . . . Del feels he has to look out for me—for all of us, but especially me.”
“I get it, Parker. I can’t blame him. More, it’s part of who he is, and who he is is a friend of mine. He give you some grief?”
She smiled now. “In his Del way, and I gave him back some in my way.We’re fine. He’s your friend, too, Malcolm.”
“That’s right, so I think we’ll just get this one thing out there now, before we go wherever we’re going. I don’t care about the money.”
Her eyes chilled. He thought no one did cold disdain quite like Parker Brown. “I never thought you did, nor did Del.”
“The thought’s going to jingle eventually, so let’s just head it off. You’ve got a hell of a place here, and I don’t just mean the house.Your place, Parker, around here. I’ve got to respect the time, the effort, the smarts that earned you, the Browns, that place. But I make my own, and that’s how I like it. I take care of myself and my mother because that’s my place. I don’t see money or status or what’s it—pedigree—when I look at you. I just see you, and you need to know that.”
As she had the night before, she walked over to the terrace doors, opened them to the air.Then turned to him.“Do you think I’m slumming?”
He considered her a moment. Not just angry, but a little hurt. As he’d been with Del, he was sorry for it, but it didn’t change anything. “No. That’s beneath you. I’m clear on that. I want to make sure we’re all clear, on both sides.”
“Apparently we are.”
“You’re a little pissed.” He moved to her. “You’ll get over it. Want to catch a movie tonight? They’re doing a Hitchcock deal. I think it’s Notorious tonight.”
“I really don’t know if—”
“Well, I’ll call you, see what’s up.”
“You’re welcome to coffee and breakfast in the kitchen,” she told him, absolutely, perfectly civil.
“Sounds good, but I’ve got to book.” He grabbed her, just grabbed her and gave her a quick reminder of what they had between them. “See you later,” he said as he headed for the door.
He glanced back to where she stood in the center of the open doors, the sky and trees at her back. “Lay off the Tums, Legs.”