A Woman To Blame (11 page)

Stooping, he looked at the paintings and examined their frames, then walked quietly to the railing to stare out at the old sign up by the road. More doubts nipped at her insides until she gave in to them with a painful sigh. How had this man, a stranger until a few weeks ago, affected her usual sound reasoning and her business judgment? And more importantly, how had she let this hardheaded, hard-bodied man kiss her naked navel and touch her
there
until she was shivering near the edge of a climax? She closed her eyes, remembering, stroke for stroke, every perfect sensation he'd caused within her. The memory sent thick ribbons of heat fluttering through her again, tickling her, teasing her, pulling tightly against her with unrelenting pleasure.

"Did you sell the jukebox yet?"

Her eyes flew open; he was standing inches from her. "Wh-what—oh, no. The price wasn't right."

"Phew! Glad to hear that," he said, watching her thoughtfully. "I might know of an interested party. Can I take a look at it?"

No matter what the romantics said, she didn't believe in mind reading, so Rick couldn't know what she'd just been thinking. She was safe there. Even so, she had to put distance between them or blurt out like a crazy person just how wonderful he'd made her feel.

"I had it moved to the storage room downstairs," she said, inching sideways and then heading toward the stairs.

"How much do you want for it?" he asked, following her down the stairs and into the dark storage room.

"Four thousand." Fumbling for the light switch, she sensed his solid presence moving nearer.

"Here. Let me help you," he said, brushing against her backside.

"Stay where you are. I can get it. I mean, I'm in this place all the time. I'll have it on in just a second."

He moved back. "I think it's on the other side of the door."

"Oh, right," she mumbled, stumbling over his foot.

Both of his hands closed over her arms, and he pulled her close. Faint light from the parking lot outlined his face and made his eyes shimmer. "You okay?"

"Yes," she lied, forcing a little laughter from the middle of her throat. If she didn't move away from him soon, she wouldn't bother looking for the light switch the rest of the night. "You said you might have a buyer?" she asked, moving out of his grasp to feel the wall with both hands. Harsh light suddenly flooded the room. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks before turning to look at him. "Does this buyer know how beaten up it is?"

"Yes, he does," Rick said, walking over to the machine. He ran his hands along the curved top and down over the rounded chrome. Repositioning himself, he flexed his knees before testing its weight with the flat of his hands. "I'd have to get a couple of guys to help move it." Giving it a shove, he squatted down to examine the back of it. "Mind if I plug it in?"

"Go ahead," she said, still thankful that there was space between them. What harm could playing the jukebox do to her newfound control?

After he'd made the connection, he stood up, turned his back toward her, and stretched a lazy arm across the top of the jukebox. Colored light bubbled through the clear tubing decorating the front. After a moment he pulled a coin from his pocket, dropped it into the slot, and made his selection.

For reasons she couldn't begin to fathom, his familiarity with and total attention to the jukebox irritated her. If she had to put a name to it, she felt jealous. Knowing that irritated her more than ever. The next thought popped into her head like an exploding cherry bomb, small but drawing enough attention to warrant a fast response. "You're the buyer. Why? I mean, what could you possibly want with that old jukebox?"

He looked her up and down in that way that said "Watch out, you're getting close to a nerve." The jukebox clattered and clicked. Without warning, his expression warmed to a forgiving smile as he turned fully around to her. Shaking his head in a show of sweet appreciation, he reached behind him to pat the machine. "Helluva lot of good memories attached to this."

"Really?" She could feel warning flares igniting inside her.

"You'd have to have knocked back a few beers with it playing in the background to know."

"I see. Is that another way of telling me I don't understand how Malabar Key works?" Listening to herself, she was starting to feel as if she had several personalities inhabiting her. None of them sounded very nice, and all of them were eager to show themselves this evening.

"I didn't say that, Bryn," he said, his voice irritatingly even.

"Everyone's so ready to tell me how great the past was that no one wants to talk about the future. What's wrong with you people? Don't you know the future's just a place, a time to make more memories?"

"Is that what you want, Bryn? To make a few memories?"

The first notes of a Michael Buble song spilled into the fragile silence between them. Staring over his shoulder, she concentrated on a painting of dogs playing billiards, and when he pushed off the jukebox, she shifted her stare to a stack of soft-drink boxes. As he crossed the room, sparklers replaced the cherry bomb and the flares, filling her with prickles of anticipation. He eased her gently into his arms.

"Let's do it, Bryn."

"Do what?" she whispered.

Swaying her, he moved her smoothly into a dance step. With his hand firmly on the small of her back, he gave her a tender smile. "Let's make a memory."

Yes, let's make a memory,
she thought as she laid her cheek on his shoulder. A rich and real memory, not a fantasy substitute. She already had too many of those with him. She moved with him then, as if they'd danced this way every Saturday night at some out-of-the-way roadhouse. The song went on, intimate and suggestive and unlike the kiss they'd shared earlier, making her acutely aware that, unlike the jukebox, she had no history with him. And no understanding of what should happen next. All they shared was a deep disagreement about the future and enough sexual energy for spontaneous combustion to occur. Any second now.

Rick moved closer on the same note she did, his exhalation turning into a sigh along with hers. From where he was dancing, he could see out the door and across the parking lot. Bled of life and half hidden in the palms up by Marina Road, Pappy's old neon sign was barely readable. Soon that would be removed, becoming another faint memory of what his life once was. He looked down at Bryn, stirring the hair on her forehead with his breath. Was she to blame for reopening the old wounds? Could this armful of sweet woman be his worst enemy? What did he know about her? That she was changing his world in ways that broke his heart. That she could bristle the hair on the back of his neck with one look. That he couldn't think straight from wanting to know her like no other man could. The song ended, but he couldn't give her up that fast. He continued holding her while the stillness and quiet brought them back into reality.

Pulling away from him, she tucked her hair behind her ears, then adjusted the buttons on her blouse. With her gaze darting nervously around the room, she said, "We ought to be discussing this fund-raiser, you know."

Flustered and mussed and enchanting, she went on and on about their responsibilities. He ached for her more than he thought humanly possible, but what he saw when her darting amber eyes settled on his was enough to rock his soul. The biggest and neediest charity wasn't the ambulance fund, it was the emptiness of their own lives.

Chapter 5

In the surreal shimmer of the jukebox's bubbling lights, Rick had a sudden impulse to lean in close to Bryn and whisper,
"Shhh. It's late and we could be putting this time to better use. What do you say we go back to my place and talk about our kinks. Then we can deal with this underlying tension until the sun comes up. Hell, Bryn, let's find a few new kinks and work on them too."

Torrid scenes, taking place below a mirrored ceiling and over every square inch of red satin sheets, captured his mind. He pictured his meticulous exploration of her nakedness as she writhed in sensual abandon beneath his attentive mouth. The feel of her giving, wanting body spurred him on to discover that secret place that quivered at the touch of his tongue. When she couldn't bear another moment, when she cried out for him, he planted himself inside her and ended their emptiness in quick, hot strokes. All she had to do was give him the go-ahead and he'd redefine sexual fulfillment for the both of them. This need to have her was, after all, about a shared desire for erotic release, those strange moments of tenderness notwithstanding. If he began to doubt that, he had only to remember the needy way she responded to his tongue against her belly and his fingers against her slick heat. But he wasn't going to push it tonight. Too much had happened, and when their time together came, he wanted her total focus.

Lifting his fingers to her lips, he silenced her complaints about a fishing tournament with a soft "Shhh. It's late and we could both use some time out. What do you say we get together tomorrow after my last charter? We can talk about your new idea for the fund-raiser over dinner." Removing his hand from the velvet warmth of her lips, he moved to unplug the jukebox. He said teasingly, "That is, if you can come up with a good idea by then."

When he turned around to her again, she was taking her hand away from her lips. The sensual gesture replicated his own a moment before. The idea of her need to touch herself where he had touched her made his straining erection ache.

"Not tomorrow, Rick," she said, hastily moving toward the wall to turn off the overhead light. "I have to go up to Miami to see a client. And I'll be busy for the next few days because—"

"Just tell me when we can get together," he said in a way that refused to hear another excuse. Playing tickle and run couldn't go on forever. If she wanted games, he would oblige, but only when they were both buck naked.

"I'm trying to figure out when we can, but I really do have a scheduling problem. I hate asking anyone for help, but I need a strong man for this. Maybe two strong men."

There she goes
, he thought, as he followed her out the door,
stirring the flames inside me with those sable lashes, soft voice, and never-ending images.
"Name it."
But forget about two strong men. What needy, greedy thing can I do for you?

"Rick, they're about to start physical therapy with my grandfather, but first they're going to let him come home for a short visit. He's been threatening to sneak out and wheel himself back up the Overseas Highway if they don't oblige him. Would you help me with him tomorrow?"

He nodded, snorting uncomfortably at himself. What the hell had gotten into him? Was he so in lust for her that he would interpret everything and anything she said as a lead-in to sex? Had it been that long since he'd lost himself inside a woman's tight softness?

"Of course I'll help you with him," he said, closing the door to the storage room.

"That's great. You see, I can't bring him upstairs in a wheelchair by myself, and I know he'll want to see what I've done up here," she said, starting up the stairs.

"Bryn?"

"Yes?" she said, turning around to him.

Planting a foot on the second step, he curved his hand around his knee and angled himself toward her. "Have you considered the possibility that he won't be pleased with what you've done up there?" Her smile deflated to a blank stare. He could feel her withdrawing in that way a woman did when a man least wanted or needed her to.

Staring at the steps separating them, she appeared to wait until the question melted away in the strained silence. "Do you want the jukebox, Rick?"

"The jukebox?" Standing straight, he lowered his foot to the landing. Nodding, he slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. "Yes. Yes, I do. I'll drop the check in your mailbox and have the thing out of your way by the time you get back from Miami. Pappy gave me an extra set of keys to this place. Is that okay with you?"

"That'll be fine," she said, before running her tongue over the edges of her teeth. He thought she was about to say something or ask him something, but with an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she said, "Good night, Rick," then fled upstairs.

* * *

Next afternoon, despite the perfect weather, his easygoing customers, and the knowledge that Pappy Madison would be coming home for a visit, Rick was feeling decidedly uneasy as he headed over to Pappy's. All the quirky pieces of his recent history kept bumping together like unrelated flotsam. He prided himself on a clear head, so his scattered thoughts irritated him. By five that afternoon, after slamming mackerel, yellow-tail snapper, and grouper onto the display spikes, then posing beneath the day's catch with his smiling customers for the obligatory snapshots, he'd finally figured it out. The weighty combination of his recent visit to Angie's parents, accepting that the Crab Shack was gone, finding out about Pappy's injury, and ending his relationship with Sharon, had shaken his once uncomplicated world.