Anywhere You Are (19 page)

The door shut behind them, walling off most of the sound, which was now a low din in Grace's driveway.

Then it was just the two of them. And Big Blue, of course, who refused to leave Grace's side.

Marc crossed the room to lock the door, as if to keep the crowds at bay, then put his hand on the door frame and bowed his head. He took a few deep breaths, steeling himself.

Behind him, Grace cleared her throat. “Thank you for getting them to leave,” she said.

Slowly, he turned back to her. She was watching him, looking at once beautiful and fragile and strong. Her chin was up, challenging him. Challenging the world. This magnificent woman was his.
His.
And the thought that she might want someone else just
gutted
him. Despite everything—the painting and the crazy and the stupid photograph in the
Post
—he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything else in his entire life.

And he was crazy, too. Because all their arguing had riled him up like nobody's business. Blood coursed in his veins, his cock uncomfortably hard in his slacks. He was coming undone all over again, and this time, he didn't much care to stop it.

“Right,” she said with a small frown, when he didn't respond. “So that's over. Feel free to use the back door to, uh, avoid the paparazzi. I know I am.” She turned away and began to fill a small water bottle at the sink. Finishing quickly, she wiped her hands on a towel and gave a short whistle. Blue answered with a bark and came to her heels.

He didn't immediately understand that she was leaving until she grabbed Blue's leash and clipped it onto his collar.

“Come on, Blue,” she said, leading the dog toward the back of the house. “Let's go.”

Marc finally found his voice. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk,” she tossed back.

“I don't think so.”

She whipped around, a look of shock on her face. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said, ‘I don't think so.' ”

“You,” she said pointing at him, “don't have any say in the matter.” Then she turned back around and kept going, Blue on her heels.

He followed her down the hall, her ass swaying before his eyes. “Grace—” he said, his voice a low warning.

“I don't want to talk,” she informed him. God, she was maddening and infuriating and everything he needed. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew he couldn't let her walk out without hashing this through. They needed to calm down, then talk to work things out, but then she tossed her head and it was so very Grace that a fresh rush of blood surged straight to his cock.

He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around, pressing her against the wall. “I don't want to talk, either.”

Her gaze flicked to his mouth and back up to his eyes. “This is a bad idea. You're furious.”

“Honey, I am so far beyond furious you have no idea.”

“We both need to cool off,” she said, one last ditch at sanity.

But he was having none of it.

“That's the last thing I need. And I think you feel the same way.”

He gripped her chin in his hand, forcing her face up to his. Her eyes were enormous now, filled with desire and fury, mirroring exactly what she must see in his own.

Forget reason and rationality. Forget composure. He was reduced to raw emotion. At that moment, he didn't care—about the bird picture or the insanity that was her family or the damned photograph in the
Post.
All he cared about was burying himself inside her to the hilt.

So he bent his head and crushed his lips to hers.

Marc was kissing her hard, one hand in her hair, the other pinning her to the wall, practically dominating her. She could taste the sharp bite of his anger, knew how far past his limits he'd been pushed.

Too far.

This wasn't a sweet, deliberate kiss. This wasn't flowers and sunshine and lightness. This was fury wrapped up in desire so acute, she felt as if it would consume her, body and soul.

They waged war with their mouths, their lips, their tongues, their teeth. Another battle was being played out, and she could sense how desperately off-kilter he was. Marc was a man who prided himself on knowing his opponent, on understanding his enemy's endgame as well as his own, and it must be driving him mad not knowing who was going to win this dangerous game they were playing.

And who was going to lose.

She knew he would settle for nothing less than complete and utter surrender, but Grace wasn't the kind of woman he could tame. She would never conform to what he expected or wanted, would never fit neatly and tidily into his life.

And at this very moment it didn't matter.

Because she wanted him just like this—desperately aroused, his breath ragged, the hard length of his cock digging into her side. Knowing that she'd been the one to do that to him filled her with a heady sense of power.

She kissed him back, opening her mouth so he could slide his tongue inside. He did, immediately and thoroughly, fueling her own arousal until she moaned into his mouth.

He grunted his satisfaction, sliding his knee in between her thighs.

They were playing with fire, but spurred on by her own anger and need, she simply didn't care.

She moaned, grabbing his biceps and digging in with her fingers. He took the opportunity to delve, opening her lips even wider with his own, tasting, devouring.

She kissed him harder now, her hands skittering up and down his arms, gripping his shoulders, and raking down his sides. Her anger was gone, morphed into a dark desire to make him lose control, to give in to his own needs. A vision of him taking her right here in the hallway lit up her brain like lights on a Christmas tree.

But he didn't seem to have the same idea, because he grabbed her hand and dragged her down the hall to her bedroom. Blue tried to follow, but Marc shut the door. “No, boy,” he said firmly.

And before Grace could speak, he'd pushed her up against the back of the closed door, and his hands were everywhere—in her hair, on her ass—like they hadn't moved from the hallway.

When she attacked his belt buckle, he went after her bra, popping open the front clasp and shoving it aside to palm her breast. Her nipple was already hard and she moaned and shuddered in his arms, tacitly begging for more. He gave it to her, flicking both nipples, then twisting.

“Please, Marc,” she gasped, her hands falling away from his slacks as she focused on what he was doing with her body.

She needed him to touch—and to taste—so she shoved her shirt up and pushed his head down. When his lips wrapped around a nipple and he flicked his tongue the way he had his fingers, she moaned in pleasure.

“Yesss—” Grace hissed, fisting her hands in his hair. She writhed until he wedged his knee between her legs to hold her still, yet it didn't stop her from rubbing her core up and down his thigh. When that wasn't enough, she yanked on his hair, pulled his head up, and kissed him, hard and deep.

Having successfully managed to distract him, Grace shoved at his pants, and they fell down to his ankles. Then his cock was in her hand and she was stroking his length, priming him for what was inevitable between the two of them.

But she'd underestimated his control.

“No.” He grabbed her wrist, holding her immobile. “We do this my way, understand?”

Desire flared in his eyes, and she knew it was mirrored in her own. “How do you want it?” she said, using her other hand to stroke him.

He grabbed that wrist, too, then pinned both wrists above her head in one strong hand.

Her breath caught in her throat at his display of dominance. This dangerous, pushed-way-past-his-limits Marc was beyond hot. She licked her lips, and his gaze was immediately drawn to her mouth. But instead of kissing her, he leaned in, giving her more of his weight.

She gasped when his knee pressed against her sensitive spot. She wanted to wiggle, to create friction between them, but something in his gaze kept her utterly still.

Eyes locked on hers, he brazenly slid his hand down her jeans and cupped her, sliding a finger inside so deftly she gasped again.

“You like that, don't you, Grace?”

“Yes,” she managed to get out.

Then he curled his finger in
just
the right way.

“Marc,” she breathed, her voice hitching.

And just like that, he'd flipped this whole encounter on its head. She'd come into this angry just like him, determined to make him lose control. Yet he'd maneuvered the situation to gain the upper hand. Instead of handling him, she was being handled. Commanded.

Without warning, he yanked her jeans down her thighs, shoved her panties aside, and dropped to his knees.

“Open,” he demanded, and she spread her legs. And then he bent his head and tasted. She gasped and tried to squirm away, but he held her fast, forcing her to accept his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, as he pleasured her.

“Marc. Oh, my God.” Her hands were back in his hair now, gripping him for all she was worth.

A minute was all it took before she came apart in his arms.

While she was still coming down from her high, he pulled her jeans all the way off and scooped her up.

“I need you,” she said, frantically kissing his neck.

“I know.”

He practically threw her on the bed, and she scrambled to sitting while he tossed his fogged-up glasses onto her night table and sheathed himself with a condom.

“My turn.” He pushed her back, drew up her knees, and without any other preliminary, thrust home. It felt so good, Grace cried out, only to have him cover her mouth with his.

Marc set a fast, almost frenzied pace, wiping all thoughts of their fight from her mind. She was his and he was hers.

“More,” she demanded.

He gave her more, pounding into her like a man possessed, claiming her with a ferocity even she couldn't have anticipated. Not from him.

She met him thrust for thrust now. Pushing back against him, showing him how much she wanted this. Wanted him.

When he reached down to touch her clit, she came hard, clenching around him.

“Marc…oh, God, Marc, yes,” she gasped, even as he surged back into her body.

He gave her everything, roaring loudly before collapsing on top of her.

And as she lay there, stroking his well-muscled back with her fingers, looking up at the ceiling, she wondered what on earth had become of the Marc she thought she knew.

And more important, what would she ever do without him?

Later, when it was all over, when darkness had fallen and her parents and the photographers and the reporters were long gone and the farmhouse was quiet once again, she and Marc lay in her bed.

She'd been too tired after their lovemaking to get her clothes. They lay scattered on the floor where he'd ripped them from her body. Usually, Marc was the one who'd gather them up and fold them neatly. But he hadn't bothered to do that this time.

He reached out and took her hand. Gently he lifted it to his lips and softly kissed her knuckles.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“You're always apologizing after sex,” she said, with a little smile. “Why is that?”

He gave her a look. “I'm not apologizing for the sex. I'm apologizing for acting like an ass.”

“Oh.” She considered that for a moment. “You did fly off the handle. Not that I minded the results, but losing your cool really isn't your style, is it?”

“No,” he said, his voice tight. “Except with you.”

Grace sighed. “I'm as upset about everything that happened as you are. But this is my life. There are probably going to be more photographs and people who will try to twist the truth to suit their needs. Are you going to lose it every time something like that happens?”

“I admit that I was furious when I saw you in that photo with your ex. Jealousy isn't a…comfortable emotion for me. That bird flaunted in my face didn't make me any happier, either. And yet, more than anything—” He stopped to cup her face in his palm. “I trust you. And I will remember to trust you and to ask next time before I jump to any conclusions.”

“Apology accepted,” she said, before carefully tipping her head up and brushing her lips against his. In return, he nestled her against his side, tucking her close.

She was falling for him. Hard. But she wasn't ready to say it aloud. Not just yet.

“I'm going to try to get the picture back from George,” she told him.

He looked down at her with something akin to wonder. “You'd really do that for me?”

“Of course,” she said, and he kissed her, a warm, loving kiss that curled her toes. She pulled away, smiling. “But you have to realize I'm doing it for me, too.”

“Don't ruin the moment.”

“Fine,” she teased. “I'm doing it for you and only you.”

“That's more like it,” he said, grinning.

“You want to know the most ridiculous part of this whole thing?” she said.

“What whole thing? That a century-old golf course is being picketed by environmentalists? That the press found out we're involved? That anyone aside from our actual families thinks this is interesting?”

She shoved an elbow into his side. “No. The most ridiculous part of this whole thing is that I didn't even paint the picture at Briarwood.”

Marc stilled. “What did you say?”

“They're acting like I saw the bittern at Briarwood and donated my name and painting to the cause. But my painting was done from a series of sketches I did down by the marsh.”

“The marsh,” he echoed, then his eyes narrowed. “Did George know this?”

“I don't know…I think I told him.” She frowned. “But I honestly don't remember.”

“Do you have proof you painted the picture by the marsh and not at my golf club?”

“Sure I have proof. I date and label all of my sketches so I can go back to a site if I need to. Why?”

A look of elation crossed Marc's face. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. “Do you realize what this means?”

She sat up too, pulling the sheets up to cover her breasts. “Uh, that they have no case?”

“Exactly! The implication is that you saw the bird at Briarwood, that you painted it there. It's an endangered species, and if it's living on Briarwood's property, that means we have a responsibility to protect it. It's what Arbor wants everyone to think so that he can put the blame on us. But take the bird out of Briarwood and he doesn't have a leg to stand on.”

“Are you telling me all the publicity will go away if I just tell everyone I didn't see the bird there?”

“It could,” he said.

Sign me up.
“How do I make that happen?”

“You could hold a press conference. Or simply sign an affidavit saying that you didn't see the bird at Briarwood. Thanks to our very public court case, it'd hit the presses soon enough.”

“Yes. Good.”

Marc's eyes widened. “You're serious about doing this?”

“If it gets me my life back? Absolutely.”

Marc waited for all of a beat. “I'll call my lawyer,” he said, reaching over and grabbing his cellphone. Rapidly, he punched in a few numbers and a second later, he was barking into the receiver. “Greg? It's Colby.” He rose from the bed and strode toward the door. “I've got some news for you. Ready?”

Grace sighed and flopped back down onto the pillow. Signing an affidavit wouldn't be a big deal, and if it got her privacy back, more's the better. All she wanted was to return to her quiet life in Eastbridge, where she could paint and breathe and go outside and only have to worry about bear sightings, not the paparazzi.

Then maybe she could get back to her regular life—one that included more time with Marc. And if it included more time with Marc, he would definitely want that to be private time instead of public time.

But for now, she'd just have to wait for things to play out. Starting with Marc's talk with his lawyers.

With resolve, she pulled the covers up and nestled into the bed. If she knew Marc, it was going to be a long phone call.