“Me too, with you.” Smiling, Natasha turned to him. She swept her arm toward the sea and sand and moonlight, making her
non-
self-created bracelet glimmer with the motion. “Besides, this beach definitely takes the prize for romantic atmosphere. If not for the occasional dog walkers and the houses over there on the bluff, we could be the only two people on earth right now.”
Just as she’d expected, Damon glanced around. His gaze lit on one of the seaside houses—a huge modernistic slab of treated wood and sharp angles, perched on the rocky area where the beach met the hill. Its large, fully lit picture windows showed people milling around inside, laughing and drinking and talking. From its interior, music and jovial voices floated on the breeze.
“Looks like fun,” Natasha said. “Doesn’t it?”
“Hmm.” Damon’s gaze remained fixed on the immense house. His steps slowed. His face turned pensive. “Nah. Not really.”
“Your own house probably looks a lot like that sometimes,” Natasha told him. “If you’re worried about the repairs, I’m sure they’re coming along nicely. You’ll be back there in no time.”
She wanted him to assure her that he could wait—that he
wasn’t
dying to get back to his deluxe, super-lucky life. But he didn’t. Instead, he only gazed more moodily at the house.
“They’re close to being finished,” Damon admitted. “I had a voice mail from the contractor while you were getting dressed.”
A chill rushed through Natasha. First Damon’s girl-friendly mojo had returned. Then his money. Then he’d been welcomed back at Torrance Chocolates (at least in part). Now his beachside house was almost habitable again. What would happen next?
She rubbed her bare arms, thinking that maybe a romantic moonlit stroll along the beach in fancy clothes was an activity better suited to late June than late January. She’d always wanted to do it, though. The reality had been even nicer than her imagined version ... because Damon had been there.
Natasha aimed her chin at the party. “Let’s crash it.”
“Crash the party?” Damon’s eyes lit up. Then, “Nah.”
“I’m starting to hate hearing that word from you,” she said. “What’s gotten into you, anyway? You
never
play it safe.”
With effort, Damon turned his gaze away from the party’s bright lights. Broodingly, he looked at the ocean. “I do now.”
“Just because you had one disaster?” Natasha asked. “That’s no reason to ignore all your instincts. That’s not the Damon Torrance I know.” She tugged his arm. “Come on. Let’s do it.”
“I’m not crashing a party.” Damon planted his feet in the sand, his jaw set in a hard line. “We could get arrested. Carol would have to bail us out of jail. Milo would be traumatized.”
Natasha scoffed. “Who has party crashers arrested?”
Wryly, Damon pointed both thumbs at himself. “Just once, though. Some kids busted into a shindig at my place. Jason told me there were liability issues—something to do with the pool, the lack of a fence ... maybe all the liquor.” He shrugged. “Most of the time, I’m pretty live-and-let-live about things.”
“Well,
I’m
crashing,” Natasha told him. “I’m freezing, my feet are tired, and I’m starving. I could totally go for a plate of hors d’oeuvres.” Decisively, she let go of Damon’s arm, then sashayed down the beach. Ahead, she spied a sandy stairway that led to higher ground. “You’re welcome to tag along, Mr. Buzzkill. Just try not to get us thrown in the clink, okay?”
Then, without looking back, Natasha hoisted her gown’s hem, tromped up the stairs, and headed toward the warmth and luxury of the lights spilling from the party up ahead.
It took Damon a while to catch up to Natasha. Partly, that was because he had never been called “Mr. Buzzkill” before, and he was dumbfounded by the experience. Partly, that was because he was frozen in shock when Natasha sashayed away, hips swinging and blond hair bouncing, with the express intention of breaking the rules. Because Natasha
never
broke the rules. That was what made her such a good stand-in conscience for
him
at times.
Also, partly, Damon hesitated because he could have
sworn
he glimpsed a flashbulb go off—and someone scurry away uphill—in the vicinity near Natasha. The idea of someone taking a picture of her without permission made him want to punch a paparazzo (because those “photojournalists”
had
, in the past, pestered Damon a time or two, before and after his meltdown). And partly (and most disconcertingly), Damon had faltered because after so many years of unfettered access to everything he wanted, he had a tricky time figuring out how to actually sneak in to something.
In the end, he decided on the brute-force method. He crept up the same sand-encrusted staircase Natasha had used, waited until the party house’s ocean-side terrace was mostly empty, then vaulted himself over the terrace railing. He landed alongside a tall, short-haired brunette. She started as Damon thumped onto the terrace, then watched as he cavalierly brushed off his suit.
“I dropped a contact lens down there.” Damon angled his head toward the bluff. He grinned. “Slippery little suckers.”
“That’s what I hear.” The brunette’s smile widened. She looked him over, almost as though she could sense Damon’s long-absent womanizer mojo. Maybe she could. Damon absolutely sensed a flirtatious vibe coming from her. She noted his empty hands, then offered up a sham pout. “Poor baby. You need a drink.”
“I was just about to get one.” Rapidly, Damon scanned the house’s brightly lit, luxurious layout. “Shall I bring you one?”
“Only if you deliver it yourself,” the brunette cooed.
She was
definitely
flirting with him. Hmmm. Could his ridiculous good fortune with women be back? After all, he’d been more than capable of charming Carol, making friends with Natasha’s neighbors—the dog walkers and the stroller moms—and chatting up a whole array of female farmers-market attendees.
Making a quick mental tally, Damon realized that it was possible his luck was changing. Already he’d regained his bank accounts. He’d been assured his home repairs were proceeding ahead of schedule. Some of the Torrance Chocolates employees seemed ready to give him a second chance. He’d even managed to get closer to Natasha—and that was the best luck of all.
If his mechanic called to tell him his car was fixed ...
Just as Damon thought it, his cell phone rang.
“Excuse me,” he told the brunette. “I’ve got to take this.”
She nodded and then drifted away, leaving Damon feeling more perplexed than ever. Did women want him again or not?
Had his good luck returned or not? And what did that mean?
His ringtone trilled a third time. Annoyed, Damon answered.
The person on the other end of the line didn’t waste time. The moment Damon answered, he heard, “Put down the phone and get the hell out of here, jackass. You’re ruining everything.”
Damon blinked. He recognized that sardonic voice. “
Wes
?”
A sigh. “You were sharper when you were drinking.”
It
was
Wes. Somehow, he knew Damon was here.
That meant Wes must be here, too. Frowning, Damon scanned the crowd, looking for his friend. His gaze climbed the well-appointed hillside house, passing over the stylishly dressed women and suit-wearing men and waitstaff in black and white. On second glance, this place did look a little familiar. It was possible Damon had been here before and didn’t recall when.
“Did you hear me?” Wes barked. “Get lost. It’s not time for anyone to see you yet—especially not here. If you don’t—”
But just as his friend reached full ranting velocity, Damon spotted a vivacious blonde in the center of the next room.
Natasha
. She was surrounded by a circle of interested-looking men, all of whom were listening to her tell a story. Apparently, when given half a chance—and a huge cocktail—she was a natural at misbehaving. She seemed to be having a hell of a time.
“I’ve got someplace to be,” Damon told Wes. “Bye.”
His friend squawked through the phone. Damon only ended the call, pocketed his phone, then strode through the crowd.
He had a woman to retrieve—a woman with laughing eyes, a killer dress, and a pair of rubber Wellies that made him wish for rain. He didn’t intend to screw around while doing it.
Things were going really well for Natasha. She’d successfully infiltrated the party and gotten herself fortified with a few crudités and a mojito. She’d also defrosted her chilly fingers, touched up her lip gloss, and sought out everyone at the party who could possibly be useful to her plan.
Then she spotted Damon, and things got tricky.
“... so that’s why you should never eat fish and chips in Trafalgar Square,” Natasha blurted, hastily winding up the anecdote she’d been telling her engrossed listeners. She glanced down at her mojito, downed the whole thing, then laughed. “Whoops! Looks like I need another drink. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll get it for you,” one of the men volunteered.
She gazed at his eager face—and at the faces of the other men who were also offering to fetch her another drink—and wondered where all this male interest had been a month ago. She’d never been this irresistible. Not even to Lance, the neurosurgeon she’d met on the plane from Las Vegas ... whom she still hadn’t gotten back to about their postponed second date.
Again, she looked at her manly entourage. Maybe they were rubber-boot fetishists, and she was their accidental dream girl.
“That’s sweet,” Natasha said, “but I can handle it.”
She swept away, headed in the opposite direction of Damon, trying to stay one step ahead of him for now. If he caught up to her while she was chatting and recognized some of the people at the party, he might start asking questions— questions Natasha wasn’t prepared to answer. Turning, she stepped toward the bar—
—and almost ran into a burly man with an earpiece.
“Evening, miss,” he said. “Can I see your invitation?”
Natasha couldn’t believe this. “Um, I have one,” she said, “but I didn’t bring it. I should be on the list, though.”
Mr. Muscles consulted his clipboard. “Your name?” Biting her lip, Natasha hesitated. Damon was closing in. She could see him from the corner of her eye, looking determined and intent and not the least bit disheveled for a guy who’d recently vaulted over a beachfront terrace railing. She’d seen his Olympic move from across the room and had been duly impressed.
If Damon caught up to her—if he recognized their hosts before Natasha had a chance to put everything in motion ...
“Ohmigod.” She pointed. “Is that a real
sea lion
on the beach outside?” She fluttered her arms. “I’ve never seen one!”
Politely, the security guy turned toward the beach. “It might be, miss. They come ashore sometimes around here—”
Natasha didn’t hear the rest. She was busy sprinting away.
It took much less time for Damon to catch up with Natasha the second time than the first time. He watched in bafflement (and a little admiration) as she deftly ditched the party’s security personnel, scanned the crowd, then vanished upstairs.
Damon followed in the same direction.
A minute and a half later, Natasha stepped out from around a corner, deftly ending his search by making her location obvious. Almost as if she’d planned things this way, she grabbed Damon by his necktie, then smashed him against the wall.
Music thumped from downstairs. People’s voices drifted around them. Outside, the waves crashed. But the hallway was (temporarily) empty, and Natasha made the most of their privacy.
Her mouth found his in record time. With an erotic little moan, she wound his tie around her fist, brought Damon even closer, then followed up with the rest of her body. Surprised but willing, Damon felt her hips collide with his, even as her lips just went on adding to the hot, disorienting confusion.
He knew he should protest. But having Natasha in his arms felt really good. Having her kissing him and moaning and grinding her pelvis against him—all while she was wearing that sophisticated, soft little
nothing
of an evening dress felt great. Really great. So rather than behave, the way he should have done, all Damon did was delve his hands in her hair and hold on and kiss her back. Again and again and again.
Too soon, Natasha took away her mouth. Her bright, blue-eyed gaze searched his. She smiled. “I’ve always wanted to have a sexy, illicit liaison at a party I just crashed. You game?”
“Are you serious?” She
couldn’t
be serious. She was Natasha. Although, Damon remembered, she
had
been getting into spontaneity lately. But this ... “There are people downstairs.”
“That’s part of what makes it fun.” Panting with eager licentiousness, Natasha slid her hand lower ... almost low enough to discover for herself if Damon was interested. Given her kisses, he couldn’t help being aroused. “Come on,” she urged breathlessly. “There’s an empty room right over there. I just discovered it.”
“But you’re on the run from the security personnel!”
Natasha laughed. “Then we’d better make it quick, hadn’t we?”
Chapter 23
Thirty seconds later, Damon was behind the locked door of their hosts’ upstairs powder room, lifting Natasha up onto the vanity. She hiked her dress. She spread her knees. She pulled him into the warm apex of her thighs, grabbing his ass to keep him there in a way that brooked no argument—especially from him.
Lustily, he kissed her. Passionately, he stroked her. Eagerly, Natasha urged him on. With her head thrown back and her long hair tossing wildly around her shoulders and her rubber rain boots looking incongruously sporty next to her bare legs and elegant evening gown, she whispered naughty encouragement the likes of which he’d never expected to hear from her.
“I need you, Damon.” She unzipped his pants, the sound of his zipper loud in the small room, then delved her hand inside. She found his cock. With evident delight, she freed him, already hard and throbbing. “I need you, right here. Right now.”