Really Something (6 page)

“I wasn't expecting you, that's for damned sure.” His finger traveled along the edge of her blouse, lifting the damp collar away from her skin. Cool air rushed in, raising prickles of skin. “I won't give you what you want, you know.”

“How can you be so sure what I want right now?” Because L.A., Jerry, and the film had been Pluto'd—ripped right out of her immediate solar system.

And, apparently, also out of his, she realized, as their gazes met. Held.

A moment passed. Another. Rain slashed against the windows, pattered the glass. Wind whipped the clapboards, whistled along the roofline. But what Mother Nature brewed outside barely compared to the storm inside.

The smile Allie had memorized, the one that had starred in her dreams, stared back at her from the Tempest High yearbook, curved across his face, only this time with a sexier edge. Allie tried to steel herself against its power, but this was not like resisting the last piece of fudge on Aunt Tilda's crystal-cut angel platter.

This was Duncan. And he carried way more temptation than a bunch of cocoa and sugar.

“I think,” he said, low and sexy, his voice a heated whisper in the empty, half-dark house, “what you want is to get out of these wet clothes.”

Oh yeah.

His gaze dropped to the pale fabric of her blouse, flattened against her bra, now as transparent as Scotch tape, parading lace and skin, the faint outline of her rosy, peaked nipples.

She should leave. But the rain continued to pound outside, and her clothes were drenched and Duncan Henry's hand held hers, so warm and strong, and everything she'd dreamed of in those late-night teenage fantasies.

But that had been high school. And this was all very, very grown-up stuff.

“Duncan, maybe I should…”

“Not argue with me,” he said, putting a finger against her lips. She wanted to open them, to taste his skin, to quench her curiosity finally. But she held back, waiting for him to speak, to say something—anything—that would push past all the reasons she had against getting involved with him.

Because that's all she needed, a whisper of a reason to stay.

“You're beautiful,” he whispered. “Incredible.” The words sliced through the silence of the house, punctuated by the rain's continual tap-tap against the glass.

She averted her gaze, oddly uncomfortable with his perusal, which surprised her. This was Duncan. She should have been elated that the man who had seen her at her worst finally saw her as the beauty queen.

And yet, for some weird reason, she wanted him to see past Allie Dean, to know Allison Gray stood before him. To see past the very façade she was protecting.

And for him to still feel the same way about her. To still want her, no matter what.

He tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. “And smart. And bold. You're not like anyone else I've met in a long, long time.”

“Because I go after what I want?”

“Exactly. And I hope that one of those things you want right now is me.”

Did she want him? When had there ever been a day when she hadn't?

“I want your house,” she said, and his face fell, “but I want you more. Much more.”

The grin curved across his lips again and the tension between them rose and twisted into a thick chain. “Then follow me.” Duncan took her hand and led her out of the kitchen and up the creaky staircase.

He opened the door at the end of the hall and flicked on the light, illuminating a large bedroom. A chandelier hung over an ornate cherry queen-size bed covered with a white comforter that had yellowed with age. In one corner stood a matching cherry wardrobe, framed by a full-length mirror. The bright blue area rug had faded beneath the window, the frilly lace curtains hung limp and trimmed with cobwebs, but all in all, this room looked like it had been lived in more recently than the rest of the house.

Why this space? And only this space? And by whom? Allie looked at Duncan, but he didn't explain.

Instead, he crossed the room, opened the wardrobe, then stepped back. “Help yourself.”

A few outfits hung in the closet. Immediately, Allie's shopper's eye cataloged them. Size six, maybe size eight. Two pairs of jeans, a few Ts, a dark blue sweater and an IU sweatshirt with a frayed hem. A mismatched pair of flannel PJs, the red-and-white checked pants also sporting the college logo, a black shirt with some kind of concert memorabilia. And then, on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe, a pair of Elmo slippers, adult size. A dark green backpack with a flip-flop key chain hanging off the zipper, a key dangling off the ring. The top of a bikini and a pair of sunglasses, tilted at an angle, as if they were staring back at Allie.

Watching her.

Female clothes. Who did they belong to? The clothes—only enough for a weekend, not a lifetime of living here—were too young, too hip, to be Duncan's aunt's. Were they a girlfriend's?

A wife's?

A weekend lover's?

Allie looked again to Duncan, but he had drifted to the window. “Won't whoever owns these clothes need them?”

He leaned one hand on the jamb, the other flat against a pane. His gaze ranged over the fields beyond them, fields which eventually led to Tempest. “She'll never miss them. Trust me.”

Allie's resolve fumbled in the vulnerability in his voice. The hunch in his shoulders. This wasn't the Duncan Henry she remembered from high school. This man had experienced deep pain.

Could the clothes be his sister Katie's? Or some other woman who had meant a great deal to Duncan? Someone he had loved—and lost?

Before she could discern anything else, he pivoted and moved to her, the familiar grin on his face again. “I promised you tea, didn't I? I need to find some matches. And you probably want me to leave so you can…” He gestured toward the clothes, but stayed where he was.

She nodded, as still as Duncan. The rain had molded his clothes to his chest, his thighs, outlining the body she had never forgotten. He'd been handsome in high school, but age had tightened and defined him, giving the planes and valleys she remembered an intriguing edge.

Hot desire twisted in her gut, multiplied onto itself by the knowledge of a woman who knew exactly what it would be like to go to bed with a man like Duncan. It would be good. Very good.

Love him. Leave him. Climb into his bed—and then try to forget him?

Who was she kidding? Her gaze roved over his body, and Allie knew that if she had sex with Duncan, she'd never forget it.

Right now, she was more than willing to pay that price of admission. Worry about the consequences later.

If someone had asked her what had headed her Christmas list for more than a dozen years, it would have been this.

Duncan Henry. Looking at her with desire. Followed by the bonus of a night in his bed, no strings, no morning after. Just him, and a satisfaction to the cat's curiosity.

Before the anticipation killed her.

In a few days, she'd be back in L.A. Duncan would be back in front of his blue screen, pointing out cloud patterns. When would she ever again have this opportunity?

A bed. A nearly naked Duncan. And a nearly nuclear desire so intense and red she could have painted the Empire State Building with it and had enough left over for the Taj Mahal.

To hell with Jerry. To hell with the location. The movie.

This moment was about her. And Duncan.

“You're so wet,” he said, stepping closer, his finger slipping beneath her collar again, fire against her skin. His dark eyes caught hers. She watched his Adam's apple bob up. Down. “Maybe I should go before we end up doing something we both—”

“Stay,” Allie said, the decision already made. She was grown up, a bold Allie Dean now, no longer the nervous, afraid-to-be-rejected Allison Gray. “I might need help with a button…” She grinned. “Or something.”

“Or something,” he echoed. His gaze roamed over her face, intent. Studying her, deep and piercing. “Who
are
you?”

For a second, she panicked, thinking he'd guessed her identity, then she caught his gaze and saw the tease in his blue eyes. “Me? I'm just Allie.”

“Well, Just Allie, you're making me forget.”

“Forget what?”

He traced along her jaw, his gaze so intent, she nearly had to look away. “Everything.”

More lingered in his words, his look, than Allie wanted to deal with. She intended revenge, a love-him-and-leave-him strategy, not to care about Duncan Henry or what he was trying to forget.

Get in, get out,
her mind screamed.

But her heart flickered to life, demanding she care about this man. That she remember the boy who'd called her Grace and once told her he liked her eyes because they were the only honest ones he knew.

Her plan was going wrong, but it was the kind of blissful wrong she couldn't turn away from, couldn't stop. Want pulsed through her veins, throbbed in her pelvis, overriding every sensible thought.

“Forget with me,” Duncan whispered.

She was a goner. To hell with the plan. “You're right,” she said, watching him, smiling and loving the way he smiled back. Loving that power. “I better get out of these wet clothes.” She began to unbutton her blouse, one tiny pearl button, then another.

Duncan's hungry gaze followed the movement of her fingers. The last button stuck a little but she wriggled it out, then parted the two front panels of the shirt. His eyes took in her breasts as she opened her shirt, then let it fall to the floor, heedless of the dust, the wet fabric.

“My, my, Allie Dean. Are you seducing me?” A grin teased at his lips.

“Is it working?”

“Oh yeah.” He slid a finger along the strap of her bra, the thin silk skipping beneath his touch, her skin prickling with aching fire beneath it. He took another step, closing the gap between them, her breasts crushing to his chest, pained, tight nipples sparking with the twins of agony and ecstasy. He paused, only a moment, before lowering his mouth to hers.

Allie had fantasized about Duncan Henry kissing her. Whenever their pencils had touched, those math problems bringing him to her desk, his head so close she could catch the scent of his cologne, discern the flecks of gold in his dark brown hair. And her imagination would run, distracting her from cosines and tangents.

She'd imagined every type of kiss. Soft, hard, slow, fast. A hundred scenarios, as varied as cable channels.

But she had gotten it all wrong.

Duncan kissed her sweet. Tender. Easy, as if he treasured her, couldn't believe he had her in his arms. She'd expected heat and passion, speed and strength. Not a man who took the time to stoke the fire within her one ember at a time, his thumb tracing an agonizing pattern along her jaw, making her feel—

Special.

Cherished.

Oh damn. This was
so
not part of the plan.

She ran her hands up his back, the slick fabric sliding easily beneath her touch, giving her access to every ridge, every ripple. Her mouth ranged over his, tasting the warmth and salt of his skin, feeling the skip of stubble across her chin. It was everything she'd imagined and more, so very, very much more.

His cell phone began to ring, the tinny sound cutting the mood like a knife. Duncan cursed, then broke away, regret clear in his features. He glanced down at the number, then back again at Allie. “I have to go.”

“Go?” She could barely breathe and he was
leaving
? This kiss, a kiss she had dreamed of for years, was ending before it had barely begun.

“I'm sorry.” He glanced at her lips, then met her gaze. “You have no idea how sorry. But I'm already late.”

Reality slammed into Allie. She'd almost made a huge mistake and gotten involved with the very man who had broken her heart seven years ago. If anything, that cell phone had been a wake-up call, not an interruption—and a reminder to get back to her real reason for being here.

“Don't apologize,” Allie said. “Because I'll be back. After all, we still have unfinished business.” Before he could say anything, she placed a finger on his lips. “I changed my mind, Mr. Henry. I want your house more than you.”

Then she picked up and slipped on her shirt, turned, and left before she could believe any of that moment had been real.

And that Duncan Henry was anything other than the charming playboy she used to know.

The plate was the first to come winging its way toward Duncan's head. He ducked and the plate hit the door behind him, shattering. The pieces fell to the floor, shooting outward in a dangerous, stoneware shrapnel arc.

The bowl came next, but Duncan lowered his head, heard the second crash, and pressed forward into the room, grabbing the mug from Katie's hand before it too could become ammunition. “Stop, it, Katie.”

“Where were you?”

“Out.”

She yanked her hand back, trying to get the mug loose, undoubtedly intending to crack open his skull. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago. You promised we'd play Scrabble.”

“I know,” he said, sinking onto the bed. He couldn't tell her he'd been out at the house, debating for the thousandth time whether to sell it—or torch it. His aunt had loved that big Victorian, and so had Katie. Until—

Duncan pushed the thoughts away. He peeled Katie's fingers off the mug and laid it on the floor, pushing it away with his foot. “I'm sorry.”

“Mrs. Loman is terrible. I think she hates me. And she can't spell, for God's sake.” Katie pouted, then leaned against the pillows. Her eyes were bleary, her words starting to slur, the esses becoming shs. It wouldn't be long, Duncan knew, before the worst sides of Katie emerged. Well, finished emerging, given the stoneware attack.

One of her friends—most likely Darla—thinking she was doing her a favor, had probably come by today, bringing along a bottle of rum, or vodka, or whatever Katie's taste ran toward that day. They'd tell themselves they were doing Katie a favor, even as they left the bottles on the nightstand and fled the room, leaving behind the shell of the Katie they used to know.

For five years, Katie had been his responsibility. He was expected to be the guardian of the gate, the one who kept the Darlas of the world away. Saved Katie from the punch of Captain Morgan's—and herself. Duncan was her older brother, the only one Katie had left.

He was
supposed
to take care of his little sister. But so far, he'd done a truly shitty job.

He tried. He failed. And every day, he woke up with better intentions and hopes that someday, life would return to some semblance of the normal he used to know.

Even as doctor after doctor told him that was impossible. That the sooner he accepted his sister's condition, the better.

If he accepted the permanent paralysis, the hopelessness of Katie's future, that meant accepting his part in making her that way. To Duncan, his guilt was the eight-hundred pound gorilla in Katie's bedroom, weighing on his chest every time he crossed that threshold.

So he ignored the guilt by laying out the Scrabble tiles and telling Katie jokes about his forecast, Wally, the wonders of the Magic 8 Ball, always avoiding the real truth.

Because if he allowed that weight of fault to rest on his shoulders, it would surely crush him.

And where would that leave Katie?

Duncan planted his hands on either side of his sister, fixed his gaze on the telltale cracks of red in her eyes. “Who brought it to you today?”

She averted her gaze. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I cleaned all the booze out of this house yesterday. And last week. And the week before that. And every damned week since you decided a bottle was a better way of dealing with this than therapy.”

She flung back the blankets and showed him her legs. Immobile for five years, they were thin and pale, more like birch sticks than limbs. “Therapy isn't going to fix this, so go to hell, Duncan.” Her anger flared a momentary spark in her defeatist drunk. “If I want to drink, I will. It's the only thing I have.”

“You have me, Katy-bird,” he said, lapsing into her childhood nickname, wishing he could as easily turn back the clock. For him, but most of all for Katie.

Tears shimmered in her eyes but she whisked them away with the back of her hand. “You and this friggin' prison. Yeah, sure, I can take a ride in that stupid chair”—she winged a hand toward the seat that had gathered more dust than anything else—“but it's a goddamned circle, isn't it? It always comes right back here.” She smacked the bed and looked away.

Every day, he lost the battle, but Duncan still fought with arguments, orders, pleas. And Katie went right on drinking away her pain.

And he went right on being Atlas, only with a load of guilt on his shoulders instead of the four corners of the world.

He leaned forward, pulled open her nightstand drawer and removed the half-empty bottle of Bacardi.

“Bastard,” she whispered, then turned away and buried her head in her pillows. “Get the hell away from me. I hate you.”

Duncan left the room and shut the door, leaning against it. He put the bottle on the hall table, closed his eyes and drew in a breath. Maybe he should listen to Doc Wilson and finally do what the doctor had been advising for years—

Send Katie away.

He'd have freedom. He'd have a life again. And in a rehab hospital, she'd get the treatment she needed, whether she liked it or not, because the hospital staff wouldn't cater to a woman who threw stoneware at their heads. There'd be someone more adept than he at getting her to talk, to work her physical therapy exercises. To get her to look forward to something other than the next drink.

In his head, though, he still saw the Katie he used to know. The laughing tomboy who'd sooner scramble up a tree than put on a skirt for church. The all-star baseball player who'd had a full ride to college, a promising future in front of her. The sister who'd adored him, because he was older and bigger and there to protect her whenever the world got a little too scary for his tough-on-the-outside but total-marshmallow-on-the-inside sister.

He'd been there every time. Except one.

“Duncan?” Katie's voice, small and vulnerable now, on the other side of the alcohol coaster.

He sighed.

“Don't leave me. I'm sorry.” She started to cry. “Please. I can't do this without you. I can't. I can't. I can't.”

His shoulders sagged. Duncan drew in a breath, released it, then he reached for the cold, hard doorknob.

“I need you, Duncan.” But he was already there, vowing to try one more time to reach the Katie he remembered.

To keep trying, and maybe, he'd finally repay his worst sin.

 

Black coffee.

Allie despised black coffee. She'd drunk enough of it in the past few years to want to throw the mug at the wall. All in that quest to avoid calories. Sugar. Fat. The triplet enemies of an hourglass shape.

Still, here she sat in Vanessa's kitchen, sipping a mug of Chock full o'Nuts and pretending the taste didn't make her want to hurl. But it was either that or extra time on the treadmill and for Allie, the choice was easy. She hated the treadmill more.

Vanessa slipped into the seat across from Allie at the oak table. “You sure you don't want any creamer?”

Allie nodded and forced herself to take another sip, the caffeine a welcome benefit to the bitter brew. “Too much creamer and I might as well just wear the cow.”

“You have more willpower than me.” To add an exclamation point, Vanessa sloshed a generous amount of hazelnut-flavored creamer into her cup.

Allie watched Vanessa stir the beverage from dark to light, inhaling the scent of toasted nuts. Longing rumbled in her stomach. She tamped it down with another swig of coffee. “Duncan kissed me.”

Vanessa's teaspoon landed with a dancing clatter on the hardwood table. “You kissed
Duncan Henry
? And you just drop it on me like that? Allie, you have to build up to a thing like that. Let me prepare for a bombshell.”

Allie laughed. “Okay, I guess it is pretty momentous news.”

“Are you kidding me? Around here, news like that makes the
front page
.” Vanessa leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. In the living room, her two oldest children started arguing about whether to watch
SpongeBob
or
Jimmy Neutron.
“Tell me what happened. In detail. I'm a married mom. I spend my days changing diapers and eating the crusts off peanut butter sandwiches. The only thing I have is living vicariously through you or
Desperate Housewives.
”

“Details it is then.” Allie told her about finding the farm yesterday, then getting rained on, and then the kiss, which had now tattooed itself on her memory. So much for focusing on working. She could barely remember she
had
a job right now.

“So where does it go from here?” Vanessa asked. “Just kiss him and go? Will there be more? A Duncan Part Two?”

“Neither. I'm not interested in his body. All I want is his property.”
Uh-huh.

“His property? Is that some kinky thing I haven't seen on HBO yet?”

Allie laughed. “No, it's a cool Victorian house, a farm, actually, that he owns.”

“Duncan Henry owns a
farm?
Geez. And here I didn't think Tempest had any secrets.”

Allie grinned. “Apparently, there are a few.”

“I don't see Duncan as the Mr. Green Jeans type. Maybe more the Mr. Tight Jeans.” Vanessa wiggled one of her brows.

“He is that. And a bag of Doritos.”

“So, what's it like? Is he growing corn or something?”

“Nope. It's run down as all hell. I don't think anyone has lived there in years. Dusty, overgrown.” Allie didn't go into the details about the woman's clothing in the wardrobe. There was a piece missing to the house's puzzle and to Duncan—and until Allie knew what it was, she'd leave those details out.

Vanessa shuddered. “Sounds awful.”

“It only sounds awful if you're a Realtor. To Jerry, that's the sound of money at a box office. It's exactly the right location for the next Chicken Flicks movie. But—” At this, Allie sighed. “Duncan refuses to talk about leasing it to the production company. My boss called twice last night to find out if I'd gotten permission yet. He wants to move up filming and get started in a couple of weeks at most. So, I need to find a way to convince Duncan that renting it to Jerry is a good idea.”

Vanessa rose and refilled her coffee, doing the whole sugar/cream ritual again. Allie shook her head at the offer of a refill. One was about all she could stomach—literally. “Once you get your hands on Duncan's ‘property,' are you still going to stick to your plan?”

“You mean dump Duncan, just like he did me?” Allie steeled her resolve again with a flash of memory of her standing outside the prom, crying, her heart broken by the callous football player who'd had no idea what going into that room with him had meant to her, what any of it had meant—four years of sitting beside him, hanging on his every word, hoping, believing he'd seen past her chubby face. “Of course. I won't fall for him. Not again.”

“Even if he kisses better than any man you've ever met?” Vanessa smirked. “Hey, I've heard the rumors about Duncan. He's known for more than just his forecasts, believe me.”

A surge of jealousy sparked in Allie. She pushed it away, refusing to allow the feeling any room. She didn't own him, didn't want to own him. She only wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Regardless of that momentary lapse of judgment back at the farmhouse.

“Well, he won't win me over with his mouth, that's for sure.” Uh, yeah. Right.

“And if he uses another part of his anatomy?” Vanessa lowered her voice below SpongeBob's nasal tittering so the children wouldn't hear the innuendo.

“I'm not so easily swayed.” Yet even as she said the words, Allie knew her truth was as diluted as Vanessa's coffee. She needed to reorder her priorities. Get the house. Make the movie. Get the hell out of Tempest.

Heart and soul intact.

The problem? If Duncan had proposed a little swaying, heck, even whispered the hint in her ear, she would have done a lot more than kissed him yesterday.

And that, she knew, was the one bug in an otherwise perfect plan.