Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) (12 page)

In
his room, he checked his watch. He had time for a very quick shower, and after
tooling around on the bike—and poking around the ravaged wall of the cottage,
which he could see from his window—he felt a shower was called for. A shave. A
fresh shirt, which was unfortunately wrinkled from having spent too much time
crammed into his duffel bag. When he’d packed for the sail, he hadn’t expected
to be spending multiple days in Brogan’s Point.

He’d
noticed an iron and board in the room’s closet. Screw that. He wasn’t going to
knock himself out just to present himself to Monica’s parents in a pressed
shirt. At least the damn thing was clean.

After
his shower, his hair was wet, and he debated whether it would be more gauche to
arrive at Monica’s parents’ apartment late, or to arrive on time with wet hair.
He toweled his hair as he best he could, slapped on some aftershave, grabbed the
flowers, and climbed one more flight of stairs.

Judging
by the placement of the door, the apartment consumed a full third of the fourth
floor. He thought of his apartment back in Miami—a one-bedroom on the second
floor of a square lemon-yellow building overlooking a noisy side street. No
balcony, but the building’s stairwell was open-air. Landscaping consisted of a
couple of squat, sickly palm trees flanking the entry. He rented month to
month, which he preferred to a lease. Wherever he lived, he liked knowing he
could take off the instant he felt the time to move on had arrived.

He
pressed the doorbell, then raked a hand through his hair. Still damp. He should
have taken the time to dry it. A drawstring sack hanging from a hook in his
room’s bathroom held a compact hair drier. It would have taken only five
minutes, and—

Why
was he so concerned about making a good impression on Monica’s parents?

The
challenge, he reminded himself, catching a sweet whiff of bouquet’s perfume.

The
door swung inward. Seeing Monica, he forgot about the flowers, about making a
good impression, about everything except the way he’d felt kissing her a few
hours ago, the way he’d felt bedding her a few nights ago. Just one look at her
smooth, mink-black hair, the elegant angles of her face, the slender grace of
her body, her tentative smile as she gazed up at him… He reflexively reached
for her, and she took a discreet step back and said, in a clear, firm voice,
“Come on in. My parents can’t wait to meet you.”

That
sure put a damper on his lust. Her father had already met him, and Ty was sure
the guy would have been happy to wait a nice, long time before having to meet
him again. As for her mother, Ty didn’t know.

“I
brought these for your mom,” he said, joining Monica in the entry to the
apartment. The floor was a burnished hardwood—oak, he’d guess—covered with a
patterned rug. Amber lamps added to the fading daylight that seeped through the
windows of the living room beyond the foyer. As Monica led him into that room,
the scent of the flowers was overpowered by the aroma of garlic drifting from
the kitchen.

Monica’s
father was working the cork out of a bottle of wine beside a formal dining
table in an alcove off the living room. The cork gave with a gentle pop, and he
set down the bottle and shot Ty a smile that looked forced. “So we meet again,”
he said.

“It’s
a pleasure,” Ty said, extending his right hand and then realizing he was
holding the flowers in it. With a grin, he shifted the flowers to his left
hand, freeing him to shake hands with Mr. Reinhart.

Her
father seemed taken aback by the flowers. “How thoughtful,” he said, then
called into the kitchen. “Cheryl? Tyler is here and he’s brought you flowers.”

“Flowers!”
Monica’s mother bounded out of the kitchen. Monica hadn’t been kidding when
she’d told Ty this would be an informal gathering. Her mother was dressed in
clothes suited for an exercise walk on the beach, or maybe for spending an hour
cooking pasta with clam sauce, heavy on the garlic. The smile she gave Ty was a
much more genuine than her husband’s, and her eyes widened at the sight of the
flowers. “Oh, they’re lovely. How sweet of you. Monica, can you get a vase from
the breakfront?”

The
next few minutes were a jumble of activity and instructions and food being
carried to the table. “Don, honey, give the salad a final toss,” she commanded
her husband. “Monica, is there room on the table for the flowers? Maybe put
them on the credenza for now. The bread is in the oven…where’s the bread
basket? Go ahead and pour the wine, Don.”

Ty
stood out of the way, watching the Reinharts moving in a smooth choreography,
transporting the meal from the kitchen to the table. The dishware looked old,
heavy cream-colored porcelain with a textured border. The table cloth was
thick, the furniture solid and classic. In spite of the fact that the apartment
was part of a hotel, the atmosphere was one of permanence. This was not just a
residence. It was a home.

It
was Monica’s home, or at least the home where she’d grown up. For a brief,
crazy moment, Ty experienced a twinge of envy. She had two parents. They used
endearments when they addressed one another. They anticipated one another’s
moves and offered assistance. There was an intimacy in the way they interacted.
Nothing he could identify, but he sensed it.

Had
his parents been that way? When he thought about them, his memories shimmered
with warmth. They had loved him. They hadn’t been wealthy, but they’d been rich
in affection. And it had all ended so suddenly. He hadn’t felt any sort of
permanence since then—not until he’d set foot inside Monica’s parents’
apartment.

Their
home.
Her
home.

“So,
this inn has a private beach?” Ty asked once they’d finally extricated
themselves from Monica’s parents’ apartment.

The
dinner hadn’t gone badly. Monica had had a moment of anxiety when Ty had shown
up with his hair a tangle of long, damp locks, but he’d smelled so good—at her
insistence, a few years ago, the inn had upgraded the courtesy bottles of
shampoo and conditioner the housekeeping staff placed in the bathrooms, and now
she was personally reaping the rewards every time she caught a whiff of his
freshly washed hair’s spicy fragrance. And bringing her mother flowers had been
such a thoughtful gesture.

But
mostly, things had gone well because, to her amazement, Ty and her parents had
gotten along splendidly. Her parents hadn’t been too nosy with their questions,
and he’d been relaxed and generous with his answers. He’d told them about his
carpentry business in Florida, the fine detail and finishing work he was known
for both in boat restorations and in the luxury residences he worked on. He
described the hand-carved newel post he’d created for the bridal staircase in
the mansion of a well-known fashion designer, and the teak cabinetry he’d
constructed for the yacht of a hedge fund manager. He didn’t mention his
rootlessness, but he did tell her parents that this was his first visit to New
England, which gave them the opportunity to sing the region’s praises. They
were in the hospitality and vacation business; they loved telling everyone how
magnificent New England was.

Ty
had complimented Monica’s mother’s cooking. He’d sipped his wine. He’d insisted
he was stuffed but still managed to accept a second cube-shaped chunk of tiramisu—baked
downstairs in the resort’s kitchen, Monica knew, but she kept her mouth shut
when her mother allowed Ty to believe she herself had made the rich dessert.
Monica’s father was slightly less captivated by Ty than her mother was, but
he’d treated Ty cordially and opted not to comment on the motorcycle Ty had
been driving when he’d chauffeured Monica to the inn earlier that afternoon.

Finally,
by eight-thirty, they’d made their escape. In the hallway outside her parents’ door,
Monica had wanted to hurl herself into his arms and kiss him senseless in
gratitude. She realized she hadn’t known him long enough to predict how he’d
weather a dinner with her parents, but he’d been a true gentleman, wet hair
notwithstanding.

And
of course she wanted to kiss him senseless just because. Because he was Ty.
Because sitting across the table from him for the past two hours had allowed
her to gaze into his crystalline eyes, to imagine the solid sculpture of his
torso beneath his loose-fitting shirt, to brush her feet against his under the
tablecloth. Because being within ten feet of Ty—hell, being within ten miles of
him—turned her on.

But
she exercised restraint as they descended the stairs together. After such a
filling meal, she appreciated the exercise. She’d appreciate another kind of
exercise even more, but before she could drag him back to her apartment, he
asked her about the beach.

“A
small private beach, yes.”

“Let’s
go look at it.”

A
bit of fresh evening air might cool her off, which wouldn’t be such a bad
thing, she thought as she led him down the final flight of stairs into the
inn’s lobby. The last traces of daylight colored the sky a pale lilac,
interrupted by a few smudgy purple clouds. From the veranda, she escorted him
along the path of crushed seashells that circumvented the guest lot and cut
through a small garden of shrubs to a plank stairway that led down to the sand
below. Long strands of beach grass covered the dunes.

A
couple with a toddler in tow were on the beach. They rolled a plastic ball back
and forth across the sand, and the little girl charged after it on her stubby
legs, shrieking with laughter. The ocean was calm, the breeze gentle. Ty bent
over to yank off his sneakers. “This is beautiful,” he said, offering a hand to
Monica so she could lean on him while she removed her shoes. The sand was
chilly against the soles of her feet. Summer hadn’t baked it yet.

She
supposed it
was
beautiful. She was used to this beach, especially during
the off season, when it wasn’t crowded with guests of the inn. She was used to
gathering here with her school friends, huddling beneath blankets on the sand
on cold nights and racing barefoot along the water’s edge on warm nights. She
and Jimmy used to make out in the small, protected cove, and argue here. It was
simply a part of her world, like the veranda and the dining room’s tiramisu and
every other aspect of growing up inside a classic old hotel.

Viewing
the beach and the gray-green ocean beyond it through Ty’s eyes made her appreciate
it more. “You must go to the beach pretty often in Florida,” she said.

“Not
as much as I’d like.” After stashing his shoes and hers beneath the stairs, he
took her hand and strolled out onto the sand. “I haven’t done much surfing
since I left California. How’s the surfing here?”

“It’s
not bad if there’s a hurricane off shore,” she told him. “We get big waves
then.”

“I
bet.” His eyes glowed. “Surfing during a hurricane. That must be fun.”

Maybe,
if you thought you were immortal. Ty was a daredevil. He’d probably love
tackling the huge rollers that crashed into shore when a storm tore up the
coast. Monica had never even attempted to surf. She’d always thought it seemed
too dangerous.

Ty
stopped and bent over to pluck an object out of the sand. Straightening, he
handed it to her—a smooth brown oval of beach glass. She loved beach glass. How
had he known? And how had he spotted the polished chip of glass in the waning
light?

“Thank
you,” she said, closing her fingers around the treasure. She wanted to rise up
on tiptoe and kiss him, but the presence of the couple and their giggling young
daughter inhibited her. Unlike Ty, Monica wasn’t fearless. Public displays of
affection—even on a private beach—made her uncomfortable. She’d need a bit more
wildness to shed her innate modesty

“So,”
he said, his fingers laced through hers, his gaze focused on the horizon, a
growing a little less visible as the evening light continued to wane. “Why did
your parents invite me for dinner?”

A
blunt question, and it deserved an honest answer. “My father saw me on the back
of your motorcycle. My mother heard I’d broken up with my old boyfriend.
Clearly they thought further research was warranted.”

He
smiled at her wry remark, then glanced down at her. “Did I have anything to do
with breaking you and your boyfriend up? Because, I mean—if a woman is with
another guy, I keep my distance.”

“No.
We had already broken up when I met you.” Just a day earlier, but Ty didn’t
have to know that. The break-up had had nothing to do with him. “How about you?
Do you have a girlfriend in Florida?” Or, God forbid, a wife?

She
didn’t realize she was holding her breath until he said, “Nope. Same rule for
me. I don’t want to be on either end of a cheat.”

Her
lungs emptied with a sigh of relief. Ty might be wild, he might be footloose,
he might be reckless and rootless and too sexy for her sanity. He might even be
a criminal. Yet she sensed a moral core to him. Drugs or no drugs, he would not
cheat on a woman.

A
cold drop of water tapped her nose. They weren’t that close to the ocean’s
edge, and the breeze wasn’t strong enough to have carried sea spray across the
sand onto them. She glanced up and realized that the encroaching darkness was
only partly due to the sunset. Those purple clouds had expanded, rolling up the
coast.

Another
drop struck her cheek. From a few yards away, the voice of the woman drifted
toward her and Ty: “Uh-oh! It’s starting to drizzle.”

“Uh-oh!”
the little girl echoed, then giggled. “Uh-oh!” The man scooped up the child,
who let out a bubbly laugh as he hoisted her onto his shoulders. “Uh-oh!” she
bellowed. “Uh-oh!”

Monica
considered rushing back to the stairs, but her feet seemed pinned to the sand.
Or else she was pinned by Ty’s gentle clasp of her hand. He seemed in no hurry
to escape from the rain.

The
couple and their daughter grinned at Monica and Ty as they jogged past, heading
straight for the stairs. Another raindrop struck Monica, and another, and still
she couldn’t imagine seeking protection. Running indoors would be the safe,
sane thing to do. She might not be daring enough to surf through a hurricane,
but surely she could stand in the rain.

Ty
gazed toward the stairs, watching the family escape from the beach. Then he
turned back to Monica, lifted his hands to her cheeks, and cupped her face. The
kiss she’d yearned for outside her parents’ apartment—and inside it, and every
moment since Ty had kissed her at Rose Cottage—arrived, and she welcomed it
eagerly.

The
fragrance of the gentle spring shower mingled with the ocean’s briny perfume
and with Ty’s scent, clean and spicy and powerfully male. They kissed as the
raindrops peppered them, kissed as the waves hissed and whooshed against the
sand, kissed as their clothing grew damp and clung to their skin. Kissed as Ty
lifted his hands to her hair and threaded his fingers through the damp locks.
Kissed as he rocked his hips to hers, as she felt his hardness. Kissed as she
wrapped her hands around his waist and chased his tongue with hers, and felt
herself becoming wet in places the rain couldn’t reach.

“You
make me crazy,” he whispered, tilting her head back and grazing the skin
beneath her jaw.

You
make me sane,
she thought, but only clung more tightly to him, probing the taut muscles of
his lower back through his soggy shirt.

He
dipped his head lower, nibbling a path along her sternum. The sky had grown
even darker, clouds obliterating the moon. He pulled his hands from her hair
and unfastened a few buttons of her shirt, opening it far enough to expose her
bra. He tugged the cups downward, freeing her breasts, and nuzzled them, first
one and the other, and then the hollow between them as his thumbs brushed her
nipples.

Her
legs trembled, strength draining from them as all her energy centered on where
Ty was kissing her, touching her—and where she wanted him touching her. She
moaned, and he released her breasts and tucked his hands around her bottom,
lifting her off her feet. She wrapped his legs around his waist and he carried
her toward the stairs.

She
tried to calculate the distance between the beach and her bed. She tried to
collect her wits enough to consider buttoning her blouse, in case she and Ty
encountered anyone between here and there.

Apparently,
he thought the distance to her apartment was too great. At the stairs, he turned
and settled onto a lower step, holding Monica in his lap, her legs still around
him. His mouth remained on hers, hot and hungry.

“Ty,”
she whispered.

He
worked open the fly of her slacks and slid one hand inside, under the elastic
of her panties. He found her, soaked and swollen, his thumb playing over her,
his fingers plunging.

She
choked out a cry. She was coming, here on the hard wood steps to the beach, on
Ty’s lap. She was coming, and he wasn’t with her, and she couldn’t stop
writhing against him, couldn’t stop the sensations from crashing through her
with more force than the surf during a stage-five hurricane.

She
didn’t need the thrill of surfing. She had this. She had him.

As
the deep, wrenching spasms subsided, she leaned against him, struggling to
breathe. He kept his hand where it was, calming, soothing. When her heart
finally stopped its galloping pace and her respiration slowed, she murmured,
“Wow.”

“Yeah.”
She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear his smile.

The
rain fell quietly around them, against them. She rested her head on his
shoulder and tried to think of anywhere she’d rather be. She came up blank.

As
if he could read her mind, Ty said, “I like this place. I like the inn. I like
the beach.” He brushed a light kiss on her forehead. “I like these stairs.”

“At
the moment, so do I.” At last she pulled back. Her shirt, saturated from the
rain, weighed heavily against her skin. Her hair dripped down her back. Ty
looked as waterlogged as she felt. “Open your fly.”

“That’s
okay, Monica, I—”

“Open
it.” She tugged at his belt, but her hands were shaking. Her soul was perfectly
steady, however. She felt sure of herself. She felt wild.

Ty
must have seen her determination in her expression, because he dutifully
unzipped his jeans. She reached inside and he sprang free, warm and steel-hard.
She stroked the length of him, then bowed and opened her mouth over him.

A
ragged groan escaped him as she took him in. He was warm, salty, silky. Large,
yet he didn’t choke her. She’d never much liked doing this with Jimmy, but he’d
loved it and she’d accommodated him. With Ty, though—it felt right. He tasted
wonderful. She was driven by the need to make him as delirious with pleasure as
he’d made her. The need, the desire, the excitement. Rain beat down on her as
she swirled her tongue over his tip and then down the length of him. She
tightened her lips. He groaned again.