Dear Diary (18 page)

“Where are you going?” he asked in a far from sleepy voice.

His low tones, so close to her ear, sent a tingle down her spine. Goosebumps rose on her flesh. “I’ve got things to do.”

“It’s early yet. Barely five-thirty.”

“You took a shower,” she accused.

“Don’t you think I needed one?”

“You should’ve told me.” she said angrily.

“Why? Did you want one, too? If I’d known, I would have woken you up.”

Rory sucked in a breath, sure she’d been duped.

“Nick…” she warned.

“What?” Amusement threaded his voice.

“You’re well, aren’t you?”

“Well enough,” he admitted, shifting closer. His fingers were hard through the sheerness of her nightgown and so close to her breasts that she didn’t trust herself to draw breath.

It didn’t help when she felt the brush of his lips across her shoulder. Her skin quivered. She tried to jerk free, but Nick was ready for her and succeeded in flipping her onto her back, pinning her arms down and staring at her with ill-concealed amusement.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Rory challenged through her teeth.

“This situation has interesting possibilities.”

“You begged me to sleep with you,” she reminded tautly. “It wasn’t my idea.”

To her horror, he leaned over and placed a kiss at the corner of her mouth. “That’s true, but then I never dreamed you’d say yes.”

“Nick, for God’s sake,” Rory protested weakly, turning her chin away.

A part of her sensed he was teasing; he wasn’t really serious. This situation was fraught with pitfalls. Good Lord, she could actually feel part of herself respond. If Nick ever knew …

She tried to twist away from his marauding mouth, and was infuriated by his deep laughter. Her eyes were slits of outrage, and she would have dearly loved to wipe the mocking smile off his face.

“Get off me,” she ordered.

“Are you really such a prude? I thought you were going to faint when you caught me in the buff.”

“I thought
you
were out of your head!”

“Not that out of my head. You have any idea what you look like in that nightgown?”

“Let go of me or I’ll scream.”

He grinned hugely. “You’re too much.”

Since anything she said was used at her expense, Rory subsided into stony silence. She glared at him, and he returned her stare through eyes that dared her to continue making a fool of herself.

The only sound was their breathing, hers light and fast, his even and steady. Rory could feel every inch of him and through her dazed disbelief, she felt desire creep into her veins. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. This can’t be happening, she thought anxiously. Where was Problem? She could really use Problem suddenly jumping onto Nick right about now, but the traitorous cat was currently nowhere to be seen.

Nick was too perceptive by far. He seemed to sense the change in her even before she did, and stared down at her in a way that made her mouth go dry. Her heart began pounding.

“Rory?” he asked softly.

She felt him tensing, responding to whatever he could read in her face. For one split second she froze. It was all the invitation he needed. This time when he kissed her, his mouth covered hers possessively, suffocatingly. Her body trembled beneath him. His heartbeat was heavy and deep and ringing in her ears. His skin was hot and smooth and Rory’s fingers, clenched in protest against his chest, felt the crisp hairs on his skin.

And then his tongue entered her mouth, wet and demanding, stabbing and flicking against her own. Rory’s head spun. Her limbs turned to water. Her palms flattened against his skin. She wanted him so much it hurt.

“Rory,” he murmured huskily.

In her mind’s eye she saw that silver stream of champagne. The laughter. The kisses. And she remembered Ryan. The way he whispered her name with such longing.

She thrust with all her strength, surprising Nick as she pushed him away. Scrambling off the bed, she wrapped her arms around her waist, glaring down at him in trembling outrage.

“You tricked me. I thought you were really sick last night!”

Nick’s gaze was thoughtful while Rory’s pulse beat in her ears. Slowly, with lithe animal grace, he stretched out on his back and propped his arms behind his head. “You want me,” he said bluntly, his lids lowered seductively.

Rory’s jaw dropped.

With a complete lack of modesty, he flicked back part of the covers in silent invitation. “You should have said so before,” he said conversationally. “We’ve wasted a lot of time.”

“Go to hell!”

“Come on, Rory. Don’t fight it. It’s bigger than both of us.”

She pointed a finger at him. “Get up. Get dressed. And get out!”

“I’m already up,” he said innocently.

Rory backed out of the room, nearly tripping in her haste. She slammed the door behind her, then stood staring at it in numb surprise.
Nick
said that?

The door swung open so abruptly that she gasped. She stepped backward only to have Nick grab her arm and drag her forward. Her mind instinctively filled with vicious ways to thwart him, but before she could put thought to action, he warned, “Don’t even think it. Now listen. I was just joking, okay? For heaven’s sake don’t get all panicky. I’m not going to do anything to you.”

Belatedly she realized the towel was tucked firmly in place around his lean hips.

“I’m sorry I joked around,” Nick said. “I didn’t know you’d be so Victorian about the whole thing. What the hell happened to your sense of humor, Rory?”

“Let go of me.”

He stared down at her, looking like some kind of rugged masculine god. Two day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw line, and his hair was curling lazily down his nape, still damp, and silky smooth. “What are you afraid of? I thought things were going pretty good. You seemed to, too, and—”

“Shut up. Please. Nick.” Rory backed up, pulling her arms free.

“Don’t look at me like that. Even you can admit something happened in there between us.”

“Nothing happened,” Rory denied hotly.

“Nothing happened,” he repeated in a voice that called her a liar.

“That’s not… it’s not…” She was shaking her finger in the direction of the bedroom.

“What?” he demanded.

“You need to know that… I’m not like those other women.”

“What other women?”

“Your other women,” Rory said, sensing she was going to feel like a fool later, uncaring in the moment.

“My other women,” he repeated in a dangerous voice.

“Yes, Nick.
Your
other women. All of them. I’m not like them, and I’m not going to fall for you like they do. I’m different from them.”

She sensed he was growing angry. His lashes narrowed and the look he swept over her nearly scorched her skin. “Not so different.”

“I like you. I do. But believe it or not, I don’t find you irresistible.”

“Have you ever slept with anyone?” he asked bluntly. “Anyone at all? You act like you’ve never even seen a man naked before.”

“Oh, I’ve seen a man naked before.”

“Yeah? How many?”

“A few.”

“You counting your father in that?”

The mention of her father was like a douse of cold water. She didn’t know why they were having this conversation. It was stupid. Unable to cope, she simply turned and headed to the kitchen. He was right on her heels.

“Hey.” He grabbed her arm and she shook him off. He swore violently. “Rory, for God’s sake…”

She swept up the neatly stacked pile of clothes and thrust it into his arms, searching her mind for some killing remark that would put him in his place. But she was distracted by the deep circles under his eyes and the way one hand was propped against the wall, as if his legs weren’t entirely trustworthy.
He’s still not well
, she reminded herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said woodenly. “You’re not well.”

He snorted. “Well enough.”

Rory was beginning to feel that regret she’d known would be coming. Whatever had possessed her? She should have never climbed into bed with him. Already their relationship was on rocky ground. “I don’t want things to change between us, Nick. That’s all.”

“They haven’t.” His gaze swept over her drawn face. “Yet.”

Before Rory could remark on that, a racking cough swept his lean frame.

“You should still be in bed.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” was his short reply.

He chose the bathroom to dress in, and Rory scurried to the bedroom. She yanked out her rather tattered chenille bathrobe and tied it around her waist. Now that Nick was out of sight, she had a chance to worry about what she looked like. A glance in the mirror made her groan. Her hair stuck out all over, and without a shred of makeup on she looked about ten years old.

Dragging a brush through her hair, she only succeeded in making the brown strands crackle and fly with static electricity. In the mirror’s reflection she saw the tussled blankets on her bed. Memory washed over her in a wave of incredulity. She had slept in the same bed with Nick.
Nick
. She had let him kiss her. She’d felt a storm of emotion she’d never felt before‌—‌and that she never wanted to feel again.

She knew that if she’d let him, he would have made love to her. No questions asked.

The door to the bathroom opened and Rory jumped. But Nick turned in the other direction, his long strides taking him toward the kitchen. “Rory?” he called.

Gathering her composure, she tugged once more on the cinch of her robe. She headed toward his voice and found him sitting on the couch, sliding his feet into water-stiffened leather running shoes. Problem was kneading the cushion next to him and purring as if he’d found a long lost friend. Nick gave the cat a pat and then got to his feet. He’d tossed on his shirt but it was still unbuttoned, giving her an ample view of his chest and stomach. His jeans hugged his hips with devastating closeness.

He stood, his gaze taking in Rory’s robe. Before she could say anything, he said, “I’ve got to get home and check on some things.”

“I’m not kidding, Nick. You should still be in bed. Besides, it’s barely six o’clock,” Rory reminded him.

“If I stay here, the situation will only deteriorate,” he said in a calm voice.

Her pulse fluttered alarmingly. His blue-gray eyes were all knowing. She would never be able to deny she’d responded to him because he knew.
He knew.

When she didn’t answer, Nick let himself out the front door. He hesitated just outside and demanded, “Just what did that crack about ‘your other women’ mean?”

“You know.” Her tone was dry.

“I don’t have any other women.”

“Your effect on the female gender is well-documented.”

“Ahh… that’s right. I’m a player. But I don’t have that effect on you, right?”

She blushed, knowing he could see through her lies, but she was unable to tell the truth. “Right.”

“What would it take to get it to work on you?” he asked casually.

Rory slowly shook her head from side to side, warning him with her eyes that she wouldn’t play such a dangerous game.

“You haven’t changed much, Rory,” he said. “But I have. And I’m not going to let you get away with this much longer.”

Rory stared after him, alarmed and a little breathless at his threat. Now what did that mean?

“You told me I always get what I want. I guess we’ll see.” Then he closed the door behind him.

DEAR DIARY — NANCY BUSH

Chapter Eight

… Hey, I’m sorry you and Jenny didn’t make it. Really. Divorce is no fun. But, Nick, you always pick the wrong type of woman. You know that, right? This isn’t a news flash. Not that I have any answers in the romance department. No one would accuse me of that. Oh, well, next time you’re in Seattle, I’ll buy you a beer and tell you all your faults. Until then, be good. Or at least be careful.
Rory

Nick smoothed out the crumpled letter, his lips twisting into a smile. He’d found the hard copy of it in a box of junk he hadn’t unpacked yet. Rory had emailed it soon after his divorce, but he’d never written back. He couldn’t remember why now, but it had seemed important at the time.

There were other forgotten memories inside the box as well, like this old photograph album. Flipping it open, he scanned pictures from grade school and high school and college. There were some shots of his wedding, too, though most of those pictures were in a separate album that Jenny had taken when she’d left. Now he stared hard at Jenny and tried to remember what he’d found so compelling about her.

His gaze stopped over one photo. He and Rory were dancing at the reception and he was kissing her. It was clear he was laughing, but she looked uncomfortable and annoyed. It also reminded him of kissing her in her bed yesterday morning and a prickle of awareness slid over his skin.

Taking the photo from the album, he suddenly remembered another picture. Setting the box on the edge of his bed, he searched through the rest of his boyhood junk: old soccer trophies from the fourth grade, baseball cards, a get-well card signed by all his buddies after he broke his arm and had to miss the end of the season soccer party. At the bottom of the box, smudged by years of neglect was the photograph he was looking for, he and Rory in her bathroom after that fight on the path outside Brentwood elementary. His eyes were practically swollen shut; Rory didn’t look much better. Her face was puffy and her brown hair was dusty gray and wild. Their arms were around each other and their chins were both lifted up defiantly. They were grinning, daring the viewer to take his best shot.