Last True Hero (19 page)

Even though to me, the real masterpiece is sitting on the stool, not on the easel.

W
e don't talk while I paint. He eats, and I can feel his eyes burning into my skin, even from the other side of the easel. I sip my wine in between brushstrokes, eyeing the canvas while I add brushes of color here and there. But my mind isn't empty the way it normally is when I paint.

Usually, I paint to escape the pressure. Whatever kind of pressure my parents have placed on me, or the pressure that I've put on myself. Sometimes I feel like I could crumble beneath the weight of it all. And that's when I leave it behind, sit down, and put brush to canvas. My paintings are always full of rich, bold color and texture, reflecting the very heart of me.

What I capture tonight is no different, except for the way my mind feels while I'm doing it. Instead of empty, it's full of whirring, swirling thoughts of the man sitting just behind my canvas.

He did this for me.
I'm thinking it over and over again, stunned by the sentiment behind this date. Dare didn't just take me to dinner and a movie, even though I would have been completely fine with it if he had. But this is so much deeper than that. He listens when I talk. He understands what I need. He asks for nothing in return, effectively eliminating the concept of pressure from our relationship. When I told him I wasn't ready to sleep with him yet, he wasn't fazed or disappointed. Most guys would have thrown their hands up then, running away full speed from that kind of effort.

But not Dare.

Maybe I really did put a spell on him. Why else would he stay? Especially after my father made an appearance, pulling me out of the club like a twelve-year-old out past curfew.

I don't get what keeps him with me. Even more, I don't get what makes him do incredibly sweet things like what he's done tonight. But I don't want to lose it. I don't want to lose Dare. My heart flutters around in my chest, a caged bird trying to take flight, at the thought of it.

My heart grows fuller as I think of him, and my skin begins to flush, starting at the tips of my ears, when I imagine how I'm going to thank him for this incredible gift.

Peeking out from behind the canvas, his light-green eyes pierce me, and I lean back quickly behind my barrier. I hear his deep chuckle, and when I peek around again his mouth is tipped up in his crooked smile.

Ducking back behind the easel, I can feel my cheeks blushing a furious scarlet.

“What are you doing, baby?” he asks.

Heat pools in the very center of me as I hear his endearment. Crap on a cracker, that shouldn't make me feel so…hot. God, he turns me into a mess of quivering Jell-O on the inside, just by saying a
word.
His husky voice is like a rough caress on my skin.

“Uh…I'm painting?” I manage to croak.

“Yeah? Am I your subject? Do you need me to lose the clothes?”

Oh, my God. If he does that…there will be no more painting tonight. And the way I'm feeling right now, there may also be no more self-control that keeps me a safe distance away from him. My thighs clench together in response to the rough timbre of his voice, and I curl my toes against the floor.

I'm being absolutely ridiculous right now.

After about ten more minutes, I close my eyes. The electric heat that's building in the room has reached an unbearable temperature, and my body aches from the effort of holding myself together. I haven't peeked at Dare again, but I know he's just on the other side of the easel…

I pick the paintbrush up off the canvas, and tilt my head to the side as I eye what I've done. I'm mostly finished, although I need to go back and add some shadowing.

I'm so engrossed, I haven't heard Dare come up behind me. My nerves are a frayed mess of sensation, so when he places his hands on my shoulders I jump what must be a mile out of my seat. There goes that deep chuckle again, and my insides turn to molten lava. I close my eyes again.

“Berkeley,” he murmurs, and I'm trembling. My name is like a luscious piece of candy on his tongue. “Oh, baby…that's beautiful.”

My eyes pop open, absorbing the painting in front of me. His hands remain hot on my shoulders. I've painted something impossible, a fiery sunburst in violent shades of red and yellow and orange, slammed against the backdrop of an inky-blue nighttime sky. Glimmering stars dot the scene around the sun, as if they're falling from their heated maker.

I tilt my head again, assessing it. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as Dare moves in closer. He stands just behind me, and I can feel the pressure of his chest on my back as he leans down and places his lips against my skin. The spot at the apex of my shoulder and my neck catches fire, and the trembling my body is already enduring turns into a violent shiver. I quickly place my paintbrush on the easel before I drop it.

He freezes beside me, and I can feel his breath pulsing against my skin. “Did that feel good?” His whisper is husky and deep, and it does terrible, amazing things to the muscles in my thighs. They clench of their own accord. I say nothing, trying fiercely to stay focused on my painting.

Dare uses a hand to sweep my hair away from my neck, and dips his head low to place another kiss just below my ear. A tiny, traitorous moan escapes me, and my head drops fully to the side as I give him full access to my neck.

“Ah,” he whispers. “So you
did
like that, didn't you, Berkeley? What else do you like?”

I press my lips together. If he wants to know, he's going to have to figure it out.

Oh, that's a dangerous thought to be having right now.

His tongue darts out to draw a tiny circle on the sensitive skin beneath my earlobe as his hands trail down my arms. They break free of my palms, which rest atop my bare thighs. Oh, why did I wear shorts this short? I silently curse myself and praise myself.

“You always feel so fucking good under my fingers,” whispers Dare the Devil. “So damn good.”

His fingers create a hot trail up my thighs as his touch moves upward. When they travel past the hem of my shorts and underneath my shirt, I shudder.

My breath is coming in heavy pants, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I basically sit helpless before him. When his fingers touch me like this, when his lips command me like this, I'm complete dough in his hands.

“Lift your arms, Berkeley.” I can hear the command in his tone and automatically want to defy it. But something about being under Dare's command sends sexy shivers of delight through my body, so much stronger than the desire I have to push back against it.

I do as he says.

He pulls my tight T-shirt up over my head and discards it, so that I'm in just my bra from the waist up. His hands continue their path against the soft skin of my stomach stopping just beneath my breasts. I gasp, and lean back against his solid chest. His thumbs rub gentle circles just out of reach from where I want him to be, and I groan in frustration. His breath is against my ear again.

“What, baby? What's wrong?” His thumbs continue their torturous movement while he speaks.

I shake my head, shifting on the stool so that his roaming digits inch higher.

He stills them. Damn. Him.

“What?” he asks again. “Tell me, Berkeley.”

“Touch me, Dare,” I ask finally. “Your hands…are driving me insane.”

“No yet,” he promises. “But they will be.”

Finally,
finally
, his fingers reach their destination as he palms both my breasts simultaneously, sending my body into a writhing fit and fire and drawing a heavy moan from my mouth. Pushing down the soft cups of my bra, he pinches my nipples with his fingers and pulls, and I cry out.

His body is a solid wall behind me, so when I sag back against it there's no danger of falling off the stool. Thank God. My lips part, and I lick them as he continues to torture my breasts.

Seeing it, he leans forward and takes my mouth with his. His kiss is punishing, his tongue parts my lips and swipes against mine, tangling and teasing. I moan into the kiss, wanting more of everything he's dishing out. He's like a sweet, sinful dessert I can't get enough of.

Then he leaves my tender, aching breasts, and I groan in disappointment. Chuckling, he pulls his lips away from mine.

“Stand up, baby.”

I don't hesitate, but my legs are weak as I stand, wobbly. He holds me against him as he climbs astride the stool, pulling me onto his lap.

“That's better,” he growls into my ear. The sexy-growly, bossy Dare is turning me into a needy mess. It's so freaking hot.

“Is it?” I whisper.

“Oh, yeah,” he answers me roughly. He reaches down and pops the snap on my shorts.

Oh
. Now I see why it's better. He slowly undoes the zipper, and as his fingers brush against my panties I jerk back against him. He strokes one finger against the center of me gently, and I buck again. He dips his head, nipping at my earlobe.

“Fuck, Berkeley.” He groans. “I can
feel
how wet you are right now. This so wasn't the plan tonight, baby. But I could see you over there, blushing, and I could hear you sighing from my chair. I couldn't stay away from you anymore.”

His finger stays busy as he speaks, stroking me up and down, and I keep my eyes closed, barely holding myself above water as his touch and his words threaten to pull me under. His voice is a shiver dancing along my spine. My insides are burning, and the inner siren Dare is convinced lives within me slowly unfurls her wings, ready to begin her song.

“God, Dare,” I gasp.

“Yeah, baby?” His fingers still and I groan in dismay. “I touch you on your terms, Berkeley. I only want to do what you're ready for. What are you ready for right now, sweetheart?”

I writhe in his arms, but he holds me steady. I can feel the harness of his very ready erection under my butt, and I grind into it. He freezes.

“Your terms, Berkeley,” he says in a strained voice. “But
Jesus
, you're making it hard on me.”

“I want you to touch me…under my panties,” I whisper urgently. “Just like before. Right the hell now, Dare.”

He curses again, making a noise of pure male delight deep in his chest. It's guttural and sexy as hell.

He slips one hand beneath the waistband of my thin, lace panties, and as soon as his fingers graze my slick, wet heat I nearly
let
go
right then and there. My eyes roll back in my head and my mouth fills with saliva. My hips are grinding so hard into his lap that he hisses a quick intake of air through his teeth. I swivel my hips, and his answering groan makes me melt.

His other hand slides up my stomach until it's once again cupping my breast, and he gives equal attention to my achiest bits like only Dare can. It's unfair, really, how much of a state he can leave me in. He knew what he was doing to me the moment he leaned down and whispered in my ear.

“Dare.” His name is a needy moan torn from my lips, and his finger draws small circles right over the smallest, most tender part of me.

“Berkeley,” he whispers, his voice so deep and low in my ear that I shudder yet again. “Come for me. Right the hell now.”

And that's all it takes. All the pieces of me fly apart as his words and his touch and his all-male, all-Dare scent surround me, overwhelm me, control me. I quake as I say his name again, and he buries his face in my neck, inhaling.

“Fuck it to hell,” he says. “You are fucking amazing, Berkeley. You're the most beautiful, dangerous thing I've ever laid eyes on. What have you done to me? Fuck.”

His words are uttered between kisses on my shoulder, nips on my ear, licks on my neck, and I sink into him.

I curl into him, turning to the side and pulling my legs up on his lap right along with the rest of me. I'm languid, sleepy, and I want nothing more than to be totally wrapped around him right now.

He kisses my forehead tenderly, then brushes my hair back out of my face.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he asks, his voice raw.

I shake my head. “Make you really, really horny?”

His rumble of laughter brings a wide smile to my lips.

He uses a finger to turn my face up toward his. “That's a given. Your magic powers guarantee that. But you also make me…want things I've never wanted before. You make me believe that…that goodness is possible for me again. After everything I've done.”

I rear back and stare into his eyes. “What you've done?”

He shakes his head. “I mean everything I've been through. I don't know, Berkeley. I just never saw you coming. And you're a very, very pleasant surprise.”

I just stare, transfixed in his stunning green eyes. I can't look away. Everything inside me is still trying to recover from what he just did to me. The way he knows my body and how to touch me and talk to me is putting me in serious danger of grabbing him and throwing him down on the floor so that I can finish what he started.

I shake the thought free, and the corner of his lips turn up in a half-grin.

Crap. Damn, damn, damn. I'm in major trouble here. I'm in serious danger of getting in over my head with Dare. He's everything I said I didn't want. He's ex-military, he's stubborn, he's commanding. He's got a lot of darkness in his past, from his childhood demons still chasing him at night and from a faraway combat zone I can't reach him in when he disappears there.

But then, he's also sweet and considerate. He does things for me that no one has ever bothered to do. He protects me and he makes me laugh every single time I'm with him.

And the combination of all of it, not just the good, puts me in danger of falling in love with Dare Conners.

I
t takes two weeks for me to admit it to myself.

It happens while I'm tying a black bow tie, preparing for a formal event in Berkeley's parents' backyard. I stare at my reflection, my dark hair touching the collar of my tux. I'm shaking with nervousness and anticipation at seeing her in a formal gown. Just the thought of her all dressed up makes something in my chest clench tightly.

I'm falling in love with Berkeley. It's just as unbelievable as it is undeniable.

And with that thought comes a flood of unexpected, un-fucking-welcome questions. Do I tell her? If I do, will she run in the other direction? Does she feel the same way? Do I even understand love well enough to recognize this as real?

Those questions give way to questions from my past that turned my world upside down and inside out more than once.
Did they suffer? Where will I live now? Will they find me if I hide in the closet? Are they all dead? Shouldn't I be?

I shudder, my fingers trembling as they struggle with the knot at my neck.
Questions about love are not the same as questions about survival.
I repeat the words like a mantra, over and over again inside my head. I picture Berkeley, eyes closed, lips parted. My name a strained whisper tumbling out of her mouth. My pants immediately tighten at the thought of what she looked like when she was vulnerable like that. In my arms.

Shit. She was beautiful.

Attending a black tie event with her parents and all their boring-as-hell, rich friends is the last thing I want to do tonight. I'd rather scoop Berkeley up and take her off somewhere to be alone. But I'm doing this for her. Because she has to be there, and she needs me by her side.

I'm nervous during the entire ten-minute drive to the Holtz home. I'm not nervous to be around people who have more money than me. I could give two shits about that. I'm nervous to be in the same room as Berkeley's father and still keep a handle on my temper.

If he touches her again like he did that night…

I suck in a deep breath as I walk up the paved drive and around the side of the enormous house. There are lighted torches leading the way from the front of the house to the backyard. When I round the back of the home, I'm met with a myriad of black and white.

In the dusky evening light, lit torches are setting an ethereal mood around the grounds. The home isn't located directly on the water, but the smell of the ocean is in the air. The lush green grass lets me know that the Holtzes have laid turf, because the landscape should have been less green and lush, more sandy and scraggly. There are pathways of cobblestones laid out leading to an enormous covered patio and screened-in porch, the pool, and a sun lounge.

A large, white tent is set up in the grass just beyond the patio, and I can see tables covered with black tablecloths inside. Light, classical music is trickling over the approaching night, and I search the faces around me for the only one I'm interested in seeing.

“Dare!”

I turn toward the house, and there she is. She's walking quickly toward me in a long, flowing black dress that gathers just beneath her breasts. The material alludes to the voluptuous curviness that is Berkeley's body, but just barely as it swishes against the ground. Her hair is smooth, free of its normal wild curls, and swept up in an elegant bun on the top of her head. She looks gorgeous, like a fucking angel.

I let out the breath I've been holding and gather her up in my arms as she reaches me. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She breathes, and I inhale. She smells like roses, as usual, with a hint of something fruity in her shampoo. “I'm so glad you're here.”

“I'm wherever you want me,” I reply simply. “You look…” I pull back and hold her out at arm's length. “Stunning. Perfect. You're slaying me right now, baby.”

Her dimples appear in her cheeks as she smiles at my words. Then she assesses me right back. God, I love that about her. She can give it right back to me, threefold. “You look…dashing. Ridiculously handsome. Good enough to eat.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Eat? Do we need to stay at this party? I really like the sound of ‘good enough to eat.'”

She giggles, slapping my bicep. “Later. I have to be here.”

I nod, holding her gaze with my own. “You just made me a promise, honey.” My hand sinks lower on her waist, and she smirks.

“Yes, sir.”

I grab her hand before she can salute, and bring her knuckles to rest against my lips.

She nabs a passing waiter and grabs two flutes of champagne off his tray. She hands me one, and takes a large gulp of hers.

“Easy, there,” I murmur. “It's going to be a long night.”

She sighs. “I know. But just look at this place.” She gestures around us, and I look.

It looks beautiful, like a picture in a magazine, but admittedly, it's not Berkeley.

“Black and white everywhere! Classical music! Ugh. It's beyond boring.”

I nod, in complete agreement. “How about when we leave we blast Rise Against?”

There are the dimples again, the forehead folds disappearing instantly. “Make that the Eli Young Band and you've got a deal.”

I wince. “Ain't gonna happen.”

“There you are,” a cool female voice greets us.

I look up from Berkeley's face, and her mother stares back at me. Her expression is extremely guarded, and the muscles around her mouth twitch as she purses her lips. She glances from Berkeley to me, and holds out a hand.

“I didn't realize Berkeley had invited a friend,” she greets me. Her voice drips with icicles. “I'm her mother, Denise. And you are?”

I shake her hand, gripping her thin fingers tightly in my own before I release it. “I'm Dare Conners. Thank you for having me. Your home is beautiful.”

Berkeley glances between us, anxiety written in her features. I place my hand on the small of her back reassuringly. Her mother doesn't miss it, her eyes going straight to the point of contact.

“Dare, would you excuse Berkeley for a moment?” My name leaves her mouth as if it's created a bad taste. “I have some people I need her to speak with.”

Berkeley releases an exaggerated huff. “Momma, I—”

I give her a gentle shove in her mother's direction.

“Go,” I say with a smile I don't actually feel. In fact, I feel like doing the opposite of smiling, but I don't want to make things any harder for Berkeley than they clearly already are.

She narrows her eyes on me for about two seconds before she's yanked away by her mother's hand. Damn, apparently that thin, frail-looking woman is a hell of a lot stronger than I gave her credit for.

I stare sympathetically after Berkeley for a minute before taking my first sip of champagne. Wow. I'm a beer guy, but this bubbly shit is kind of delicious. I can see how downing that whole glass and then some would work quickly in my system.

I make my way around the outskirts of the party. I just need to be moving. It's hard for me to stay still, to stay in the same spot for too long. I people-watch as I slide through the crowd. Everyone here seems happy to be here, but at the same time they all seem like there's somewhere better they could possibly be. It's so weird I find myself being pulled into listening to conversations and just trying to understand where some of these people are coming from. I fail every single time.

I finish my glass of champagne but opt to wait awhile before I have another. I suspect I need to be ready to shepherd Berkeley out of here at a moment's notice.

As Berkeley takes longer and longer to return, I find myself wishing I had some company. The party sucks, but it would suck less if I had someone to talk to. Or commiserate with. Mea would be perfect.

The thought of Mea brings me back to the night of the loft above the coffee shop. After Berkeley and I were done upstairs, I took her down to speak with Thomas again. He'd explained that he owned the gallery next door and that he displayed his own art there as well as works by up-and-coming artists. He offered to hang her piece of the sunburst, and she'd been over-the-moon excited.

“Like, for people to actually
buy
?” she'd squealed.

Thomas had chuckled. “Yep. I'll price it and hang it, and we'll see what happens.” Her piece had sold less than a week later, and I will never forget the look on her face when she found out. She's been back to the loft to paint several times since then.

That same night she told me about the apartment with Mea and Greta. Her eyes shone with excitement, and I was so happy for her it hurt. I wanted her to get out from under her father's thumb, but I had no idea how to go about making it happen. Then it just fell into her lap, and I was more than relieved. Her parents hadn't taken her moving out well, but she hadn't expected them to.

And now she is on her own. I know she'll nail down a job next, because the girl is seriously capable of just about anything.

I'm broken out of my thoughts when a deep voice beside me pulls me back to the present. “I'm surprised you'd show up here.”

I look up, straight into the icy blue eyes of Grisham. Fuck. On principle, I want to punch this fucker in his smooth, perfect face. My fist curls just looking at him. I force myself to relax, uncurling my fingers.

Berkeley isn't with him.

She's with me.

“Yeah, well, I'd go wherever Berkeley asks me.” That's the only answer his ass needs.

He keeps staring forward, a frown marring his features. “That's…good. I'm glad to hear it. She deserves someone who will put her first. She's never had that in her life. I hope you can give it to her.”

I glance at him, somehow keeping my tone even. “Why, because you'll be waiting in the wings if I don't?”

He shakes his head, finally meeting my gaze. “She's made it clear she doesn't want me. Losing her cost me a lot. But I never really had her to begin with.” He nods toward the house. “You know she told her parents about you. Not sure if they're gonna approve. I hope for your sake they take it easy on her.”

I nod coolly, taking in the action of the party once more.

“Do you surf?” he asks suddenly.

Where's he going with this?

“I'm from Florida,” I answer warily. “Of course I surf.”

He nods, chucking. “Don't ever take Berkeley. She hates it.”

Something in my memory clicks into place, shifting, forming a picture in my mind. “Wait. She said she was surfing a few weeks ago. Was she with
you
?” Unease roils my gut, and I try to force it away.

He nods. “Yeah. I've taken her lots of times. She does it for me, but she really can't stand it. Athletic activities aren't Berkeley's strong suit.”

Fuck. She didn't tell me she'd been surfing with
Grisham.
And I knew she didn't like to do athletic stuff, which is why up to this point I hadn't taken her.

Fuck.

Inside me, jealousy rears its big, green, ugly head. It coils in my stomach like a snake, poised to attack. It's a brand-spanking-new emotion for me, and I have to say it sucks. It really, really sucks.

Grisham is watching me carefully. “She didn't tell you I took her surfing.”

It wasn't a question, more of a statement. So I don't bother answering him. We just stand there, watching the crowd swirl around us.

“She's been gone a long time,” I muse, finally. “I think I'll go see if I can find her.”

He nods, and I leave him standing there. If I'd stood next to him any longer, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been able to keep ignoring my hand-to-hand combat training impulse lighting a fire inside my stomach. It wasn't
his
fault she hadn't told me who she'd been surfing with. And she and Grisham are friends, so she hadn't done anything wrong.

But the idea that she hung out with him, without letting me know about it, feeds a nasty suspicion that maybe she did more things with Grisham she hadn't bothered to tell me about. Maybe every second she isn't with me, she's with him. The thought eats me up from the inside out, and I can feel my body coiling tighter and tighter with every step I take.

I scan the patio and grassy area as I walk, not spying the coiffed blond hair and curvy figure I'm searching for. I know she isn't in the tent, because the fancy dinner has yet to be served. As I walk closer to the house, a waiter comes strolling out of the kitchen door carrying a tray of shrimp cocktail. I catch the heavy wooden door with my hand and push inside.

Hearing voices coming from the dining room just past the kitchen, I inch forward. I don't want to be seen, I just want to see if any of the voices is Berkeley's. As I get closer, I can begin to make out the conversation unfolding before me.

“God, Daddy, I'm so sick of going over this with you! I don't want to talk about it again!”

That's Berkeley, and she is obviously talking to the Admiral. Does she need me? Should I bust in and pull her out of there?

“You brought that trash to our house tonight, Berkeley. That doesn't sit well with me. These people are my friends and my colleagues, what will they think? And Grisham's parents are here. Do you really want to throw the fact that you ditched their son for someone who is so far beneath him into their faces? Didn't I raise you better than that?”

She sounds so angry, I still at the tone in her voice. Feistiness in full force. “No, Daddy, that isn't my fault. Grisham and I have always been great friends. You pushed him on me, trying to turn it into more than I ever wanted. It's your fault if anyone thinks we're supposed to be together, not mine.”

“And so what? Now you're going to end up with army trash?” He barks out an ugly laugh. “That's just perfect, Berkeley.”

She sighs, sounding beyond exasperated. “Are you really going to cut me off because I didn't choose the man you wanted? That's so petty, Daddy.”