Love Gone Wild: A Contemporary Romantic Comedy (9 page)

B
RENT OPENED
THE door and looked down at the little ball of black kitten fluff in Dane's arms. His gaze traveled to Marissa, who held a tiny, shaggy creature of indeterminate breed. Four pairs of eyes were trained on him.

"We need a favor," said Dane. "You have plenty of room—"
Realization dawned and Brent shook his head. "No. No way. This is my brand new, just-built house. With white carpet. And leather furniture."

"And two acres."

"No, Dane. This is my dream bachelor pad. No kids. No animals. No way."

"Please, Brent," said Marissa in a soft, vulnerable voice. "I can't bear to take them back. We had to fib—a little—about Dane's living arrangements so we could adopt the maximum number."

Brent's eyes bulged. "You mean there's more?"

"Four dogs and four cats."

"You left them in your car?"

Dane grimaced. "Actually...can we borrow your truck?"

"What?"

"The Great Dane wouldn't fit," offered Marissa.

Brent's brows rose. "Dane bought a
Dane?"

"Adopted. He only has three legs," said Marissa. "And this little guy here—" She pointed to the kitten. "—is blind. We couldn't leave them there. They need us."

"Let me get this straight. Dane, who'd rather jump naked into a rattlesnake pit than own a dog, adopted eight animals?"

"She
adopted eight animals. Your place is only a temporary home until Marissa can find one of her own."

Brent laughed. He laughed so hard Dane thought his friend would bust a gut.

He clenched his teeth. "Look, are you going to help us out or what?"

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Brent opened the door to let them in. "Sure. Bring that new, furry family of yours right on in."

M
ARISSA AND DANE
returned to the shelter with Brent's truck and six newly purchased animal carriers along with various cords to keep the creatures from sliding around in the truck bed. Dane realized he was just plain crazy. He'd never been fond of animals. His mother had been too tight-assed to even consider having a pet in her perfect home. She was obsessed with vacuuming and dusting.

Hell, he wasn't allowed to even sit on the pristine living-room couch. The living room was for guests. Her guests. When he was four, she left. He and Dad had gotten along just fine—they'd sold that damned couch—but getting a pet had always been the least of their worries. If it hadn't been for his dad, he might have ended up like one of the kids at the TeenCenter.

His mother, a debutante who'd fallen in love with a bartender and gotten pregnant, made no secret about how much she hated her blue-collar life and how much she wanted back her blue-blooded one. Dane knew that if his father had given in to her demands to live on her parents' money, she might not have grown so bitter and bitchy. She might even have stayed.

But Dad had wanted to support his family his way. So Mom finally left, married a wealthy man, had other children, and promptly forgotten about her terribly uncouth existence with Bernie and Dane Sinclair.

Then he had to go and repeat his father's mistake by marrying Lorraine Whittaker. At least they'd come to their senses before children entered the picture.

"Are we going in?"

Dane started. He realized Marissa had been staring at him. He shook off old memories and opened the door to the truck. Marissa got out, too. They met at the gate and she touched his arm. "Is everything all right?"

"Yep."

She frowned and a cute little V formed between her brows. He tapped her nose. "Don't worry about me, prin—uh, Marissa. I'm just trying to figure out if I'm crazy or not for letting you talk me into this."

"You are crazy." She smiled. "But I love you for it."

His heart leapt in his chest. His rational mind knew her words were just the same as one of those empty phrases people say when they're grateful, like
"you're the best," "that was nice of you," "wow, what a fantastic guy you are,"
yet his mind discarded all the words around the
I love you.

Surprise fluttered through him, followed quickly by a thick coating of cold fear. He wanted her to say the words for real. To look up at him with her tempting mouth and innocent eyes and say, "I love you, Dane."

Panic clawed at him. He didn't want another needy, aloof, rich woman twisting his insides and emasculating him. His physical attraction, his
painful
physical attraction, to Marissa had fried his brain. Yeah. He didn't want her love...he wanted her body. To bury himself in her sweet, luscious, beautiful body.

Today was Thursday. If he could last until Saturday, the day Marissa promised to walk out of his life forever, he would be fine. He'd find a Marissa look-alike and slake his lust. He grimaced.
You penis-for-brains. You can't do that. Use a woman? No. Never.
He would never use a woman, just like he would never trust a woman. Women connived. Women lied. Women abandoned.

He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, watching Marissa open the door to the shelter. She turned and looked over her shoulder at him and he lost his breath. Her hair, honey blond and soft, glistened in the morning sunshine. Her dewy lips parted with expectation and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

He wanted her underneath him, naked and wanting, and wearing only that expression.

"Dane," she said, her voice breathy and low, "are you coming?"

Not yet, damn it. And not with you.

"Yeah. Let's get this over with."

M
ARISSA HADN'T EXPECTED Brent to
react the way he did. When they arrived with the animals, Brent had his suitcase ready to go. He looked at Dane, who was trying to restrain the three-legged Dane he'd just released from the truck. "Two days, buddy, then I'm coming back and claiming what's mine. Where's the key to your apartment?"

"What?"

The Dane sat on its haunches not seeming to mind it only had one back leg. Marissa admired the graceful way it leaned forward on its front legs.

Brent frowned at the dog. "How does he scratch his ears?"

"He won't have to," said Marissa. "I'll scratch them every day."

"Men will always have itches to scratch." Brent was speaking to her, but his stare was directed at Dane. "Just remember that, will you?"

She had called Brent at the first opportunity and told him that their ruse would not work because she'd confessed their intentions to Dane. She had no idea if the two men had spoken, but in the peculiar way men had, she supposed they wouldn't talk about it at all. Yet, they'd be okay with it. This sort of silent man ritual left her with mixed feelings of admiration and confusion.

"Look, Brent, I appreciate you taking the animals in, but it won't be for long. And...well..."

Marissa looked at Dane. He'd looked desperate. Out of his element. She found it quite stimulating to observe his reactions to Brent's decision to switch living arrangements. She suspected Dane didn't want to be left alone with her. She smiled in satisfaction.

He wanted her.

All she had to do was convince him to follow through on those wonderful, intoxicating kisses.

"I will let you use my home as a kennel," said Brent. "But I'm not babysitting those mongrels. The blind kitten you left here keeps running into the walls. It creeps me out."
Marissa put down the carrier that housed cat No. 3. "He shouldn't run into the walls. His other senses are very developed. He has whiskers—which are navigational tools for felines."

"The kitten is very young. He's barely weaned if the way he keeps trying to lick my armpit is any indication. He hops like a bunny and smacks into furniture and it's just too pitiful to watch. I'm not made of stone, you know." Brent picked up his suitcase then extended his hand.

Dane grimaced, took his keys from his jean pocket, and handed them to Brent. "It's the gold one with the blue rubber ring on it." He turned to Marissa. "We're going home hunting today, princess."

"Yes, my liege. As soon as we pick up Tuesday."
Dane rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

B
RENT WHISTLED
as he entered the pool area. The one thing his new digs didn't have—yet—was a pool. About the only advantage of living in Dane's hovel was the access to a body of water. He tossed his towel on a turquoise-and-peach lounge chair, placed the cooler of canned soda next to it, and turned toward the pool. That's when he realized he wasn't alone.

A goddess emerged from the water.

Watching her step out of the pool was like watching one of those health-club commercials where an impossibly beautiful woman touts the benefits of buying summer memberships at the gym. Rivulets of water sluiced down a perfect pair of tanned breasts, held snug by the copper bikini top, dripped enticingly down a pair of long legs, and splashed across the deep-brown nail polish of her toes. A silver toe ring glittered on the second toe of her left foot. Wow. She had great feet.
Brent's gaze wandered around the lush curves as the woman swung her honey-brown hair to the side and squeezed out the excess water. Then she straightened, and the wet hair swung in a perfect arc before coming to rest against her back. Brent looked at her face, then, and his heart stopped beating.
He hadn't been mistaken. She was a goddess. Her face looked somehow familiar: heart-shaped with long cheekbones, a pert nose, and eyes the color of brandy. Maybe she was a model. An actress he'd seen on a commercial.

Maybe he'd died and gone to heaven and she was his personal angel in paradise.

She noticed him. Her stare was intelligent, exacting, and...did he see a flash of emotion? Anger? What could he have done to piss her off?

You mean besides ogling her, you jerk?

The heat of embarrassment crept up his neck. He cleared his throat. "Uh. Hi."

She walked toward him with a sashay so confident, so sexy, he almost swallowed his tongue.

"Number Seventy-One, right?"

Number 71?
"I don't play sports. Professionally. I counsel. Kids." He tried to pry his gaze from her breasts. Damn, they were beautiful, tender mounds. The most perfect set of—

"They don't do tricks and they don't respond to questions posed to them."

Brent looked at her. She looked amused and annoyed. Her smile was rueful. And familiar. "I apologize. I'm just...I've never—"

"Seen a woman's breasts?"

"I've seen breasts. Lots of them."
And I'd love to see yours.

One thin-plucked eyebrow rose. "Really? Do tell."

He groaned as his face flamed. She made him feel like he was twelve-years-old again, trying to convince Marly Hayes to kiss him on the mouth. She didn't, either. She hauled off and punched him, just like this woman would, if he didn't stop thinking with his dick.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I don't usually act so—so—"

"Lustful?"

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He meant it, too. He'd never been this taken by a lady at first sight. He enjoyed the fairer sex, loved their bodies and their minds and their hearts, but not one,
not one,
had ever affected him this way.

"Well, Number Seventy-One, I figured you for slicker moves. Not an original line."

"It's not a line. It's the God's honest truth." He frowned. "Why do you keep calling me Number Seventy-One?"

"Your apartment number. I saw you come out of it earlier. Dane Sinclair, right?" She shrugged. "I just moved here. I live in the building across from yours."

Something weird flickered in his belly. Not lust. Suspicion.
She's been watching the apartment? She knew Dane's name, but not his face?

"You know a lot for someone who just moved here."

Her gaze flicked away, then returned. "I saw you and I asked about you."

Suspicion faded under her smoky stare. He wanted, more than he wanted his next breath, to taste those full, wet lips. "You, uh, asked someone about the guy living in my building?"

"Yeah. The apartment manager liked my breasts, too." She sighed, apparently at the shallowness of men, then grinned, that same rueful curving of the lips that made his blood thicken with instant lust. She stepped closer and her scent, a musky smell with the faint tint of chlorine, filtered into his senses. "Is it a crime to ask after a good-looking man? Am I supposed to twitter and giggle and bat my lashes waiting for you to notice me?"

"God no. I'd be your slave if you'd only ask." Brent shook his head. "But I'm not Dane. I'm just staying at his apartment for a day or two."

Surprise flickered in her gaze. "I thought I saw a girl going in that apartment yesterday. Is that his girlfriend or yours?"
"His. Definitely his. I'm unattached. So available my mother is ashamed. She tells her friends I'm dead rather than admit I'm single. Do you want to marry me and remedy that?"

She laughed, her gaze dark with amusement and...what else? Disappointment? The bare edge of desire? Brent watched the movement of her slender throat, the tilt of her head as she looked at him. "What's your name?"

"Brent."

"Lillian." She extended her hand and he took it.

Her fingers were damp, slightly chilled from the water, but he felt like he'd been electrocuted. She looked at their clasped hands and frowned, then carefully withdrew, staring at her palm as if touching him had left a mark on her skin.
She'd left a mark on
him.
He felt seared to the bottom of his soul. This kind of desire was almost painful. "Do you want to go get a bite to eat?"

"I'd like that." The smile again. The one he wanted to kiss right off her mouth. "But I'm not on the menu, okay?"

He grinned.
Maybe not the main course, but they'd just see about dessert.

T
UESDAY LOOKED OKAY
for a guy with a three-legged Great Dane collapsed on top of him. He was in the middle of the living room, spread-eagled on the floor, trying, in quiet tones, to convince his new pal to get up. The dog licked his face.

"Whew! Three-week-old garbage smells better than his breath." The Dane lapped Tuesday's forehead and nose. "Damn, girl, get this monster some doggy mints, will you?" His gaze found Marissa's. "This isn't part of my job description. I want a raise."

She sat on the couch with two cats and a trembling, long-haired creature that was some breed of miniature dog. For all her desire to have pets, she knew very little about them. Smiling at Tuesday, she said, "I'll give you another thousand dollars if you let Dane, Jr. sit on you, okay?"

"Quit calling him that!" yelled Dane from the kitchen. "You are not naming any furballs after me. Especially that one."

"Fine. I'll call him DJ."

"Marissa! You will not call—ouch!" Dishes clattered followed by human thuds. "Tell this cat my toes are not for nibbling."

Nibbling?
Something truly risqué popped into her mind involving nibbling, herself, and Dane, but she managed to hold her tongue. She didn't want to embarrass herself in front of Tuesday by blurting out her fantasies. The cats settled deeper into her lap, purring, as she petted their soft fur.

Well, soft, after she, Dane and Tuesday had bathed them. All the animals had received a thorough cleaning in the backyard, though almost all of them complained about it. Despite the loss of a back leg, the Dane ran well and fast—especially when chased by a water hose and two irate men.
Fluffy leapt off the couch, vibrated more than walked to Tuesday, and plopped onto his neck. DJ lifted his head from Tuesday's chest and licked the little furball fur.

Dane walked into the living room and Marissa's gaze immediately went to him. He'd donned a pair of khaki shorts and a tan-striped shirt. Earlier, during what he'd dubbed Animal Hell With Water, he'd worn cut-off jeans and,
gulp,
no shirt. Her senses had hummed the whole time—not even the perpetual scowl creasing his face had dampened her feelings of desire. Her senses hummed now, too. He settled into a recliner and a huge sigh of relief billowed out of him.

The blind kitten, which Marissa had named Shadow, simply because the poor dear had attached itself to Dane and followed him everywhere, leapt onto Dane's lap, curled into a black ball, and began to purr. Dane rolled his eyes, but stroked the kitten's fur. Marissa bit back a grin. Dane would never admit he liked the cat, but he did, even if he wanted to pretend he was putting up with all the animals for her sake.

"I think we can mark going to the zoo off your list," he said, "since you've created your own animal kingdom right here."

Oh dear. The list.
Soon it would be Saturday—the anniversary of Gillie's death. Somehow, finishing the list, the last thing she'd done with her sister, would be her final good-bye. It was time to let go of her old life and start a new one. "Sorry, Dane. Going to the zoo is of the utmost importance."

Had it only been five days since she'd met Dane? For the first time in years, she felt like she'd lived a normal—okay, not
normal—
but happy, free life. Now that she'd put aside her fear and taken that list of dreams into the world...she felt all grown up. If only Gillie were here to see her succeed. Sudden grief gripped her.
I miss you, Gillie.

"Marissa?" The gentle concern in Dane’s voice was unexpected.

To her horror, tears filled her eyes. She removed the cats from her lap and stood. "Wouldn't it be terrible if I were allergic to animals?" She laughed, almost choking on the falseness of the sound.

She couldn't meet Dane's stare, so she crossed the living room to look out the floor-to-ceiling window. The not-yet landscaped grounds were a tangle of long grass, summer flowers, and old trees. The area looked as wild and as untamable as she felt at this moment.

The swiftness of the emotions claiming her made her realize the depth of her denial. She had done a fabulous job of pretending this week that she didn't have a care in the world, as if the list were the most important thing in her life. She didn't have to think about how her sister was dead and how her parents would fear the same for her if they knew she'd escaped from Geoffrey. She blew out a breath.

They wouldn't know. Geoffrey was her friend and, even though she'd duped him, he wouldn't trouble her parents. She'd left the note and promised to return. Yet, if Geoffrey had panicked...had called her parents to return from Europe, they would search for her. They would find her, too.

She shook away the thoughts. What did it matter if she returned or if her parents found her? She was a legal adult; they couldn't force her to live in their house anymore. She'd only stayed after her eighteenth birthday because, well, because every year they convinced her to do so.

And every year, she caved in because through their love and their worry, they'd made her fear. Fear living. Fear the outside world. Their first child had been kidnapped and their eldest had died because she ventured out from their protection. Marissa didn't need a psychologist's degree to understand their motivations.

Ultimately, that was why she'd left. That and because Millie had entered her life and instilled the desire and the courage to venture out of the "cocoon of wealth."

She missed Millie, too. It was a pity she hadn't been able to locate her. She had thought that Millie would be delighted to see her and would help her with the list. The young woman with red hair, green eyes, and the most adorable cockney accent had been her beauty instructor for a mere two weeks. But her phone number had been disconnected, the apartment abandoned. More than likely, her friend had chosen money over friendship.

Whew. That stung.

Marissa wrapped her arms around her torso, misery lodged in her chest like a lead weight.

"Is everything all right?"

Dane's quiet question so near her startled her. She put a hand to her throat and glanced at him. Concern softened his still-present scowl.

"I-I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. Want to talk about it?"

"No, not really." Before Dane could question her further, she turned from him, from his comfort, and fled up the stairs and into the master bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

"
S
O WHY ARE
you hanging out at Dane's apartment?" asked Lillian.

Her steady gaze revealed casual interest; she could have been inquiring about the weather by the bored tone of her voice. But Brent noticed the tense set of her shoulders, the nearly imperceptible way she leaned forward to hear his answer. As a counselor of troubled teens, he knew how to read body language. She was interested in Dane or in the apartment and he couldn't figure out why.

He scooped up ketchup with his potato wedge and ate it, took his time chewing. Her eyebrows rose as if she didn't understand his hesitation in answering a simple question. She straightened s-l-o-w-l-y, swung her long, gorgeous hair over her shoulder, then looped her arms overhead and stretched s-l-o-w-l-y.

She leaned forward, extending her arms up. The jagged edges of her half-T-shirt revealed the fullness of her breasts. The copper bikini top showed through the white of the shirt and her nipples, tight hard peaks, strained against the thin material.

Heat rushed through him, thickened his lower extremities with instant, unbearable lust, and gave him a hard-on that tented his shorts.

The French fry lodged in his throat. He choked. Coughed. Sputtered. She watched him, a smile dancing across her lips.

"Are you okay, Brent?"

She'd asked, "are you okay" in that husky purr, but his body heard, "Do you want to have sex?" and blood surged anew, even with the damned French fry playing havoc with his throat. He grabbed his Coke and drank it, finally swallowing the annoying food and regaining his breath.

Eyes watering, he glared at her. "You did that on purpose."

"Did what?"

"You know what."

"Ah. You mean I plucked your eyeballs out of your head and pointed them toward my tits?"

"You might as well have," he said, once again feeling embarrassed, but he wasn't letting her get away with pretending she was Miss Innocent. "You can't use your breasts to encourage a guy to look, then blame it all on him when he does what you want."

Lillian laughed. "You're right. I'm sorry." She paused. "Why didn't you answer my question?"

"Why did you ask it?"

She shrugged and relaxed into her chair. "You're a suspicious sort. Are you a spy or a hit man?"

"Neither."

"I wouldn't think so." The delicious kiss-me smile flitted across her lips.

Damn.
Why was that curving mouth so familiar?

"Because you're too easily distracted to do a good job as either one. So what do you do?"

"I'm a counselor at the TeenCenter."

"Admirable."

"What do you do? Are you an actress?"

Surprise lit her gaze. "Why on earth would you think that?"

"You're damned beautiful for one thing. For another, you look familiar."

Her expression blanked. "You're mistaken." She laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that startled him. "You might say, Brent, I've had to be a very good actress these past few years, but I've never been filmed."

Her vulnerability sliced through him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yes. But I can't." She sipped her drink, turned to look at the memorabilia hanging on the restaurant's walls, her gaze troubled. "Just ignore me. I guess I'm tense because I've been looking for a job and can't find one. I've got enough money for one more month of rent and then...who knows."

"What do you do?"

"This and that. My best attribute is my housecleaning skills." Her gaze settled on him again. "I don't suppose you need a housekeeper?"

"Yes," said Brent. "I do." At least he would when Dane and Marissa left with their new brood. He grinned. "Do you like animals?"

G
EOFFREY SNEEZED
. HE wiped his nose then buried his face into the nearby pillow. The darkened bedroom and the delicate sound of Enya's voice were supposed to lull him to sleep. Instead, worry gnawed at his gut and the supposed short-term viral infection continued to attack his body, and after seven dreadful days, his will to live.

The phone rang. He didn't bother trying to raise his head. He just reached out and grabbed the first solid plastic thing he touched. "Hello?"

The phone rang again. Geoffrey flipped onto his back and looked at the object in his hand. "Bugger." He put down the stapler and grabbed the receiver from its base on the nightstand.

"Hullo. Vanderson residence." His eyes widened and he straightened when he heard the voice. "Dear heavens! It's about time you called."

"I found her."

"You did?"

"The guy she left the Paradise Club with is the brother of the club's owner." A soft laugh escaped. "It took some convincing, but he finally relented and gave me the information I wanted."

"Where is she?"

"Not important."

"It's important to me." He sighed. He knew from experience that Millie would not tell him anything else. "I'm worried. We have very little time. Alan and Fiona return late Friday night. Saturday is Gillian's birthday. The family always does a memorial for her. There is the...other matter." He cleared his throat. "Can you handle that, too?"

"Him again? Did you tell him anything?"

"What could I tell him? There's a beauty consultant with a gun and an attitude chasing a serial killer?"

"Very funny, G. Your eyes are too sharp. How could I have fooled her, but not you?"

"As if you need to ask.
Achoo!"
Geoffrey sneezed and grabbed a tissue to wipe his nose. "Your gentleman friend is very persistent."

"Kade is not my friend. Don't talk to him again. I'll take care of everything."

"Okay, but—"

The dial tone met his protest. "Doesn't even say a proper good-bye," he muttered as he replaced the receiver. He pulled the covers up and nestled into the bed, then closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

"
S
O YOU GONNA
leave her up there cryin' her eyes out?"
Dane looked at Tuesday. They both sat in the living room, surrounded by furry, sleeping bodies. He figured the kid must have noticed him casting worried looks at the stairs. Tuesday aimed the remote control at the big-screen television and started flipping channels.

"How do you know she's crying?" asked Dane.

"I've got good hearing."

"She's not crying." Dane plucked the kitten off his lap and stood. He gestured at the ceiling. "She's probably taking a nap."

"Yeah. Sleeping sounds just like sobbing." Tuesday continued to flip channels. "What did you say to her?"

"Nothing."

"I've been watching you, man. You like her, but you don't want to like her. You snap at her all the time and she don't do nothing about it."

"I don't snap at her. And use correct grammar. She
doesn't do anything
about it."

"I talk the way I want." Tuesday's lips formed a mutinous line. "She's too busy trying to figure you out to give your sorry ass the kick it deserves. That got enough proper grammar in it for you?"

"It's none of your business."

"I'm making it my business." Tuesday stood and walked to Dane, getting nose-to-nose with him. He thumped Dane's chest with the remote control. "You don't deserve her, man."

Dane recognized Tuesday's aggression for what it really was—concern for Marissa—but he still felt anger flare. He quelled his emotions and backed up a couple of steps. "You're right. I don't. That's why I'm trying to stay the hell away from her."

"The girl don't want you to stay away from her. You ever think that she has a right to make up her own mind?"

"And I don't?"

Tuesday shook his head. "Man, you are stupid. Beautiful woman wants you and you dis her." He plopped on the couch and returned his attention to the television. "You want to go upstairs or you want me to go?"