Love's Rhythm (3 page)

Damn it, what was he doing here? What the hell was he doing back here?

For me?

She frowned, shaking her head at the notion. No. Nick wouldn’t be here for her.

Could be. Isn’t that what you’ve dreamed about for the last fifteen years?

Her frown turned into a scowl. No, it bloody well wasn’t. She had moved on. She wasn’t still the naïve young woman with impossible fantasies and fairy-tale wishes of happy-ever-afters. And if he was here for her—her heart smashed harder into her throat at
that
thought—he could bloody well bugger off. The last thing she wanted was—

He groaned. A barely audible noise deep in his chest.

Lauren started, a tiny yelp slipping from her. “Nick?”

She nudged his shoulder again, but the groan was about it. “Well, at least I know I didn’t kill you,” she muttered, giving him a glare. He lay there on the cold ground, long, lean body decked out in black jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket she knew would cost more than she earned in a month.

Lauren rubbed at her mouth. What was he doing here? And was he alone? Surely he travelled with an entourage? A bodyguard? She’d seen enough paparazzi images of him to know there was usually a hulking great big guy shadowing him wherever he was. Where was
that
guy?

She sat back on her haunches, studying the empty playground around her. There were no massive hulking great big guys running at her, which meant
she
would have to deal with the unconscious Nick.

A tight twisting sensation stirred in the pit of her belly and she bit back a groan. She was not going to get all horny and excited at the idea of dealing with Nick. Besides, there wasn’t a hope in hell she could lift him by herself and carry him to her car, even if she wanted to. At five-foot-six and one-hundred-and-thirty pounds wringing-wet, she wasn’t exactly the lugging-unconscious-rock-stars-around type even
if
said unconscious rock star had more than once lay full-length atop her in bed, on the living room floor, the kitchen bench, the—

Lauren slapped her hands to her face, killing the utterly insane train of thought. God, was she an idiot? What the hell was she doing thinking about Nick making love to her?

“You a masochist, Lauren Robbins?” she snarled under her breath, grabbing at her satchel/instrument of destruction before digging her phone from its lethal contents.

She turned it on, keying in Jennifer’s number. Hopefully, her best friend was sticking with Friday-afternoon tradition and had closed her vet clinic early. Jennifer was used to dealing with heavy, unresponsive animals, being the only vet in the district. Dealing with an unconscious Nick Blackthorne would be a breeze.

“I’ve got the margaritas chilling in the fridge already,” Jennifer Watson said the moment the connection was made, not bothering with any kind of greeting. “Tell Josh you’ll be home later than normal tonight.”

“I’ve got a problem, Jen,” Lauren answered, trying hard not to let her gaze roam over Nick. Trying but failing, damn it.

“What’s up? And if you tell me you’re marking school books I’m coming over there to thump you.”

“I’m not marking school books, Jen.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “Now shut up and listen carefully.”

Jennifer made a dramatic
ooh
sound before laughing. “Okay, Miss Robbins, I’m listening. What’s your boggle?”

Lauren bit at her bottom lip. “Umm, you know how I told you I once dated Nick Blackthorne?”

Jennifer let out a sharp snort. “You mentioned it in passing years ago and never let me bring up the subject again. Is this a confession? Did you lie to me? Or are you going to tease me some more with tales of your past? Did you also date Hugh Jackman? Guy Pearce? Geoffrey Rush?”

Lauren laughed, rolling her eyes. “No, I didn’t. But I
did
date Nick Blackthorne.”

“And I’m going to say the same thing I said when you told me before—lucky bitch. Now tell me what’s up?”

Lauren took a deep breath. “Well, he’s here now.”

Silence answered her. For a good twenty seconds or so. Then Jennifer said, “Nick Blackthorne is here?” Her voice, normally calm and laced with mirth, like she knew a really funny joke and was on the verge of sharing it, raised an octave. “In Murriundah?”

Lauren gazed at Nick’s face, his stormy-grey eyes shuttered by thick black lashes resting on cheekbones high and strong. A decidedly purplish bruise was beginning to make itself known on the side of his face. “In Murriundah,” she answered on a sigh.

Jennifer made a strangled little sound. “And?”

“And I just knocked him unconscious in the school playground.”

“What the
fuck
?”

Lauren jerked the phone from her ear.

“What the hell do you mean you just knocked him unconscious?” Jennifer continued, her voice far from calm and loud enough Lauren could hear each word even with the phone nowhere near her ear. “Why? With what? And
why
? Jesus Christ, Robbins, who are you really and what—”

Lauren returned her phone to her ear. “Jenny!” she snapped, “I don’t have time right now. I need your help. I can’t move Nick by myself and I can’t leave him on the ground. He’ll catch a cold—”

“A cold?” Jennifer interrupted. “You can’t leave him on the ground because he’ll catch a cold? How ’bout you can’t leave him on the ground because he’s Nick Blackthorne?”

Despite herself, Lauren laughed. “Jen, I need you to forget about that for a moment, and by forget, I mean don’t tell anyone he’s here. I don’t know why he is, nor why he’s here seemingly without a bodyguard, but I’d rather we not have the whole town suddenly appear on the Murriundah Public School playground until I know
why
he’s here, okay?”

“Okay,” Jennifer replied, “but can I at least bring my camera?”

“Jen!” Lauren heard her teacher’s voice, and the exasperation in it. Her belly knotted tighter. She remembered this emotion all too well—the exasperation at being accosted while out with Nick, of being pushed aside as girls and women—and some men—tried to slip their phone numbers or their underwear into Nick’s pockets. “Please,” she said. “I need you to be my friend for a moment, not a fan. Okay?”

The question drew silence from Jennifer.

Lauren caught her bottom lip with her teeth. “Please?”

“Sorry,” Jennifer said, and Lauren’s heart thumped a little harder at the contrition in her voice. “Really, I’m sorry. Of course I can do that. You just threw me for a loop there, teach. I’m calm. I’m cool. Hear how cool I am?”

Lauren chuckled at her best friend’s ultra-contained enunciation. “I can hear. Now get your arse here as quickly as you can. And maybe bring a gel ice-pack.”

Jennifer burst out laughing. “I can do that too. But on one condition. You tell me everything, little Miss Secrets, and I mean everything. There’s no way you’re sitting on something like this.”

Everything? Lauren swallowed, studying the motionless Nick. No one knew
everything
, not even—

Oh, shit, Josh.

“Can we take him to your house?” she asked, her mouth dry and her blood roaring in her ears.

“Oh, gee, let me think—” Jennifer made a clicking sound, “—can I bring
the
Nick Blackthorne to my house? Golly, I don’t know…”

“Jen!” Lauren growled.

Her best friend laughed—back to the same old Jen that Lauren had known for ten years, since the day she and Josh had arrived in Murriundah only to find an injured possum on their new home’s front porch. They’d taken the possum to the town’s only vet—one Dr. Jennifer Watson, who herself had been in the town for a grand total of five days. Jennifer had babbled the whole time about all sorts of things, from sexing possums to the right playlist for unpacking a house, making Lauren and Josh laugh and the rest was history. The two women had been fast friends since.

Her gaze wandered back to Nick’s face, tracing the line of his lips. She remembered the feel of them so very, very easily, as if their caress on her skin had happened only yesterday. His kisses had been sublime, romantic, sweet, hungry, animalistic, reverent…

Had been, Lauren.
Had
been. Past tense. You need to remember that.

“…in about ten.”

Lauren blinked, her cheeks filling with heat as she realized she’d completely tuned out on her friend.

You sure that’s why your cheeks are hot? It’s nothing to do with the fact you just relived a million kisses from the man before you in a single wonderful, tormenting heartbeat?

“What?” she blurted out, turning her back on Nick. It was safer that way.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do you want me to collect Josh on the way?”

“No!”

The word burst from her, sharp and forceful.

“
Okay
,” Jennifer said, and Lauren could see the wheels of her friend’s mind ticking over, processing everything she’d learnt so far. Processing and digesting and coming up with theories.

Lauren closed her eyes and dropped her face into her hand. “Just you. I’ll give Josh a call from your place.”

“Okey dokey, teach. Be there soon.”

Jennifer disconnected, leaving Lauren alone.

Not alone. There’s an unconscious rock star behind you, remember?

She pulled a face, ignoring the way her pulse fluttered at
that
little fact. Her pulse
and
her pussy.

Tossing her phone aside, she raised her other hand to her face and rubbed. Her pussy. Bloody hell, she was pathetic. Whatever the reason he was here, Nick sure as hell wasn’t here to bonk, and she wouldn’t let him if he was. She was over him. Had been for fifteen years.

If she were lucky, Nick Blackthorne would leave Murriundah before everyone got all squealy and silly, and she could go back to being over him quick smart. If she were really, really lucky, he’d leave before Josh knew he was even in the town.

What are the odds of that happening?

She snorted. “None.”

“You talking to me?” a low, croaky voice asked behind her, “or are you still in the habit of talking to yourself?”

Lauren’s heart—way too happily entrenched in her throat—smashed harder, as if trying to escape her all together. She didn’t blame it. She’d like to escape herself right now as well. She lifted her head from her hands—slowly—and reached for her satchel.

“You going to brain me with that again?”

Nick’s question was uttered with a husky chuckle—his voice still weak and somehow fragile.

That’s ’cause you knocked him out, Robbins. And let him lay sprawled on the cold bloody damp ground for the last ten minutes or so.

“Nice bag, by the way,” he went on, the words a little stronger. “Who gave it to you?”

She turned, glaring at him. “You did, you idiot.”

He laughed—another husky chuckle—as he pushed himself upright. “I know, I know. Just trying to break the ice.” He pushed at a clod of dirt stuck to his jacket’s lapel before giving her a quick grin. “Although somewhat less violently than you did.” He pushed himself to his feet, unfurling to almost his entire six-foot-one frame. And then, to Lauren’s horror, his eyes rolled, his cheeks paled and he staggered sideways.

“Hey!” She leapt to her own feet, reaching for him just as he was about to kiss the dirt again. Guilt crashed over her. “Hey, hey.” Her hands found his arms, her fingers curling around his biceps, halting his tumble.

He blinked, his full weight hanging in her grip for a second, pulling her forward a step closer to him. Close enough for his scent to thread into her quick intake of breath.

God, he still smells so damn good.

The thought just had time to register in her whirling brain and in her traitorously fluttering sex before Nick’s hands came to rest on her hips. Hands that were warm and firm and there, so there.

“Lauren,” he murmured.

She looked up into his face, into his glazed eyes. Her lips parted to say something cutting, pithy, witty—God,
anything
would be better than nothing—when he leant toward her, those angry-sky eyes of his growing intense with clarity, and then his mouth was on hers.

Lord, he still kisses…

His tongue dipped past her lips, seeking and finding hers with little resistance. He tasted as good as he had fifteen years ago—toothpaste and coffee and him. He tasted as good. He smelt as good. He felt as good.

A groan vibrated deep in her chest, echoed by Nick’s. Her nipples hardened and her pussy throbbed. Her eyes fluttered closed and she snaked her arms around his neck and buried her fingers in his hair…a fraction of a second before his lips slid from her mouth, down her chin and he crumpled to the ground again. Stone-cold unconscious once more.

Chapter Three

Nothing was in focus. Or coloured. Come to think of it, everything was white and fuzzy and bright. Way too bright. And way too fuzzy. And…muffled, like his head was stuffed with iridescent cotton wool.

Nick groaned, squinting and blinking at the brightness. His head hurt. Why did his head hurt? And where was he? Why could he smell disinfectant?

He rubbed at his eyes with his hands, letting out another groan when thick licks of pain lashed through his head. Jesus, what the fuck had happened? Where the hell was he?

Satchel.

Lauren.

The two words floated through his head, disconnected and confusing. Lauren? Lauren Robbins? Satchel? Why was he thinking of Lauren Rob—

It came back to Nick. All of it. In a smashing wave of colour, smell and bone-crunching touch—driving to Murriundah, to the small public school he’d once attended thirty-odd years ago, seeing his old girlfriend walking across the playground carrying the bag he’d given her, trotting up behind her with a nervous smile on his face, his heart thumping, saying her name…

“She hit me,” he uttered on a moan, rubbing at his face some more. “She hit me with her satchel.”

“You scared me.”

The soft feminine voice stroked over his ears and, eyes flinging open, Nick sat bolt upright.