Pitch Imperfect (2 page)

Chapter Two

London, 3 months earlier

Ella Fitzgerald could croon all she wanted about madness and boys, but Anjuli was barely listening, her attention caught by the man who’d walked into her favourite Notting Hill piano bar. Tall and black-haired, he wore a tuxedo that emphasised his tanned skin and accentuated the sensual grace of his gait. It was dark and her view obscured by the couple he’d walked in with, but she could track his progress to the bar through the gaps in the crowd.

Anjuli sucked in her stomach, smoothed back her hair and sat up straight. She couldn’t see his face, but what she could—broad shoulders and a sculpted backside that filled his tux trousers—Oh God, she must be drunk if she was regressing into a hormonal teenager, slobbering over a total stranger as if he were a Hotel Chocolat bon bon. Although, this man’s packaging was just as enticing as her favourite treat. The bow tie had come off and his shirt was opened rakishly at the neck. He seemed tense. Watchful. Mmm...He would be succulent, melt-in-the-mouth creamy with a dangerous zing.

A glimpse of his profile made her choke. She shook her head fiercely—a bad move after consuming four whisky sours—and it took a few seconds for the colourful spots to clear. Maybe Ella was right after all; she really was mad because Mr. Tuxedo Truffle looked exactly like someone she’d known in another life, someone who belonged in the past. But no, it couldn’t be him. Not here, of all places.

The glamorous-looking couple pointed at the bar, where a large poster of Anjuli held pride of place. It had been taken during the height of her career, when she had toured with Adele and won a Grammy for Best Album of the Year. But what goes up must come down and her arse still hurt from the fall.

Her singing days might be over but she still came to Midnight Dawn to escape her silent, lonely flat. Her favourite drinking hole was an exclusive, members-only bar, well hidden from the prying eyes of the paparazzi.

Not that they’d been hounding her of late. Rumours about her still surfaced occasionally, but Anjuli didn’t care. In fact, she didn’t care much about anything these days. Not since...A familiar, sharp pain struck her chest and she tried to dull it with the rest of her drink.

The black-haired man looked at the poster, then swivelled and surveyed the room, giving her an unobstructed view of his face. Bloody hell, it
was
Rob Douglas, and he looked exactly the same as he had eight years ago. No, he looked better. Even through the haze of alcohol she could see as much. More mature, more confident. More irresistible. Her mind buzzed, but not because her head was full of whisky fumes.

What the hell was her ex-fiancé doing in London?

She used to wonder how she’d feel if she ever saw him again. Would the sight of his muscular frame and swarthy skin still have the power to twist her insides into a tornado? Now she knew that it would, that the years hadn’t dulled his effect on her.

Anjuli flattened herself against the low sofa.
Don’t see me like this.
Turn your back and talk to your elegant friends.

Ten seconds later he was standing in front of the sofa.

“How are you, Anjuli?”

Devastated
.
Lost.
Suicidal
. “Great.”

Anjuli stood too quickly, swayed and tripped. Oh no, that wasn’t
her
giggling, was it? She was drunk as a skunk and the bloody floor was moving. Strong arms steadied her at the waist and she grabbed onto them dizzily, waiting for the room to right itself. Her nose was stuck in Rob’s collarbone—not good, since his spicy scent entered her bloodstream like a whisky chaser.

“Sorry, I must be tired,” she mumbled.

A low chuckle. “Is that what they call it across the border, lass?”

His husky Scottish brogue rippled across her cheek and she looked up. Rob searched her face intently, as if seeking a trace of the woman he used to know, then his expression lost its humour and hardened, and he released her.

Anjuli stiffened her spine. Well, she tried to anyway. Spine-stiffening was rather hard when her bones felt like mush. Weathering his stare, she braced herself for a torrent of recriminations.

“I’ll see you home.”

She must be drunker than she thought. “There’s no need. I live down the road.”

Rob picked up her coat and headed towards the exit, not bothering to see whether she followed. Anjuli heaved an annoyed sigh, looked around and gave up trying to exit discreetly. Rob’s friends were staring at her, lips moving, and so were a few others. Even in exclusive clubs there were gossipmongers.

Outside it was snowing lightly, and the glistening layer on the pavement crunched underneath Anjuli’s boots, turning her toes into little blocks of ice. Somebody, somewhere inside the flats they passed, was listening to a Bach cantata and the music followed them as they walked.

Anjuli glanced at Rob. Were they going to pretend they were strangers? Comment on the weather and forget they’d once been so much more? Should she tell him what her life had been like since leaving Heaverlock? Would he care?

The record of their past played in Anjuli’s mind like the notes on a stave, until it reached a crescendo that made her want to scream.

None of the same turmoil was apparent in Rob. He was in London for an architectural award ceremony, he told her, and would be heading back to Heaverlock the following afternoon. His tone was the one he’d take with a polite acquaintance, as if he hadn’t just held her the way he used to. He looked serene, with no pent-up regrets or excuses waiting to burst from his chest.

Anjuli had been tipsy at the bar, but by the time they reached her flat she felt intoxicated, alive for the first time in months. She wanted Rob to be drunk also, wanted him as dizzy as she was, so affected by seeing her he’d put his arms around her again.

“This is it,” she said, pointing at a Victorian conversion.

Her flat was on the ground floor and—
damn it
,
why couldn’t she open the thing?
While she’d been at the bar her upstairs neighbour must have changed the simple lock to something straight out of
Mission:
Impossible
. Nervously, she fumbled with the key and Rob took over, opening the door and stepping back to allow her inside. A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only indication that he was in any way disturbed.

He shook her hand, the pressure short and perfunctory. “Goodbye.”

Icy wind slapped his words into her face and she shivered, but it was his voice that froze her, sliding over her heart like the snow melting on her cheek. She didn’t want his voice to affect her like this, to remind her of what could have been. Rob’s baritone should be like any other man’s, shaping a farewell into two brisk notes, F sharp, D flat. Why didn’t she say anything, something that would erase the bitter expression from his face? But then, what could she say to excuse what she had done to him?

“Rob.”

It was a cry from the bottom of her heart, a plea she hadn’t even known she was going to make. Before Anjuli knew it she had breached the distance between them and pulled him inside.

“Kiss me,” she said, leaning up to press her mouth to his.

His body was rigid. “You’re drunk.”

Anjuli flattened herself against his chest and kissed his neck. How could he feel so warm when she was frozen to the bone? In her high-heeled boots her hips were almost level with his and she could feel him lengthening against her, struggling with his desire. His hands went to her waist, but she didn’t let him push her away.

“Damn it, lass, you’re no’ yourself.”

And who might that person be?
She didn’t know anymore. Somebody else had taken over her body and wanted her to take over his.

“You need to sleep it off,” Rob said gruffly.

“No, what I need is to have sex. With you.”

Oh God, had she really said that? She wasn’t a hormonal teenager, she was a hormonal tart. She never threw herself at men—could hardly remember the last time she’d invited a man to her flat, let alone had sex with one. But she could think of nothing she wanted more than to be in bed with Rob. Right here, right now. And he felt it too. Anjuli reached for the evidence and a hoarse, guttural sound came from deep inside Rob’s chest.

“Remember how good it was between us, Rob? How you loved being inside me? How I used to make you come?”

His face was taut, hands firm as he set her away. “I’ll come back in the morning, and then we can talk.”

Anjuli stared at his back in disbelief. Rob wanted her, she
knew
it. But he was going to reject her, leave her to face the darkness. Alone. She unbuttoned her silky shirt, tearing it off in her haste.

“Wait.”

Rob turned. “No, Anju—”

His eyes widened and his dark skin flushed. She’d worn a low balconette bra, and her cleavage overflowed the burgundy lace. Lurching slightly, Anjuli drew nearer, eyes on Rob’s erection. His didn’t waver from her breasts and her nipples tightened in response. Kissing and sucking them had been one of his favourite ways to make them both hot.

Anjuli took his hand and put it on her breast. “Take me to bed.”

“No, lass.” Husky words, spoken quickly.

“Please Rob, I want you so much,” she whispered, pulling his head down. She pressed her lips to his, stroked into his mouth, teasing his tongue until he groaned and kissed her back. Yes!
This
was what she needed. Rob’s silky hair under her fingers, his hard body against hers. His mouth devouring hers, erasing everything but frantic need. She wanted him to make her forget her sorrow, if only for a few moments.

The same hands that had tried to set her away tightened and crushed her closer, grinding soft curves against hard ridges. He stole her breath and returned it, heating her until she was burning, desperate for him to penetrate her body the way he did her dreams.

His voice was thick with urgency. “Where?”

Tuxedo jacket, shirt, skirt, trousers. A clothing trail to Anjuli’s bedroom, left behind as they kissed and stroked, tugged and tore and discarded. The room tilted, or maybe it was her, then the heady scent of Rob’s naked flesh was in her nostrils, the taste of his skin on her lips. She licked his shoulder, savouring the texture of firm, rippling muscles against her tongue.

Rob’s hands strummed her thighs and spread her legs. She was slick with need, cleaving to his touch, sighing with pleasure as he explored her slowly, deliberately. Once, twice...ten excruciating strokes, until she begged him for more. She needed him closer, deeper within her.

“Inside me,” she demanded, raking her nails down his back.

Her heart pumped so loudly she was only vaguely aware of him fitting on a condom, until she glanced down and couldn’t concentrate on anything else. She stared at his cock in wonder. Long and thick, exactly as she remembered, his engorged crown flushed a darker tone than the rest of him. Even covered in thin latex she could feel the thick vein pumping along the side of his scorching shaft.

Would she dissolve the moment he entered her, or shatter like breaking glass?

Anjuli rotated her palm around his root and he made another strangled noise, sucking her nipple so hard she gasped. The sound of her name, deep and hoarse, resonated in the muffled acoustics of her bedroom. Anjuli tried to speak and couldn’t, her vocal chords only vibrating with the husky cadence of her moans.

With a low groan Rob rose over her, pausing for a brief moment to kiss her lips before he found her entrance. There was nothing slow or sensual in his thrust, nothing hesitant, and no allowances made for his size and girth. He sought her core like a man long denied sustenance. Hungrily. Desperately. Needing to fuse every inch of his skin with hers and seal himself inside.

His lips were hard and demanding, his hands hot on her flesh. Fast and deep, he took her to the brink, teasing her until she pleaded with him to give her the release she needed, the pleasure that would take away her pain. He withdrew, poised and throbbing between her thighs.

“Don’t stop,” Anjuli panted, bucking her hips to make him slide back in. “Hold me.”

“I’m no’ letting you go,” he said, punctuating his words with a slow, sensual thrust. “No’ this time.”

Over and over he repeated his promise, until his voice cut through Anjuli’s whisky-swamped brain and his words turned her heaven into horror. Her mind cleared and sharpened. She wanted him more than she ever had, wanted to rejoice that they had found each other, yet she couldn’t.

Rob repeated his promise, so sweet, so bitter. Too late. Eight years had passed and now...She didn’t deserve a second chance to be happy. Not anymore. Anguish tore through her with every thrust of his hips.

How could sorrow co-exist with ecstasy, and pain make her pleasure more intense?

Anjuli bucked her hips to dislodge him, making him penetrate her more deeply. Her mind was screaming but her pussy didn’t care. It was a liquid pool of greedy selfishness. She bucked harder and Rob upped the delicious friction, increasing the ripples of delight. His voice vibrated in her ears, resonating with every particle of her that longed to immerse itself in his frantic need.

The chasm in her heart grew deeper as the rapture increased. She had to give him up, convince him to walk away, but his gaze was intent on her eyes, her lips, her body, his expression intense and determined. She recognised that look, the one that said he’d made up his mind and was planning, calculating the logistics of a London-Heaverlock relationship.

She could say this was a mistake, explain she couldn’t love him and why. Another man might walk away, then, but not Rob. Holding her tightly, thrusting into her mind and body he seemed a part of her. The man she’d almost married—a man who would give her compassion when all she deserved was condemnation. The thought strengthened Anjuli’s resolve even as her traitorous body followed his insistent rhythm.

Hands on her thighs, Rob pulled her legs around his hips, lifting her off the bed. At this angle her enjoyment was excruciating and she clung to him, unable to stop her reason melting away.

“God, I want you,” he said. “I want
this
. Tell me you want it too.”