The Beauty Series Bundle (41 page)

I
t’s been
days since our Vegas marriage talk incident. I add the term incident because it wasn’t really a talk. It was me drunk and spouting off about how I wanted to marry Laurelyn and have babies with her.

Not cool, Jack. No woman wants a drunken proposal. I must think of a better way to do it—something romantic that she’ll love and want to tell our kids about for years to come.

But the proposal is moot if I can’t convince her to walk away from this life, spending three-quarters of the year riding on a tour bus with a bunch of dudes, performing in a different city every night. That’s not the life she should have. She should be with me starting our lives together so I can give her the family she wants.

I bought an engagement ring for Laurelyn today. I thought it would be difficult—maybe I’d even find myself short of breath or close to passing out—but it was really easy. I guess when it’s right, you know it. I have no doubt I made the perfect choice for her.

But it all means nothing if I don’t have the perfect plan for asking her to be my wife.

And I don’t have a plan today. Or the next day. Or even a week later.

And now we’re down to eight days. Our time together is running out and I have to come up with something fast. It’s Saturday night and I take her out for dinner to one of Nashville’s finest restaurants—or so I’m told. I really have no idea. I’m out of my element here. This isn’t the proposal I’d have for her if we were back home. I’d take her to the beach house in New Zealand and have it covered in candles and fresh flowers. And afterward, we’d make love in our favorite bedroom where the sheer fabric drapes around and separates us from the rest of the world.

I didn’t think I would be nervous, but I am. Something about carrying this ring around in my pocket all week has shaken my confidence. I’m terrified of everything—afraid she’ll say no, she’ll choose this life over one with me, refuse to leave her dysfunctional mother and father. Maybe this doubt is natural, something all blokes go through when they’re about to pop the big question.

I called ahead with instructions for seating and they did a great job of granting my request. We’re seated in the perfect spot, isolated in a booth in an alcove. It feels like we’re the only people in the restaurant other than the staff. I think this seating for two was created for such things.

“What’s wrong with you tonight?”

Am I that transparent? “Nothing. What makes you think something’s wrong?”

She reaches across the table and places her hand on my forehead the way my mum does. “You don’t look like you feel well. Are you sick?”

“I feel fine,” I lie. My stomach feels like it has bats for contents.

“If you don’t feel well, we can go home,” she offers as she moves her palms to my cheeks. “You look flushed.”

That’s her mothering instinct taking over, and it reassures me that she’s the perfect woman to be my wife and mother of my children. I take her hand from my face and kiss her palm. “I’m fine. Stop worrying.”

As we finish eating, I know the time for my proposal is approaching. I’m on my third glass of wine but warn myself to cool it because Laurelyn won’t be accepting of another drunk proposal.

I don’t want to just blurt out, “Marry me,” like I did in Vegas. I want to ease into it and what better way than to bring up me leaving. “We only have eight days before I leave.”

“I hate our stupid time restraints,” she sneers as she pushes around the last bite of her dessert. “Our time together is always a ticking time bomb. I hate it so much.”

“I don’t want to leave without you.”

She rests her spoon on her plate and leans closer to me. “And I don’t want you to leave. Period.”

“Have you thought about what it would take for us to not be apart again?”

“Every day,” she confesses.

“Me too. I think about it all the time. It consumes me night and day.” And it does. I never stop thinking about it.

“What have you decided?”

I reach across the table and place my hand on hers. “I don’t want to live without you.”

“Me, either, but how do you suggest we make us work?” I can’t tell if she’s hinting for me to propose or if she truly has no idea.

I’m rubbing my thumb over the box burning a hole in my pocket. Is now the right time to tell her we’ll make it work by getting married and saying to hell with all this other shit? That we’ll figure it out as we go along? I have no idea, but I grasp the box in my hand and take it from my pocket. I’m holding it under the table, fidgeting with it. “I have something in mind.”

I’m about to place it on the table in front of her when a man walks up to our table and interrupts. Dammit. I purposely waited until after dessert was served so this very thing wouldn’t happen.

“Miss Paige McLachlan?”

This is no server or restaurant employee. He wouldn’t know her stage name. Laurelyn glances up at him. “Yes.”

A light flashes in her face as he takes several pictures of her with an enormous camera. “Can you comment for Country News on how it feels working in the music industry with Jake Beckett as your father?”

Shock and horror—that’s the expression she’s wearing. “What did you just say?”

His camera is hanging around his neck and he holds a recording device in front of her face. “Miss McLachlan, did your father get you your job with Southern Ophelia?”

Laurelyn looks at me and then back at the man. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m not answering any of your questions.”

He continues holding the recorder out to her. “Do you think Southern Ophelia’s success has anything to do with who your father is?”

I get up from the table and step between them. There’s ultimately no space between us when I stare him down. “She said she didn’t want to answer any of your questions. Leave. Now.”

He leaves but not before taking several more photographs and commenting, “It’s amazing how much you look like him, Miss McLachlan. The fans are gonna love that.”

She doesn’t say anything immediately. I think she needs a minute to absorb what this means, so I let her have her time. Once she seems to have sorted it out in her head, she looks at me. “This changes everything. No one will ever see me as Paige McLachlan again. As far as the world’s concerned, I’m only Jake Beckett’s daughter.”

“Southern Ophelia isn’t where they are because you used his name. You and the band earned your success without riding his coattails. People will see that.”

“I don’t think so. I need to call my mom and… dad.”

Well, there goes any chance of popping the question tonight.

“Hey, Mom. Are you at home?” She pauses briefly. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I
’m not looking forward
to seeing Jolene Prescott again since we didn’t part on the best terms. I can tell she feels the same when she sees me walk into her living room with Laurelyn. Her narrowed eyes leave no room for doubt. Jake Beckett, however, is welcoming and gets up from where he’s seated to shake my hand. “Nice to see you again, Jack.”

Laurelyn’s mum gives me a curt nod before looking to her daughter for an explanation. “What’s going on?”

“Jack and I were having dinner and a reporter—at least I guess that’s what he was—came over to our table. He took pictures and asked me to comment on how it felt to work in the music industry with Jake Beckett as my father.” She focuses on Jake. “He asked me if you got me the job with Southern Ophelia.”

Jake looks at Jolene and then back to Laurelyn. “I guess I should’ve told you this already, but I filed for divorce last week. It looks like the digging has started already. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want it to be known publicly.”

“You shouldn’t worry about this, Laurie,” Jolene pushes. “It’s not going to hurt you at all. If anything, this’ll only boost your career.” She doesn’t get it, and I don’t think she ever will. This isn’t the way Laurelyn wanted to achieve success.

“But that’s the whole thing, Mom. I don’t want a boost from being genetically tied to Jake Beckett,” Laurelyn tries to make her mum understand. “I want to earn everything on my own.”

“And you will. You have. The world already sees how talented you are. Southern Ophelia was already doing great before this got out,” her dad says to reassure her, but it’s in vain. I can tell by her face. “You should tell Randy immediately. And I think we should schedule an interview as soon as possible. It’ll look better if it’s us telling the world instead of people seeing it on the front of a gossip magazine.”

She’s about to cry. I can sense it. “This isn’t what I want.”

“Well, it’s a little late for that.” The way Jolene says it almost makes me think she’s happy about this.

Laurelyn holds the bridge of her nose and I suspect she’s racking her brain for every other possible alternative. But she comes up empty because, by morning, this is going to be a wildfire raging out of control. “I guess I don’t have a choice since it’s coming out anyway. Just let me know when and where I need to be for the interview.”

T
he last several
days have spun out of control. It’s gone public now—Jake Beckett is my father—and the vultures have descended. I can hardly push my way through the media gathered at my front door, so I’m forced to sneak out the back to my car parked a block down the street. Jack Henry insists on accompanying me everywhere I go now. He hasn’t said it, but I think he’s worried about my safety.

It’s Friday night. We’re down to two days. How did that happen? It feels like it was only yesterday when I saw him get out of that taxi in the midst of the pouring rain.

We’re lying on the sofa face to face, my leg hitched over his. “You’re leaving on Sunday and we still don’t have a plan.”

He draws a breath and blows it out slowly. “I can’t stay. And unless something has changed, you’re not ready to leave with me.”

He hasn’t come out and said it, but I have to give up everything for us to be together. “You’re making me choose.”

“No. Making you choose would be telling you to come with me or forget the whole thing. I’m telling you I love you and I want you more than anything in this world but that I can’t stay.” Is there really any difference in the two?

I don’t think we’ll survive being apart. Those kinds of relationships rarely ever make it. “I don’t know how we’ll make this work if we’re not together.”

He’s rubbing my arm. I think it’s his way of trying to comfort me, but it doesn’t because nothing will at this point. “I guess we’ll wing it. We’ll talk every day and see each other when we can. We’ll video chat and you can do a striptease for me in your showgirl costume.”

I feel like I will burst into tears any minute. “It’s not funny. I’m going to be miserable without you.”

“Then come home with me so you don’t have to be.”

I want to but I can’t walk away. Not now. “I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

His livelihood is dependent upon his knowledge of the grapes he harvests. He’s spent his life learning what each variety requires to prosper. I get that. Leaving the known for the unknown could potentially ruin him, but it’s not fair to make me sound like I’m the only one unwilling to make a sacrifice. “Just like you won’t stay.”

He takes his hand from my arm and looks up at the ceiling. “Then I guess it’s settled. You’re staying here. I’m going back. We’re no better off than we were when you slipped away from me four months ago. Except now, I love you so fucking much, it’s going to rip my heart out to be away from you.”

He’s pissed off. I can tell. “You’re mad?”

“Hell, yeah, I’m furious that our circumstances are what they are. I want to be with you and you want to be with me. Why can’t we find a way to make this work?”

We lie silently for a while, the tension thick. He finally breaks through it. “How long is your next tour?”

I’ve purposely been avoiding thinking about it. “Three months. It starts in August and won’t be over until the end of October. I only get two weeks off before we’re back in the studio to work on the next album.”

“Can you come spend the holidays with me?”

That’s not going to work. “We already have Christmas shows booked.”

“I’m trying to make plans to see you six months in advance, and you can’t work me in. This is going to be a huge problem.”

He says he isn’t making me choose, but he is. He’s not saying it but if I don’t go with him, we’re done. I am as certain of it as I’ve ever been of anything in my life. But why can’t he understand that he’s made me no promises? He hasn’t asked me to marry him—not a serious proposal. I’d be nuts to walk away when I have absolutely no guarantee of anything. He could decide he’s done with me three months from now.

I don’t know what else to say. “Can we try it long distance and see how it goes?”

“I guess we don’t have much of a choice if you’re not coming with me.”

Is he trying to make me feel worse than I already do? “Don’t say it like that. You’re making me feel guilty.”

“If that’s what it takes, then I want you to feel guilty—so much so that you’ll pack all your shit and come home where you belong.”

He says home and I immediately think of Avalon instead of this apartment or that tour bus. It’s where I see myself when I think of him as my husband and I envision the family he wants to give me.

My mind is exhausted from rolling this around over and over, trying to come up with a solution that quite honestly doesn’t exist. I’ve thought and worried about our relationship for almost a month, and I’m tired. If only for a little while, I need an escape from the dread of being separated again.

“Take me to bed and make me forget that you’re leaving.” I sound desperate, but I don’t care.

“If I do, it won’t be to make you forget. I’m gonna show you all the reasons you should go with me.”

“Whatever. Either works for me.”

He takes my hand and I follow him down the hall to my bedroom. He stops before we reach the bed and kisses me—just a simple, sweet, romantic kiss. When he finishes, I can’t stop myself from sighing heavily.

“You won’t get soft kisses on your lips when I’m gone.” He moves to my neck and hits that spot just below my ear, the one that always sends chills down my spine. “Or here.”

He grasps the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head. He palms my breasts as he continues kissing my neck and then slowly moves down over my shoulder. He reaches around to unfasten my bra as his mouth migrates to the space between my breasts. When I feel the release of my bra, he slides the straps down my arms and it drops to the floor.

He kisses my abdomen all the way down as he drops to his knees in front of me. I feel his tongue swipe my belly button as he unfastens my jeans. I hear the sound of my zipper as he slowly slides it down and everything from my nipples down to the tips of my toes tingles.

He normally hooks his fingers inside the band of my jeans and underwear to push them down, but not this time. He slides one finger inside the front of my panties and turns his hand over so that his fingertip can softly stroke my clit in a come-hither motion. I feel my panties dampen, that sticky, wet feeling, and every bit of it is for him—this man I love with all my heart. This man I don’t know how to let go of.

He stops what he’s doing and grasps my jeans and panties. He pulls them to my ankles and I hold onto his shoulders as I step out, one foot at a time. After he moves them out of the way, he wraps his hands around each of my hipbones and kisses my stomach before his mouth moves in a southerly direction.

This is never the best position for what he’s about to do, so I’m glad when he pushes me to sit on the edge of the bed. He reaches for each of my legs and hooks them over his shoulders before he buries his nose against me. “I wish I could bottle this and take it with me. I’d spray it all over my sheets and roll around in it.”

I giggle as I lace my fingers through his hair and stroke the top of his head. I’m going to miss hearing him say such highly inappropriate things.

I reach for the pillows on the bed and place them behind me so I can prop up and watch what he does. He’s turned me into some kind of sex freak; I like to see his mouth between my legs. The dirty bastard has ruined me. Not that I ever want to have sex with another man, but no other could ever come close to bringing me the ecstasy I feel with him.

I jerk when his tongue touches me. Not because I’m scared or surprised but because my nerve endings are on fire, calling out to his mouth. It’s sensory overload when they finally feel the sensation they desire so badly.

He pushes my legs back with his hands as he moves his tongue faster against me, and I feel that pressure rising, those magnificent waves that begin deep inside and rise until they burst through the surface. “Ohhh… right there’s the spot. That feels so good.” He always follows my direction so well. When I tell him he’s in the right spot, he doesn’t stop until he makes me scream.

He uses his tongue to apply more pressure to that pleasurable site and I feel my orgasm rushing toward the surface. I grasp his hair as I always do and tug. “Right there. Just like that.” And a moment later, my entire body tenses as it escapes my mouth… the scream he knew he’d get out of me.

When I release his hair, I still feel his mouth against me as he says, “And she crosses the finish line, ladies and gentlemen.”

I shove the pillows behind me and scoot backward on the bed. “This race isn’t over yet.”

He starts at my ankles and kisses his way up my legs. “Oh, this next part isn’t going to be a race. I plan on taking my time with you, Miss McLachlan. Who knows? This could take all night.”

“Promise?”

He grins as he continues up each of my legs. When he reaches the apex of my thighs, he stops to kiss the top of my pubic bone. “Always so smooth. You’ll never know how much I like that.”

He continues up my stomach until he reaches my breasts. His mouth hovers in the center of my chest and he pushes them together to make a Jack Henry sandwich. The thought makes me giggle inwardly.

He moves up to my neck and pushes my hands over my head. “Turn over.”

I roll to my stomach, my hands still over my head, and he begins kissing my neck. He slowly moves his way down and doesn’t leave a single spot neglected. I’m covered in goosebumps—what he’s doing drives me crazy, and he knows it.

And then he’s at my lower back—the spot he covets—and he begins licking me. I don’t know what it is about it that he loves so much, but I don’t care if it means he does this to me. It’s a turn-on like no other.

He moves on to my bottom and this is where he gets a little freaky. He does his nibbling thing where he bites my ass, but then he moves his mouth down between my thighs. He uses his knee to push my legs apart and shoves the pillows under me. I’m bent over them and… oh, fuck! He licks my girlie parts. From behind. He’s never done it from that angle before and it feels… kinky. And I like it. A lot.

He grabs the back of my thighs and pushes them up and apart so my bottom is up in the air. I think being positioned like this would be mortifying as hell if what he was doing didn’t feel so amazing.

He astonishes me the way he can always pull a different rabbit out of his hat.

He suddenly stops and says, “No, you’re not coming like this again. I want to be inside you next time you get off.” He cues me to roll over by tugging on my hip.

When I’m on my back again, he lies down on top of me. We’re eye to eye. He runs his hands down the length of my arms until he finds my hands and lifts them over my head. He laces his fingers through mine and squeezes them. He doesn’t take his eyes from mine—and doesn’t even blink—as he enters me. But I see the look, the one that tells me how good it feels to be inside me. I can never mistake that look of pleasure for any other.

I bring my legs up and around him so I can feel him deeper. With Jack Henry, close is never close enough. I always want him nearer.

He props his weight on his elbows and cradles my head inside his lower arms. He showers kisses all across my face. “I love you so much. You are everything to me.” Our hands are still fisted above my head and he squeezes them tighter as he continues slowly moving inside me. He presses his forehead against mine. “You kissed my heart awake.”

Now it’s me squeezing his hands tighter. “God, I love you.”

He shifts his hips so he’s putting friction against my sweet spot as he moves in and out of me. There’s nothing like having a man who can make me come so many different ways, even with slow, gentle lovemaking. But there’s especially nothing like hearing him tell me he loves me as it happens. From what I hear, I’m in the minority. I don’t think most women orgasm with intercourse alone. But not all women have Jack Henry for a lover.

When it’s over, he relaxes against me. I take my legs from around him and let them fall apart so he can nestle between them while he’s still inside me. I cherish these moments, when we’re still joined as one.

“Promise me you won’t let another man do these things to you after I’m gone.”

Wow. That sounds so final, like we’re going to say goodbye and never see one another again. “No man will touch me like this or any other way. You’re the only one.”

“Swear to me.”

“I swear.”

He wraps his arms around me and I do the same. We squeeze one another to the point that it’s almost painful. “I’m terrified of losing you.”

“I’m terrified of losing you too.”

He presses his forehead to mine again. “I can’t stand it. I said I wouldn’t do this, but I can’t help myself. Please, come home with me. I know you can’t have the career you want in Australia, but you know I can take care of you. You’ll have anything your heart desires and you’ll never have to work.”

I consider it for a moment, but he still hasn’t asked me to marry him. “I can’t. I don’t know how we’ll make it work, but we’ll find a way. We have to because the alternative isn’t an option.”