Under His Skin

by Nicola Marsh

  ‘I’ll email you the formalised quote.’ He headed for the door leading to the front of the shop and paused. ‘And I’ll be here Tuesday morning to get the boys set up.’

  She gave a brief nod, her gaze riveted to his mouth. Yeah, this one was full of contradictions. Fire and ice. Unexpectedly scorching one minute, frigidly chilling the next. The contrast only served to pique his interest further.

  ‘Unless you want to see me sooner?’

  He could’ve sworn the corners of her mouth twitched before she shooed him away. ‘Go.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HOPE WENT THROUGH the motions of teaching piano to an uninterested, average student. The reluctant teen hadn’t practised since their last session so it made the forty-five minutes even more torturous than usual. Parents who pushed their kids into learning instruments when they’d rather be skateboarding had a lot to answer for.

  She should know. Her parents had pushed her into horse riding and polo and chess when she would’ve much rather been jamming with the local kids in the village. Sure, they’d encouraged her interest in piano and violin but had been horrified when she’d mentioned the D-word. Apparently drums weren’t the preferred instrument for an aristocratic McWilliams’ child.

  So she’d learned in secret, using some of her generous allowance to pay a teacher in the village, an ageing rocker who still toured on occasion. Harry Remme had been more attentive to her music career than her folks and posh music teachers put together. He’d introduced her to a world beyond Mozart and Chopin, to a world filled with guitar riffs, drum solos and the deep bass rhythms that she felt all the way down to her soul.

  She’d been hooked.

  From that moment she’d known what she wanted to do: create the kind of music that changed people’s lives, the way Harry’s music had changed hers.

  Harry’s band hadn’t conformed. They hadn’t done covers. They’d written original material, recorded it in a tiny studio outside of London and distributed it online to whoever was lucky enough to hear it. She’d spent countless hours listening to their quirky songs and loving every minute of it. Harry had fostered her love of unusual music while teaching her everything he could about the drums. She’d been thrilled to be accepted into a premier international music college in Paris once she finished school but what she’d learned at that prestigious place hadn’t come close to fuelling her creativity the way Harry’s music had.

  It broke her heart that eventually he’d betrayed her like everyone else in her life.

  She’d never recovered from his deception so close on the heels of Willem breaking her heart but she’d always be indebted to him for encouraging her to break free of her parents’ expectations and choose her own path. If she’d done what her mother and father had wanted she’d be married to some uppity earl named Charles Butterworth with a brood of kids by now, a nanny, housekeeper and chauffeur, living down the road from her parents in a palatial country house.

  They’d humoured her love of music by accepting she’d attend the college in Paris, never imagining she’d follow her dream all the way to Australia. They’d threatened to disown her, to cut her off. She hadn’t cared.

  They’d lied to her like everyone else.

  She benefited from her granny’s trust fund, meaning she never had financial worries. Sure, things might be different if she didn’t have that safety net, but she doubted it. Nothing would stop her from pursuing her dream.

  Not even some six-four gorgeous guy who kissed like a pro and who’d almost made her come by groping her ass.

  Heat flushed her cheeks at the memory of how turned on she’d been. If that student hadn’t arrived she would’ve screwed him on the piano stool.

  Never in a million years would she have expected him to discover her dirty little secret: that she didn’t wear underwear most days.

  Being so daring was her one concession whilst living a well-ordered life. It made her feel a little bad when her entire life she’d been so very good. A way of cutting free from the constraints of her past. A way to prove, albeit to herself, that she held all the power and was in control of her own destiny.

  The more refined guys she usually dated had been repulsed by her lack of constraint. Logan had been turned on big time, the focus being on big.

  He’d felt huge through his jeans and she’d been so close to riding that bad boy. She needed the release so badly...

  The throb between her legs became insistent so Hope did the only thing possible: she locked up, picked up her mobile and headed for the bathroom.

  It didn’t take her long to find what she needed: the picture of Logan on his company’s website.

  The photo didn’t do him justice. Neither did the suit. She preferred how he’d looked today: a little rough around the edges with his scruffy dark-blond hair skimming his collar, his shirt sleeves rolled up, that denim hugging his ass and those eyes so penetratingly blue she could’ve sworn he could see right through her.

  She leaned against the hand basin and stared into those eyes, remembering how he’d looked at her the moment before he’d kissed her. As if he wanted to ravage her.

  She’d enjoyed taunting him, had liked how he stood up to her and gave as good as he got.

  Her gaze drifted to his mouth as her hand drifted lower, her fingers seeking her clit. She was so wet, thanks to him.

  She stared at his lips and remembered the feel of his tongue in her mouth, skilled and sure, and imagined what it could do where her middle finger zeroed in on now. Her pulse raced, the lightness in her chest making her feel as if she were floating as she circled her clit over and over, her excitement escalating too quickly. She didn’t care. She needed a release and, with the man who’d wound her up gone, she needed it now.

  Breathless, she started panting a little. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment as she imagined Logan’s fingers touching her, Logan’s tongue licking her, Logan’s dick inside her... She tensed and came on a soft moan, sagging against the basin.

  When she opened her eyes, he was still there, staring at her from that photo, looking way too smug and self-controlled.

  He’d got her so wound up that she’d just masturbated away from home for the first time.

  Time to ruffle him as much as he’d ruffled her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LOGAN HAD DOUBLE-CHECKED the quote twice before firing it off to Hope an hour ago.

  Considering he’d already fucked up by kissing her, he didn’t want there to be any potential problems with this job.

  Not that he expected any, as she’d been as into that unexpected make-out session as he had, but it still didn’t sit right that he’d crossed the line with a client.

  ‘Hey, bozo, what’s happening?’ Rick, his foreman, slapped him on the back as he slid onto a bar stool opposite. ‘You know I can’t drink when I’m on pain meds so why the hell did you ask me to meet you at a pub?’

  ‘To torture you, of course.’ Logan raised his schooner in a cheer. ‘What are you having? Lemonade? Cola? Soda water?’

  ‘Fuck you.’ Rick flipped him the bird. ‘Get me a light beer. That way I’ll only get half-pissed when it mixes with the meds.’

  ‘Dickhead.’ Logan headed for the bar and ordered Rick a lemon, lime and bitters, glad he’d invited his old mate here tonight. He needed the distraction. Sitting here rehashing what he’d done with Hope wouldn’t help anybody, least of all himself.

  When he placed the drink in front of Rick on the small round table between them, his friend groaned. ‘You’re not my mother. Get me a real drink.’

  ‘No can do, mate. You’re the best foreman in the country and I need you on deck sooner rather than later, so let the meds do their work and that means sticking to soda for you.’

  Rick grunted, took a sip and wrinkled his nose. ‘Fucking lolly water.’

  ‘Bottoms up.’ Logan took a gulp of his beer and ignor
ed Rick’s woebegone expression.

  ‘So what do you think of the new job I emailed you?’

  Rick gave a thumbs-up. ‘Looks good. We’ve done a few of those recording studios now. You must be getting a reputation.’

  A bad one, if Hope ever blabbed to anyone about that kiss.

  ‘They’re lucrative, that’s for sure.’ Rick took another sip and made a gagging sound. ‘Though the quote seemed high. Is there a problem?’

  Logan shook his head. ‘The owner was being a bit of a smart-ass so I upped the ante, expecting she’d cave. She didn’t, so now we’re going to make a healthy profit.’

  ‘Uh-oh.’ Rick’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve got the hots for her.’

  ‘Don’t be a dumb-ass,’ Logan said, unable to meet his mate’s eyes and opting for looking into his beer glass instead.

  ‘You do like her!’ Rick made an odd triumphant, crowing sound. ‘You always like the ones with the smart mouths because they challenge you, so if you charged her that much she must’ve really got to you.’

  ‘Maybe a little,’ he admitted begrudgingly, unable to stop the grin spreading across his face. ‘She’s a firecracker all right. Ice princess one minute, fiery the next.’

  Rick imitated playing a violin. ‘Look at you, all smitten kitten.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Logan downed the rest of his beer. ‘Don’t mind me while I go get another alcoholic beverage.’

  Rick flipped him the bird again and Logan laughed. He liked the company’s Melbourne jobs for this reason: he got to hang out with his best mate. They’d known each other for twelve years, after he’d met Rick on the first day of his apprenticeship in the city. He’d been a naïve eighteen-year-old who loved building stuff; Rick had been a thirty-year-old electrician on the same job. They’d been mates ever since. Logan trusted Rick when he didn’t trust many people in this world.

  When his construction company had started taking off, he’d offered Rick the job of head foreman on all jobs in Melbourne. It gave him peace of mind, knowing Rick had his back when Logan travelled the country doing quotes. He had a good, reliable work team in each major city but Rick was the only guy who would never screw him over.

  ‘Seriously, mate, how’s the back?’

  Rick screwed up his nose, held up his hand and wavered it side to side. ‘The anti-inflammatories did the trick in the first week and I’m weaning myself off the pain meds now. I’m seeing Madame Lash, the torturous physio, three times a week, and Doc wants to review at the end of the week.’

  ‘Cut the cookie-cutter medical spiel.’ Logan rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Shitty from being cooped up at home and not on the job site but otherwise okay. The back really is improving.’

  Logan nodded. ‘Good to hear.’

  ‘So tell me more about this client.’ Rick slipped his mobile out of his pocket and scrolled through his emails. ‘Hope McWilliams. Fancy-schmancy name.’

  For a fancy-schmancy woman. Logan had never met anyone like her. Sure, he mingled with the rich on occasion. Being a successful CEO of a major construction company ensured he got invited to all the right parties, particularly when he had so many satisfied customers. People talked and he hadn’t been bullshitting Hope when he had said he didn’t have to advertise. But even the refined women he met in those circles weren’t like Hope. Those women looked at him as if he was a curiosity, as if he was a wild pet they needed to tame. Hope hadn’t looked at him like that. When she’d dropped her frosty exterior and thawed, Hope had looked at him as though she’d wanted to devour him whole.

  ‘She owns a piece of prime real estate on the outskirts of inner-city Melbourne, so she’s loaded. Didn’t baulk at my asking price either.’

  ‘I’m not interested in her bank balance, doofus.’ Rick rolled his eyes. ‘What’s she like?’

  Logan searched for the right word to describe Hope, coming up with a lame ‘Interesting.’

  ‘You’re pathetic.’ Rick took another sip of his drink and mock-barfed. ‘I can’t drink this shit, it’s too sweet. I’m going home to have a beer.’

  ‘Hey, you can’t—’

  ‘Take a chill pill, dude. I’m messing with you.’ Rick stood slowly, unkinked his back and winced. ‘But I am heading home. I’m just as keen to get back to work as you are to have me there, so it’s exercise time for me. Keep me posted on the McWilliams job, okay?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll email you updates—’

  ‘And for fuck’s sake, don’t screw the crew.’ Rick made a gun with his thumb and forefinger and shot him.

  ‘She doesn’t work for me.’

  ‘But she’s a client so close enough.’ Rick slapped him on the back. ‘I’m serious, bro. Tread carefully, okay?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ Logan muttered, knowing he had no intention of adhering to his friend’s advice.

  As Rick shuffled towards the door, the screen of Logan’s phone lit up with a text from Hope.

  Need 2 C U 2nite 2 discuss quote. Please.

  ‘That’s weird,’ Logan muttered, staring at the message. It looked as though she’d added ‘please’ as an afterthought, as if she doubted he’d want to see her.

  He knew what he should do. Make an excuse. Blow her off. Because seeing her tonight, hot on the heels of their unexpected make-out session earlier, could be playing with fire.

  Then again, since when had he backed away from a challenge?

  I’m at Golden Treble, Nth Melb. Can U come now?

  As his thumb hit the send button he realised how that last sentence read. He hadn’t meant it as an innuendo but, considering how they’d bantered earlier, she might mistake it for such.

  Her response pinged.

  I’m coming.

  And she really would be, in the not too distant future, if he had any say in it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HOPE LOVED THE vibe of inner Melbourne and its surrounding suburbs: Carlton, with its lush parks and Little Italy on Lygon Street; Albert Park, with its lake and accompanying restaurants; and Brunswick, the bohemian capital of the city jam-packed with alternative boutiques, bars and comedy clubs. But she rarely ventured into North Melbourne and discovered she’d been missing out. Trendy eateries lined Curzon Street but as she followed the instructions of her trusty satnav she found herself in the back streets where a small, grungy pub sat on a corner.

  It figured Logan would ask her to meet him here.

  He had a thing for throwing her off-guard. Maybe he wanted her to feel out of place. Maybe he’d already labelled her as some rich bitch wanting to slum it. Neither could be further from the truth because as she found a parking spot not far from the front door and entered the pub an immediate sense of coming home enveloped her.

  This place reminded her exactly of the small pubs Harry used to play in.

  Dark wood panelling adorned the walls roughly three quarters of the way up, with a deep crimson paint finishing the walls to the roof. A small elevated stage was tucked into one corner, a cluster of tiny tables in another, with the mahogany bar dominating the back wall. A few tall tables and bar stools were tucked away behind the stage and that was where she spotted Logan nursing a beer and fending off a buxom bar girl. Not that she blamed the woman. If she had DDs like that she’d be deliberately resting them on Logan’s arm as she cleared the table too.

  Unfortunately, her average Bs would barely make a dent in his biceps so she’d have to settle for wowing him with her scintillating wit.

  That, and the fact he already knew she didn’t wear underwear.

  A tingling swept up the back of her neck at the memory of his hands on her, the slight rasp of his fingers against her bare ass... She’d been so turned on it wouldn’t have taken much more rubbing against his crotch for her to come. It was why she’d had to take the edge off in the studio’s bathroom. But it ha
dn’t been enough, not nearly enough, and she’d asked to meet him for the simple fact she wanted to have sex tonight.

  She’d never done this before, so brazenly approach a guy with the sole intention of screwing him. She didn’t care that he was a direct adjunct to achieving her dream. She didn’t care it might muddy their semi-working relationship. All she cared about was getting off with him tonight.

  As she wound her way towards him, her soles stuck to the navy carpeted floor. Yeah, pubs like this were the same the world over. Despite regular cleaning, the spillage of many pints of beer over the years took its toll. She inhaled, savouring the smell of bar snacks predominantly featuring fried onions, and the yeasty aroma of beer.

  Harry had been a stout man. She’d tried the stuff once and almost vomited. She’d stuck to her G and Ts after that. He’d never baulked at her under-age drinking; not that she’d had more than one drink and only after she’d turned seventeen. He hadn’t lectured. He’d supported her, nurtured her talent and had been the father she’d never had.

  Until he too had betrayed her trust.

  He’d died during her final year at the music college in the middle of her exams. She would’ve attended his funeral if he hadn’t shattered their relationship a year earlier.

  She’d never forget the day she had discovered the one person she’d thought she could trust was just as duplicitous as the rest of the people in her life.

  Harry had been her go-to person when her first love had gone pear-shaped. She’d cried buckets over Willem, had poured her heart out to Harry, confiding in him in a way she’d never felt comfortable doing with her emotionally repressed parents. Yet a scant month later he’d crapped all over her regardless. He’d stolen more than her songs from her. He’d taken her ability to trust and turned her into a hardened cynic.

  Everybody lied. It was a fact of life, a human frailty. She should’ve been immune to it, growing up with parents who stretched the truth whenever it suited them; with so-called friends at boarding school who only told her what she wanted to hear in order to suck up; with her only serious boyfriend, Willem.