Beyond Paradise

by Barbara Nolan

  “Dreams can’t hurt you.” Enveloping her in his arms, he held her tight, and she knew he could feel the erratic beat of her heart. “No one can hurt you. I’m here.”

  She swiped at her tears. She’d spent years caring for her brother, Dylan, and Nicky through all his messes, but Jonny was the first one to calm her, soothe her, take away her pain. Her breathing slowed, and her heart, although still racy, stopped skipping every other beat.

  He stacked the pillows behind them, then leaned back with her in his arms. “You get these a lot?”

  “What, nightmares?” She feared he would somehow figure out the horrible end of this particular nightmare.

  “No, panic attacks.” He continued to stroke her arms as he held her.

  How had he guessed her secret, and what now? Should she admit or deny it?

  “Can’t catch your breath?” He stopped stroking her arm and looked into her eyes. “Feel like you’re coming apart.”

  He handed her a bottle of water off the bedside table. “Here, drink this.”

  The cool water soothed her dry throat, as she eased against the pillows.

  “I got a thing about small places,” he admitted. “Elevators, cramped, tight places.”

  “Claustrophobia?”

  “And I’m not a big fan of the dark either.”

  “You— Afraid of the dark?”

  “Yeah.” He kissed his way down her neck and the cleft of her breasts. “I thought I’d never hold you again.”

  He checked the bedside clock. “It’s only eight o’clock. Much too early to get up.”

  She cuddled into his firm, protective embrace.

  “My scars are physical, but the ones you carry around up here are just as bad. He grazed her forehead with soft kisses. “When your brain gets a chance to relax, the nightmares will go away. You’re with me now. No more worries.”

  His words made sense, and she prayed he was right. Her mind was so overloaded and stressed, it needed some time to heal. “Hold me tighter,” she whispered against his chest.

  A few hours later she awoke to a buzzing, then cool air hit her back as Jonny rolled away from her. Still half asleep, he fumbled with his phone on the nightstand. He mumbled a few words, then disconnected the phone.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Eddie’s doing better. Max is taking him back here to his penthouse.” Jonny tossed the phone on the bed. “I’m going into the kitchen to get us something to eat.”

  She enjoyed the rearview as he pulled on a pair of sweat pants and moved toward the door.

  She threw back the downy soft sheet, amazed how he kept them so white and fresh. Maybe he replaced them monthly. She chuckled at the extravagance, but he obviously spent on linens what most people made in a week.

  Her bare feet sunk into the plush, dove gray carpet, and the cool air conditioning kissed her bare skin. Her clothes were in a crumpled, heap where he’d discarded them the night before. The bright sunlight streaking through the windows reflected against the chrome of the bar that sat in the far corner of the bedroom. Light and dark shades of gray mixed with accents of lilac.

  She marveled at the smoked glass cabinet dominating the opposite wall. It stood just above her waist, and she assumed it was a media center of sorts. The tinted glass made it impossible to see in, so she moved closer, and pushed one of the buttons on the side. The cabinet hummed, and the largest flat screen TV she’d ever seen emerged from within, then roared to life.

  “Ohhh, shit.” She punched at the buttons, and the TV shut off and descended back into the cabinet. She sighed with relief and moved toward the bathroom, making a mental note not to push any more unknown buttons.

  Spying the fluffy white robe, she removed it from a hook. It hung to her mid-calf, and even after cinching the tie and rolling up the sleeves a few times, it still swallowed her up. She flipped the collar up and inhaled the scent of his spicy, woodsy cologne and soap.

  Aside from a few bottles of cologne and some decorative pieces, also in lilac and gray, there was no clutter or mess on the granite counter tops. The glass enclosed shower had no water spots and appeared unused. His obvious neatness intimidated her since she leaned more toward messy. Okay, she was a slob. Clothes thrown all over, make-up and hair products fighting each other for counter space, with a few wet towels thrown on the floor.

  Leaving the bathroom, she peeked into his closet. Stepping over the threshold, a light switched on, and she gawked at the racks and racks of suits, dress shirts, casual shirts, and pants and jeans. After a few hesitant steps into what could pass as a boutique men’s clothing store, she ran her hand over the cherry wood shelves that held rows of shoes. She touched the cuffs of cashmere jackets and fine linen shirts and fantasized about having a female version of this closet.

  Peeking out from under the clothes, she spied a black and white striped cat. “Hey, pretty girl.” She bent, scooped her up, and examined her scars.

  Leaving the closet, she was drawn to the bookcase suspended in the corner where the windows met. She jostled the cat to her left side and lifted a book off the shelf. She ran her hand over the smooth leather binding, then cracked the book and sniffed.

  “I thought I was the only one who sniffed books.”

  She snapped the book shut, cheek’s warming at being caught in the act.

  He moved to her side and caressed the cat’s fur. “I see you met Killer.”

  “Killer?” She laughed.

  “She had a rough start, so I gave her the name to boost her confidence.” He smiled. “She usually spits at the women I bring home.”

  A cat with very good taste. This might just work.

  “You like to read?” he asked.

  “I love to read. Are these limited editions?”

  “My decorator insisted it’s the way to go.”

  “Do you have a favorite?” She let the cat jump out of her arms.

  He leaned over her to retrieve a book from a higher shelf, and she admired the thin line of fine hairs that disappeared into his low-slung sweatpants.

  “Julius Caesar.”

  “Makes sense.” She fanned through the book then closed it. “This leather binding is in such good shape.”

  “When I can’t sleep at night, I read.” He replaced the book, then wrapped his arm around her waist. “But I had no trouble sleeping last night.”

  “Me neither.” A heat crept up her spine along with a hi-def image of him hovering over her, muscles bulging, just begging to be nipped.

  He pulled her against his bare chest and smiled. “A beautiful, sexy woman who likes to read. I think I hit the jackpot.”

  “Me too.”

  Who was this gorgeous man who said all the right words, rescued animals, read the classics, and had knife fights on the docks?

  Chapter 20

  On the middle of the bed, Cheryl spotted a large tray with a carafe of coffee, a pitcher of cream, plates of fruit, pastries, and bagels, a tub of what appeared to be gourmet cream cheese, and a platter of smoked salmon.

  Her stomach growled, and she smiled to cover her embarrassment. “I guess I am hungry.”

  “I didn’t know what you liked, so I put out everything.” Jonny hit her with a sheepish smile, like he was uncomfortable being caught doing something nice.

  “I like it all, but you didn’t have to do . . .”

  “Sit, eat. After what you’ve been through, you need someone to take care of you.”

  A warm, contented sensation swelled in her chest as she gathered the folds of the robe, tucked her legs under her, and sat on the bed. She plucked some grapes from their vine. Relaxing for the first time in days, she loved the way his biceps flexed when he poured their coffee into heavy ceramic mugs. His sleep-mussed hair fell in ebony swirls ove
r his forehead in a very sexy way.

  She reached for four sugar packets, and he laughed.

  “A little coffee with your sugar?”

  “Do you always have this much breakfast food?”

  He tilted his head. “The answer is no. Very few women have seen this penthouse.”

  “Really?” She wiggled her brow. “Cause I saw a few of those women.”

  “Sometimes it got a little intense.” He threw his palms up in defense.

  “I mean, how many women have you been with?” She kept her voice light, then realized she didn’t want the answer.

  “At one time?” He grinned.

  “Soooo, you’ve been with more than one woman at a time?”

  “Hell yeah.” He paused, testing her reaction. “But those days are over.”

  She thrilled at his admission, but still pressed him. “You just happened to have all this food today?”

  “After you fell asleep I called my housekeeper, and she stocked the refrigerator.”

  “Housekeeper, huh? Does she wear a little French maid uniform?”

  “Not quite. She’s a Polish woman in her sixties who wears orthopedic shoes. She comes in every day, straightens up, and does the wash.”

  “I see.”

  “I kinda have a thing for neatness.” Again the rueful smile.

  “I noticed. You could perform surgery in that bathroom.”

  “I know. Eddie rags on me, gives me shit about being a clean freak, but he’s a total slob. His place consists of a bed, bar, and a pool table, with clothes and wet towels strewn all over. Lives like a freakin’ bum.”

  “Maybe now would be a good time to make a confession.” She grinned. “Eddie isn’t the only slob.”

  “Hmm. For you I’ll overlook it.”

  She pointed to the barbwire tattoo on his left bicep. “I wanted to ask you about this the first time we were together, but . . .”

  “We didn’t have a lot of time for questions and answers.”

  “Does it mean something?” She traced the ink with her finger.

  “Yeah, that I was young, dumb, and drunk. Got it on a dare when I was fifteen.”

  “And this one?” She pointed to the cross under his heart spanning the length of his ribcage, inked over a thick, jagged scar.

  “That one’s for my mom.”

  She examined it closer. The inside of the cross with a shaded heart surrounded by thorns.

  He followed her finger. “The scar is compliments of my old man and a bottle of Bud. He’d been gone for three days on one of his meth highs, and my mother had the nerve to ask where he’d been. When I got in the middle, he chugged his beer, smashed the bottle on the kitchen counter, and cut me up.”

  “That’s terrible.” She dropped her hand to his arm.

  “My father was a bum who spent most of my childhood in and out of jail. He was a miserable excuse for a father, and a lousy criminal too.”

  “What ever happened? I mean, are they still together?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “They’re both dead.”

  His frankness startled her, but she took it slow, and stayed silent for a few minutes while he sipped at his black coffee. “I never knew my father, and neither did my brother. My mother wasn’t good with details. In fact, my mother wasn’t good at being a mother.”

  “Looks like we both won the fucked-up-family lottery.”

  Her fingertips grazed the slight crookedness of his nose that transformed his features from pretty to edgy. “I suppose this has a story too?”

  He paused, debating his answer, and she feared more bad news.

  “Some guy was picking on my little sister—”

  “You have a sister?” She remembered the pictures in his apartment over the club.

  He snatched a small frame off his nightstand and handed it to her. “Her name’s Lena.”

  “She’s beautiful.” She studied the picture of the same young girl she’d seen in his other apartment. Only here she was standing in front of a sign that read Boston College. “But it’s summer, so . . .”

  “She’s doing one of those study abroad programs in Spain.” Jonny ripped apart a bagel, eating the doughy center first.

  “Nice.” Now she had ten more unanswered questions.

  He smiled at the picture. “She’s real smart.”

  “You miss her.” She stated the obvious.

  “Yeah, but my life is no place for her. And I sure didn’t want her ending up with some neighborhood guy, fifteen and pregnant like most of the other girls we knew.”

  She handed him the picture and again marveled at the paradox and conflict in his decisions. Safe guarding his sister at all costs, yet totally ignoring the dangerous choices in his own life.

  “Lena’s lucky to have someone looking out for her.”

  “Tell her that. She accuses me of trying to run her life and being too bossy.”

  “You, bossy?” She plucked up a croissant, pulled it apart, then munched on the flaky pieces. “I can’t see it.”

  “Ha, ha, very funny. Now it's your turn.”

  “Go ahead, ask me anything.”

  “Why don’t we start with how you got hooked up with a punk like Nicky?”

  She expected this question, and although she wanted to be honest, it would be impossible to make him understand.

  “Believe it or not, he wasn’t so bad in the beginning.” She tilted her head.

  “You’re right; I don’t believe it.”

  “Eddie and Dylan hated him. They warned me off him more than once,” she admitted. “Guess I have a thing for bad boys.”

  Jonny threw his hands up. “Don’t put me in his category.”

  “At the time, he saved me.”

  They both grabbed for the last chocolate donut. “Go ahead.” Jonny pushed it toward her.

  “So polite.” She snatched it up, halved it, and held it out to him. “I’m familiar with the need for chocolate.”

  He held up his half. “Another one of my vices.”

  “Anyway, my mother was moving in with yet another druggie boyfriend, and Nicky gave me a place to stay, and—”

  “Forced you to steal and run cons for him while he wasted your money on bad bets and blow.” He cocked his head like he’d answered the bonus round of Jeopardy.

  “Nicky had his faults, but I wasn’t innocent either.” She fiddled with the collar of the robe. “I’d been stealing since I was a kid. First food so Dylan and I could eat regular, but then I advanced to wallets, watches, anything I could get my hands on.” She sighed. “That’s how I met him. I was trying to lift his wallet.”

  “You had to survive somehow.”

  “It started that way, but then the thrill was better than the profit.”

  He paused a few minutes, and she concentrated on the crumbs from the chocolate donut to avoid seeing his reaction.

  “Your days of stealing are over.” He raised her chin with his forefinger. “As long as you’re with me, you’ll never want for anything, and as for the thrill part . . .”

  He pushed the tray to the side, wound his arm around her shoulders, and tucked her head against his bare chest. The faint scent of his cologne calmed her. He eased his back against the headboard and pulled a condom out of the bedside table.

  “Climb on.” He nudged her hips. “Ride me.”

  She shrugged off the robe and threw her leg over his hips, loving him under her. She slid the condom on him, and rocked forward, drenching him until he slid home. Her hands went from his shoulders to the headboard as she rode him harder.

  He captured her breast, and when he sucked her into his mouth, she moaned. “Make it good, Jonny,” she gasped as he stretched her.

  He p
ulled his mouth from her breast and gazed at her with hooded eyes. “Unless the goddamn world comes to an end this very minute, there’s no way this could be bad.”

  She moved harder, faster. Each stroke bringing her closer, hitting her spot. The friction and tension building took her to a place beyond conscious sensations.

  “I love watching you work me.” His grin was lazy and sated. “Taking me in, squeezing me hard.”

  She let go of the headboard and pressed her hands against his chest. Her every movement bringing her closer, bringing them closer.

  “That’s right, baby. Fuck me.”

  His words made her buck faster, clenching around him with each pull. His hand slipped around her neck, and he pulled her down, his breath hot against her ear. “I want you to come all over me. Drown my dick and melt for me, baby.”

  Then he captured her mouth in a wet, sloppy kiss of tongues and nips and bites until she screamed around his lips in the best orgasm ever. He jerked hard a few times beneath her, and she knew he felt it too. Sweat-slicked and spent, he brushed the hair from her face and kissed her forehead.

  She shifted to move off him, and he stilled her with his hand.

  “Don’t. Stay right there.”

  She raised her head from his chest and smiled. Their bodies still connected, his heart beating hard under her cheek, his hand gliding down her back. And again she felt content and tranquil, feelings she’d given up on for herself.

  Hours later after more mind-blowing orgasms, they were still snuggled up in bed, legs and arms entwined, his hand in her hair.

  “There’s something about you that makes me want to be better.” He nuzzled into her hair.

  “You’re already the best to me.”

  “Nah, it’s different.” He scrunched some pillows behind them, and she leaned on his chest, their faces inches apart. “When other women would ask me about my scar, I used to say I got it in a knife fight or some other tough-guy bullshit. I never told anybody . . .”