It Was Only a Kiss

by Joss Wood

  She heard the thinly disguised pain in his voice and wished she could soothe it away.

  ‘I realised a long time ago that I wasn’t cut out for the picket fence and two-point-four kids.’

  Oh, Luke. You are so made to have a family. Instead of the words she wanted to say, she asked, ‘Why not?’

  This was the trouble with smoky bars with low lighting and cool, vibey music. Confessions and confidences tended to flow.

  ‘I think to have a successful family you have to be part of one.’

  ‘I don’t know that I agree with you,’ Jess said, moving her hand across his. ‘Do you think you’d feel differently if your mother hadn’t passed away when you were so young?’

  Luke wondered whether he should tell her or not...after all it wasn’t a secret. It wasn’t talked about, but it was not a secret. For the first time in his life he actively wanted to share this information with someone...wanted her to know a little piece of his soul. Normally that would terrify him, but in this warm bar, with soft music, a couple of drinks under his belt and a gorgeous woman looking at him with tender eyes, he couldn’t keep the words from spilling out. Tomorrow he might regret it...

  ‘No, I don’t think anything would’ve been different. My mother—a fairly moody creature, from what I hear—bailed out on me when I was three and got herself killed in a car accident a couple of days later. And my father was fickle, selfish and changed women like he changed clothes. Kids raised in a dysfunctional home do not have functional adult relationships and families. Basic psychology.’

  ‘That’s such nonsense—but back up a moment.’ Jess frowned. ‘Your mother left you?’

  ‘She had suitcases full of clothes and personal possessions in her car when she crashed. Nothing of mine.’ Luke felt the muscle tick in his jaw and closed his eyes. It had happened over thirty years ago—why did it still sting? Why did he still wonder what she’d needed, wanted from her life that had made her step out of the marriage, away from him? Freedom? Another man? And would he ever stop wondering what he’d done that had made his mother leave him instead of taking him with her?

  He’d been three, for goodness’ sake...even he couldn’t have been that bad.

  Jess shook her head and covered his hand with both of hers. She had a look on her face that Luke had come to recognise as stubbornness. ‘Who told you that she’d left you behind? And when?’

  ‘My father...all my life.’ Luke shoved his hand into his hair. ‘It was his standard way of ending a conversation—No wonder your mother left you... Fill in the blanks. Can’t catch a ball, make the swim team, come first in class.’

  Jess’s mouth fell open in shock, and anger sparked in her eyes. ‘That’s...diabolical.’

  ‘That was my father.’

  Jess’s eyes flashed. ‘That’s child abuse.’

  Luke felt sparks jump in his stomach at her defence.

  ‘How did you manage to become so successful, so together, so strong after having that constantly fed to you?’

  Because he’d been too damn stubborn and too proud to let his father win.

  ‘And, I’m sorry. I don’t believe your mother left you. I saw that photo of you and her in your bedroom—the look on her face as she looked at you. Nope, I don’t buy it,’ Jess said, her voice saturated with conviction. ‘She loved you...there has to be another explanation.’

  Luke wished there was. But his mother was long dead and, as much as he appreciated Jess taking up the cudgels on his behalf, he knew that to think about his mother was useless and self-defeating. If he considered other scenarios he risked reopening old wounds.

  He’d tried marriage. It had been a failure. Losing his dream of having a family of his own had hurt a lot more than losing his wife, but he’d come to terms with the idea that St Sylve would not be home to dirty kids running wild.

  Knowing his mother’s motives wouldn’t change that. It was in the past and he couldn’t change what had happened.

  ‘What happened to your mom’s things?’ Jess leaned forward, her arms on the table.

  ‘According to my father she’d moved quite a lot of stuff out. The rest he tossed.’ Luke stifled a yawn. Suddenly he felt physically and mentally exhausted. ‘I remember someone saying that she took all her paintings for an upcoming exhibition. They’ve never been found. Somewhere, if they haven’t been burnt or tossed, there are about thirty Katelyn Kirby paintings floating around.’

  ‘Where did you find those two paintings?’

  He didn’t speak but Jess read the answer on his face.

  ‘You bought them? Oh, Luke.’

  At an enormous price, from a canny dealer who’d known exactly what he had.

  Jess seemed immediately to understand that he’d needed a connection to her—something of hers that held something of her soul. Luke drained his glass. ‘Yep.’

  Jess pursed her lips. ‘Dead or not, I really don’t like your father, Luke.’

  He saw pity flash in her eyes and his spine stiffened. Of all the things he wanted from Jess, pity wasn’t one of them. He glared at her. ‘Don’t pity me, Sherwood.’

  Jess jumped to her feet and shook her head. ‘I don’t pity you. I think you are one of the strongest, most together people I’ve ever encountered. I think you’re smart and resourceful and mentally tough.’ She cocked her head and listened to the music. ‘I love this song—dance with me?’

  Luke blinked at the change of subject and looked at the empty dance floor. ‘Now?’

  Jess nodded and held out her hand. ‘Yeah, now. What? Are you chicken?’

  Luke grinned as he took her hand and led her to the dance floor. He placed his hands on her hips and rested his chin against her temple. Moody, romantic music brushed over them and Luke’s voice was threaded with laughter when he spoke. ‘You remember what happened the last time you called me chicken?’

  ‘I ended up against a wall, halfway to naked,’ Jess whispered back.

  Luke’s heart picked up an extra beat at her soft, promise-soaked voice. ‘Willing to risk that happening again?’ he asked, holding his breath.

  ‘Cluck, cluck, cluck.’

  Even he didn’t need more of a clue.

  * * *

  Luke pulled her across the dance floor towards the door, stopping briefly to throw some money on the table to cover their bill and to pick up Jess’s bag. As soon as they stepped out of the bar and into the frigid air he started to kiss her, and within a minute he had her up against the building, kissing her in the shadows of the doorway. His wonderful hands burrowed beneath her coat and slipped between her jeans and the skin of her back—touching, demanding, insisting that she match her passion to his.

  She wanted this, Jess told herself. She needed this. If she was going to do this then she had to surrender to the moment, to stop thinking and enjoy this hard-bodied, hard-eyed man who had the ability to make her skin hum. For the first time in her adult life Jess switched off her brain and surrendered herself to the physical.

  His hand, warm against her, made her feel intensely female. Sensation bombarded her. The rough spikes of his beard as he dropped kisses on her jawline. His tongue wet and warm in the dent of her collarbone. The amazing contradiction between that heat of his mouth and the icy air on her skin.

  Jess couldn’t stop her hands from roaming up and under his jersey and shirt. She explored the wedge of fine hair on his chest. She traced the ridges of his stomach muscles, groaned at that particular patch of skin just beneath his hipbone that was so soft, so smooth, so male. Her thumb, sneaking beneath the waistband of his jeans, swiped over the long muscles in his hip, exploring the wonderfulness of him.

  Luke groaned and lifted his head. He rested his arm against the wall above her head and his forehead against hers. ‘I love the way you touch me.’ He cursed. ‘But we can’t do this here. I want you where I can see you, taste you, enjoy every inch of you.’

  ‘Well, then, maybe you should take me home.’

  ‘That sounds like an excellent pla
n.’

  EIGHT

  The next morning Jess pretended to be asleep when Luke silently slipped out of bed. Risking a peek, she saw the glorious back view of him as he headed for the en-suite bathroom.

  So...no morning cuddle for her, obviously. Thank God.

  Jess pushed herself up in the bed, pulled the sheets over her chest and leaned her head against the headboard. Damn, damn and—just for a change—damn again.

  What the hell had she done?

  Jess looked around the room and saw evidence of their crazy lust-filled night everywhere she looked. One of her leather boots was on top of the credenza. She couldn’t see the other one. Her pink bra dangled off the lampshade. Her T-shirt was...Jess frowned and peered off the end of the bed...nowhere to be seen. Where had it gone? Jess rewound and remembered that Luke had pulled it off in the hallway, shortly after he’d started stripping her as soon as he’d pulled her through the front door. Her jeans were on the stairs—along with his shirt, shoes and jersey.

  Panties? There was no point in worrying about them. They were history since Luke hadn’t tried to take them off—he’d just ripped the thong apart and pulled it away.

  Could anyone say ‘awesome sex’?

  Could anyone say ‘big, huge, monstrous regret’?

  Jess scrubbed her face with her hands. He’d been a fantastic lover: tender, demanding, controlled, sensual and generous in turn. He’d turned her to liquid fire, inside out and... And she couldn’t do it again.

  It was simply too much of an amazingly good thing. And she wasn’t remotely in control of any of it. She couldn’t control her reaction to Luke’s touch. He just had to look at her with those eyes filled with passion and she was his for the taking—battling to control the situation, the way he made her feel...

  And, damn it again, her cuddle hormone was beetling around her body, gleefully singing, ‘It could be a stylish marriage; he can afford a carriage’.

  And all because she’d been idiot enough to sleep with him. Okay, not much sleeping had happened, but she was splitting hairs. She’d allowed those feelings of attachment a little piece of fertile soil to take root. She’d have to dig up the bed before they took a firm hold and—what was with the gardening metaphors? She didn’t even garden!

  Jess dropped her head. Maybe this was more than sex, more than the scratching of a mutual itch... Because she now felt exposed, vulnerable, scared. So very out of control.

  She couldn’t allow it to happen again. Sleeping with Luke was not an option. If she felt this unhinged mentally and emotionally after one night, she’d be a train wreck after a week or so. And probably fathoms deep in love with him. And, not insignificantly, she had no intention of being that girl who was hopelessly devoted to a guy who did not feel the same way.

  ‘You’re awake and your mental wheels are spinning.’

  Look at her—all mussed and grumpy, hair a mess and those fabulous eyebrows drawn together in an ominous scowl. Luke thought that he’d never seen her looking lovelier...and less accessible.

  ‘Luke, I—’

  Luke tucked in the end of the towel that rode low on his hips, walked over to the window and pulled apart the curtains. He didn’t need to hear her words to know what it was that she wanted to say. It was written in neon ink all over her face. Last night was a mistake...

  ‘We can’t do this again.’

  It didn’t matter that he agreed with her. Her words still held all the sting of a powerful slap. Luke winced and placed his hands on the broad windowsill, looking out over his lands.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Is that all you’re going to say?’ Jess demanded, annoyance in every syllable.

  Oh, now she wanted to discuss it? Why didn’t she just put his pecker in a wringer and be done with it? ‘You said we can’t do it again. I agreed. Did you expect me to argue with you? Force you? Beg you?’

  ‘No. I—I just thought that you might have an opinion...’

  That it had been the best sex of his life? That he’d been mentally, emotionally blown away? That he could picture her in his bed when they were old and grey? That he knew that was impossible...?

  Luke heard the rustle of bedclothes and looked over his shoulder to see Jess stalk—his mouth dried up—stark naked over to his cupboard and yank the doors open. She pulled a rugby jersey over her head and rolled the long sleeves up and over her hands. The hem of the garment skimmed her pretty knees and draped over her perfect breasts.

  ‘Well, then, I suppose there’s not much else to say,’ Jess stated as she plucked her bra from the lampshade.

  She bent down, briefly flashing the top of her thighs, and when she stood up a scrap of black lace fabric dangled from her finger. Her thong—which he’d destroyed with a quick twist.

  ‘Except that you owe me a thong.’

  * * *

  Jess looked at Sbu and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, there’s something missing.’

  He was going to kill her, he really was, Luke thought as muted groans from the crew floated across the room. He caught a couple of eye-rolls from the other actors and knew exactly how they felt. They had a right to be frustrated, Luke thought. They’d been filming for the best part of the day: a mock Sunday lunch, drinking wine in front of the fire. She’d even had Luke playing chess with a father-like figure.

  They were supposed to be showing him in a family/friends situation, but he knew that the entire day had been an absolute waste of everyone’s time. His especially, since he was the only one in the room who wasn’t being paid for his time.

  ‘Take a break, everyone,’ Jess said, and Luke walked out of the formal lounge of the manor house, where they’d been filming an after-dinner scene. Ducking into the empty study next door, he placed his hands on the back of a wingback chair and sucked in air. He knew that he was mostly responsible for the cock-up that was today. He hadn’t managed to deliver the goods. He was stiff and uncomfortable and, as Sbu had pointed out, he would come across on film as being irritated and annoyed.

  Mostly because he was.

  They wanted to show off his home, his heritage, filled with laughing, happy people, and Luke looking relaxed and at home. Except that he wasn’t. Luke walked up and down the Persian runner, its rich jewel tones perfectly complemented by the wooden floorboards. He wasn’t relaxed and feeling at home because this wasn’t his home. He might own it and be the last Savage, but he had no emotional connection to this house, the furniture, to the fact that his forefathers had walked these halls, to the long-ago Savage wife who had ordered this carpet.

  He had the dysfunctional relationship with his father to thank for that.

  It didn’t help that he and Jess were barely talking. When they did, they were stiff and uptight, tiptoeing around each other. It made him feel uncomfortable and uptight and...dammit...so lonely.

  You’re feeling sorry for yourself, Savage. Suck it up. But acting out his childhood fantasy hurt like hell, and all that got him through was thinking of Jess and the night he’d spent in her arms. It had been a fantasy, perfection, emotionally and physically fulfilling. He’d found himself wanting to lose himself in her not only physically but mentally as well. He wanted to know her secret hopes, her biggest fears, her first memories.

  Mercia, ex-wife and amateur psychologist, had once told him he had abandonment issues. Because his mother had left him and his father had never been available he wasn’t able to commit emotionally, to let anyone in, to be intimate. Until the other night that had been true, and the knowledge terrified him.

  He couldn’t afford to feel emotionally connected to Jess...because if he did and she walked away he didn’t think his heart would recover.

  No, it was better this way...it had to be better this way.

  ‘Luke?’

  Luke lifted his head and saw Jess in the doorway, her eyebrows pulled together and her eyes radiating determination. She’d been a pain in the ass all day—demanding, precise, determined. Unbending and an utter control freak. ‘We’re ready f
or you. Sbu and I have rewritten the storyboard...’

  He was done. There was no way he was going back in front of a camera and selling his perfect life. His father had done that all his life...acted affectionately towards him in company and treated him terribly when they were alone. He was done with it.

  ‘Not happening, Sherwood,’ Luke said in his most even tone—the one his friends recognised as deeply dangerous.

  ‘Luke—Sbu is costing me a bomb. He charges by the hour so I’m burning money here. Can we get on with it?’

  Her snotty tone had his hackles lifting. ‘The cost of which will be passed to me, so don’t pull that on me! I’m calling it a day, Jess, leave it at that.’

  Sparks flashed in Jess’s eyes. ‘What is wrong with you? I have a room full of actors and equipment and crew who are all waiting on you. Let’s just get it done.’

  ‘What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you?’ Luke’s voice lifted. ‘How could you do this to me, Jess? Is winning awards and making spectacular adverts more important to you than people’s feelings?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Jess demanded.

  She genuinely didn’t know... Luke felt a knife embed itself in his chest. How could she, the woman he’d felt the closest emotional connection to ever, not realise how difficult this was for him? He walked past her and slammed the door closed.

  ‘Luke!’

  ‘This house! Playing happy families! It’s my worst freaking nightmare. Pretending that I had one is killing me!’ Luke roared. ‘This was my father’s office. Do you know how many times he took a belt to my backside in here?’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘That corner where we were pretending to play chess? I caught him screwing my favourite au-pair there. She left the next day. I was seven and I thought that my world had come to an end.’

  Jess covered her face with her hands. Luke stormed up to her and pulled them away. Tears brimmed in her eyes and they just made him angrier. He’d never told anybody this and he couldn’t stop.

  ‘The painting above the fireplace? Its frame is cracked at the corner. That’s because he threw a glass at me when I was fifteen. It bounced off my cheek, cracked it, then hit the frame and cracked that. Do you want me to go on?’