The Last Boyfriend tibt-2

by Нора Робертс

  But he shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “She spent the night in E&D, had a brief encounter, and went, practically as she’s a practical sort, to sleep. That’s Hope. Okay, I’ve got the spinach and artichoke dip, the stuffed mushrooms, the . . . pigs in a blanket? Really?”

  Owen hunched his shoulders. “People like them.”

  “They do. Owen you should set up the bar, and Ry, slice up that ham.”

  On the word ham, D.A.’s tail thumped.

  “Why didn’t he do that on spinach or mushrooms?” Avery wondered.

  “The only vegetable he’ll eat is french fries,” Ryder told her. “He’s a picky eater.”

  Avery only snorted, then got to work.

  Probably for the best. Owen echoed Avery’s words as he set up glasses, bottles, hauled ice into tubs. He’d never have gotten everything done if they’d . . . rung out the old. Much better to stick with the plan, especially since he didn’t have any choice with Ryder slicing ham while D.A. sat, adoring and hopeful, at his feet.

  By the time he’d finished the bar, the tubs, she had set out scrubbed vegetables, a cutting board, peeler, and knife for him.

  “Peel, slice, chop,” she ordered. “You’ve got everything, so I’m adding a pasta salad to your menu. Carbs are good since people will be drinking. Including me.”

  She lifted her glass to demonstrate.

  The heat from the stove flushed pink in her cheeks, and amusement sparkled the blue of her eyes.

  It occurred to him he’d seen her like this before, right here in his kitchen, lending a hand with a party, laughing with one or both of his brothers.

  But he hadn’t seen her exactly like this, as a woman he wanted. As a woman who wanted him.

  Had that one kiss, unplanned, impulsive, really changed the tone and direction of who and what they were to each other? Or had there always been something there, just waiting for that switch to flip?

  He saw her eyes change, amused sparkle to awareness as he moved to her, watched her lips curve as he drew her in and up for a kiss. Long and soft and sweet.

  “You don’t have to get a room,” Ryder said as he washed his hands off in the sink. “You’ve got one upstairs.”

  “This happens to be my room, too. Don’t you have to go pick up your date?”

  “I’m stag. I told you I couldn’t take the giggling.”

  “You canceled a New Year’s Eve date?” Avery demanded.

  “I’m sparing lives. If I hadn’t strangled her before the night was over, someone else would have. I figured if I went for another woman, the whole date on New Year’s Eve thing would add the big deal. I’m not in the mood for big deals, so I’m stag.”

  Avery got another knife. “Chop and slice,” she told Ryder. “And don’t pretend you don’t know how.”

  She went back to the stove, but sent Owen that sparkling look over her shoulder.

  He’d never before wanted a party over before it began.

  * * *

  Still, it was a good one. Plenty of people, plenty of food, groups spread throughout the house and out on the patio.

  At some point, someone turned the music up for dancing.

  He mingled, checked tubs, trays, platters, replenished, took a quick spin with some friends in the game room. And kissed his mother when he found her rinsing off an empty platter in the kitchen.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “If I don’t, you will, and it’s your party. And it’s a good one.”

  He took the platter from her, set it down. “If it’s so good, why aren’t you dancing with me?”

  “Well.” She batted her eyes, fluffed at her hair. “I was waiting to be asked.”

  He pulled her out of the kitchen.

  Seeing them made Avery smile. She loved the way they looked together, moved together. Halfway through the dance, Ryder moved in, cut in.

  “He stole your girl,” Avery said to Owen when he joined her.

  “That’s okay. I’ve got a spare.”

  He plucked the glass out of her hand, set it down before he pulled her into the mix of dancers.

  “Nice moves.”

  “We’ve danced before,” he reminded her.

  “You’ve always had nice moves on the dance floor.”

  “I’ve got a few I haven’t tried out on you yet.”

  “Is that so?”

  He brought her close. “Later.”

  The single word shot a rocketing thrill through her. “Later. It’s almost midnight.”

  “Thank God.”

  She laughed, shook back her hair. “Are you going to open more champagne?”

  “Yeah, in a minute. I want to kiss you at midnight, so stay close.”

  “You can count on it.”

  She refilled platters and bowls while he popped more corks, and the year ran down to minutes. People swarmed back in from downstairs, from outside so the noise level spiked.

  He took her hands at the countdown—ten, nine, eight. She turned to him, rose up—seven, six, five. His arms came around her—four, three, two.

  “Happy New Year, Avery.”

  His lips met hers as cheers rang out, and the New Year began to tick.

  As Avery rose up, Hope slipped into the kitchen. She’d open another bottle or two, she thought, avoid the whole couples-kissing-the-New-Year-in ordeal.

  She twisted off a cork as partygoers shouted out the countdown.

  And Ryder walked in.

  She stopped. He stopped.

  “I’m just opening another bottle,” she began.

  “So I see.”

  Shouts of “Happy New Year!” burst out, rolled over them.

  “Well,” she said. “Happy New Year.”

  “Yeah. Happy New Year.” He lifted his brows when she started to offer her hand. “Seriously? The hearty handshake again?” He shook his head, stepped to her. “Let’s do it right.”

  He set his hands on her hips, cocked those eyebrows again, waited.

  “Sure.” With a half shrug, she laid her hands on his shoulders.

  Casually, on both sides, they touched lips.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders; his arm slid around her waist. Something broke, like light, through the simple contact, and left her breathless.

  He jerked away, stepped back—and so did she. For one long moment, they simply stared at each other.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Yes, okay.”

  He nodded, strode out.

  She let out the breath she’d barely gotten back, picked up the open bottle with a hand that wasn’t as steady as she liked.

  And that, she thought, had been a very stupid way to start the New Year.

  Chapter Eleven

  Though midnight ushered in the New Year, it was nearly three in the morning before Owen ushered out the last stragglers.

  He closed the door, turned to Avery. “Nobody’s passed out anywhere, right? That was the last of the last?”

  Signaling to wait, she peeked out the window and watched taillights blink up the lane.

  “And so we say good night to the last designated driver and his haul. I think we’re clear. Whew,” she added as she stepped back from the window. “The earmark of a good party is people don’t want to leave. It’s also the downside of a good party.”

  “Then we can safely say, good party. Planned and executed in just over a week.”

  “Don’t think one time makes you Mr. Spontaneity, but well done.”

  “You made most of the food.”

  “True.” She reached around, patted herself on the back. “So. Do you want to have some coffee—there’s some fresh left—and have the post-party analysis?”

  “Yeah. Over breakfast.”

  She grinned at him. “My thoughts exactly.”

  He held out a hand, took hers so they walked through the house together, switching off lights.

  “This doesn’t feel weird,” he decided.

  “Not yet.”

  Hand in ha
nd, they walked up the steps. “Anyway, I’ve already seen you naked.”

  “A naked five-year-old doesn’t count.”

  “Actually, you were more like thirteen. Yeah, right about thirteen.”

  She stopped at the bedroom door. “And just how did you see me naked when I was thirteen?”

  “Remember that summer we all rented that house up in Pennsylvania for a couple weeks? In the Laurel Highlands, on the lake?”

  “Yeah.” The summer after her mother had walked out. She remembered it very well.

  “You snuck out of the house a few times, to go skinny-dipping in the middle of the night.”

  “I . . . did. You spied on me?”

  “It’s not my fault I happened to be sitting at the window, star-gazing through that little telescope I had when you did your Lady of the Lake deal.

  “Telescope?”

  “Yeah. I charged Ry and Beck a buck a minute to use it.” Now, that was a fond memory. “I seem to recall I made about twenty-eight dollars.”

  “You charged them by the minute so you could all spy on me.”

  “Spy’s a hard word. Let’s say observe.”

  “Enterprising.”

  “I’ve got a head for business. Plus, it was nice. The moonlight, the water. Your hair was long back then.” He combed his hand through it. “What color’s this?”

  “Red Alert, and don’t change the subject.”

  “It was romantic, though I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time it was wow, naked girl. That’s how it is with a teenage boy.”

  Her mind toggled back to that hot, hazy interlude on the lake. “You bought me ice cream that week. Twice.”

  “Maybe I was marginally guilty and felt you deserved part of my profit.”

  “And I thought you had a little thing for me.”

  “I did. I saw you naked. I was even going to ask you to the movies.”

  “You were not. Really?”

  “Then you started talking about Jason Wexel—remember him?—and how you were going out for pizza when we got back. I clutched.”

  She remembered she’d had a minor crush on Jason Wexel, though she couldn’t quite bring his face into focus now. “I did have pizza with Jason, and about fifteen other kids. It was somebody’s birthday. I don’t even remember whose. I made it sound like a date, because that’s how it is with a teenage girl.”

  “Opportunity lost.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until now.” He framed her face in his hands, laid his lips on hers.

  Slow and easy, not impulsive or rushed as it might have been at any other time between them. Relaxed, she slid into the kiss, without nerves, without doubts. When his hands roamed down, over her shoulders, the sides of her breasts, the thrill gathered and beat, a strong, steady pulse.

  Like a dance, they circled toward the bed.

  “I really want to see you naked again.”

  Her lips curved against his. “It’ll cost you twenty-eight dollars.”

  She felt the laugh rumble through him as he eased down the zipper at her back. “Worth every penny.”

  “Better make sure,” she said and wiggled out of the dress.

  She stepped out of it, scooped it up, tossed it toward a chair.

  He didn’t even notice the dress slip off the arm of the chair to the floor. “I think my heart just stopped. Look at you.”

  And he was, she thought, for just a moment looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. Then his gaze lifted to hers again, and there was that click, that connection, the recognition before he drew her against him again.

  And the feel of his hands on her skin, warm against warm, layered thrill over thrill.

  She brought hers up, unbuttoning his shirt as their lips clung.

  Here was Owen, tall and gorgeous. Here was his heartbeat, racing fast under her fingers, her palms. Her Owen, because on some level he’d always been her Owen, with his heart beating against her hands.

  Here was the new.

  He lowered to the bed with her, with Avery—compact, curvy Avery. Bright hair, bright eyes, smooth skin white as moonlight. Sensations tumbled inside him—her scent, her taste, the rustle of the sheets as she moved with him. Everything about her so familiar, and still somehow unexpected.

  He linked fingers with her, pressed his face to her breast. Soft, scented, smooth.

  With that hum in her throat, she arched toward him, assent and invitation. His lips brushed the curve over the lace edge, then his tongue swept under, and her fingers tightened on his.

  He ranged himself over her, center to center, and again she rose to him as he kissed her, as he filled himself with the taste of her until her fingers went lax in his.

  He released her hands to take his over her, over skin and silk and lace, enraptured by the surprise of her, by each new discovery.

  Nuzzling at her throat, he flicked open the catch of her bra and, once again linking their fingers, he lowered his lips to her breast.

  Thorough. She should have known he’d be thorough, with his lips, his hands gliding and sliding over her skin. He fired her system with that slow, focused attention to her body, with the endless patience that was so much a part of him.

  Her blood swam, driving her pulse to a gallop, as he stroked her into sweet, soaking pleasure. Her breath ragged, she let herself rise, let herself open until there were no restraints, no barriers.

  Just Owen.

  She filled him, surrounded him with what she was, what she offered. Boundless, he thought, her energy, that quick response, that quick demand. Everything with her, so fresh, so new, yet so wonderfully familiar.

  Her breath caught, released with a moan when he slid into her, when he, in turn, filled her.

  Once again, it seemed his heart stopped—a stunning, breathless moment. He held here, staring down at her in a kind of wonder.

  She levered up, wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. Her head fell back, and his dropped to her shoulder.

  Slow and easy was done. She moved now, sleek as a bullet, quick as lightning, driving him past that instant of wonder into pleasure and need, into greed.

  She flung reason aside, reckless and eager, to clamp against him, taking as ferociously as she gave. On the desperate edge, she curled to him as sensation careened through her, and at last, at last, swept her into release.

  They didn’t so much lie down as fall back on the bed. There, sprawled together, they both tried to find their breath.

  “Why,” he managed, then concentrated on breathing again.

  “Why?”

  Eyes closed, he held up a finger as signal to wait another minute. “Why,” he repeated, “haven’t we ever done that before?”

  “Damn good question. We’re both really good at it.”

  “Praise Jesus.”

  With a wheezing laugh, she patted his ass. “I knew you would be. You’re the detail man. And thank you very much for not missing a single one.”

  “You’re welcome, and thank you. By the way, you have a flower tattooed on your ass.”

  “Not merely a flower. A thistle—a traditional Scottish symbol. That was pride of heritage,” she told him. “And it’s on my ass, as I knew that was one place my dad wouldn’t see it and flip on me.”

  “Good thinking. I like it.”

  On a sound of contentment, she closed her eyes. “I should be exhausted.”

  “You’re not? I didn’t finish my job then.”

  “Oh, you finished your job. I meant it’s got to be closing in on four a.m., after a really long day. I should be exhausted. Instead I feel good, relaxed and sleepy.”

  He shifted to snuggle her in, to pull the duvet over them. “No work tomorrow.”

  “No work.” All but nose to nose with him, she grinned. “Let us again praise Jesus.”

  “Why don’t we have a nap, let’s say, then we can see if we missed any details the first time around?”

  “I say good thinking.” She wiggled her body st
ill closer to his, opened her eyes for a moment just to look at him. “Happy New Year.”

  “Happy New Year.”

  Closing her eyes again she let herself drift away. Her last thought was her friend was now her lover. And she was happy.

  * * *

  He recognized the silence, the wrapped-in-cotton quiet that meant only one thing.

  Owen opened his eyes, blinked them clear and watched the snow fall in downy drifts outside the window. Gotta break out the plow, he thought—but later. He rolled over, intending to wake up Avery in a way he hoped she’d appreciate, but found the bed empty.

  Where the hell was she?

  He dragged himself up, poked his head through the open bathroom door. He spotted her toothbrush on the side of his sink, considered that as he went to the dresser for a pair of flannel pants.

  He smelled coffee—and, oh boy, bacon—as he came down the stairs.

  A marching band high-stepped on his kitchen TV, snow blanketed his patio outside the doors. And Avery stood at his counter chopping peppers.

  She wore a white chef’s apron over a blue-checked robe, her hair clipped back, her feet bare. He remembered how she’d looked the night before, in the sexy dress, then later in the even sexier underwear. But he realized he most often imagined her just like this—in an apron in the kitchen.

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  She looked up, over, smiled. “You’re awake.”

  “Marginally. Why are you?”

  “Because it’s nearly eleven, it’s snowing, and I’m starving.”

  “Eleven?” He frowned at the clock on the stove. “I don’t know the last time I slept this late. I guess it’s okay.” He gestured toward the snow. “No school today.”

  “Yippee.”

  Moving to her, he turned her from the counter, drew her in for a kiss. “Morning.”

  “Morning.” She leaned against him a moment. “It’s so quiet. In town, even when it’s quiet there’s sound. But here, with the snow, it’s like the world shut off.”

  He turned her again so they both faced the glass doors. “Look.”

  Through the snow, on a ridge behind the snow-drenched trees, a trio of deer wandered silent as ghosts.