by JC Harroway
The contact blooms through my body from that single point. One touch is not enough. I want to feel her under me and over me and wrapped around me.
‘You know by now I’m a voyeur,’ I say, watching the flare of heat rush over her skin. ‘Not the sleazy, illegal Peeping Tom variety, but the consensual kind.’
‘Why?’ she asks, lightning-quick.
‘What...? Not vanilla enough for you, Lady?’ I dodge the question, not sure yet how much I want to reveal about my kinky-arsed ways.
She narrows those trademark eyes of hers a fraction. ‘I’m open to other flavours, Nick.’
‘It’s a control thing. I need the distance.’ Admitting this feels as foreign as my stilted attempts at Buongiorno. She’s drawing me out even while I try to stay tightly coiled. ‘I touch on my terms. And then I walk.’
Her eyes go wide. ‘Always? Have you never had a relationship?’
I shrug, back-pedalling from the lure of her infectious openness. ‘One. A long time ago.’
Memories assault me anew. I loved Julia. Loved our baby. One mistake, one momentary lapse in judgement, snatched them both away. Disempowered, and left alone with the consequences, only regret and devastation remained. A cold, dark and lonely place.
I can never go back there...
‘I’m not interested in relationships. Only this.’ I shrug. I’ve been as honest as I can.
‘I’ve heard there are clubs for that kind of thing.’ She blinks rapidly, the effect accentuated by the false eyelashes she’s wearing. ‘Is that where you go to find these like-minded partners?’
I grow hard just at the idea of taking Brooke to a club. ‘Sometimes. There’s one here in Milan, in fact.’
Her eyes spark with excitement and challenge. ‘So why don’t you take me to this club? Show me what you like?’
‘We’ll see.’ I move away from her temptation and glance at my thumb, which is stained with glitter from my moment of indulgence.
‘Think about it, Nick, because last night I wanted to explore all this...’ she points from my head to my feet and back ‘...but I never had the chance.’
Think about it... There are so many Brooke fantasies crammed into my head, I feel as if it might explode. Willing and eager to embrace my desires and concede control, she’s a danger. But the idea of her hands on me...her mouth on me...makes me hard enough to decimate what little self-preservation I can muster.
At that moment I’m saved by the shoot director. ‘We’re ready for you, Brooke.’
I breathe a sigh of relief as she stands and heads out onto the roof terraces of the Duomo. I watch her pose against the backdrop of the cathedral’s gothic, gargoyle clad spires and imagine her at Club Vivace, posed in my sexual fantasies.
A very bad idea.
Resisting Brooke Madden is becoming its own trial by fire.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brooke
I RUFFLE MY shower-damp hair and glide on some lip balm using the sun visor mirror from the passenger seat. ‘Well, if you won’t take me to this club of yours until this evening,’ I say, waggling my eyebrows suggestively because it messes with his head when I flirt, ‘Let’s go sightseeing.’ If Nick is intent on applying the brakes so he can keep this under his strict, kinky control, we can spend the afternoon getting to know each other as consolation.
He looks like a man counting to ten for patience. I hold in a small smile as conflicted torment rolls from his big body like an invisible shield. But did he expect I would allow him to dictate this at a snail’s pace? Yes, he can call the shots, but he left me high and dry last night. Well, not exactly, but I want more than a single kiss and some cryptic and evasive answers. Now I’ve cracked his outer shell, I want everything he’s willing to give. But I’ll need to tread carefully—opening Nick up is like prying open a stubborn oyster.
Although, I can’t deny that his brand of slow-burn seduction is both torture and the most excitement I’ve ever had.
‘I know it’s not on the schedule, but I promise to comply with all your safety requests.’ I paste on a goofy smile. ‘Pretty please?’
His lips twitch before he presses them into submission. ‘I thought we agreed—no more unscheduled visits.’
‘Come on, Nick. I’m starving. There’s a market in the Navilgi district and some nice restaurants. I’ve been to Milan so many times, I like to simply absorb the atmosphere over a yummy lunch and a glass of wine.’
He flicks me that look. The same one he issued when he told me to lock the door adjoining our rooms—desire warring with restraint.
I shudder with delicious anticipation. ‘I’m pretty sure that lunch is on the schedule.’ Although lust is quickly dislodging my appetite.
I want to push him, to learn all there is to know about this man who guards himself with the same ferocity he applies to keeping me safe from the bad guys.
‘You’ll be recognised.’ His lips form a stubborn flat line that I want to kiss away.
I pull a hand-knitted bobble hat from my bag and tug it on, presenting my disguise to him with my best winning smile. ‘I’ll wear a hat.’
He glances at me sideways, his intractable stare softening with amusement. A gentle sigh leaves his body less tense, and I taste victory.
Settling back against the leather seat, I watch him drive for a few minutes. I love the sexy way he handles the wheel, confident and unruffled as he negotiates the rather terrifying Italian traffic, which is all horn-honking and impatient hand gestures.
The memory of last night’s kiss comes to me once more as it has all morning. Soft and exploratory at first, and then bold and demanding, as I’d imagined. And then nothing. It felt as if he’d set a timer and thirty seconds was all he’d allowed.
Is that a voyeur thing? Or a Nick thing? Part of the control he needs?
Intrigue settles over me like the glide of silk against my skin. Why does he restrict himself? Why so disciplined? What is it that’s left him so restrained and withdrawn that he’s resorted to controlling everything—including sex, which by nature is pretty wild and spontaneous? Or should be.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ he asks, shocking me from my imaginings of what tonight will bring and if it will be as intense and liberating as last night.
‘Oh, I love this game.’ I’m so excited by his unexpected request that I turn to face him as he drives. ‘Of course—ask me anything.’
‘Do you actually enjoy knitting?’
I deflate a little, chewing my lip. I love to knit. I’m just crap at it. ‘Yes. But I think I like the idea more than the execution.’ I pull the hat from my head and run my finger over one of the holes from my many dropped stitches. ‘I’m not very good at it, but I find it relaxing. I like creating something with my bare hands. And it’s something just for me—no expectations attached. Does that make sense?’
He looks my way but says nothing, only watches me with that blank expression. But, as with every time I confess something to this man, I sense my admission is in safe hands. That he understands me, perhaps more than he wants to admit.
Yes, we’re both hiding from something, aren’t we, Nick?
As he’s clearly in a conversational mood, I plough on.
‘My mother recently had breast cancer. I’m sure you heard, as the story was leaked to the papers. Anyway, I attended all her chemo appointments with her and we’d just sit there while she had her treatment, chatting and knitting together. We both find it calming, although unlike me my mum does actually have some skills. My sister has just had a baby—my first nephew—so Mum and I are furiously knitting booties and hats, and I’m struggling my way through a cardigan.’
He frowns. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s diagnosis. Is she in the clear now?’
I shrug, because I don’t want to think about my mother’s mortality. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘S
o you’re close, then? You and your mother?’
I nod. ‘She’s sometimes frustrated with my choice of career, because she understands the pressures of public life and wanted something different for her daughters. My sister wisely avoided the limelight, so now I bear the brunt of her concern. But most of the time we bumble along well enough. What about you and your mother?’ He’s never talked about family before. He’s never talked about much of anything before.
He stiffens and I immediately have my answer.
‘My mother is a good person,’ he says. ‘Hard working. Kind. I guess I’m just not a very good son.’
I can’t help the snort of disbelief that escapes. ‘I very much doubt that. But I only know you through work. Tell me, what do you do when you’re not working? I’m certain it’s not knitting.’ I smile, trying to lighten the conversation and encourage him to open up.
He presses his lips together. I assume he won’t answer, but then he says, ‘I train. I take mixed martial arts classes and I teach self-defence.’
‘You do? I’d love you to teach me a few basic moves if you have time. It’s something I’ve wanted to learn for ever, but somehow haven’t made a priority. Do you teach women?’
He shakes his head, focussed on driving. ‘No. I teach youngsters. Boys mainly.’
He must sense my surprise, because he elaborates without any prompting. ‘You should make it a priority. The best form of defence is to remove yourself from a threatening situation. I focus on showing kids how to do that as quickly and effectively as possible. The safest way to defend yourself is to avoid trouble in the first place. Self-defence is about creating a window of opportunity in which to run. It’s never about fighting.’
He’s passionate about this, perhaps the reason he’s spontaneously being frank, where normally I have to drag out every word. Curiosity buzzes in my head. ‘That makes sense. You sound like you’ve had personal experience...’ Perhaps in that troubled youth he uncharacteristically once mentioned.
He grips the wheel more tightly, tension moving through his powerful frame. ‘Young men in particular often don’t know their own strength. A single moment of anger, lashing out with emotion, can have long-reaching, often devastating consequences.’
My pulse leaps. I wish I could see the expression in his eyes, something I’ve learned are Nick’s windows to his true feelings.
‘I teach lads to harness their strength and use it to make good choices. I wish I’d had someone to teach me that as a teenager.’ He swallows and I can hardly breathe. Besides revealing the voyeurism thing, this is the closest he’s come to confessing something personal.
The car grows stifling with the unspoken.
I press my lips together, holding inside all my questions. I look at him with a deeper intent, look beyond his rugged good looks and solid calm presence, sensing deep inner struggle and regret. And perhaps pain.
My throat grows tight, aching for Nick and his secrets. I know what it’s like to feel as if there’s no one trustworthy to tell. But he’s proof that there’s always someone safe to confide in.
‘I’m sorry that you didn’t have that,’ I say, wishing he’d trust me to be his sounding board. ‘Teenage years are tumultuous for most people. For me it was when I first acknowledged my sexuality and the confusion and shame attached. I’ve come to terms with those feelings now and my family were great. But I’m hesitant to be publicly open about my dating life. There’s more at risk than just public opinion directed my way.’
‘You’re worried about your parents?’
I nod.
‘Their lives have always been so public, so transparent. I hate burdening them with my tabloid privacy breaches too. That’s why I’m so protective about my private life. Any negative press I generate gives unscrupulous people another reason to pry into their lives. It’s not fair.
‘I had a girlfriend, at uni. I was already signed to my modelling agency at that time, and I started to become well-known in my own right. She struggled with my lack of willingness to talk to the press about our relationship. She couldn’t understand that I didn’t want to talk about my sex life, only my work. She thought I was ashamed. She could be jealous, too. It eventually caused our break-up. Since then I’ve made it clear to people I date that I want to keep my relationships off-limits in any media I do.’
‘That must be hard. The media can be relentless.’
I shrug, because there are worse crosses to bear. ‘I’m lucky that I have people in my life who support and understand me. And I’m glad that your students have you to emulate. It certainly sounds like a hobby that beats knitting—way more rewarding.’
He stiffens. ‘I’m no hero.’ The set of his jaw is tense once more. ‘I made a mistake once. It ruined my life. The lives of others. If I can stop that happening to someone else through teaching self-defence, it helps me to sleep at night.’
I swallow my shock. I’m too scared to probe deeper, in case he once more shuts me out, but I want to help. To understand what motivates him to be so withdrawn when he clearly has so much wisdom and understanding to impart. ‘Is that why you think you’re a bad son?’
His lips are tight as he pulls out of the traffic and parks up, avoiding my question. ‘We’re here.’
But now I’m desperately curious. I know how devastating mistakes can feel. How we punish ourselves and carry guilt. I can relate to this side of Nick. I watched every mistake my parents made, big and small, torture and haunt them over the years, amplified by the often negative publicity that followed. I felt the sting of my own naivety––my dating mistakes devastating not only me and my broken and betrayed heart, but my loved ones too. Because my heartbreaks become public property. Picked over by strangers.
I settle on a quaint trattoria next to Naviglio Grande, Milan’s Grand Canal for lunch. Forgoing the pretty outdoor tables lining the canal, we duck inside out of the cold. Maybe Nick will be more talkative with some food in his stomach.
‘I apologise if I said something to upset you,’ I begin when we’re seated at a cosy table in the window with a red gingham tablecloth and when the waiter has taken our order. ‘You never talk about yourself, so I became over-enthusiastic with the snippet of information.’ I swallow back how much knowing him means to me—the warmth of a deeper connection with someone I’ve grown to care about beyond our professional relationship. We’re similar in many ways, and refreshingly different in others.
‘I was serious about you teaching me some self-defence moves, though. I’d really appreciate it, if you have the time.’
Nick rubs a hand over his face—a rare move for the usually unflappable man. ‘Sure. I can do that. So, tell me about this dirt-bag who stole your underwear.’ When he’s serious, his body becomes menacingly still.
I hide my shame behind a sip of my wine, a glass of Lombardy red, while I frame my answer. I’ve been gullible. Too open and trusting. Hardly attractive qualities.
‘I was joking about the underwear, although I’ve had other personal things stolen—mail, jewellery, clothing. My parents once had a cleaner who stole my father’s toothbrush. He became paranoid that she was going to sell his DNA for cloning or something... People will steal anything if they think they can make a quid or two.’
Just then our food arrives. I’m so hungry, I ordered an antipasto platter that could have fed four—delicious local cheeses, olives and cured meats. I tuck in while Nick observes me from across the table.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ I ask, my mouth watering between bites.
Nick shrugs. ‘I’m still processing what you’ve just told me. You definitely need to learn some self-defence.’
My next swallow is painful. I hate thinking of myself as vulnerable, but he’s right.
‘My ex, Dave, was worse than the thieves, though. He’s the one who leaked the nude pictures that the entire world saw.’ Humiliation momentarily robs my appe
tite. But I want him to know that I too have regrets. ‘Some mistakes are harder to shake than others, especially if you’re in the public eye and those mistakes make for entertainment. Trusting the wrong person is my biggest regret. Because it also hurt my family.’
He shakes his head. Looks as if he’s about to share after all. But then he says, ‘I didn’t see them. I don’t read celebrity gossip.’
‘Well, you must be the only person in the world to have not seen me naked—’ I break off, my face burning, because of course he has seen me naked. Last night when I performed for him...
‘Dave was a bit controlling.’ I twirl my wineglass. ‘When I realised that was his game and broke things off, he didn’t take the rejection well.’
Now Nick knows how stupid I behaved in the past––naively thinking I was safe to be myself with a man I clearly didn’t really know.
He regards me with a frown so harsh, I wouldn’t want to be in Dave’s shoes if they were ever to cross paths.
‘The worst part was that he knew just how to hurt me in return,’ I say. ‘He knew my struggles to keep parts of my life private. He’d met my family many times, and because he’s in the music industry he claimed that he understood the pressures. He knew my mother was getting her cancer treatment and he went public with his photos anyway. Knowing it would hurt my mother, knowing it would embarrass my father. All just to get at me.’
I toy with my bread, breaking off chunks. Nick hasn’t eaten a thing.
‘And yet you trust me... Sounds like the last thing you need is a connection with someone like me.’ His stare is intense.
‘Why?’ I ask, the hairs lifting on the back of my neck.
He sits forward, resting his forearms on the table. ‘I have a criminal record and sexual proclivities that some would find distasteful. I’m exactly the kind of man you pay me to protect you against.’ His dark eyes glitter, daring me to take umbrage at or react to this new information.