"It's not much, but it's respectable," Lucie said in the most annoyingly cheery voice she could come up with. "It's enough to pay the rent and keep my dad off my back. At least until this weekend's fiasco. Oh, wait." She leaned into her window, relieved beyond belief to see the gates of home. "My turn's coming up. Right here, between the brick pillars."
He peered through the rain-spattered windshield, no doubt gaping at the squatty brick mansion that sat like a big fat toad at the end of the long circular drive. Mushroom brown, it had green shutters and awnings scattered willy-nilly, wherever someone had felt like adding an overhang or tacking on a few more windows.
Ian inquired politely, "Is this your father's house?" Since he could very well have said, Bleah! That place is hideous, Lucie appreciated his tact.
"The big house is his. I live around back." She pointed to a small gravel lane winding off to one side. "Down there. I live in the carriage house. Well, they call it the carriage house. It looks more like a cottage. Besides, it was built way after carriages went the way of the dodo bird."
"You know, you talk a lot."
"I've been told that." Why was she so nervous? What could he do? He'd probably just drop her at the door, glad to be rid of her, and all this mental turmoil would be for nothing.
"So this is where you live," he said, grabbing her bag, sprinting out of the rain to the doorway of the small, snug story-and-a-half cottage. "I like it much better than your dad's house back there."
"Me, too."
It appeared Ian was not planning to drop her and run.
After kneeling to retrieve the spare key from under a flowerpot, Lucie had no choice but to lead the way inside, into the modest living room. It wasn't too sloppy, thank goodness. As he stood there expectantly, she shoved aside some magazines and newspapers on an overstuffed ottoman to clear a spot for him to sit—temporarily.
"So." She chewed her lip, making a move toward the stairs, trying to send him a message. "I would really like to, oh, I don't know, take a bath and then a nap. I'm kind of sleep deprived, you know." He opened his mouth and she rushed in with a fake laugh and, "But of course, you know. You were there."
"Yeah, I was." Ian wasn't smiling.
Uh-oh. Here it came. He was going to say he was sorry for last night—again—and she would have to say, No, really, it was nothing. I had a good time, didn't you? when good time didn't begin to describe it. And once he was sure he was forgiven and there were no hard feelings, then he would, oh, kiss her on the cheek or something and that would be that. And then surely he would leave and she would never see him again.
Whew. Not so horrible. Nothing she couldn't handle.
She steeled herself, ready for the big exit. But he didn't make it. Instead, he leaned forward, clasping his hands together, and announced thoughtfully, "I've been thinking."
Lucie paused. "About…?"
"About you."
"Well, okay, it's a free country and you can do that if you want to, but I don't think it's going to get you very far." She scrambled over to the other side of the living room, busying herself arranging volumes on a bookshelf.
"I don't know what you're doing over there, but you don't have to," Ian said tersely. "I'm not going to bite you."
Yeah, but did you last night? You did, didn't you? You bit me, you licked me, I bit you, I licked… And, God, this wasn't helping, was it?
"Lucie, what I meant was…" He started over. "When I told you that Kyle and I were cashing in our company very soon, it made me think. About Kyle and Steffi and how much trouble she could cause us."
"Really?" This was out of left field. Here she'd imagined he was agonizing over the flotsam and jetsam from last night's shipwreck, like she was, but all he was thinking about was his brother.
"You told Kyle that you know Steffi better than any of us," he began, "that you might be his only hope—to get out from under the marriage, I mean."
"I don't think I can—"
"But we might be able to come up with something, some plan, if we put our heads together."
"Our heads? Together?"
He smiled. She was a goner.
His expression was logical and sensible, and his classic features were so adorable, so appealing, the way his narrow lips curved into a perfect bow there in the middle, the way his blue, blue eyes lit up when he was being sincere.
She found a backbone, or at least a way to weasel out of this terrifying situation. "I can't think about this now. I need you to leave."
"I know you're exhausted. I am, too." His tone grew even more winning. "So here's what I think. We could both use a bath and a nap. You're home, but I'm a good hour and a half from my house. So, to save time, we could both clean up and catch our naps here. What do you think? An hour? Two? And then we'll come back to the subject refreshed and ready to come up with the perfect way to extract Kyle."
Extracting Kyle wasn't high on her list of priorities. Extracting herself was. Lucie beat a path to the door, which she opened for him. "That would be nice, except for the fact that you're going to leave now and never come back."
But Ian stayed where he was on her favorite overstuffed ottoman. "If I leave, you won't have a way back to pick up your car."
"My car isn't driveable, anyway. If you leave, I will call a tow truck."
"Fair enough." He seemed to be daring her. "But why should I leave?"
"You know very well why!" She was hot and tired and she was wearing his shirt. It smelled like him. She smelled like him. She was simply unable to reason under these circumstances. "Because you and I… Well, I… Because we flung. Together. And we need to put that behind us just as soon as we can. And we can't—I can't—if I have to look at you."
"It was just a little fling. You said it yourself. No harm, no foul."
"Okay, but I was being ridiculous when I said that." He didn't move. Rather than stand there with the door open, she shut it neatly and then slid down the inside of it until she was slumped on the floor. I am not a person who crumbles like this. But he was being such a jerk, talking about his brother, when she wanted him to… What did she want him to do? She had no idea.
Good grief, this was all so confusing.
Over there on her ottoman, she heard Ian swear, something fierce and low. She also heard his footsteps as he ambled over and joined her by the door. And then she could sense him, hovering there.
"Lucie, I know you're upset and I'm sorry—"
"You said you were going to stop saying that."
"I lied."
"I know. You have a habit of doing that, don't you?" He swore again, louder this time. "You want to help Kyle or not?"
"Yes. No. I suppose. I don't really care."
"He's a great guy, Lucie," he said softly. "He deserves better than being shackled to your sister."
She lifted her head. "Half sister."
"Like I didn't see that coming." Ian shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Okay, so you don't care about my brother or me or the fact that Steffi stands to take a big chunk out of my Internet deal when she doesn't deserve a penny. But how about the way she treats you? She's clearly been a thorn in your side for a good, long time. Are you ready for pay-back?"
Okay, so that was more persuasive. "Maybe."
"Good." Now he knelt down, his head only inches from hers. "You know Steffi. And I know you'll be able to think of some way to convince her she's the one who wants out of that marriage, something good enough to make her want it quick and painless."
"I don't know… I just can't think of any way I can help you. And I don't understand why this has to be now." She began to say once again that she simply couldn't think right now, but instead went with, "What's wrong with tomorrow or the next day?"
"Money," he answered succinctly. "I don't know how long it's going to take for our Internet deal to go through. It should've been cleared by now. I can try to stall it for a few days, but if I can't, if the checks are in the mail, Steffi will never let him go. Besides, Kyle isn't the
most devious guy in the world. That sinus infection won't last long."
"Okay, but I can't promise—"
"I know, I know. You need a bath and a nap. It won't hurt me, either." He stood up, offering her a hand. "We can clean up, lie down for a few minutes—I'll be happy to take the couch. When we wake up, we can pretend we're starting this day over. We'll both feel a lot better."
"It doesn't sound so bad," she admitted. As long as she got into the bathtub in the next five minutes, she figured she would agree to anything. "But you should know that I don't think I'm going to change my mind. I don't expect to come up with any master plan in the next few hours."
He nodded. "Fair enough."
At that, Lucie rose, neatly sidestepping him and his outstretched hand. "You won't need the couch—I have a guest room, right down the hall, second door on the left. Your bathroom is across from it. Meanwhile, I'm going upstairs to my room, and I plan to take a really long bath, so don't expect me down anytime soon."
When she reached the top of the stairs, she could see he had already started down the hall, out of sight.
So she stripped out of his damn shirt and tossed it over the side of the stairwell, back down into the living room. "Good riddance," she muttered. If she never saw—or smelled—that particular piece of cloth again as long as she lived, it would be too soon.
The shirt wafted down to the first floor like a white flag.
"Don't even think it" she told herself out loud. "You are not surrendering anything to Ian Mackintosh."
Not in this lifetime.
* * *
Chapter 5
«^»
Ian turned his face full into the shower spray, relishing the feel of the cool water sluicing down his body, washing his fatigue away. He couldn't believe it, but he was actually smiling.
How did that happen? His brother was trapped in a marriage with an idiot, they stood to lose millions of dollars if he couldn't extract said brother without a costly divorce, half his parents' friends undoubtedly thought he was a sleazebucket after this morning's performance, and he was showering in the home of a woman who probably hated him.
And he was happy?
Go figure. Maybe he was still drunk from last night. But he didn't think so. Nah, he thought this had more to do with Lucie. There was just something about her.
And it wasn't the sex, although that had pretty much blown him away. God, he'd love to get his hands on her when he was completely sober and try all those tricks over again … and again…
His smile widened. Who'd ever have looked at unassuming, somewhat flaky Lucie and immediately thought of sizzling, steamy sex?
Well, he did now.
Not that he was interested in Lucie in any kind of dating thing—she was so not his type—but he might be interested in getting her back in the bedroom. More to the point, he was just beginning to put together a plan whereby they could really help each other out. No details yet, no firm idea, but his mind was percolating.
He hadn't had this much fun since the early days when he and Kyle spent hours fooling around with their first virtual golf course. Yep, there was just something intriguing going on here. Something he couldn't resist.
So she was a little shy about the night they'd shared. She'd get over it.
Still grinning, Ian finished up his shower and toweled off. After a quick peek out the door to make sure the hallway was still empty, he picked up the bundle of his clothes and headed for the spare bedroom she'd pointed out.
But he was no more than a foot in the door when he lost his grin. In fact, his jaw dropped.
It wasn't that unusual a room—a double bed with a quilt tossed on it, a plain oak dresser, a couple of folding chairs—but it was covered with underwear. Men's underwear. Although there were a few pairs of pajama bottoms and a smattering of boxer shorts, most of them were briefs and whatever you called those half-and-half kind, like briefs only with longer legs. Boxer-briefs, he thought vaguely.
And they weren't the plain white or gray cotton ones, either. No, these were a riot of vivid colors, wild patterns and bizarre fabrics, everything from a pair of stretchy black velvet bikini briefs at the foot of the bed to candy-striped, sharply contoured boxers tossed on the chair nearest the door.
"What the…?"
Whose was all this stuff? And who'd left it scattered around like the backstage dressing room at Chippendales?
Ian was astonished. He'd never seen anything like it. Part of him hesitated to touch anything, but the display was too weird to ignore. Gingerly, he lifted a pair of slinky zebra-striped briefs, barely fingering the fine fabric, noticing the unusually large pouch in the front.
He dropped them like the plague.
But Ian was getting more curious by the moment. Who the hell did these things belong to? He snatched up a glow-in-the-dark, green jungle-print pair, unable to miss the fact that these, too, had a front compartment big enough for Paul Bunyan. And so did the zebra bikini briefs and the red stretch velvet boxer-briefs and even the plain navy briefs. His mistake. They weren't plain. They had a yellow moon appliquéd on the butt and a sun on the crotch. A big sun to go over that monstrous fly.
He'd never known any guy in any locker room in America who wore anything like these fabrics or colors or needed anything like the oversize pouches.
What, was she sleeping with a porn star? And if so, where was the porn star?
Why would he have left all his crazy underwear at Lucie's house, in her guest room? Who was this mythical, overendowed porn star, anyway?
Ian stalked to the closet, but it was bare except for a few hangers. The drawers in the dresser were similarly empty. No clues there, except that the porn star apparently didn't bother with clothes, just undies.
But he still didn't get it. If Lucie had a boyfriend, why didn't she bring him to the wedding? If it was just a sex thing, if she was embarrassed by her superstud and didn't bring him out in public, then she still should logically have been running home to him for more fun and games instead of looking for flings at her half sister's wedding.
Okay, he was really getting ticked now. Grabbing up four or five of the offending garments, he stomped out in the hall, realized he wasn't wearing anything but a towel, stomped back into the guest room, found his jeans and jammed himself in, zipped up, retrieved the pile of proof, and stomped back out and up the stairs before he had a chance to think better of it.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped. He saw three doors. One was partially open, and it led to a light, airy bedroom, all yellow and white, with a wicker bed and rocker. Very pretty. But no blizzard of outrageous undies. And no Lucie.
The second door was a closet. And the third… He could hear music behind door number three. Ian yanked it open, brandishing underwear like a sword.
There she was all right, asleep in a big, claw-footed white tub, her head resting on a small pillow, her arms propped on the sides. She'd pulled her hair into a haphazard topknot, with wet, silky tendrils spilling down at her temples and the nape of her neck. A boombox sat on the floor, a woman's voice singing about love and longing. Sarah McLachlan, maybe.
When he came crashing in, Lucie awoke, but not completely. "Huh?" She sat up, her eyes unfocused but gradually clearing. "Ian? Is there an emergency?"
As she became more alert, she also seemed to notice that her bubbles were fading and his gaze was fixed on the mounds of her luscious breasts, floating there half in and half out of the water. He could see the dark look she sent him before she slid down farther, until only her head and knees were visible.
"This better be good," was all she said.
Meanwhile, he was trying to regain the momentum of his anger. For a minute there, he was distracted enough by wet, supple skin, easing in and out of view with every breath, that his mission hadn't seemed very important. But as his gaze skimmed the underwear still clasped in his hand, he was irate all over again. Just the thought of Lucie and her slender curves crushed under some colossus…
"Wh
ose are these?" he demanded, holding up the rainbow of briefs and boxers.
She glanced over, frowned, and looked away. She had that stubborn tilt back to her chin. "What business is it of yours?"
"I'd like to be prepared," he said angrily, "in case the guy who fits in these things comes storming in and tries to take my head off for sleeping in his bed."
"I should've guessed. Macho stuff." She closed her eyes and hummed along with her boombox for a few bars, but her jaw was clenched tight "Okay, well, if that's all you're worried about, I can promise no one is going to come storming in looking for his underpants, okay? Good enough?"
"No." He flapped them in his fist. "I want to know who these belong to. Porn star? Chippendale dancer? Anybody else who pads his pants with a stuffed sock?"
"Oh, please."
He waited; scowling at the briefs.
"Me," Lucie said finally. "They belong to me. And I need you to put them back, because I had them laid out in the order I want them worn."
"What? Just what kind of kinky business do you have going on in this house?" He'd gone from annoyance to outrage in a few seconds. Maybe it was just because he'd misjudged her so badly. He'd actually thought she was shy. "What are you, cracking a whip over some weird submissive superstud, making him model triple-X underpants for you?"
She sat up, her eyes wide and her mouth gaping. "It's not kinky. It's lingerie. It's… If you must know, those are Pandora's Boxers."
"Who the hell is Pandora?" Some cross-dressing freakazoid friend who stayed over in Lucie's guest room?
"Pandora was my mother." With a prim snort of disapproval, Lucie leaned over the edge and snagged a towel. She stood up, neatly wrapping herself in the towel, as coy as a stripper with a giant fan, and then fixed him with a very snippy smile. "This is going to take a while—the explanation, I mean. So you might as well take my boxers—well, those are mostly brixers, actually—get out of my bathroom before I find something lethal to throw at you, go back downstairs and wait for me. Which is what I told you to do in the first place, if you recall."
JUST A LITTLE FLING Page 7