Guilty Pleasures

by Stella Cameron

  “I want—”

  “Shut up.”

  He flung her around and bent her, face first, over the stool. Mary flailed, and tried to grab at him but he was too strong. With little effort he parted her thighs and wedged them apart with his knees.

  Holding her down by the neck, he swept a circle on her bottom. This time she couldn’t see the color of the greasepaint.

  “Don’t! I hate you. You’re going to wish you hadn’t done this.”

  “Don’t you remember telling me I could do what I like as long as I made it different?” The paint stick clattered on the dressing table. “Didn’t you say you get bored easily?”

  “Let me up!”

  “Targets, pet. Just making sure I know what to aim for here.”

  Mary tensed. “Use something. I don’t want to bleed.”

  He laughed. “Do you think he does this with her?”

  “She hasn’t got what I’ve got.” She braced her weight on her hands against the floor. Her breasts, with the grotesque designs, swayed. “It’ll all come apart, I tell you. If we don’t stop them, everything I’ve made will be destroyed. And I won’t be the only loser.”

  “I’m going to stop them, Mary. My way.”

  “My stomach hurts.” She smelled the grease remover before he slathered it over her. “You’re going to suffer for this.”

  “Not at all. I’m going to love it. I bet he thinks she’s more fun to do it with than you. Different, but more fun.”

  The cream didn’t blunt the pressure of his first thrust. “You’re sick,” she shouted at him.

  “And you love it.” He began to use the clever power of his hips, and croon, “Give-it-to-me, baby,” falsetto, and in rhythm with his onslaught.

  Mary held her breath and gritted her teeth. Her time would come, her grip on ultimate power.

  “I’m taking us to heaven, sexy Mary.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she whispered. “Fucking heaven, Art.”

  Eight

  “Can you tell me you want me to go away and mean it?” With her door keys in her hands, Polly looked at her feet and tried to think.

  Nasty didn’t touch her. For that she was grateful. It would take so little to send her into his arms.

  “Can you?” he repeated.

  She shook her head no.

  He hesitated just long enough to let her know he wasn’t totally sure of himself. “Good,” he said. “Because I’ll go if you want me to. But not before I take a look around your place.”

  “You scare me when you talk like that.”

  “Pretending we don’t need to be cautious won’t make the danger go away.”

  “Maybe there isn’t any danger. They say people who make crank calls don’t usually follow through.”

  He took the keys from her and unlocked the front door to her third-floor condominium. “That’s the case when the crank’s picking random numbers out of a phone book.”

  “Well—”

  “Your crank knows who you are.”

  She started to enter the condo, but Nasty held her arm and put her firmly behind him.

  “If this person didn’t know who you are, he—or she—or whatever, wouldn’t have called your mother in Bellevue.”

  He was making her more scared by the minute. She said, “The police don’t seem worried.”

  “The police aren’t falling in love with you.”

  Polly stood still in the mahogany-paneled foyer of the condo. He said things like that, and kept right on walking and looking around, and opening doors, as if all he’d spoken of was the weather.

  “What if I don’t want you to fall in love with me?”

  “Tell me now.” He passed her and opened the door into the master suite, where she slept.

  Hesitantly, she followed him. He crossed her precious Nepal carpet in sumptuous blues and greens that lay atop dark wood floors. Her four-poster bed draped with lengths of jewel-toned silk held his interest for too long.

  “Don’t you want me to fall in love with you, Polly?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

  While she leaned against the doorjamb, Nasty examined her bathroom. “I think of you as honest. Painfully honest,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I think you’ve given it a lot of thought.”

  She frowned.

  He slipped open clear glass doors to a huge shower with dual showerheads. “Whether or not you want me to fall in love with you. You’ve thought about it.”

  “You don’t need to open doors you can see through.”

  “I would if I was getting in,” he said, with not a trace of a smile. “Are you going to answer my question anytime soon?”

  “I doubt it. I’m not ready for this. For the first time in my life, I’m in control of what happens to me. As much in control as a human being can be. I don’t think I can give that up.”

  “And you think loving a man would mean you’d have to give up your independence.”

  “Why are we talking about this?”

  “Because I want to. I admit I started it This is a great place. Rich.”

  Polly trotted behind him from bathroom, to bedroom, to closet, where he toured her clothes. The foyer again, the kitchen, steel and black and businesslike, and made for the skills she still loved to use when she had time.

  “I never knew anyone who could really cook,” Nasty said.

  “Surely your mother could.”

  His eyes caught hers briefly and passed on. He didn’t respond.

  Bobby’s red, white, and blue room passed inspection. Every closet got a quick perusal. “Nothing,” Nasty said, returning to the living room overlooking Lake Washington. “There’s no doorman downstairs.”

  “No. But you can’t get in without a key.”

  “I think I should stay here with you.”

  She looked at his hard profile. “I’ve got a son. He wants to be here with me.”

  “There’s room for three of us.”

  “There are only two bedrooms.”

  His gaze at her was impassive. Uncompromising. Nasty’s was not a face made for softness.

  “Thanks for coming back with me,” she said when she couldn’t stand the aching silence. “I’ll lock up as we leave. I’ve got to get the car out and get Bobby.”

  “I’ll bring him back.”

  “I think—”

  “Don’t.”

  Polly took an uneven breath. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t think. Not about this. We may be overreacting. I hope we are. But for tonight let me bring Bobby home and make sure you’re both safe here.”

  Arguing wouldn’t budge a man like Nasty Ferrito. “All right. Thank you.”

  “Your bed’s too big for one person. One small person.”

  She took her keys from his hand and tossed them on a pier table. “If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, it’s obvious you were never a parent.”

  “Nope. Never was.”

  “I’ve got a seven-year-old son. I don’t share my bedroom with men.”

  “Not while Bobby’s in the house?”

  “Not”—she flopped onto a curved gray couch—“I don’t share my bedroom. Period.”

  Nasty chewed his gum between his front teeth. He sat beside her. “Good. That’s what I hoped you’d say.”

  “Would it be your business if I’d said otherwise?” She sounded snappish, but he had no right to feel possessive.

  He took a long time to answer. His long, broad hands hung between his knees. As relaxed as his posture appeared, an energy flowed from him. He looked sideways at her. “Is there anyone else, Polly?”

  She hadn’t expected that. “No.”

  “You don’t want a man in your life?”

  The questions were too hard, too hard because she didn’t want to think about the answers. “I’m still working at feeling I’ve made my way back. All the way back.”

  “From where?”

  Polly rubbed her
arms. The cotton dress wasn’t warm enough anymore. “Lots of kids rebel. Some rebel more than others. I did. And I made a mess of myself.”

  “You’re not a mess now. You’re a success.”

  “Do you feel you’ve got your life completely under control?”

  He flexed his jaw. “I think I’ve come to terms. Isn’t that kind of the same thing?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not an expert. I only know I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship—the kind of relationship you’re proposing.”

  “What kind is that? Are you sure you know?”

  No. “Maybe I’m reading too much into everything you say—and do.”

  “Or maybe you’re not reading enough into it. What I’ve told you isn’t some sort of line. I never felt this way before—ever. When I was an active SEAL that took up everything. Before that—before that I didn’t know what I wanted, except out. I wanted out of my old life. I’m not pretending there haven’t been women. Good women. But they weren’t you, Polly.”

  She drew her feet beneath her on the couch and wrapped her skirts around her shins. “Okay. We’re too old to be coy. I think about you. A lot. I wonder what you’re thinking about, what you’re doing. I see your face. I get feelings about you.”

  He put an elbow on the back of the couch and gave her his full attention. “Good feelings?”

  “Confused feelings. The kind of feelings I’m not sure I’ve ever had. And they may be feelings I can’t afford to have, about anyone, right now. I won’t do anything to unsettle Bobby. I won’t bring someone into his life—and if you were in my life, you’d be in his—I won’t do that casually. I can’t take the risk.”

  “Would it help if I admitted this is one risk that scares the hell out of me, too?”

  “I already figured out you’re making up the steps to this dance as you go along. You can do that. I can’t. I’m not ready to try.”

  He brushed a finger back and forth along her forearm. “Can we get back to the feelings you get when you think about me?”

  “I’m not going to kid around. I’m sexual. When I think about you I get sexual feelings—and other feelings. They’re all muddled up and scary.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “I can’t cope with it now.”

  “So you’re going to walk away.” His voice went flat. “Just walk away and tell yourself you’re not missing a thing.”

  “Oh, no,” she told him softly, capturing his finger, then his hand. “I’m not going to tell myself I’m not missing a whole lot if I say good-bye to you. But I just can’t go into a casual, feel-good relationship. Now, and maybe never. Once I could have, but I’ve changed.”

  “I like who’ve you’ve changed into.”

  “And I like you,” she told him rashly. “I do. I never believed in instant attraction—I probably don’t believe in it now, but there’s something about you and me—together. It isn’t simple.”

  “It’s very complicated,” he said, watching her bend his palm back and trace the lines. “If it wasn’t complicated, this wouldn’t be so damn tough, would it?”

  And it was tough. And she was dealing with escalating threats. Too much for one woman who yearned for peace. “It’s getting late. Bobby should be in his bed.”

  “Yeah.” He picked up a phone from the sofa table and dialed. After a brief interval he said, “Dust? Nasty. How’s Bobby? Yeah. I’m going to bring him back. No, don’t wake him up. I’ll do that when I get there.” He hung up and returned to staring straight ahead.

  “You don’t have to put yourself out for us anymore.”

  “I’d consider it a favor if you wouldn’t make another comment like that.”

  His words stung. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she said.

  “Gratitude isn’t what I want from you. I want a shot at making something work between us.”

  “And I can’t… You already gave me your laundry list of events for the night. You’ve accomplished everything but taking me to bed.”

  “You make that sound so grubby.”

  “Put the way you put it, it sounded grubby.”

  “Damn!” The flash in his eyes made her skin prickle all over. “Pretty words aren’t my thing. But I’m honest. That’s what I want. I want to take you to bed. I think we’ll be great together.”

  Anger rushed at Polly. “Great together? I wonder if there’s somewhere to look up that phrase and what it means. For us. Probably that parts of your body fit well with parts of my body? Is that what you think? And then you’ll get to feel really great?”

  Without warning he picked her up and sat her on his lap. When she tried to get off he shifted her again, to sit astride his thighs with her face close enough to his to feel his breath.

  “I absolutely hate physical violence.” She’d been there and done that—and didn’t intend to go back.

  “I hate it, too—unless it’s necessary.”

  “It isn’t necessary now.”

  “I’m not being violent.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.” His thighs were large, and hard—and Polly could feel that they weren’t the only large, hard thing about him.

  Nasty kept his grip on her waist but made circles on her ribs with his fingertips. “I’m not being violent—I never could be with you. All I want for you is safety and happiness. This holding you like this is completely selfish. The kind of selfishness you probably believe is all I think about. I want to feel you, and look at you. And I want your complete attention. Bobby’s fine where he is. He’s asleep, and he’s got the best bodyguard in the world.”

  “And you want me to go to bed with you.”

  He shifted his hands to her face and brought it even closer. “If you wanted to go to bed with me, that would be terrific. I’d carry you there right now. But if you actually want to be with me at all, I’m over the moon, sweetheart. You said you think about me, you have feelings about me. Do you want me to tell you what I think and feel about you?”

  She didn’t trust herself to answer. Neither did she attempt to climb from his lap.

  “If we’re careful not to do anything to upset Bobby, and if we’re careful not to hurt each other, too—can we at least see if we enjoy each other?”

  He was hard—and growing harder.

  And she ached. And she was wet—and aroused beyond wanting to turn back.

  “We could enjoy each other, Xavier.”

  His eyes snapped to hers.

  “Can I call you that? I like it.”

  “I don’t care,” he said, sounding as if he cared very much. Finding out why went on her list of “must knows.”

  “We could enjoy each other a whole lot,” Polly said. “Even from a distance we knew that. That’s what brought you around the dock each day when you knew I’d be there. And it’s what made me keep going out to the docks and looking for you. Call it chemistry. Call it lust-at-first-sight. We came; we saw; we wanted.”

  “You have a way with words,” he murmured. “I’ve always had trouble saying what I think.”

  “I haven’t noticed that.”

  “I don’t seem to have the usual trouble with you.” He tipped her against him, turned her face into his neck, and smoothed the length of her back over and over. “Kiss me, Polly.”

  Kiss me, Polly. Such a simple request, with such complex possibilities.

  Polly nuzzled his neck—and felt a tremor within him. She braced herself on his shoulders and raised her face until she could look into his again. He closed his eyes, and she surveyed the harsh, almost Slavic angles in his features. Uncompromising. But his eyes, turned to the amber she’d come to expect, had closed in a signal of submission. He gave up the power to her. The decision for what happened now he’d passed into her hands.

  Polly rocked forward just enough to touch her lips to his. She heard him sigh, felt him sigh. Grazing lightly back and forth, she tasted mint on his lips and pulled back. “Gum,” she said. “I’m kissing a man who’s chewing gum.”


  Nasty laughed. He had the kind of face laughter suited too well. She was grateful he didn’t do it often. And then she was unnerved by that gratitude—because it meant she wanted him too much, wanted him for herself.

  “I swallowed it,” he said and tapped the end of her nose.

  “The gum?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’ll stick your insides together!”

  He laughed again. “Shut up and kiss me. I was just really getting into the mood.”

  She glanced significantly downward, and said, “I’d say you’ve been in the mood.”

  His laughter died. “I thought I told you nice girls don’t notice things like that.”

  “You mean they notice, but they don’t say anything. We’d better be grateful we’ve both got clothes on.”

  “Think so?”

  This time it was Polly who closed her eyes. She closed her eyes, tucked her fingers into the hair on either side of his head, and brought her open mouth down on his.

  She’d never kissed or been kissed like this before. He coaxed her to follow his lead, to use her lips, her teeth, her tongue. Music was part of her, part of her heart, of who she was. She felt music now like a rhythmic hum, a warm hum that vibrated her nerves.

  Nasty tilted up her chin and buried his face beneath her jaw. He spread his hands on her shoulders, his fingers and thumbs extended as if he was afraid to close them in case he hurt her.

  “That was lovely,” she told him, her voice thick. “I love kissing you. You make me hot all over.”

  His chuckle had nothing to do with mirth. “Hot, huh? My dear Polly, I’m on fire. In fact, parts of me are going to explode shortly.”

  She blushed and enjoyed it. “Do you think we should turn the heat down?”

  “Do you think we’re hot because of the furnace?” The dips above her collarbones stole his attention. “You don’t think it’s that old thing called passion?”

  “Arousal?” she suggested.

  “You’re so much more succinct than I am. I was going to suggest we may be overdressed.”

  “I don’t think I could trust myself if we took our clothes off,” she said. How funny that sounded.

  “You can’t know how happy I am to hear you say that.”

  “We’re talking a lot, aren’t we?”

  “Nervousness causes that sometimes.”