Bedded by a Playboy

by Heidi Rice

  Jessie laughed, breaking the tension at last. ‘Yes, that would be Toby.’

  ‘How long were you guys together?’ Funny, but he didn’t feel nearly as threatened by her relationship with her ex-boyfriend as he did by her teenage crush on his brother.

  ‘Two years.’ She sighed, picked up her plate again. ‘Two very long years.’

  ‘Two years without an orgasm. No wonder they felt long. You’d have to be some kind of a nun not to be mad about that.’

  ‘If I had known what I was missing, I’d have walked out on him in about two seconds.’ Jessie started to laugh.

  Monroe smiled back at her. No, he didn’t feel remotely threatened by Toby the jerk.

  ‘But then again,’ Jessie said, sobering, ‘Toby’s abilities in bed weren’t why I agreed to marry him.’

  ‘You were going to marry the guy? What the hell for?’

  Jessie gave a small smile. ‘Well, because he asked me, for one thing. And because he told me he wanted to have children, make a home. For a while there, I persuaded myself he was my dream come true.’

  Monroe felt the mouthful of potato salad he’d eaten turn over in his stomach. ‘That’s your dream? A home, kids?’

  Jessie frowned. He looked stunned. No, not stunned, he looked horrified. Just for a moment, before he looked away.

  ‘Well, yes. Sort of. But not right now.’

  Was he scared she was going to ask him to marry her or something? While it was lowering to know the question might put that devastated look in his eyes, even she wasn’t that much of a romantic fool. They’d only been together for four days, for goodness’ sake.

  ‘Monroe, you don’t have to look so worried. I’m not picking out the bridesmaids’ dresses yet. I learned my lesson with Toby. If I do settle down, it’ll be when the time’s right with the right person.’ She was not going to make a fool of herself over that fantasy again.

  He lifted up the wine. ‘Put up your glass, Red.’

  She lifted the plastic cup, trying to figure out what she could see in his eyes as he splashed some more wine into it.

  ‘Let’s drink to dreams, then.’ He put down the bottle, picked up his own cup and shot her that heart-breaking grin. ‘And not letting them get in the way of good sex.’

  Jessie smiled, tapped her cup to his. ‘Now that, I can drink to.’

  Monroe swallowed the wine, but it tasted like acid on his tongue. Why the hell did he care that he could never be her dream man? That he could never make her dreams come true. He wasn’t in the business of dreaming. Reality was hard enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘FLIP over. I’ve been fantasising about putting sunscreen on that back since we got here.’

  Jessie smiled at the low rumble of Monroe’s voice. Lying on the small stretch of private beach next to Linc and Ali’s property, she could feel the familiar warmth that had nothing to do with the early-morning sunshine.

  She sat up, dipped her sunglasses off her nose and shot Monroe a flirty look. ‘You’re too late. I plastered myself in cream before we came out.’

  ‘And this would be relevant how, exactly?’

  Seeing the mischievous twinkle in his eye, she giggled. The sound was light and girlish, just how she felt. ‘Okay, you’ve persuaded me.’

  Pulling the cream out of her bag, she threw it to him and turned over on the towel they’d arranged on the sand.

  She could hear the rhythmic churn of the Atlantic behind them, but there was no other noise. Apart from the occasional jogger, the beach—reserved for use by the four houses on the promontory—was as good as deserted on a Sunday morning.

  It was their last day alone together before Ali, Linc and Emmy returned from New York. As much as she wanted to see her family again, Jessie couldn’t help feeling sad that the intimacy would soon be broken. The two weeks since she and Monroe had first made love had drifted past in a romantic haze.

  They’d settled into a routine that had meant sunny, sexy afternoons and hot, insatiable nights. After their picnic at Montauk Point they had got in the habit of going for motorcycle rides most days once she finished work at noon. Discovering parts of Long Island she had never seen before. They had romantic dinners by the pool most evenings. Sharing companionship and passion over seared tuna and white wine when she cooked and steak and beer when it was his turn. He touched her in ways she’d never been touched before, drove her to ecstasy and beyond. And every night she fell asleep, exhausted, content, her love swelling stronger in her chest with each passing day.

  She adored watching him paint most of all, both proud and in awe of his talent. Had woken up only last Sunday to find him sketching her naked while she slept. She’d been horrified at first, but once he’d plied her with kisses, caresses and a shattering orgasm, she’d sat for him most of the afternoon and evening.

  She’d asked him about his art. Why didn’t he let Mrs Bennett take a look at the paintings? Didn’t he know how good they were? Didn’t he want to pursue his art as a career?

  But he hadn’t really answered any of her questions.

  If she was being honest with herself, she had begun to feel a little uneasy about his unwillingness to talk about that or anything else more personal.

  Ever since that first picnic he had been careful to keep everything light, relaxed. He hadn’t asked her any more questions about her dreams, about her plans, her past or her future, and whenever she tried to ask him any about his own he brushed them off. Jessie had let him, scared to break the feeling of contentment, of unity, that cocooned them.

  Propping her head on her hands, Jessie watched a lone woman stroll past in the distance, an energetic young puppy jumping at her heels.

  Jessie closed her eyes, willed the doubts away. What was wrong with her? She was being silly. She and Monroe were in the first flush of their relationship and she should just lie back and enjoy it. All those big, serious questions could wait for another time.

  The warm sun lotion sprayed onto her back and she stretched like a contented cat.

  ‘Heck, this stuff’s like house paint,’ Monroe remarked from behind her.

  ‘Factor fifty-five, otherwise I become one big freckle.’

  His lips buzzed her shoulder blades. ‘I like the freckles.’ His hands began to massage the heavy cream in. She could feel the large, callused palms on her skin. She pictured his beautiful hands as she’d seen them late last night, stroking her into a frenzy. His hands, she decided, were the first thing that she’d fallen in love with.

  Maybe she should tell him tonight how she felt? It was probably a record for her to have kept it a secret for this long. She’d already promised herself she wouldn’t be hurt if he didn’t tell her he loved her back, straight away. Didn’t men always take longer to figure it out?

  ‘You like that?’ he said. She could hear the seductive smile in his words.

  ‘I certainly do,’ she murmured. ‘Even though it’s completely unnecessary.’

  ‘Well, now,’ he said, running his fingers under the strap of her bikini top. ‘That’s what you think.’ Deftly, he unhooked the clasp.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Turning sharply, Jessie grabbed her top and held it to her breasts.

  His knowing grin turned devilish as his eyes flicked down to her bosom. ‘I thought, seeing as you’re European, you might find that unnecessary.’

  ‘I’m not that European,’ she replied tartly as she rehooked the bikini top. ‘And neither are the families that live around here.’

  He shrugged, keeping his eyes trained on her bikini top. ‘You can’t blame a guy for trying.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ She grinned back at him. ‘Here.’ She whipped the bottle of sun lotion off the sand, did a quick twirling movement with her finger. ‘I think it’s my turn.’

  His lips quirked, before he turned over and stretched out on the towel. ‘You know what? That was the other thing I was fantasising about,’ he said wryly. ‘Except in my dreams you were a lot more European.�
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  She laughed, pouring a generous dose of the heavy cream into her palms. She studied the lean, hard expanse of his back. The muscles had bunched up under his shoulder blades where he was resting his head on his arms. Spreading the liquid across the warm, tanned skin, she heard him give a low moan. She began to dig her fingers into the firm, smooth planes of sinew and muscle. He felt wonderful, she thought, and imagined what she was going to do with him that evening.

  ‘You’re too good at this.’ He groaned. ‘Don’t forget this is a public beach, Red.’

  She was having trouble doing just that, when the familiar ridges across his shoulder blades rippled beneath her fingertips. In the bright sunlight, the thin white scars stood out more prominently than ever.

  ‘Did you get these in prison?’ The question popped out before she’d thought about it. She regretted it instantly when his shoulders tensed. Her hands went still.

  His past was one of the subjects they never talked about. From the little she knew about it, she guessed it was something he didn’t want to be reminded of, so she had tried hard not to pry.

  ‘No,’ he said finally.

  ‘I’m sorry, Monroe. I shouldn’t have asked that.’

  He rolled over, studied her.

  She sat back on her haunches. What had she done? ‘I really am sorry, Monroe. I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.’

  Seeing the stricken look in her eyes, Monroe reached out, took her hand in his. ‘Don’t look so scared, Red. You’re curious. You’re entitled to ask.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. It just sort of slipped out.’

  She hadn’t asked, he thought, although he knew she was curious. By not asking, she had given him her unconditional trust. And he hadn’t done the same for her.

  He’d told himself over and over that keeping things light, keeping things easy, was how it had to be—especially after their conversation at Montauk Point. He couldn’t be her dream man, he didn’t want to be, so there was no use pretending that they had anything more here than great sex and a good friendship.

  But in the last two weeks he’d been more settled than he’d ever been in his life. He didn’t know how it had happened, but gradually the restlessness that had been a part of him for so long had disappeared.

  He’d fed off Jessie’s compassion and her generosity, had basked in her approval and had revelled in the passion they’d shared. But underneath it all had been the tug of guilt and the knowledge that, when it ended, leaving her was going to be harder than he could ever have imagined.

  He could see, with the worry swirling in her eyes, that the reasons why he had deflected her questions weren’t so clear-cut any more.

  Had he kept silent because he didn’t want her getting any wrong ideas about where this relationship was headed or because he was scared? Scared that once she knew all the sordid details of his life she wouldn’t look at him with the same adoration, the same affection any more?

  Should he stay silent, let the moment pass, or should he give her something back? Didn’t he owe her that much?

  He sat up slowly. ‘I didn’t get the scars in prison. My mother used a belt on us when we were kids.’

  She blinked, stiffened. ‘That’s terrible.’ The tear that spilled onto her cheek shocked him, and touched him in a way he would never have expected.

  ‘Don’t cry. It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Your own mother scarred you. Of course it matters.’ She sniffed, wiping the moisture away with an impatient hand.

  ‘She hated us. She had her reasons,’ he said.

  ‘What reasons could she possibly have for doing that to a child?’

  The vehemence in her tone made him feel oddly comforted. ‘Do you really want to know? It’s ancient history.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Her eyes were fixed on his face. ‘But only if you want to talk about it.’

  Drawing a leg up, he rested an arm on his knee and studied the undulating sand and the insistent drift of the sea beyond.

  Could he talk about it? Did he want to?

  It was weird. He’d never felt compelled to talk about it before, but, oddly, with her he did.

  He couldn’t give her a future, he knew that, but would it be so terrible for him to give her a little of his past?

  Jessie waited, watching his profile, her emotions a confusing mix of anger—at the boy he had been, the horrors he had suffered—and anticipation. She so desperately wanted to know more about him. Was he finally going to talk to her about himself?

  It seemed like an eternity, but eventually he turned back to her. ‘The night before she had me arrested, my mother told me why she hated us. Me and Linc.’

  ‘She had you arrested?’ Jessie couldn’t disguise the horror in her voice.

  He shrugged, as if it weren’t important. ‘Yeah. Corruption of a minor, that’s what I did time for in juvie. The girl was fifteen. I was just sixteen, so technically they were right. She was hot and she was as eager as me. I didn’t stop to ask for ID.’

  He picked up one of the small pebbles nestled by his feet, skimmed it absently across the sand. She noticed the ridged skin on his back and had to force the next question out.

  ‘What happened when your mother found out?’

  ‘One of her friends from the country club saw us together.’ His shoulders hitched as he turned back to her. ‘When I got home that night she was wired on the prescription drugs she popped like candy. She tried to go for me with the belt. Kept shouting at me, saying all this really ugly stuff. It didn’t take much to wrestle the belt away from her. She told me then about what it had been like for her with my old man. How I was just the same.’ He shook his head slowly, his breath coming out on a long sigh. ‘First time I ever saw her cry.’

  Jessie could hear the pity in his voice, but couldn’t begin to share it, for a woman who had terrorised and despised her own children. ‘What did she tell you?’

  He looked at her, his eyes shadowed. ‘That he’d raped her, repeatedly. That he’d wanted sons and even when she’d had several miscarriages, even after she’d begged him not to get her pregnant again, he’d forced himself on her. Forced her to have us.’

  Jessie recoiled at the horror of it. What should have been a proclamation of love had become for Monroe’s parents a proof of hate. Could it really be so?

  ‘Did you believe her?’

  He nodded. ‘My old man was in his late fifties when she met him. She was seventeen, just off the plane from London, keen to find the American Dream. He was from one of Newport’s richest families. She held out till she got his ring on her finger, then I guess she found out that it wasn’t just sex he wanted.’

  ‘What was your father like?’ Jessie tried to keep her voice steady, not to let her disgust for the man who had sired him show.

  He shrugged. ‘I didn’t know him. He died when I was still a kid. We didn’t see him much. My mother sent us back to stay with our grandmother in Britain every summer.’ He shrugged. ‘When we had to be with her, we lived on his Rhode Island estate, but he had several other properties.’ He looked up and gave her a hard look. ‘He died of a heart attack. He was busy balling an eighteen-year-old showgirl in Vegas when it hit.’

  He picked up a fistful of sand, watched it run through his fingers. ‘He wasn’t interested in us. Linc and I, we knew that, we were just a means to carry on the family name. But we never understood why our mother hated us. Her own mother, our granny, she was strict, but she wasn’t twisted like her; she never once raised a hand to us like our mother did. After a while, I just kind of accepted it, but I know it screwed up Linc real bad. She beat on him the worst, because he would stand up to her.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I guess the more he did that, the more it reminded her of the old man.’

  ‘She hit Linc, too?’

  ‘You don’t know about that?’

  ‘No. Linc and Ali have never spoken about his mother or father.’

  He pondered that for a minute.

&nb
sp; ‘Did you tell Linc,’ she asked, ‘what your mother told you?’

  ‘No, he was long gone by then. He left when he was twelve and I was only ten. Our grandmother had died that summer. I guess he couldn’t stand knowing we’d be stuck with her all the time.’

  ‘You mean, until this summer, you hadn’t seen Linc since you were children?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not since the day he ran off.’

  Suddenly, so much became clear to Jessie. These men had been trying to forge a relationship after over twenty years apart, after the abject horror of their childhood, and she’d nearly messed it all up. ‘I’m so sorry I behaved like such a silly cow when you arrived, Monroe.’

  ‘Red.’ He brushed a finger down her cheek, smiled. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you were feisty and gorgeous and you felt great wriggling around in my arms, so there’s no need to apologise.’

  The blush became more intense as she thought of their first meeting. ‘Will you tell me about prison, Monroe?’

  She wanted to know about the boy he had been—and how he had become the man she loved.

  Monroe huffed out a breath. He had to do this. She had the right to know what he’d come from, how ugly it was.

  ‘The first stretch was okay.’ He couldn’t even remember the green kid he’d been then. ‘It was only six months in juvie.’ He’d been wild and angry, he realised now, but determined to see it through and get out. ‘I behaved myself, didn’t attract too much attention. I was more bored than anything.’

  The experience in juvie had made him think doing time wasn’t so bad. It was three square meals a day and they didn’t shout at you or beat you simply for existing.

  ‘Ali said you did two terms?’

  ‘Yeah, the second stretch was…’ He paused. ‘It was different.’

  ‘How?’ She said the words on a fragile whisper.

  Monroe’s gaze lifted to hers. Could he tell her? Would she despise him, for what had happened, for what he had let them do to him?