“You like sex with Richard but you’re going to sleep with Tawny?” Simon said.
Elliott creased a sheet of paper between his fingers. “I love her. What’s not to love? She’s sexy, smart, warm and generous. But we’re not setting off any fireworks in the bedroom. I’m attracted to her, but it’s not as exciting as it is with Richard.”
Elliott had just handed him far more information on several fronts than he’d ever wanted. And he was driving Simon mad, fidgeting with that piece of paper. “Would you put the paper down?” Elliott shot him a look but tossed it onto the desk. “So you don’t want to break off the engagement?” Simon asked, his head beginning to throb from tension.
“I don’t know. She’s a great woman. I need some time to think. I guess whether we break off the engagement is up to her.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “This is going to be a hell of a conversation.” Elliott drew a deep breath and whooshed it out. “Come with me to tell her.”
“No.” This was between Elliott and Tawny. And talk about a conflict of interest. Simon wanted her, but not with a broken heart or as a rebound lover. However, she would be available if this went down the way he thought it would.
Elliott braced his hands on the desk and leaned toward Simon. “Please. I need you for moral support. This is going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”
Elliott hated facing unpleasant tasks alone. From the time they’d met and become fast friends, he’d dragged Simon along to face teachers, professors, his parents. He’d always maintained Simon was stronger than he was. But for once Simon wasn’t being dragged into Elliott’s mess. This time his friend was flying solo.
He shook his head. “It’s private, Elliott.”
“You were there when I proposed,” Elliott argued.
Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “And if I had known you were going to propose, I wouldn’t have been.” Outgoing, give-me-an-audience Elliott had chosen a double date to propose. Simon recalled the agony that had ripped through him when Elliott had presented Tawny with a yellow-diamond engagement ring over dessert. Simon’s date, Lenore, had thought it quite romantic.
“This is a mess. I need you there when I tell her. I called her and asked to come over tonight after the gallery closes.” He stopped pacing and faced Simon, the length of the room separating them. “I told her you were coming, too.”
Simon squashed the adolescent urge to ask Elliott what she’d said about him coming round. He and Elliott had always supported each other. They’d always watched one another’s back. But he wasn’t sure if he could bear to see the hurt and betrayal on Tawny’s face. Nor did he have the right to witness that. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Please, Simon.”
But he hadn’t exactly been coming through for Elliott all the nights Simon had lain in his lonely bed and made love to Tawny in his head. His conscience smote him. He had no business going. He didn’t want to go. But he owed Elliott, whether Elliott knew it or not, for every licentious thought he’d ever had about Tawny. For all the times and all the ways he’d had her in his head.
Guilt did crazy things to men—left them agreeing to things they would otherwise run away from.
“Okay, I’ll go. But I’ll have to meet you there,” Simon said. He stood and picked up his equipment bag.
Elliott dropped into his chair, his relief evident. “Nine o’clock. Her place. Do you remember the way?”
He’d dropped her off once with Elliott. “Sure.” He shifted the camera bag to his shoulder and turned for the door.
“Simon…” Elliott said.
He turned again to face Elliott.
“You’re a good friend.”
Righto. He was a good friend to be obsessively, compulsively in love with his best friend’s woman.
2
TAWNY GLANCED AT THE CLOCK on her dresser. Fifteen minutes until Elliott and Simon arrived. She discarded her skirt on the closet floor and defiantly pulled on a pair of shorts. She’d gotten home from running errands and had plenty of time to shower and shave her legs. And now she was dithering about what to wear. As if it mattered.
Her fiancé and his best friend, the guy who disliked her intensely, were coming over with take-out Thai. After a year of living here, one of the things she still loved about New York was the variety of fabulous food within blocks, even if a Southern-girl transplant couldn’t find grits or sweet tea.She looked over the clothes in her closet. It wasn’t as if they were going anywhere or she was looking to impress anyone. She picked up a faded T-shirt from her very first 5K run and promptly discarded it. Nah, Elliott had a thing about her dressing up, even if they were staying in. And even though she wasn’t entering a beauty contest, her Southern upbringing drew the line at having anyone over and wearing that.
She laughed at herself. And no, she still couldn’t bring herself to wear white after Labor Day or before Easter. She might be living on Manhattan’s Upper West Side but she’d always be Tawny Edwards with Savannah, Georgia, sensibilities. Funny, she’d come to New York to find out who she was and what she was about. She smiled. Wouldn’t her mother be surprised that the rebellious Edwards family screwup still adhered to the rules of white?
She settled instead on a halter wrap. Casual but sexy. And more important, cool—a major plus considering how stinking hot it was outside. She finished dressing and closed the closet door on the discarded clothes littering the floor. She pulled her hair up and clipped it haphazardly with a giant barrette underneath. Even with the air-conditioning cranked, the sweltering heat seemed to seep inside.
She spritzed perfume behind her ears and, on a defiant whim, sprayed it between her breasts. Simon might not like her, but dammit, he’d at least like the way she smelled.
She sang along with a Roberta Flack remake playing on the radio in the other room. She loved the evening program—Sensual Songs and Decadent Dedications—which offered a nice mix of old and new love songs. And who cared if she was off-key?
She tugged at her shorts. She’d skipped her run this morning and she felt it in their snug fit. Some women were blessed with svelte, slender bodies that actually fit into sylphlike fashions. She, however, didn’t belong to that club. She’d learned long ago that eating half of what was on her plate and exercising every day was the only thing that kept her from resembling the Pillsbury Doughboy in drag. Petite and curvy all too easily slid into short and fat.
Tawny made the mistake of double-checking her behind in the mirror while she sang about him killing her softly with his song. Ugh. It was still there…all of it and then some. Elliott was right. The last time they were in bed, he’d mentioned that her butt had gotten bigger. Not exactly what she’d wanted to hear, but she supposed the truth sometimes hurt.
She’d seriously considered having her ass liposuctioned with her last bonus, but what if those fat cells relocated to her thighs or some other equally heinous body destination? Unwilling to risk fat-cell transference, she did an extra set of butt-killing donkey lifts every other day. And from the looks of things, it was time to make that a daily habit.
An outraged yowl in the other room diverted her attention from the shortcomings—or rather the over-abundance—of her behind. She went into the kitchen and dumped a measure of cat food into the empty bowl by the refrigerator.
“Uh-huh. You’re as close to wasting away as I am.” She laughed and snatched Peaches up for a quick hug before he squirmed out of her arms. “But I understand. I’m hungry, too.” She put him down in front of his food bowl.
Peaches, a five-year-old declawed Maine coon abandoned by his former owner and promptly rescued from the animal shelter on his last day before the big E—as in euthanasia—in no way resembled a peach in either coloring, countenance, or personality. However, Tawny had named him that because it reminded her of her Georgia roots without bringing home too close. Which probably made no sense to the rest of the world but perfect sense to Tawny.
One might reckon that Peaches
would be grateful to have been snatched from the jaws of certain death and appropriately fawn over his savior. One would be wrong. It had been Peaches’s arrogance in the face of his impending demise that had stolen Tawny’s heart and sealed the feline’s fate.
The sound of the buzzer reverberated through the apartment and Tawny’s heart thudded in her chest. Simon and Elliott. The idea of coming face-to-face with Simon had tormented her all afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since he’d begun to invade her dreams, and subsequently her body, in a most satisfying, but totally disquieting, manner.
She swallowed and turned the radio down on her way to the door. Peering through the peephole, her heart hammered even harder as Simon’s lean face stared—not at the door but down the hall, as if he’d actually prefer to be anywhere rather than outside her apartment.
On the radio Etta James crooned in a low, sultry voice, about her love coming along at last and the end of her lonely days, which did nothing to dispel Tawny’s nervousness and the sexual anticipation curling through her.
She mentally slapped herself around. Get a grip. So in her dreams she’d had wild monkey sex with Simon. By no stretch of her overactive, oversexed imagination was he her own true love coming along.
She squared her shoulders, pasted on her best loaded-with-Southern-charm smile, slipped the locks and opened her door. “Hi, Simon.”
“Hullo, Tawny.” It was wickedly unfair the way his voice, with its hint of British accent, revved her engine. That was one thing about her dreams—he always talked to her during sex and it always turned her on. This was no dream, but she’d been conditioned and felt a familiar heat stir within her.
She looked past him. “Where’s Elliott?”
“I had a shoot today so we came separately,” he said without a glimmer of a smile in the depth of his dark eyes.
Tawny stepped aside. “Come in.”
His dark hair, cut close and combed back, lent his lean face an ascetic look. She felt his body heat as he stepped past her into the room, his camera equipment slung over his shoulder. This was much worse than she’d anticipated, far more potent than any dream. His clean, subtle scent teased her. In her dreams his scent didn’t entice her as it did now. She caught her breath and strove for a light tone.
“How was your photo shoot?”
“Fine. It went quick. I’ve shot Chloe before,” Simon said.
The name evoked an image of a tall, thin, beautiful model. Tawny didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse at hating the unknown, unsuspecting Chloe—that was the price paid by thin, beautiful women without an ass the size of a principality.
A few weeks ago, after their engagement, Simon had photographed Tawny at Elliott’s request. Elliott possessed an eye for art, but he wasn’t an artist. Simon, however, was a genius with a camera. She wasn’t a professional model and it had taken an entire day of Simon working with her, cajoling her, but her photographs had been fantastic. She’d seen herself in a different way. She’d seen strength, but also a sensual vulnerability.
He’d been patient and almost charming, as if when he got behind the camera he forgot himself or perhaps he could truly be himself.
During the shoot, she’d thought she’d finally reached Elliott’s best friend, won him over. It had been a magical day. But then afterward he’d retreated even further behind a wall, cooler and more aloof than ever. Mercifully their paths hadn’t crossed since.
Except at night. In her bed. In her dreams. The night following the photo shoot she’d dreamed of erotic, explicit sex with Simon. And every night since. Now the object of her writhing lust stood in her apartment, having spent the day photographing some skinny model. Tawny bit back a bitchy comment.
“I haven’t seen you to tell you I thought the photos you took of me were great. Not that I’m great, but the photos were. You’re very good at what you do.” Whoa. Instant image of him bringing her to orgasm in her dream. “I mean, you’re good with your camera.” She closed the door. Tawny, honey, find a brain cell and grab on to it. She sounded like a dithering idiot.
“You’re very photogenic. You have a great smile and good bone structure,” he said.
He spoke very matter-of-factly. He could’ve been discussing the weather. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to pound as if he’d just claimed her beauty equal to that of the legendary Helen of Troy. She felt as gauche as she had when she’d been a third-grader and Henry Turner had pulled her braids. Except she’d liked Henry Turner. And while she might have toe-curling dreams about Simon, she wasn’t altogether sure that she liked him.
“Thank you. Your equipment should be safe here.” She indicated a spot between the door and the antique cupboard to the right. Hauling that monstrosity up when she’d moved last year had been a party. “Would you like a drink while we’re waiting on Elliott? Red wine?”
Simon placed his camera and equipment on the floor next to the cupboard with more care and consideration than many mothers with babies. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Absolutely.”
Earth to Tawny. She should stop admiring the way his black T-shirt hugged his shoulders and the lean line of his back. She should also stop eyeing the fit of his jeans over his very fine—make that extra fine—ass.
He stood, pivoting to face her in one fluid movement. He arched a questioning brow. “Need any help?”
Don’t mind me. I was just checking out your eye candy. “No. Going right now.” She indicated the sofa with a flick of her wrist. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
She fled the room, silently urging Elliott to arrive soon. Those dreams were seriously messing with her head. She’d felt as if his gaze, hot and consuming, had licked across her shoulders bared by her halter top and across her buttocks snugged into her shorts.
She leaned against the counter and dragged in a calming breath, dismissing her ridiculous notions. Simon had been his usual remote self since he’d arrived. The only heat she’d felt from him had been a product of her own twisted, overactive, inappropriate imagination.
She reached past Peaches to the small wine rack atop the fridge and pulled out a bottle of cabernet. Peaches, who spent most of his time on top of the refrigerator, offered her a lazy slit-eyed look.
Tawny uncorked the bottle. “You know, normal cats curl up on a bed or in the corner of the sofa or drape themselves across a chair back. Why do you camp out on top of the refrigerator?”
Of course, the cat didn’t deign to answer. Tawny pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet. She personally thought Peaches liked to render himself inaccessible. And what did it say about her that she loved that damn cat? “Don’t mind me. I’m leaving now.”
She went back into the den.
Simon sat on her purple chenille sofa studying the room. Self-consciousness surged through her, knowing he was seeing her personal space through the eyes of an artist. Her taste tended toward eclectic. She favored reproduction art, the occasional antique and furniture more comfortable than stylish.
She placed the wine and glasses on the bamboo chest that doubled as a coffee table. Simon focused his attention on her, and she wished contrarily that he was eying her apartment once again instead. The glow from a stained-glass floor lamp at the corner of the sofa backlit him. Dark hair, dark slashing eyebrows above dark eyes, unsmiling visage, black T-shirt and jeans. He was a dark angel come to torment her.
His eyes snared her. The room shrank to just the few feet separating them. If this was one of her dreams, she’d join him on the couch, where she’d nibble and lick her way past his perpetual reserve until they were both getting naked….
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
“Thanks, I’ve got it.” Don’t mind me while I stand here like some whacked-out nympho and fantasize about taking your clothes off while we wait on Elliott to show up. She disgusted herself. “Glass of wine coming right up.”
She managed to pour two glasses. She handed him one, taking care not to touch him in the exchange.
She sat in the armchair on her side of the coffee table, the farthermost point away from him in the confines of her tiny den. Avoiding even the most casual physical contact seemed a good plan. “My cat.”
“And does it talk back?”
Whaddaya know? Simon actually owned a sense of humor. “No. He’s a typical male. Selective hearing. He only talks if it concerns his empty belly. Or the remote.”
“My kind of cat.” Simon’s spontaneous grin did crazy things to her insides. He silently held his glass up in a toast and then sipped.
His fingers, long and lean, wrapped around the glass stem and reminded her of her afternoon dream and where his fingers had been then.
Simply thinking about it left her wet and wanton again. Great. She’d sit here across from him, drinking wine, waiting on her future husband to show up, and wind up with a wet spot. Stop. She would not sit around fantasizing about this man. It was wrong. Guilt churned in her gut. Thinking about Simon turned her on faster and hotter than Elliott’s actual touch.
She only had to make it through the evening. A few short hours. And next week she was signing up for therapy. Alison, one of the executive secretaries, saw a therapist weekly. First thing Monday morning she’d ask Alison for a referral. This thing for Simon was getting out of hand. God knows what would happen if he’d offered a smidgen of interest or encouragement. What kind of woman ran around in perpetual lust for her fiancé’s best friend? And it had actually started her thinking, quite hard, as to exactly how she felt about Elliott and whether marrying him was such a good idea. She and Elliott were good together. They got along well. They had fun. But it was nothing like the dark passion with Simon that haunted her dreams. Toss in a vague sense of discontent with her bedroom time with Elliott….
Daring in the Dark Page 2