A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  And then he thought of Callie in that stuffy little apartment.

  ***

  “I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes. Bring a bathing suit.”

  Since there was no point arguing with Lucius when he employed that tone of voice (and he hanged up the phone immediately even had she tried to object), Callie—knees still feeling suspiciously watery—was waiting on the front step when the Porsche pulled up.

  Tousled damp hair, unshaven, and very stern—God, he’s so sexy.

  “What’s all that?” he demanded, pointing at the laptop case.

  “Work. I was going to go into the office,” she replied shortly, sliding in beside him, tucking the case and ever-present satchel by her feet.

  He didn’t respond to that, just glared at her.

  She looked away, not certain what she was supposed to say. Was last night a one-time thing?

  “Where are your clothes? Overnight things?”

  Overnight? She hadn’t packed for overnight, so she fibbed obliquely. “In the satchel.”

  A hand gripped her chin and turned her for his fast, hard kiss. “Why did you leave?”

  “Why did you think I would stay?”

  The question wasn’t coy. If this was to be a relationship of sorts, he had to be the one to say so. She was in no position to make demands, and he had to know that. She had left so he’d have an out.

  Startled humour flashed in his eyes at her genuinely curious and level tone.

  “Good question. There a bathing suit in there? A change or two of clothes? You’re spending the weekend.”

  “Lucius—”

  “Why do you think I’ll accept an argument about this?”

  She grinned, because there was uncharacteristic petulance beneath the glower, making him boyish for a brief instant. “I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you,” she replied demurely.

  A disbelieving snort met that, but he laughed as he threw the car into gear.

  ***

  While she admired the sheer beauty of the three-storey house on the edge of Playter Estates (it wasn’t far from her old apartment in Greektown) and its impeccably landscaped front yard, she thought it wasteful that one person would need such space. Designed in the bay-and-gable style, it had once been two semis, thoroughly renovated into one enormous and charming home. Inside, it was cool and dim, with polished dark hardwood floors and trim, and white and taupe walls.

  “You can change in there,” Lucius said rather shortly, indicating a powder room. “Meet me in the kitchen—through there,” he pointed, “—when you’re ready.”

  “I’m fine. I’m just going to work, anyway.”

  “Don’t argue with me right now,” he growled, heading up the stairs two at a time. “I’m not in the mood. Suit up.”

  So she complied, wishing she could have told him she didn’t own a bathing suit. But the item was high on Rachel’s Boyfriend Summer list, so naturally, one had been purchased.

  Narrowed sapphire eyes glinted at her as she entered the ultra-modern, expansive kitchen awhile later, and she flushed but smiled at half-naked Lucius.

  “Turn around.”

  “You turn around,” she retorted, going up on her toes to see more of what was hidden behind the island.

  With a grin, he executed a slow turn, the muscles in his back and arms rippling, the black-and-white patterned board shorts clinging to that perfect butt.

  “Nice.”

  “Your turn.”

  She obediently spun.

  “Mm. But I’m not wearing a shirt. Tit for tat.”

  “I didn’t get to see any tat.”

  “Hilarious. Take off that,” he gestured, “filmy thing.”

  The short, white sheer cover-up really didn’t cover up much, but off it came.

  “Very nice,” he said levelly of the pink two-piece, with its bandeau halter top and boyshorts bottom that were cut rather high to expose the lower curve of her buttocks. “You do the mostly naked pink thing very well.” Plucking an apple out of the silver bowl on the island, he crunched into it, still surveying her. “Now turn.”

  “I’m fish-belly white,” she derided, obeying rather quickly.

  “You’re pearlescent-pale,” he corrected the adjectives, his breath sounding a little harsh. “You’ll need lots of sunscreen.”

  “I have some. Spray-on; waterproof. Rachel made me buy it.”

  “Spray-on is less fun than what I had in mind. Did she make you buy everything?”

  “Well, the initial shopping trip was my idea, but I was largely obedient to her will after that.”

  “I have a tough time believing that.”

  “I don’t like shopping. I only do it when I have to.”

  Another mouthful of apple was obviously intended to stifle a laugh, but he finally managed, “I’ve never heard a woman say that before.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay. I like new things. Really like them. I just hate spending money on things I don’t need.” Or even on things she did need. “I told you that before.”

  “Mm.”

  “And I have no sense of style.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Rachel picked out ninety percent of everything.”

  “But you’re the one wearing it. And you wear it with style. Therefore, you have style.” Another languorous survey. “And excellent posture.”

  “Doris Day,” she replied tartly, though the compliments touched her.

  “Pardon?”

  “My dad loves old movies.” She slid back into the cover-up. “One of the first I saw was . . . I don’t remember exactly. But Doris was wearing a backless gown and Rock Hudson? Cary Grant? Complimented her on how beautiful her back was, and she rambled on about good posture. So I learned it.”

  “A romantic from way back, then,” he teased.

  “I was very young. Five, maybe. And I suppose one starts out, as a child, being romantic and dreaming of adventure. Poetic. Then reality comes along, and with it, a whole lot of prose.”

  “Don’t look like that,” he said softly; anxiously.

  “Like what?” Her expression must have changed from whatever look dismayed him, for his relaxed.

  “Bitter. I can handle the bittersweet. But not sheer bitterness. Not from you.”

  Reaching over the island, she took the apple from his hand. “What are you on about now? I’m not bitter.” She took a bite and returned the apple. “Pwactical,” she added, chewing.

  “Practical, eh? I think you should get your practical behind over here.”

  She swallowed. “What?”

  His eyes glowed with dark, excited interest. “Don’t make me come get you.”

  She backed up a step. “I-I really think I should get to work. W-where can I set up?”

  “Why did you leave my room?”

  “I iterate, why did you think I would stay?”

  “Because maybe you wanted more.”

  Not much point in denying that. “I . . . left . . . in case that was unilateral.”

  “Generous of you.”

  She licked her lips, nervous under the intense scrutiny. “I wasn’t being generous. Just . . . practical.”

  “Practical, practical,” he muttered impatiently. “How was that practical?”

  “There’s no point in . . . wanting or asking for things . . . others don’t want to provide. Or can’t provide.”

  “Hm. That is practical.” He tossed the apple core into the organics bin. “You can set up there,” he indicated the breakfast table.

  “Oh, okay. Thanks.” Disappointed but unsurprised by his lack of follow-through on that look of lust, she set her things on a chair, unzipping the laptop case.

  A condom pack flew over her shoulder and landed on the table in front of her, and his heat enveloped her as he crushed her back against his chest.

  “Let’s be clear, doll,” he whispered against her neck. “In the interests of practically, you give me nothing but the truth. Whatever you want, you just ask. Whatever I wa
nt, I’ll . . . Well,” he chuckled hotly, “maybe not ask specifically. But both of us have right of refusal. For anything. Clear?”

  “Y-yes-s-s-s. Oh,” she moaned softly as a large hand cupped her at the apex of her thighs, pressing her firmly, backing her into his thighs; his erection, hot and pulsing through his shorts, against her lower back.

  “So I’m asking. Are we going forward?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “So polite,” he teased, relieving her of the filmy cover-up. Grasping her wrists, he bent her forward, laying her palms flat on the cool wood on either side of the table runner. “Don’t move.”

  Releasing her, he unclipped her hair, his fingers tangling in the loose curls as he massaged her scalp and the base of her skull. She moaned, dropping her forehead to the runner.

  Pressure exerted on her upper back had her sinking further until her torso was flat on the runner; cradling her head, he turned it so that her cheek rested comfortably on the soft fabric. She sighed quietly, relieved and scared and excited all at once.

  One hand traced a light path down her spine. Her back arched down automatically, like a petted cat, pushing her bottom out.

  “Damn,” he said with dark approval, fingertips etching the naked curves, sliding beneath the edges of the boyshorts. Separating the crotch from her dampness, he brushed knuckles against her sex before sliding two fingers inside her.

  Her responding moan was piteously begging.

  “Sore?” he asked, still in that dark, controlled voice, but with a thread of genuine concern.

  “No,” she panted. He overwhelmed her. “A bit,” she added, to be perfectly truthful.

  Slick with her arousal, his fingers stroked her. “Too sore?” he teased, as if he knew the answer.

  “No,” she replied, a little more emphatically than necessary, judging from his responding laugh.

  A blush suffused her as he scooted the bottoms down her legs.

  “I should take you like this,” he breathed heavily, still stroking her from behind. “Is that what you want?”

  “Please . . .”

  “Please yes, or please no?”

  She shuddered, too overwrought to express that it didn’t matter.

  Abruptly, he pulled her up, turned her, and pressed her down again, on her back. “I want to see your face,” he muttered, reaching for the condom.

  It made her feel less of a weak fool to see the blankness of focused lust on his face, the blazing blue eyes scorching her. And he was now completely, gloriously naked, fully aroused.

  Exquisite . . . she licked her lips.

  “Put your legs around me, doll,” he instructed softly, and adjusted her position as she hooked her ankles in the small of his back, the runner helping him slide her body. He grinned crookedly. “I really hated that thing, but my decorator insisted on it. I’ll have to tell her how . . . practical it is.”

  “Lusci—Lucius!”

  He pressed down on her, kissing her with restrained urgency. “Say it,” he muttered against her lips.

  “L-luscious?” She giggled a little.

  “Mm. I love that.” He nudged at her entry. “Again.”

  “Luscious,” she chirped, getting into the more playful mood.

  He sank into her.

  “Luscious,” she groaned. “Feel so . . . luscious.”

  “Mutual, doll.” He pulled at the stretchy material of the bandeau, drawing it down to expose her breasts. The material cupped them, pushing them up, the stretched halter string pressing in on either side. His lips and teeth latched onto a nipple, tugging playfully.

  Her inner muscles squeezed him impatiently, accompanied with an exasperated, “Ahem.”

  The look he sent her was that laughing reckless look she had seen so often last night. “Careful what you ask for,” he threatened/promised.

  Grasping her knees, he unwound and lifted her legs to rest them on his broad shoulders, the muscles rippling and clenching under her calves. She gasped as his mouth damply explored the delicate skin of her inner thigh, a hand passing over the supple flesh of her belly with that lightly weighted touch of strength and gentleness.

  Peeking at his darkly handsome face, she trembled at the expression of tense single-mindedness there, the concentrated control. Everything in her dissolved in complete surrendering welcome, softening around him even as he hardened more in response.

  Lashes flicked up; he scanned her with piercing thoroughness.

  “Luscious,” she whispered, half teasing, half desperate.

  And then it was all a steamy, panting blur . . . her body sliding back and forth, carried by the runner as he took her, until her orgasmic cries sounded in the cool, dim room.

  ***

  Air filled her lungs as she broke the surface of the water with a gasp, her limbs still trembling, the few laps she had done not sufficient to shake off the impact of Lucius’ energetic lovemaking.

  A shadow fell over her and she blinked up at him, crouched at the pool edge, shorts and hair still damp from his own swim, thick towels in his hand.

  He set them on the slate tiles by the ladder. “For when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks. Coming back in?”

  “That sounds like an invitation.”

  She gulped a little and blushed. “It’s a standing invitation,” she daringly confirmed.

  “Standing. Interesting idea,” he purred. “Hungry?”

  She nodded, treading water.

  “Breakfast is ready when you are.” Indicating the small pool house, “Outdoor shower to rinse off the chlorine if you want.”

  “Thanks. Um . . . I should change.”

  “No need. It’s summer, the weekend . . . time to relax and laze,” he coaxed.

  Relax? Laze? Those were hazardous pursuits! “I don’t want to track water inside.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I don’t. Besides, the sun’ll have you mostly dry in no time.” He indicated the spray-on sunscreen on the pool apron. “Reapply that,” he ordered very bossily, obviously deciding that coaxing was not his preferred method of getting his own way.

  “Yes, Luscious,” she replied with mock submissiveness, quickly resigning the battle before his dominating personality completely overran her—she could work while providing him with relaxing and lazy optics.

  Laughing, he straightened. “Come in when you’re ready.”

  She was inside in short order, silently cursing that she had brought nothing to fix her hair. It was going to dry in tightly coiled springs. But there was nothing for it . . . except Lucius hadn’t seen it like that. Maybe he wouldn’t like it.

  When did you get vain?

  Since I found something to be vain about—and a man who pays attention.

  “Coffee or tea?” he asked, raking her with a smiling look.

  “Coffee. Black, please.” She surveyed the breakfast table, now laid out with fresh fruit and pastries instead of her. The runner hanged neatly on the back of a chair.

  “Sit,” he ordered. “Do you want eggs? Bacon?”

  “No, thanks. This is perfect.” Carefully folding her towel, she sat on it, protecting the wooden chair from residual dampness in her suit. Avoiding his gaze, she contemplated the view of the backyard, the pool, and the unfinished deck. Judging from the remaining lumber, the completed construction would be another third larger, spanning the entire back of the house, and would include stairs up to the second-floor balcony-deck she had noted while in the pool (off the master, she assumed). The completed portion (obviously new and very well built—that explains his calluses) included a shady arbour with an inset wrought iron panel through which wound creamy white rambling roses in full bloom, over a wide cushioned built-in sectional. It would be lovely in there, reclining while surrounded by the scent of attar. And more than enough room for two . . .

  Her face heated as she imagined him making love to her there.

  Knuckles brushed her cheek in a now-familiar gesture as he set coffee in front of her. “What are you thin
king about?”

  “Just admiring your construction.”

  “I hope that’s a double entendre,” he said dryly, and she dissolved into helpless giggles.

  “Yes,” she agreed, still laughing. “It is.”

  “Good. I mean, thank you,” he winked. Sitting kitty-corner to her, he reached for the pitcher of orange juice, filling crystal tumblers.

  “May I ask a really personal question?”

  “Of course.” Then mocked her with a slightly alarmed look.

  “Why did you buy a house if you’re planning on going back to England?”

  “Real estate is an investment. No way I’d pay rent or lease a place. I’ll sell out when I go.”

  That made sense. And even though there were rumours that the real estate market would finally begin to cool, this was an upscale neighbourhood and the mansion would fetch a good ROI.

  “May I ask you a really personal question?” he drawled.

  “I guess.” And then mimicked his earlier expression of alarm, prompting a responding grin.

  “Why haven’t you hopped on the property ladder yet?”

  “Not quite there financially.” The raise that came with her new position at FalTech was certainly going to help. If it weren’t for Leon . . .

  Reaching out, he pulled her hand away from her mouth, put a warm, crusty roll in her palm and pushed a jar of jam in her direction.

  “Chew on that.” Leaning back in his chair, he studied her for long moments.

  “What?” she finally demanded, checking her chin for crumbs or a sticky spot of jam.

  “Where are we with the HRF? What’s the next move?”

  She made a face. “Still trying to come up with a story on the commissioning of the Birds. While I think about that, I’m looking for that elusive birth record.”

  “For . . . who, again?”

  “Carlyle. I don’t know why you can’t remember his name. It’s your middle name.”

  Eyebrows shot up. “How do you know that?”

  “The family told me. After your little display in front of Benedict, everyone made sure to give me every possible detail about you they could.”

  His look of alarm this time was not entirely playful. “Such as?”

  The strawberry jam was sweet on her tongue and she savoured it, deliberately teasing his curiosity with delay. “Mm, how sick you were with measles when you were six—your mother still cries about that, because she holds herself responsible for not getting you the MMR vaccine. Though your father insists that you did have the vaccine, but there must have been something wrong with it or maybe they missed a booster. They argued about that for about ten minutes. And then, that you had the once-popular rattail hair style for a brief period as a child in the eighties.”