Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way

by Kress, Alyssa

  She looked up at him and frowned, as if uncertain, herself.

  That settled it. Peter smiled. Oh, he could do it. Of course he could. "You had your turn," he told her, and his smile deepened. "Now it's mine."

  Her earthy eyes widened but she didn't have time to protest. Soon she didn't seem to want to protest as Peter kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her. Long, soft, tender kisses.

  Slowly, slowly, he unbuttoned her shirt. Slowly, slowly, his hands found the soft curves of her skin. Slowly, slowly, he caressed and kissed and licked. All over.

  She moved; slow, languorous moves. She moaned; long, deep moans. She tried to hurry the pace with her own caresses and kisses, but Peter was in full control this time. Slowly, completely, he built the yearning and the teasing and the pleasure. When their bodies joined for this second time it was in a wondrous dance of two fully able, participating partners.

  She closed her eyes but it didn't matter. Peter could see the wonder on her face, the unacknowledged comprehension.

  It meant something that it was Peter doing this particular dance with her. With no other man would it be the same. Just as with no other woman than Brittany would it be the same for him.

  They both cried out at the end. Peter didn't look into her face. He didn't dare. Instead he held her close, his own stunned expression hidden in her dark hair.

  ~~~

  At her kitchen sink on Sunday morning, Olivia yawned and brushed the hair out of her eyes. She was still a bit logy from — well, from catching up on things. It took her a minute, blinking out the kitchen window, to register she was seeing Brittany in a thin, baby blue bathrobe watering the plants in Anja's backyard. Olivia kept one eye on Brittany, grimly hosing the plants, while she filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove. Then she wrapped her silk kimono tighter about her waist and stepped out onto her deck.

  She waved at Brittany, but her neighbor appeared too wrapped up in Anja's vegetation to notice. "Good morning!" Olivia called out loud.

  Brittany whipped around, nearly splashing Olivia with the hose. "Woops. Sorry," she said, then put a finger to her lips. "Woops, again. The boys aren't up yet."

  And you are? But Olivia didn't ask why. She'd seen Brittany's house painter exiting the premises the night before at a very odd hour for a tradesman. That plus Brittany's early rising added up to something Olivia sensed wasn't ready for discussion.

  "I wouldn't have thought of watering Anja's plants," she said to Brittany instead.

  "Yeah, well." Brittany shrugged and aimed the hose at something small and fernlike. "I could see they needed it. Do you know when she's planning to come home?"

  "No, and it's a funny thing. I tried to reach her by her cell phone number, and some man answered the telephone."

  Brittany looked up with a frown. "That's weird."

  "Very weird. And he seemed quite cagey, too. Wanted to know who I was."

  The water from the hose spilled onto Anja's Mexican tile patio as Brittany continued to frown at Olivia. "Do you think something is wrong?"

  "I don't know." Olivia leaned against her porch railing. "It's possible she lost the phone and this guy's been using it."

  Brittany went over to the spigot and turned off the water. "I don't like it. She was nervous the last time we saw her, with all that talk about not trusting anybody and being more scheming. Exactly what is her research about, anyway?"

  "I don't know any more than you do. Something to do with pharmaceuticals." Olivia bit her lower lip. "Do you think we ought to call the police? The last time I heard from her was Wednesday."

  Brittany worried her lower lip in a gesture that mirrored Olivia's. "She'd kill us for interfering if there really was nothing wrong."

  "True," Olivia sighed, then perked up. "At least I can call the telephone company, and have them check if the phone's been reported lost."

  "Good idea." Brittany straightened as her gaze fell on something behind Olivia's left shoulder. Her mouth curved in an amused smirk. "Well...hello."

  Olivia closed her eyes. She hadn't thought — Oh, dear. Was she ready for this? "Gideon," she said, and turned.

  "You snuck out on me," he complained. Without a drop of apology or embarrassment, he crossed the deck in bare feet, by his very presence making it clear he'd spent the night. At least he was decent, in a pair of black jeans and a white shirt that had most of its buttons fastened. His gaze was intent as he prowled to Olivia's side. He put a hand around her waist and kissed her lips before turning to Brittany.

  Olivia surrendered to the inevitable. "Brittany, this is Gideon. And Gideon, Brittany is my next-door neighbor." She braced herself. Based on Olivia's stories, Brittany's opinion of Gideon was rock bottom.

  But Brittany's demeanor was friendly as she waved. "Howdy."

  "Good morning, there." With the hand that wasn't claiming Olivia at the waist, Gideon gestured. "I thought Olivia said you lived next door."

  "She does. She's just watering Anja's plants," Olivia explained. "My across-the-backyard neighbor's been out of town."

  "Her ferns were parched," Brittany said, and brushed her hands.

  Olivia couldn't help staring. Brittany was being positively cordial to Olivia's estranged husband. Was she suffering an unprecedented fit of amenability toward the male race?

  Or did the visit of her house painter the day before, a visit that had occurred mostly indoors, have something to do with Brittany's markedly changed and male-friendly attitude?

  "Well, I'd better go see if the boys are up." Brittany moved toward the corner where the fence was low and she could step over into her own backyard. "They get anxious if they can't find me in the house."

  "See you later," Olivia called.

  Brittany shot her a grin, a decidedly complicitous, grin as she waved and strode toward her house. "Nice meeting ya, Gideon."

  "Likewise," Gideon called back. Once Brittany had walked into her house, he lowered his head to nuzzle Olivia's ear. "I was hoping for a lazy Sunday morning session," he growled, low.

  "I needed some tea."

  "More than you needed me?" He sucked the lobe of her ear between his teeth in a way he knew made her weak at the knees.

  Olivia set a palm on his chest, though whether to push him away or to caress him she wasn't quite sure. His body certainly did feel hard and warm beneath her hand. And her ear... "My neighbors," she managed to whisper.

  "Ah." Gideon pulled back. "Now if we were at home we wouldn't have to worry about being seen in our own backyard."

  "I told you. I need to finish a batch of vases for my buyer in Northern California today. I don't have time to be traipsing back and forth."

  "Mmm." Gideon turned his attention to a lock of Olivia's hair, rubbing it between two fingers. "You wouldn't have to traipse back and forth if you moved your studio back to the ranch house."

  Olivia went very still. So did Gideon.

  "You're asking me to come back," she said softly. He'd asked before, but this time she had to take him seriously.

  His lashes fell, concealing his expression. "I know it's been a while. A lot of bad blood, but..." He looked up again. "At least think about it."

  Olivia felt her heart twist at the mixture of hope and fear in his expression. Heaven knew, she wanted to come home. She longed for them to be together again, partners and lovers and everything they'd once meant to each other.

  But he was still holding out on her. There was something — something troubling — that he refused to tell her about.

  He was still afraid.

  Slowly, she stroked her hand down his chest, and used the gesture to drop her eyes from his gaze. "I...need a little more time." She stroked him again as she felt the muscles of his chest tighten. "Just a little more time being together like this."

  She needed time to get through to him, to help him see he was safe with her. He didn't need to be afraid.

  Beneath her hand she could feel him make a concerted effort to relax his tensed muscles. Control. The man h
ad gobs of it. Maybe too much control, she suddenly wondered.

  But before her mind could wander down that path, he palmed one hand up the side of her kimono.

  "You want a little more time — " he asked huskily, "being together like this?" He cupped her breast.

  She gasped, in both embarrassment and arousal. "Gideon."

  "If you won't come home, then I'll just have to find something of yours to bring home with me, something to remember you by when you're not there. Something to make me feel..." He paused to give her a wolfish grin. "Less lonely." He smoothed his thumb over the silk covering Olivia's already taut nipple.

  "Gideon," Olivia gasped again. How did he do that, make her instantly...hungry?

  She put her hand over his, feeling limp with hunger, but also well aware of her surroundings.

  Gideon sighed. "The neighbors. I know, I know. So let's take this inside, darling."

  Ravenous now, Olivia wrenched herself out of his light grasp and practically ran for the sliding glass door. His trust issues? They were working on that, right? She had time for this. In fact, they needed this. Right?

  Chuckling, Gideon followed her inside. "I'm thinking those lace thong underwear," he said, catching up to her as she hurried up the stairs.

  She threw him a distracted glance over her shoulder. "What?"

  "As my keepsake," Gideon explained, and had her kimono off before she could reach the top of the stairs.

  Olivia whirled and pressed her nearly naked body against her husband's strong bulk. "Are we going to do it right here?" Her voice held more excitement than alarm. When Gideon got creative, good things happened.

  "Now that depends, darling." He eased two fingers under the elastic of her thong underwear.

  Shuddering with anticipation, Olivia lifted her face for his kiss. "It depends on what?" she asked breathlessly.

  Gideon's fingers edged further under the elastic. "It depends on whether or not I get to take this pair of panties home with me."

  Olivia shuddered again, wanting those fingers of his to move yet further. "They're yours." She threw her arms around his neck.

  Gideon growled low in his throat, and lifted her with one arm while he drew her panties off with the other. Then he set her on the stair runner, pushed her knees apart, and made it all so worthwhile.

  Olivia tossed her head back, moaning out loud and telling herself they had most definitely needed this.

  ~~~

  On Sunday night Dash took Shana to a chamber music concert. Stuffy, right? Old fogey-ish, right? Shana should have felt stifled in the fancy concert hall and bored out of her skull. Chamber music?

  But it had been delightful. The music had been playful and cheerful at times, somber and melancholy at others. The baroque scrollwork running up and down the columns of the large concert hall had added to the feeling of being transported to another world.

  Shana had to admit...she'd enjoyed it. Or she would have enjoyed it, more accurately, if she hadn't been with Dash.

  The man made her nervous. Not about the gun. She'd checked out his explanation about the security business and discovered he really did work for the computer software company he claimed he did. They'd been terribly helpful on the phone with Shana, even going so far as to confirm that Dash had a license to carry a concealed weapon.

  No, what made her nervous was his constant solicitousness. He'd brought her flowers when he'd come to her front door that evening — at six-thirty on the dot. He'd opened her car door for her, and helped her both in and out of the vehicle. His hand on her back as they'd walked up the steps and into the concert hall had been...all that was gentlemanly. Not platonic, no, Shana wouldn't go that far. There was a certain way he looked at her, a certain way he positioned his body vis-à-vis hers that told her experienced senses he was very interested in sleeping with her.

  But he wasn't being obvious about it. Quite the contrary, he seemed to be doing everything in his power to let her know — Well, if Shana had ever had a man treat her this way in her life, she'd have said he wanted her to know...he respected her.

  Weird. Very, very weird. And not a little off-putting, if Shana said so herself. He wanted to sleep with her, right? So why pretend it was about anything else?

  After the concert, Dash took her to a chi-chi Japanese restaurant. How he knew she liked Japanese food she had no idea. Lucky guess, she supposed. In any event, it was not the sort of place any other man would have thought to take her. Too time-consuming.

  But Dash didn't seem to mind the leisurely pace of the fancy restaurant. He ordered saké and tea and appetizers, then leaned back in his chair at the European-style table and trained his gaze on Shana. As if he had all the time in the world.

  "So." A crooked smile quirked his admittedly-heavenly mouth. "We haven't had much of a chance to talk yet."

  Shana barely avoided gaping at him. He wanted to talk? Who was he kidding? He wanted to get her between some sheets, like any other heterosexual man would. None of them wanted to talk.

  Dash leaned forward, the crooked smile still gracing his face. "How were public relations this week?"

  Shana shot him a sidelong glance. "Fine."

  "Fine?" He chuckled. "I imagine that's a high maintenance business. It probably takes an awful lot to keep your clients happy."

  He stopped and Shana realized he expected her to expand on this theme, to actually talk with him about her work.

  "Ahem. Clients do tend to be high maintenance," she finally admitted. "Actually, that's a very apt term."

  He raised his eyebrows.

  She frowned. Was she supposed to go on?

  Since he didn't say anything and Shana realized silence between them was no good, she continued. "Um...I have one lady, she writes books about dog training, specifically about the training of Chihuahuas. She's in a funk with me because I haven't been able to get her on Oprah."

  Dash laughed. Shana blinked. He seemed genuinely amused.

  "Is she the one who makes you come home driving ten miles over the speed limit and burning rubber into your driveway?" he asked.

  "Um, no." Dash noticed how fast she was driving when she came home? "The one who makes me speed is a five-hundred-year-old man who claims he was once the lover of Lady Bird Johnson."

  Dash's eyes sparkled. "No kidding."

  "I kid you not. I swear, I was lucky to get the guy a few lines in an off-the-wall magazine. I keep telling him, he's got to give me something to work with, a love letter, a lock of hair, a — a bra of hers."

  Dash laughed, deep and rich. The sound made something inside Shana start to uncurl. Her brows contracted at the strange sensation. Her back straightened and she searched for a way to get rid of it.

  "What kind of trophies do you keep?" she asked.

  His laughter died, though a surprised smile stayed on his face. "Of lovers?"

  "That's right." Shana leaned back in her seat, smirking now. "I don't notch the bed, it's Ethan Allen. Besides, I'd run out of room on the headboard." She paused to take a sip of her saké. "So I plant a daisy."

  Shana's front yard was a forest of daisies. But instead of dying, Dash's smile widened. There was even a laugh in his voice as he remarked, "But all your daisies are the same."

  Shana nearly choked as she got his meaning. "Are you imagining you could be different?" He wasn't different. He was exactly the same as the rest. Wanting only one thing.

  But Dash didn't appear the least bit insulted by her question. Instead, his smile curved maddeningly. "Do I think I could be any different?" He managed to make things even worse by suddenly sobering his obnoxious smile. "I think I already am."

  Meeting his gaze, Shana felt an inner quake, a shifting of deeply buried material. She lifted her little cup of saké, to shield as much of her face as she could.

  We'll see about that, she said to herself as she studied him and the high-IQ eyes looking so directly back at her. She took a sip of the potent liquor and regained her equilibrium. They would just see if Mr. Whatev
er-his-real-first-name-was Dashwood wasn't exactly the same as the rest: hungry for sex, and sex alone.

  Shana set her cup down and smiled. She'd forgotten, silly woman, that she was the one in charge here, always the one in charge when it came to hungry men. Casually, she lifted one hand to unbutton the top three buttons of her high collared knit dress. "So you think you're different," she said.

  His gaze lowered, as she'd known it would, to the cleavage now exposed to his view. Oh, he was no different from the rest. But his eyes were clear and not glazed when he raised them to meet hers again. His voice was calm when he remarked, "It looks like we're going to find out."

  Shana felt a little thrill down below, the one she got when she knew she had a live one. But mixed with the anticipated pleasure was a clunking note of fear. He looked so certain, with his almost-innocent face and his tall, straight bearing. He looked so serious. Mr. Scout's Honor. Shana couldn't help sucking in her lips nervously.

  What if he actually was different?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  His plan was working, Dash thought, as he drove them home along a blissfully uncrowded freeway. His plan was working like magic. It was hard to avoid grinning idiotically. Not only had he gotten the skittish Shana to talk to him again, but she'd gone out on a date with him, a real, live, bona-fide date. He'd dated the gorgeous, sophisticated siren next door.

  The best part was: she was the one who was nervous. Ha!

  "It's so cozy in the dark, don't you think?" she purred, and put a hand on his thigh. "Ever wondered what can be done at sixty-five miles an hour?"

  Her hand on his thigh was doing terrible things to the arousal already growing in his pants, but Dash managed a dry smile as he replied, "Can't say I ever have."

  "Mmm." She proceeded to stroke his thigh in an exceedingly dangerous manner.

  Dash managed to keep his cool smile by vigorously reminding himself this was all nerves on Shana's part. For some reason she'd switched on the sex machine. He didn't know any better way to describe it. Now that he'd seen it turned off, he could see it for what it actually was: a tool.

  To a certain extent, it was working. The hand run down the sleeve of his suit as they'd gotten up from their seats at the restaurant, the press of her hip as they'd walked out the door, even the gleam in her eye as he'd seated her in his car — it had all started to rev him up good.