‘There is when you want Burberry.’
‘Burberry!’ Adam whistled softly. ‘I suppose he wanted cashmere, too.’
‘It didn’t matter in the end because I decided I wanted this one myself.’ Up went her chin. ‘In fact, I wear it all the time.’
‘Fair enough. But he did get the Burberry in the end, didn’t he?’
‘He— I— Yes.’ She ran a hand over her ponytail. ‘I owed him.’
‘What a good sister you are.’
‘What are you doing here, Adam?’
‘Ask me in and I’ll tell you,’ Adam said, and Lane realized she’d been barring entry to the house.
‘I don’t think I should.’
‘Why not? Don’t say Erica’s waiting for me with a baseball bat!’
‘She’s not home yet.’
‘Whew!’
‘What do you want?’
‘To watch a movie with you,’ he said and pushed past her.
He flashed the DVD cover on his way and Lane grimaced. The Notebook? Seriously? ‘Then no, I’m not letting you in,’ she said. Which wasn’t very intelligent, because he already was in. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried another tack. ‘I’m not interested in seeing that movie again.’
‘So you’ve seen it before?’
‘Every girl’s seen it before. And we—you and I—weren’t scheduled until Saturday.’
‘Lesson One, remember? Anywhere, any time,’ Adam said cheerfully, and booted the door closed.
‘I don’t want to watch it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s got nothing to do with sex.’
‘Nothing to do with sex? It’s one of the sexiest movies ever.’
She uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips. ‘If I want to learn from movies, I can watch … I don’t know … Deep Throat. Now if you’d brought that over, I’d be interested.’
‘Been doing some research, have we?’ Adam asked. He took a step towards her, wine bottle in one hand, DVD in the other. They were almost nose-to-nose, and neither backed away an inch. ‘Well let me tell you, you’re not ready for Deep Throat, sweetheart.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘What, I’m to blame for all those years of repression, am I? I only met you a week and a half ago.’ He leaned fractionally closer, so close she could see the most amazing chocolate flecks among the dark depths of his eyes. ‘If you wanted the kind of guy who’d bring over Deep Throat a week and a half into a relationship, you backed the wrong horse. But I’m who you’ve got, so it’s The Notebook.’
‘And Lesson Number Eight is …?’ Lane asked, feeling a little breathless. She couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away from his eyes. They were mesmerizing.
‘That watching the right kind of romantic movie together can be very … well, you’ll see.’ He smiled—a sexy, secretive smile.
It sounded feasible. It sounded—or more correctly, he sounded—persuasive. His voice was husky, his dark eyes were practically smouldering, and the way he stood, the stillness of his body seeming almost anticipatory, was unbelievably erotic.
One long, slow breath, then Lane dropped her hands from her hips. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure that a movie about enduring love is in keeping with your take on commitment, Adam, but you got me. I’m willing to see what it does for your libido. I’ll get the corkscrew and glasses.’
***
Considering all he knew about The Notebook was that Sarah—who almost never cried—had been reduced to a snotty, weeping mess over it, Adam had no idea if it would do anything for his libido. But his libido was in very good form tonight regardless, thank you very much. Just seeing Lane in jeans and that rejected sweater (thank you, loser Brad) had got him well on the way. And the thought of having her gooey and teary and sniffling into his chest was making him feel very clever, and definitely up for a little base stealing.
He was blaming novelty value for his surprisingly enthusiastic physical reaction to her—that and the fact that it had been almost two weeks since he’d had sex! He didn’t normally go for the gangly, awkward, half-shy, half-bolshie, repressed, virginal Lane types; he was generally up for the knowing, provocative, dolled-up Erica types.
Well, it was what it was. So he slotted in the DVD, grabbed the remote, unlaced his boots and kicked them off, then settled as best he could on the uncomfortable couch.
Lane was completely poised when she came back into the room. ‘Pass the bottle,’ she said.
‘Here, I’ll open it,’ he said.
She seemed on the verge of resisting … but then she suddenly smiled, offering the corkscrew. ‘Sure. Lesson Six. Men are proud bastards.’
Adam only just managed to quash an eye roll. Offering to open the wine was an automatic reaction—because most women expected him to do that kind of stuff, not because he gave a damn who wielded the corkscrew. But there she was, showing how well she’d learned her lesson, expecting a pat on the head. She was cute. And yes, dammit, he wanted to pat her, just somewhere a little more interesting than her head.
He deftly uncorked the bottle as he cast a jaundiced eye around her living room. Not a room that screamed ‘comfort’ by any stretch of the imagination.
‘Who chose the furniture?’ he asked, pouring two glasses. ‘You or Erica?’
‘My mother, actually. She thought it would go well in her house, but she didn’t like it once it was in place.’
He handed a brimming glass to her. ‘Don’t tell me! Wrong brand?’
Lane laughed. ‘Are you crazy? This is top-notch stuff. Italian.’
‘Ugly top-notch Italian stuff.’
‘Do you think it’s ugly?’ She looked around the room. ‘I’d describe it as cold rather than ugly.’
‘Ah then it makes sense you took it off her hands, cold being right up your alley.’ The words were out before he had a chance to filter them.
Lane looked startled, but only for a second, and then she was proving him right, taking a seat on the couch and reaching for the remote control, her face wiped of all expression. ‘Let’s get this done,’ she said, icy cool.
Adam stared at her fingers clutching the remote and knew he’d upset her and she was trying not to show it. He felt an almost overpowering urge to apologize, but he battled it back. She was cold. All right, she was cute, too. But cold. And controlled. And controlling. And … cute. And— ‘Sorry, Lane. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’ Okay, so it hadn’t been much of a battle.
‘Yes you did,’ she said. ‘And that’s okay. It’s true, after all. So shall I start the movie?’
‘Not yet. Look at me, Lane.’
She looked, still expressionless.
He took the remote out of her hand. ‘Why are you living a cast-off life, Lane? Your brother’s sweater. Your mother’s furniture. What else are you mopping up for them?’
‘It’s not mopping up when you want to do it.’
‘But why do you want to do it?’
‘Because it’s my fault they have no money.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means that the way the money was left turned out to be … unsatisfactory.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘And anyway, the furniture …’ She waved a vague hand at it. ‘It would have been a waste, to sell it. You lose a lot on used furniture, even when it’s barely been unpacked, unless it’s antiques you’re selling.’
Adam opened his mouth to tell her he knew all about antiques, then decided he’d rather hear what she had to say on the subject and closed it.
‘And even with antiques,’ she went on, obligingly, ‘you only make money if they’re really top quality.’
‘Good to know,’ he said, as visions of his antique-laden home danced through his head.
‘So, are you ready to watch the movie?’
‘You have a lot to learn about movie watching, sweetheart, if you think I’m r
eady yet. Pizza is always required. I’ll be ordering Quattro Formaggi, so choose your poison—you can have anything except ham and pineapple, which I refuse to order for anyone over the age of nine—and then give me two minutes to order it.’
‘Erica likes ham and pineapple.’
‘I am shuddering on the inside.’
Lane laughed. ‘Then I hope prosciutto and rocket won’t land me in the bad books too.’
‘That definitely puts you in the good books. Not only mine, but Massimo’s, who may be tempted to ditch my mother for you for that choice!’
Pizza ordered, Adam settled on the couch beside Lane and wasted no time tugging her close as she hit Play.
She pulled away—a reflex action?—but Adam drew her back more firmly and whispered, ‘Lesson Eight, remember, watching movies together,’ right into her ear.
He knew that would make her submit, straight-A student that she was.
Within five minutes, he was nuzzling her neck. Then he started running his fingers around her ear. He mixed up the assault a little, rubbing the sensitive skin on the underside of her wrist, dropping an occasional kiss on her temple, kneading her shoulder.
Her breathing quickly became chaotic, but she wasn’t reciprocating by touching him. Adam suspected she was hampered by having no idea what she should be doing.
He gave her a brief respite when the pizza arrived and they stopped to eat.
Pizza slice in one hand, fingers of the other drumming against her thigh, Lane looked at him, narrow-eyed. ‘You don’t know the first thing about this movie,’ she said.
‘Well … no, I don’t,’ Adam confessed, and grinned.
‘I knew it! You’ve barely watched a scene yet. I’m sure you’re much more au fait with Deep Throat.’
‘Well, come on, Deep Throat’s a cult classic. Although in reality quite tame by today’s porn standards. But the reason I’m not watching the movie is because I’m having more fun playing with you. And, yeah, while I’m in confession mode, you were on the money about the schmaltzy commitment theme not being to my taste. A hundred divorces in the family kind of leaches the romance out of your soul.’
She lowered the pizza and there was something in her eyes when she looked at him that made his chest ache.
‘What?’ he said, sounding defensive to his own ears and hating it.
‘I just … think … from the few things you’ve said … it must have been awful.’ Soft, tentative, sympathetic.
Adam took his time answering. ‘I don’t think about it in those terms,’ he said eventually.
‘Then how do you think about it?’
‘I think Sarah and I are lucky it wasn’t worse. At least we’ve had two parents standing with us, standing by us, for our whole lives. Not everyone gets that. You don’t have that.’
‘You’re right, I don’t, because I don’t have a father. And Erica doesn’t have either parent. She was raised by her grandparents after both her parents died of a drug overdose.’
‘I rest my case.’
‘But it’s not a competition, Adam, over who gets treated better or worse, or who has more or less to bear, who deserves more or less sympathy.’
‘I don’t want your sympathy, Lane.’
‘And I don’t want yours. I don’t need yours, Adam. In fact, I think … I think not believing in love, after having all those people come in to your life only to be snatched away again must be—’ She broke off as he started laughing. ‘What’s funny about that?’
‘Oh God,’ he said, still laughing. ‘Lane, you have no idea. We’ve had one great guy snatched away—or at least Bertie’s in the process of being snatched away, but that loses its pathos when you remember that I’m twenty-nine and Sarah’s twenty-four and we can both keep in touch with him. As for the rest, we wish they’d been snatched away a hell of a lot earlier than they were.’
She put down her pizza. ‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘Take Dad’s first remarriage, to the Cinderella stepmother.’
‘Cinderella stepmother,’ Lane repeated, and then said, ‘Oh.’
‘Yes, “Oh”,’ Adam said. ‘A right bitch. Penelope was her name, and beating the crap out of me was her game. At least when Dad saw this …’ he prodded a finger at his bisected eyebrow ‘… and then Sarah chimed in about the bruises on my back, Penelope was out the door fast enough to make the whole house spin, let alone anyone’s head.’
‘But you’re still scarred.’ And she just had to go and run her fingertip down the scar of his eyebrow, and he found he couldn’t pull away. He wanted her to touch it again, to touch him, even though he’d felt that slight touch all the way through him like a fucking hammer and it fucking hurt.
‘Girls love a scar you know,’ he said, and goddamn if he didn’t sound bitter when he’d meant to sound glib.
‘You must have hated her. Penelope. Why didn’t you tell your father sooner?’
‘It’s that thing I told you about Sarah and me being careful what we wished for because we’d probably get our wish. If Penelope was someone Dad really wanted, I didn’t want to be the one responsible for getting rid of her, not when—let’s face it—we could have moved to Mum’s for the duration of Penelope’s probationary period. Mum had got rid of Bryan by then so the coast was clear.’
‘Bryan?’
‘Bryan—who was a little too fond of Sarah and almost got himself castrated when I found out. But you know, the Bryan experience at least prepared us for Jane, Dad’s next wife, who decided she liked me a whole lot more than she liked Dad.’
‘I can’t—’ Lane said and, uh-oh, there was a sniffle. A definite sniffle. ‘I just … just can’t.’
‘Hey—don’t get all soppy,’ Adam said, alarmed. ‘This is old news you know. I thought you were all for not dwelling in the past.’
‘I can’t help it,’ she said, and she sounded distinctly quavery. ‘I can’t believe you’re talking about it like it’s no big deal. I can’t believe Sarah never told me all this herself. I can’t believe someone did that to her, that someone did that to you, that your parents let them.’
‘They didn’t let them, Lane; they got rid of them. And they’re the worst bits, I promise, no real harm done because Sarah and I looked out for each other and stuck up for each other and just … just dealt with it.’
‘The pact.’
‘The pact. And there was Bertie to cancel them all out; the only bad thing about Bertie is that he ended up being given his marching orders.’
The tears fell. ‘Why doesn’t Sarah tell your mother not to let him go?’
‘Because she can’t make Mum love him, Lane. Mum has the right to keep trying to find love if she’s crazy enough to want it. And Bertie has the right to not stay with a woman who doesn’t feel the way he feels about her. That would suck, and he deserves better than for life to suck. And we’ll still see Bertie, like I said. Plus, we’re pretty sure Massimo will be a pretty good replacement.’ Pause, waiting for Lane to snap out of it, but more tears fell. ‘No good?’
She shook her head, looking woebegone.
‘Okay, what if I tell you some of the funny parts?’ he asked. ‘Like how Mum’s third husband, Earl—a toy boy, to my everlasting shame—asked her to pay for his therapy because she’d given him an Oedipus complex, and she knocked out one of his teeth?’
Lane laughed at that—a watery laugh, but a laugh nonetheless—and Adam decided it was safe to restart the movie. But when he relaxed back against the couch, to the extent it was possible to relax on the hideous thing, Lane kissed him gently on the cheek, then awkwardly patted his hand and then … then held it. Nothing sexual about it—just meant to comfort him, he supposed, and the ache in his chest was back.
He didn’t like it. Didn’t trust it. He’d meant it when he said he didn’t want Lane’s sympathy. He didn’t even know why he’d shared those memories. Not dwelling in the past was a sentiment he agreed with. And yet he’d gone and dwe
lled in it, when he and Sarah really, truly, never talked about their stepparental trials and tribulations. They both figured they were over it.
Sarah apparently hadn’t told Lane anything about it in six years of close friendship, and yet he’d spilled his guts in under two weeks when he didn’t even know her. He couldn’t understand why unless it was that maybe … maybe he wasn’t over it, and that was why his chest was hurting like the devil. And if he wasn’t over it, maybe Sarah wasn’t over it either, and they were both stuck on their hopeless paths—Sarah searching for love, and him giving up on it.
Bottom line was that something in him had wanted Lane to know. Maybe as a way of warning her off him—don’t get too close; I’m not whole. Or maybe—and this was truly frightening—maybe he just wanted her to know him.
But once she knew him, what did he expect? That she’d tell him about her own fractured family? He didn’t care about her family.
Except that somehow he did.
It was the key to her. And he needed the key. Knew on some level that he needed it to protect himself from her … and her from him. Because three months was a long time to be with a person …
Enough! The best way to protect them both was to stick to the terms of the contract—which was about sex and only sex according to Lane—and stick to his plan to make her beg—which was about sex and only sex according to Adam.
Simple.
And so Adam upped the ante, wedging her tightly against his body and doubling his assault on her senses.
An ‘Oh’ shivered out of Lane when his fingers dipped below the neck of her sweater, stroking the sensitive flesh of her shoulder. ‘I can’t … I can’t … concentrate,’ she said. ‘Are we supposed to watch the movie first, I mean all the way through? Lesson Eight? Or can we … can we … skip it and just get … get to the sex?’
‘Well, Lane, the movie is just a means to an end,’ Adam said. ‘A way to build the sexual tension. We can watch it all the way through … or not. Can you feel it? The sexual tension? Building? Because I can. And I think that’s why you can’t concentrate.’
She turned to face him. Her eyes were wide, the pupils huge.
‘So forget the movie and tell me, Lane. Tell me you want me.’
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