by Anne Martin
He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Room service. I ordered the usual breakfast.”
I glared at him. “So I get to experience the legendary post-workout Horse breakfast. They say you’re better than Pilates.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Trixie, I cannot not respond to your dialogue. If you want me to keep it clean, you have to do the same.” He winked at me, which said all he needed to about how much better he was than Pilates, and went to the door.
It was breakfast. I stayed out of sight while he wheeled in copious amounts of food. So much food. I sat down at the charming little table for two that would barely fit one plate.
He shook his head and opened the far door, the one that apparently led to his real life. He probably kept the chains and cages in there. “Come on. We can eat more comfortably in here.”
I followed the food because what else was I supposed to do?
His real apartment was ridiculously classy. I took two steps in and froze, staring at what looked like a small Renoir hanging above the scroll-arm sofa. The sofa was dusty blue velvet and looked made for curling up on beneath the golden cashmere throw resting over the arm. I just stared at that sitting area while I struggled to mesh that with everything I knew about the city’s biggest man-whore.
“It’s not a Kincaide, but I’m holding out for an original.”
I glanced over at Horse. He winked from the other room, partially open, but with pocket doors that could close the dining room and it’s plant and book-lined walls. It had a corner window and when I walked in, had the feel of a conservatory, an English one. The table was ridiculously fancy. He was setting it with a white tablecloth and real china. Real china.
I shook my head and leaned against the doorway. I watched him partially in awe at the sight of all that muscle touching something so precious, partially just amused.
“You already know I’m a snob,” he said without looking at me. “I don’t think you realized the depth of my affliction.” He looked up at me with a smirk that made my stomach ache.
I looked away and moved to the bookshelves. Philosophy. Poetry. Leather bound signed first editions. I groaned and had this completely irrational craving for cheesecake. And Horse. His real name was not Horse, not if he had serious classics in his wannabe greenhouse dining room. I ran my fingers over the spines. The texture was incredible, aged, some of them crumbling, and they smelled so good.
“Are you smelling my books?” His voice was low, rumbling, and came from directly behind me.
I stepped away from the shelf and into him. His arms came around me like that was the most natural place in the world for them to be. For a second shock kept me there before my sense of self-preservation kicked in and I stomped on his instep and ducked out of his arms.
He grinned at me while he rubbed his foot. “Even barefoot, you’re lethal. You stepped into my arms.”
“I didn’t. I stepped away from the shelf.”
He nodded, but there was that smirk. “Do you want to eat?”
I blinked because I expected something a little more loaded. I nodded and went to the table. He pulled a chair out for me. I was so shocked, I just sat down while he adjusted me the right distance from the table. I stared at him while he sat down across from me and put a crisp white napkin on his lap before he started buttering a croissant.
“Your mouth is open. That doesn’t make me want to do anything other than put something purely edible in it.” He broke a chunk of croissant and held it out.
I blinked and shook my head, shoving it back at him. “You don’t butter croissants. Are you insane? Do you want a heart attack? All right. What’s this about? You’re more hoity toity than I gave you credit for, but you aren’t a prince charming. Are you?”
He didn’t look at me while he ate, and I finally started on the incredible food on offer. The bacon was still warm on the covered hot plate. It was even crispy. I forgot about my suspicions and questions while I ate and drank the tea he poured for me. Finally, I’d done a lot of damage and pushed my plate back.
“Horse, what’s your angle?”
He nodded like he’d made a decision. “Pixel is an okay driver, but he doesn’t have a relationship with his vehicles. You tune your lovers to respond to your every whim and pleasure. I want you to do an overhaul on two new vehicles, adapted to suit Pixel’s tendencies.”
“Pulling too hard left?”
He hesitated then nodded. “And the way he takes his turns gives me heartburn.”
“He rails his turns. There’s nothing wrong with that. I can do something with the braces. What kind of vehicles are we talking about? You have to agree to turn them over to me when you’re finished with them.”
He grinned at me. “Done.”
I held up my hands. “Hang on. I didn’t agree to anything.”
He smirked. “Of course not. What bed do you want?”
“Bed?” Why was my mouth watering? It had nothing to do with the way he stretched his arms behind his head showing off the bulging muscles in his arms.
“I have my personal room, very posh, pretentious, you’d hate it, but maybe not as much as sleeping in a bed where others have been before you.”
I winced. The germs. I stood up and shoved the chair over the fancy floor. He flinched at the sound of scratching wood. Such a snob. I’d actually slept in a bed full of who knew how many people’s bodily fluids. It was a king bed. There was a lot of room for a lot of bodily fluids. Breakfast wasn’t settling very well.
“Where are you going?” He followed me out of the dining room. I took a wrong turn and ended up in a kitchen.
I froze for a second, staring at the La Cornue stove that would have my mother in paroxysms of pleasure before I shook my head and found the living room with its mellow impressionist paintings and that cozy, cozy couch. Was that a real fireplace? Why on earth in Vegas would he need a real fireplace? No, just gas. Good thing. I turned the door handle and was in the black and red bedroom, very masculine, very impersonal with Marilyn Monroe and Elvis velvet painting on the walls just mocking the taste of whoever he had in his bed. He was so vile.
“It’s not safe for you to go roaring out of my room, and it won’t be safe for me after they connect me to whoever was after you. Look, you can sleep on the couch if that’s what you want.”
I stopped walking.
“It’s not technically as comfortable as the bed, either one, and I hate bedding not on beds, but for the things you can do to Daisy and Duke, I’m willing.”
I whirled around. “What kind of vehicles?” Not that I was agreeing.
He raised his eyebrows. “First, what do you have against being in a used bed? You live in a hotel.”
“I bought a new bed.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I could buy a new mattress.”
“As you pointed out so conscientiously, I should watch for chemicals. Mattresses off-gas horribly.”
“Organic mattress for you and the baby.”
I crossed my arms. “This isn’t like you. Why cater to me?”
“I’d cater to more than…” He shook his head. “I’m keeping it innuendo free. Such a hard thing to do. I mean, difficult.” He winked at me. “I’ve always wanted you to work for me.”
“I wouldn’t be working for you.”
He shrugged and crossed his arms, mimicking my pose. “You’d be working on my vehicles in trade for my protection.”
I scowled at him. “I don’t need protection.”
“No? You look a little pale. Are you sure you don’t want to lie down?”
I glanced towards the black bed. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“So, you do mind that I’m a slut.”
“Man-whore. No, it’s the bodily fluids. I can’t stand the idea that Horse and who knows how many other people tainted those sheets with who knows what substances. I slept on that.” I shuddered.
He walked over to the bed, threw back the coverlet, ripped off the sheets and mattress pads then went to the clos
et and pulled out brand new, still in the plastic ones. He proceeded to make the bed. I sat down on the couch because I felt a little bit wan. I didn’t do wan, as a rule, but here I was, all faint and sickly from one man’s fluids.
“I’ll have you know that I put my laundry through extremely stringent cleansing methods, but for you, until I can get you a brand new mattress and sheets, black and white stripes.”
I watched his body move, lifting the mattress like he was wrestling with a serious opponent, muscles bunching and flexing, and then he got the whole thing settled and made up. The sheet’s corners were precise, perfect, the same attention to detail that he gave to his team.
“What kind of vehicles,” I asked.
“I’d like to discuss it with you. You know Pixel, and you know what’s available.”
“I could get you something that would screw up Pixel worse than he already is.”
He grunted. “Not possible. You wouldn’t be so mean to a machine.”
“True.” I smiled at him when he turned to face me.
He smiled back and he had a slight sheen to his face from his athletic bed dressing. My stomach tightened and I had a flashback of his arms around me on the motorbike, holding me with his hands covering my stomach like he was guarding something precious.
I cleared my throat. “What exactly are you offering in exchange for this truck pimping I’ll be doing?”
“No one said anything about pimping. This is an honest business exchange.”
“Mm hmm. It’s okay. This is Vegas. Everything’s legal, or might as well be. Well?”
There was a knock on the door. I actually went towards Horse and gripped the back of his shirt, so his body was between me and the door.
He reached back and patted my hand. “You really didn’t like being drugged and kidnapped like some helpless girl. It’s the doctor.”
“What? I didn’t want a doctor.”
“Yes, you did. Are you coming to the door with me, or would you rather wait on the couch?”
I closed my eyes for a second. A doctor was a good idea. “Wait a second.” I took down the tacky paintings and shoved them in the closet before I nodded at him. “Okay.”
He stared at me for a second. “Interesting. You do live in Vegas.”
“I’m from New York.”
He smiled slowly. “Oh, and I’m the snob. I see.” He turned to open the door.
I scowled at him. “Don’t be all smug.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I can hear you being smug from across the hotel.”
“You listen to my smugness often? You have the strangest hobbies.” He opened the door and checked outside before he let the doctor in. He was young, handsome, and blond. When he saw me, his eyes widened slightly before he glanced at Horse and then came over to the couch where I sat.
He had my medical records. The gist was that it was a miracle that I was pregnant and after the levels of drugs I’d had, it was a miracle I hadn’t spontaneously miscarried. My blood pressure was high, my urine full of too much protein, which meant I had preeclampsia and needed at least four weeks of bed rest.
“Excuse me?” I stared at the doctor who didn’t look nearly as handsome as he had before he’d checked my urine.
He flushed and adjusted the neck of his white jacket. “I realize that you’re used to a certain level of activity, but you’re going to have to take it easy if you want this baby full term. I’ll let you two discuss it alone.” He took off as fast as he could, leaving me with Horse who leaned against the wall where the Elvis painting had been.
“What just happened?” I stared at the door the doctor had escaped through before I could take my wrath out on him.
“I knew I should have recorded all of that. People would pay so much to see Trixie O’Hara on her back.”
I threw a pillow at him, the uncomfortable one he kept on the leather chair. He caught it easily. “I thought that you were going to cut out the sexist pig remarks?”
He grinned at me. “I was talking about you on bed rest. Which bed would you like? Big black one full of sex tracks, or my personal bed which has only been tainted by my own germs?”
“How did this happen? I go through my life without any trouble, then one night’s stupidity and I’m agreeing to spend the next four weeks in Horse’s bed?”
I went over to the black thing, climbed in, and pulled the comforter over my head.
“I’ll take it that you prefer this one. You aren’t a tiny bit curious what my inner-inner sanctum looks like, never before beheld by woman?”
“Go away.”
He laughed and patted my head through the blanket. “I’ll be back. Think about what you want for dinner. I’m a terrible cook, but if you want something very simple, an egg, ramen, I could probably manage.”
I sat up and threw back the blanket. “You have a Lecornu and you don’t cook? That’s the most immoral thing I’ve ever heard. You really are diabolical.”
His grin was the most delicious thing. I wanted to kiss him. Why would I want that? Clearly I needed more than bed rest. Still, what was the harm in it?
I beckoned him closer.
He came over and sat down on the edge. “I’m going to get your things from your place. What do you need? Do you sleep naked or prefer pajamas?” He managed to say that without a leer.
I suddenly realized that if I kissed him, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’d wanted more of him since the elevator. If I couldn’t control my own desires, I needed to get away from Horse as quickly as possible. But the thing is, I was scared. It wasn’t about me. I could take care of myself, and if I needed backup, my family was tight, but what if I’d lost my miracle? If Horse hadn’t come to rescue me, I’d already have lost it.
I needed him, at least for the time being. I swallowed. “Pajamas. Get my ugly ones. Ugly everything. That’s the far left top drawer.” I closed my eyes tight. “You’re going to be in my room. Keep your pants on, okay? No random hookups on the way there and back.” I opened my eyes and stared at him. “Do you think you can manage it?”
“Good thing you brought it up. I’ll do my best. If I can’t help myself, I’ll be sure to put Saran wrap on every possible surface first.” He kissed my forehead and pushed me back down, tucking me in like I was a toddler. It was the sweetest kiss anyone had given me since my dad had tucked me in when I had my tonsils out.
“Horse?”
He paused, one hand on the door, dark blue eyes intent and full of something.
“Thanks. And be careful. And take your shoes off by the door.”
He grinned suggestively. “So, that’s what you want me to take off first. Good to know. I’ll be back before you know it. Rest well.”
Chapter 6
Horse Demon a.k.a. Nathaniel David VanBuren
Her place was smaller than mine, naturally, and cleaner. I didn’t expect that. Minimalist was one word for it. She had a calendar and a little black book, but when I leafed through, no lovers scheduled. There was lunch with Minx tomorrow. She’d have to cancel unless she wanted Minx at my place.
I hesitated at the thought of Trixie actually living in my apartment, acting like she belonged with me. Was I comfortable allowing her to invade my privacy? I’d begged her to invade my privacy. I wanted her in my bed, my real one, and I wanted her to stay. I’d spent the night with her in the black guest bed, trying to calm down. Someone had come into my hotel to hurt one of my guests, one of my associates, one of my, well, we were sort-of friends, weren’t we? I’d have to work on that. I knew how to do friendship, more or less, but it didn’t come naturally to me, and with the chemistry between us, with her staying with me, I’d have to be very, very careful.
I went through her closets. Her show wardrobe was all leather, corsets and bustiers that highlighted every one of Trixie’s assets. The woman was a goddess. And she was afraid of bodily fluids, but had somehow gotten pregnant. The feminine mystique was strong with this one.
The ugly clothes drawer had an old blue robe and a few nightshirts in various prints, my favorite being a jersey cow. Was she secretly from New Jersey instead of New York? The scandal! She’d known my paintings. I’d heard her muttering them under her breath, and my books had made her hot enough to want to take me on the table. After she’d eaten. The woman could eat, and the way she looked at me, she knew precisely how to consume a man as well. I kept thinking of way she’d kissed me. I shouldn’t think about that.
She clearly didn’t take lovers often, not if this was her den of sin, but when she did, it was epic. The messages from the amoeba were proof of that. Her reputation wasn’t entirely off-base, except that she didn’t keep lovers. She would definitely have a problem being with a swinger. The germs. I grinned as I went through her cabinet filled with various kinds of toxic cleanser. She was definitely from New Jersey.
When I got back to the room, Trixie was pacing from one end of my house to the other, minus my bedroom.
“Trixie, bed rest means not walking around,” I said with a smile as I handed her the pajamas.
Her eyes widened in panic she didn’t want to show as she held the bundle to her chest. “Why does it feel like this is all an elaborate plot to get me in your bed?”
I shrugged. “It’s the least clever plot imaginable since you’ll be in bed all by yourself. Please, Trix, you need to get off your feet.”
She scowled darkly, but went to the couch, curling up in the corner and tucking her feet under her. “I called Nix and the girls, said I was going home for a few weeks for a family emergency. Four weeks without racing. Four weeks without work, living with you.” She stared at me, like she couldn’t believe her good fortune. Or bad fortune more likely.
I smiled cheerfully and tucked the throw around her. “You sound like a workaholic. In that case, you’d better start on the schematics for Pixel’s outfit.”