British Bad Boys

by Nancy Warren

  There was a lamp burning in the corner of the room, giving a soft, golden light to the proceedings. When he eased back from kissing her, he saw that her face was softly tinged with the pink of arousal, her lips swollen, her breathing ragged.

  Need and want warred with care and consideration, so he was strung tight with conflicting desires as she began undoing the buttons of his shirt with fingers that quivered. Damn, he wished he’d sprinted over here in nothing but a robe. Would have saved him an agony, an eternity told out in buttonholes.

  After an eon, she got the last one undone and smoothed the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, as though she were afraid of wrinkling it. But her touch was soft and sure. And she did the maximum touching of his bare skin.

  He reached for the hem of her nightgown-silk and lace, not flannel-and brought it slowly up, unwrapping her like a gift. Her skin was post-summer golden. She was long, a little curvier than her clothes had led him to believe, her breasts small and high. “Beautiful,” he murmured as he kissed her again.

  She undid his belt, opened his fly, and then surprised the hell out of him when she reached inside and cupped him with her long-fingered, capable writer’s hands.

  He heard his breath draw in on a sharp hiss, felt the curve of her lips beneath his own. She was pleased with herself for shocking him, he could tell. He nudged against her hand a little, letting her explore to her heart’s content until he felt things getting a little too warm, then he backed away, toed off his trainers, stripped off his jeans and socks, and came back against her, rubbing her naked body with his.

  She was so soft, her skin fine and paler, even with her light tan, than his darker, hairier body. He probably looked like some great hairy beast to her. He must take extra care to go slowly, gently.

  Oh, she liked them hairy, she thought. Loved the rasp of his hair-roughened chest against her sensitive breasts. Loved his darkness against her paler skin.

  His mouth was everywhere, it seemed, nipping at her, eating her up.

  The bed was a mess from where she’d tossed and turned in it for hours, trying fruitlessly to convince herself she wasn’t scared. That the villain she’d so brilliantly created was in fact that, a product of her feverish and far too fertile imagination. That he wasn’t at this moment creeping up the stairs to stab her in the heart as he had his last victim. But it was no good. As she’d written the victim, she’d become her. Of course, only through feeling terror could she portray it for the reader. But imagining herself murdered took its toll. Why couldn’t she have found her niche writing fairy tales for toddlers?

  When Arthur wrapped his arms around her she felt comforted, not confined; when he pushed her to her back on the rumpled bed her skin trembled with excitement, not fear.

  He spread her legs and she felt herself burn with need. Oh, God. He was so big and gorgeous and it had been so long. He played with her, kissing her all over, touching her with hands that were as tough and leathery as she’d guessed, but that were surprisingly gently and sure.

  He’d brought condoms, thank God, since she hadn’t packed any.

  When he fitted himself to her, she felt that moment, that eternal moment, when he hovered on the brink. Not yet lovers, soon to be, and then, impatient of waiting, she grabbed his hips and pulled him into her.

  He spread her, filled her. And when their passion grew, he stabbed into her, her gorgeous, sexy villain, thrusting again and again. Even though she cried out, it wasn’t a dreadful end she experienced, but something new and very exciting.

  When at last they slept, the night was at its thickest and darkest, but she felt warm, comforted, and very, very safe.

  Chapter Seven

  The sound of rain drumming softly on the roof woke her. Meg’s eyes opened slowly and her whole body reveled in the luxury of a good, deep sleep. And she was warm, so warm.

  Gradually, she came to full consciousness and became aware of the naked body pressed against hers, the soft puff of Arthur’s breath against her hair, and that his big, workingman’s hand was curled possessively round her breast.

  She needed to pee, she needed coffee, she wondered what time it was. But still she didn’t move. She remembered the way they’d made love last night, learning each other, exploring, touching, tasting.

  The wind kicked up, and the rain drumming on the roof was joined in chorus by the drops slashing against the windowpane. What a great day to stay in bed and be lazy. They could make love all day, eat the food she’d bought-thank heavens-only two days ago. He could build them a fire. They’d be as cozy as alpine skiers nestled up at the lodge after a hard day on the slopes, with their roaring fire and their glühwein. Did Arthur ski? She knew so little about him. Except that he was the most exciting lover she’d ever known.

  She turned to look at him, his dangerous face softened by sleep. A coarse black beard already shadowed his jaw.

  She’d make him breakfast, she decided. And she’d give herself a whole day off. Sliding out carefully, she padded to the bathroom. She’d shower, get the coffee on, and make her new lover breakfast. How long had it been since she’d been this excited about a man? She pondered the question as she stepped into the shower and decided that she’d never in her life been this excited about a man.

  Arthur woke to the sound of water. At first he thought it was rain, then realized it was the shower. He glanced over at Meg’s spot, but of course it was empty.

  He blinked at the clock. Ten. They’d had a good lie-in, then. But after the night they’d spent, their bodies had needed the rest. He stretched, enjoying the pull in all his muscles, and the slight scent of Meg that clung to the bedclothes.

  He didn’t really need to be at the pub until evening. Joe was covering the lunch shift. Maybe he’d take Meg out for a good old English fry-up. Bangers and beans, eggs, fried tomato and fried bread, with lashings of hot tea. Then he’d bring her back here or take her to his place…

  Except that she’d been very frank about her need to work. Sure, she’d been the one to ring him up in the wee hours, but still, if he wanted to see her more than when she was shit-scared in the middle of the night, he’d have to show her he was sensitive to her need to work.

  Reluctantly, he rolled out of bed, yawning, and shoved himself back into his clothes.

  He was dying for a pee, but he’d wait until he got home, not sure how she’d feel about him barging into her bathroom to relieve himself on such short acquaintance. Of course, he’d been inside her body and knew the taste of her intimate juices, but women were incomprehensible about the bathroom.

  She seemed like a closed-door type. The shower had stopped, so he banged on the door in passing.

  “I’ll be off then, love,” he said. He wished he could join her in the shower, or take her back to bed all damp and smelling of soap, but she’d likely have his hide if he distracted her from her precious book.

  Her voice sounded odd. “You’re going?”

  “Yeah. Hope the work goes well today.”

  “Thank you.” She didn’t open the door, so he’d likely been right.

  “Well, cheerio.”

  “Yes. ’Bye.”

  He whistled as he ran down the stairs. He ought to do some tidying up at home, and maybe some shopping. And he’d definitely change his sheets. After all, nobody could work all day and night every day. Not even Meg.

  Because he was preoccupied he did a very stupid thing. He walked right out of Meg’s front door without having the bloody sense to have a doss out the window first, which is how he all but bashed straight into Maxine.

  He recoiled at the sight of her, feeling as stupid as though he’d been caught by his nanny doing something naughty. Her knowing smile didn’t help.

  “Well, hello, Arthur,” she purred. She wore wellies, a yellow mac, and a striped umbrella, and managed to look like a runway model.

  Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck. “Hi, Max. I was just…um…changing a lightbulb for Meg. Bloody things keep burning out. I’ll have to have a look at
the electrical when I get a minute.”

  “Good idea.” Her amusement circled him like smoke. “And next time you come to change a lightbulb, lover, make sure you fasten the buttons on your shirt in the right order.”

  He didn’t say another word, simply barged past her and plunged into the rain.

  When Meg heard the knocking on her door she thought Arthur must be back. Hopefully for breakfast. But then why didn’t he let himself in? Had he locked the door behind himself? But when she ran lightly down the stairs, in jeans and her favorite blue cotton sweater, it wasn’t Arthur standing there, but Maxine.

  “Oh,” she said, wondering why on earth she should feel embarrassed and whether Maxine could tell she was blushing.

  “Hey, neighbor. I just passed Arthur coming out of your place.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. I wonder what he was doing here so early.”

  “He was looking at the faucet in the upstairs bathroom. It sticks.” Luckily, the faucet did stick, and she’d been thinking of mentioning it or she never would have invented such a smooth lie. Not that she even wanted to lie to Maxine, but the relationship was too new. Anyway, she wasn’t even sure it was a relationship, especially not the way Arthur had sprinted out the door this morning without so much as a cup of coffee or a kiss good-bye.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asked Max, who was still standing, dripping on her doorstep.

  “No. I’m not staying. You left one of your earrings last night. It must have fallen off at dinner.” She dug into her pocket and emerged with a dangle of amber.

  “Thanks. I didn’t even notice. The catch must be loose.” She took the earring and played with it like worry beads. “I haven’t started work yet. I’m going to make some coffee for myself. I wish you’d stay.” Maxine did not strike Meg as a woman who would slog through mud to return an earring. Something was on her mind, and even if it was no more than nosiness about Arthur and her, she wouldn’t mind the distraction of another woman’s company.

  “Well, okay.” Maxine stepped inside, removing her damp outer clothes and stepping out of her boots.

  She wore thick woollen socks that someone had knit by hand. Meg had a feeling the socks were a new part of her wardrobe since she’d moved here.

  “What?” Maxine said, following her gaze. “Did I put two different socks on? I do sometimes.”

  “No. I was thinking you probably didn’t bring those socks from L.A. ”

  A snort of laughter greeted her. “You’re right. I pretty much had to abandon my L.A. wardrobe.” She sighed softly. “There are days I really miss Rodeo Drive.”

  “So? What’s the deal with you and George?”

  She shook her head and looked helpless. “Bliss. Pure bliss. I cannot help myself. I’m crazy about that man.”

  “You know, it doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s crazy about you, too.”

  “All I wanted was documentary footage of the earl. Who’d have thought I’d end up with the earl himself?”

  “Will you stay?”

  “I think so. I’m in negotiation for a series that would be a joint production of the company I work for and the BBC. But”-she shrugged-“if it doesn’t work out, I think I can keep myself busy on the estate.”

  “Wow. Isn’t it hard to leave your home?”

  “It’s hard to leave the people you love. I have a sister who needs me right now. She just got divorced and her job is probably going to end. I feel a long way away. But”-she looked out of the window in the direction of the manor house-“you make your home, too. I think mine is here.”

  Meg couldn’t imagine moving across an ocean for a man, but she’d seen the way George and Maxine were together. For love like that? Maybe.

  She poured coffee and served it.

  “I’m glad Arthur fixed the faucet for you.”

  “It was really no big deal,” she said, wishing Maxine would shut up already about the faucet.

  “It’s funny. When I bumped into him, he told me he was here replacing a lightbulb.”

  Their gazes met. Maxine raised one eyebrow. “And his shirt was buttoned all wrong.”

  Meg put her coffee down, the ceramic mug making a sharp click against the table. She slumped back and looked at the ceiling, feeling like her mom had just caught her sneaking in past curfew and she was about to be grounded. “Okay, so I slept with him. And I’m not apologizing for lying to you about it. It’s so new. Last night was our first time and it was-oh, God, I’m babbling.”

  “You’re cute when you babble. Hey, I think it’s great, and don’t think I’m trying to pry into your private life. But it’s hard. You know? I’ve been a journalist and researcher for a long time. And this is my first stint as a matchmaker. I got curious. Can’t help it.”

  Meg sat forward, thinking that journalists were also pretty good at spreading news. “You tell anybody anything and I’ll make you the murder victim in my next book. Got it?”

  “Absolutely. I won’t tell a soul.” Maxine’s eyes were dancing, and Meg was suddenly glad she had a female friend here. Even though they’d only recently met, she had a good feeling that she and Maxine were destined to be friends.

  “And, since you’re obviously dying to know, it was fantastic.”

  “Hah. I knew it. I always figured he had to be good in bed. Some guys, you can just tell. I thought last night that there was something happening between you two.”

  “Hey, it’s nothing really,” Meg said, thinking of how he’d disappeared so fast this morning. “Only a casual holiday thing.”

  “Arthur’s not the casual type,” Maxine informed her. “Since I’ve been here, I haven’t seen him fixing anybody else’s faucet or replacing her lightbulbs.”

  “Really?” Her heart bumped and she wasn’t sure whether the knowledge that she wasn’t one in a string of women made her feel better or worse.

  “I’m not saying he’s a saint, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure he has women, but he’s not a player, if you know what I mean.”

  Maxine didn’t stay long. After a little more of the female bonding of a good gossip over a cup of coffee, she left.

  Meg slapped peanut butter on whole wheat toast, because it was a healthy breakfast, and ate it with a banana for potassium. She did not think about what she would have eaten had Arthur stayed.

  Then she cleaned up her small kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, turned the phone off and the computer on, and sat at her desk, while her coffee grew cold and the cursor blinked at her, teasing.

  She thought about Arthur and what she’d learned of him last night. A man who could kill. A man who had killed. That’s why she’d seen him so clearly as her villain, that first day. It wasn’t merely his rugged, dark good looks and the hint of danger. It was something deeper that she’d glimpsed without understanding what it was. That dark place inside him.

  Many men and women went to war. Many had come home, and how many carried that dark shadow within them?

  A man of many parts, of darkness and of light.

  When she began typing, she followed her villain as he went home, having stabbed his victim through the heart, which was his individual signature. She entered with him into his home in the suburbs, where he climbed into bed and made slow, tender love to his wife.

  She shivered when she wrote the next scene, where he arrived at his appointment the next morning with her novel’s protagonist, his psychiatrist. Meg knew what the psychiatrist didn’t. She was his next intended victim.

  She finished her work for the day, feeling excited. For some reason, this book that had been so stubborn to begin was now flowing. She packed up her computer and walked up to Hart House, where Maxine had told her she could use the Internet connection. After checking her e-mail and finding an amusing story from one of her writing pals, and some routine messages from various friends and relatives, she felt as though she’d never left home.

  If she lifted her head, she’d see her own office wall, with her calendar, her in
spirational framed quotes, her own book covers which her father always had framed for her. She’d look out her window to waving cedar trees and the bird feeder where the chickadees played.

  She’d spent a lot of time in the last few months watching the chickadees, so much so that she could identify a few of them. And there was the crow who liked to give them a bad time, and the cat from next door who would watch from the ground, tail flicking.

  Now, when she raised her head she saw a small Vermeer. Behind her left shoulder was an honest-to-God suit of armor, and on the walls of the office were various family photos: the weddings, picnics, usual fare, except that some of these family snaps included members of the royal family.

  And that’s when she knew she was miles from home. Some days it seemed like centuries from home.

  She e-mailed the first few chapters of her book to her agent, knowing her rejuvenated muse was going to make one man in New York very happy.

  When she’d sent the chapters, she packed up her laptop once more and emerged to find Maxine pacing the grand entrance hall with a cell phone glued to her ear, giving rapid-fire instructions to some poor lackey. She held up a hand to Meg indicating she should wait.

  Wiggins walked in his slow, stately way across the flagstone entry hall, his very blank expression giving away his disapproval of Maxine’s conversation. Did he disapprove of her doing business in the front hall? Ignoring a guest? The very notion of the cell phone? Probably a bit of all three, Meg decided, responding to his greeting of “Good afternoon, miss” with “Good afternoon, Wiggins.”

  Maxine wrapped up with an order to “overnight me the script.” Then she clicked her phone shut and turned her attention to Meg. “Had a great idea,” she said.