Dear Diary

by Nancy Bush

“Just a minute! Oh, holy—” She bit off the epithet and hurried to the door.

  Tugging her bathrobe close to her throat, she threw open the door. “I’m not ready,” she told Nick. “You’ll have to give me a few minutes.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He was in faded jeans and a soft cotton blue shirt with the sleeves pushed up. The collar was open and offered Rory an unrestrained view of his tanned throat and a hint of his chest hairs.

  “Just a minute,” she muttered, hurrying back to the bedroom. She felt rushed and strange. It’s just Nick, she reminded herself as she pulled on a pair of white jeans. Just Nick.

  Tossing on an aqua tank top over her head, she covered it with a sheer gray over-shirt. Then she slipped on sandals, grabbed her bag and returned to the living room. Nick was standing in the center of the room. Though she didn’t want to, she noticed the way his jeans hung low on his hips, the breadth of his shoulders, and the thickness of his hair.

  “What are you frowning about?” he asked.

  “You’d never understand.” Rory headed for the door. “Okay, Mr. Shard. Let’s eat.”

  He took her to his condo on the southeast shore of Lake Washington. Fleetingly Rory thought about how successful Nick had become. He’d received a substantial inheritance when his father died, but Rory suspected he’d never touched that capital. His business had already been flourishing.

  “You know, you could have been a terrible snob,” she remarked as they walked up the front steps of his townhouse.

  “Where’d that come from?” He produced a set of keys and unlocked the door.

  “I was just remembering high school. All the girls chased after you because you were rich and good looking.”

  “I wasn’t rich.” He swallowed back a laugh. “But I’ve always been good looking.”

  “And humble,” she added dryly. “Your family was upper-middle-class. Close enough.” Rory threw him a smile. “Now you’re rich. And successful, too. It must be a terrible burden.”

  Nick studied her for a moment. “It’s never cut any ice with you, though, has it?”

  His condo was elegant and personified. Dark wood furniture gleamed. Frosted-glass cylinder sconces were scattered along the entry hall and lighted the short corridor to the kitchen. A mahogany staircase curved to a gallery that surrounded the upper floor completely.

  Rory’s gaze lifted to the sparkling silver and glass chandelier lit by at least fifty flame-shaped bulbs. “Now that’s subtle.”

  “Ostentation is the prerogative of the nouveau riche.” He tossed his keys on a tiny, ornate table near the foot of the stairs.

  “Who said that?” demanded Rory, following Nick as he headed for the kitchen.

  “I did. You should’ve seen my place in San Francisco. It was a hovel. I decided to live it up.”

  “Oh, my God. This is enough to make every proletarian hair on my body stand on end.” Rory gazed out the windows to the sweeping view of Lake Washington. In the dying twilight the purple water moved, stretching toward the horizon. Faintly, against the opposite shore, she could see a ragged skyline of trees and lovely waterfront homes against the fading blue sky.

  “Proletarian, eh?” Nick pulled a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator and uncorked it with two deft twists. He filled two glasses nearly to the brim and balanced them carefully in one hand as he swept up the bottle with his other hand. He walked to the dining room where Rory stood transfixed, her gaze on the vast lake. “You look pretty successful and upper crust to me.”

  She gently took one glass from his strong fingers. Champagne again. Her chest tightened involuntarily. “I’ve already had a glass of wine today. My headache’s sure to start as soon as I take another sip.”

  “As long as you keep drinking, you’re okay. It’s when you stop that it hurts.” He clinked his glass against hers. The soft musical pings sounded loud in the quiet room.

  “If that’s an excuse to get drunk, forget it. I’ve got too much to do tomorrow.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like appease my new boss. He gave me a new account a few weeks ago, and it’s hard to keep up.”

  Nick stopped, his glass halfway to his lips. “Is that right?”

  “I’m not complaining, or anything,” Rory said hastily. “But some other people might be.” Rory tipped up her champagne glass to her lips her eyes travelling up the wall to the crown molding along the ceiling.

  “Don.” Nick grimaced. “Don’t worry, I’m taking care of him.”

  Rory didn’t like the sound of that. “I was half joking, Nick. What do you mean?”

  “Forget it. Come on. I personally prepared a terrific meal for us and I want to serve it on the balcony before it gets completely dark.”

  Rory was instantly distracted. “You cooked it?”

  “I haven’t lived alone all these years without learning a thing or two.”

  “You’re putting me on.”

  “You told me not to laugh at your cooking skills, don’t laugh at mine. Sit down out there,” he ordered, pointing toward the French doors and the balcony beyond. “I’ll bring it to you.”

  Rory managed to close her mouth and do as she was told. Her pulse raced. Her lungs felt tight. This was how it had been with Ryan, she remembered with a pang. Every minute had seemed so important. Only this, this, was a thousand times worse.

  Her hands shook slightly as she sat down at the glass-topped table in front of the straw placemat. Gleaming silver flatware with an engraved S was laid out. She’d seen that flatware when she’d had dinner with Nick and his parents eons ago.

  She heard the soft chime of the microwave timer and smelled luscious, tangy scents. “So you’re into Lean Cuisine, too,” she called. “Quick, nutritious and microwavable.”

  “Didn’t I say I made this myself?” he threw back.

  A minute later he brought out a large wooden tray with hammered silver handles. A glass bowl filled with a familiar looking asparagus salad sat on one side, two china plates on the other. Rory frowned. Wasn’t this just like the asparagus salad she’d ordered last week? The one the caterers had delivered?

  Nick brought out two more bowls, a smug smile on his face. Rory’s eyes widened in disbelief. There was the chicken and apple dish. And that one was just like the vegetable medley she’d ordered.

  “Well?” Nick asked, raising innocent brows as he refilled her champagne glass and sat down across from her.

  A brisk gust off the water tossed her hair in front of her eyes. Rory’s eyes danced and she stared down at her plate, fighting back laughter.

  “What do you think of my cooking?”

  She thought of Michelle’s insistence that she have dinner with Nick. Michelle had talked to Nick last week. She’d probably recommended the same caterer.

  “You… really made… all this?” she managed to choke out.

  “Every last calorie.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Is there something wrong?” Nick demanded, growing wise.

  Rory collapsed into laughter. She pressed her hand to her mouth and fought back choking gasps. Tears burned her eyes. She glanced at Nick.

  Twisting his glass between his fingers, Nick slowly grinned, “You know, don’t you?”

  “Nick,” She gasped. “This is what I was going to serve you!”

  His gaze was utterly blank.

  “Did Michelle suggest your caterer?”

  His jaw dropped. “Michelle,” he growled in betrayal.

  Rory laughed harder, shaking.

  “Your sister talked me into this caterer,” he bellowed. “She said he was the best in the business.”

  “And told you to fob it off as your own cooking,” Rory gasped. “That’s what I was going to do until you got sick.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes!” Rory laughed in delight.

  Nick started to chuckle. The more he thought about it, the funnier it was. Finally he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “
That does it. We’ve got to pay Michelle back.”

  Remembering her sister’s problems, Rory slowly sobered. “Let’s wait on that. She’s so worn out by the twins she probably wouldn’t appreciate it.” Forking up some of the chicken dish, Rory added around a mouthful of food, “This is good, though. I should know. I’ve eaten enough of it.”

  “Serves you right for trying to trick me.”

  The corners of his eyes creased with humor. He lifted his glass to her in a salute, and Rory noticed the sensual curve of his mouth. Her throat tightened uncomfortably. There were qualities Nick possessed that she truly loved. He was the kind of man who was easy to fall in love with. If she were willing to risk her heart, she would do as Michelle suggested and leap into a relationship with him with her eyes wide open.

  He met her gaze, his expression turning serious. In the flash of a heartbeat the mood changed. Goosebumps rose on Rory’s flesh. She attacked the meal with an energy and appetite she didn’t feel, then ended up pushing her plate aside, barely touched.

  “More champagne?” Nick asked casually.

  “No. Thanks.”

  A yellow-jacket buzzed threateningly above the table. Nick swatted it away, then thrust his own plate to one side. “I think I need something stronger.”

  “Like what?” Rory shoved back her chair and followed him into the kitchen. The last thing she wanted was another drink, but she felt nervous and restless. Afraid.

  It was ridiculous.

  Nick was reaching to a high cupboard above the granite counter, his shirt straining against his shoulders. “How about brandy?”

  The pesky yellow-jacket shot into the kitchen, buzzing between Nick and Rory. Rory involuntarily stepped backward, then clamped her hand to her mouth in horror as the bee landed on Nick’s shoulder and walked toward his collar.

  “Don’t move.” she commanded. “The bee’s on your collar.”

  Nick turned to stone. Rory swept her hand across his collar, then shrieked, “Oh, my God. Nick, I knocked him inside your shirt.”

  “What?”

  Nick was unbuttoning the front of his shirt as fast as he could. Without thinking, Rory yanked the sleeves down his shoulders, turning back the fabric. The yellow-jacket appeared, struggling in the folds of cloth. Rory jerked her head backward as the bee zoomed toward her, before zigzagging toward the other room.

  “Well,” Nick said, twisting his neck. His back was frozen, his arms, still entrapped in his sleeves, were at his sides. Every muscle in his back was taught and rigid. Rory stared at the smooth plane of his skin. There was strength in the definition of each muscle, a sinewy power that was fascinating, irresistible.

  “Damn it all, Rory,” he said with forced patience. “Where’s the yellow-jacket?”

  She let go of his shirt, suddenly aware of how warm and smooth his skin was.

  “It’s gone. It’s okay.”

  Nick slowly turned to face her. “You’re sure?” he asked suspiciously.

  She nodded, gesturing vaguely toward the French doors, feeling slightly faint. “It headed that way.”

  The hair on his chest arrowed downward, dark but not heavy. Rory fixed her gaze on the base of his throat. She swallowed hard.

  At first Nick was too distracted to notice Rory’s awed silence. But when he looked into her eyes they shone with a naked need. Desire flamed through him even though he didn’t trust what he saw. He’d wanted her too long and too badly to believe the truth even when it stared out at him from the shadowed depths of her wide blue eyes.

  “Rory?” he asked, lifting her chin with one finger, feeling her skin quiver beneath his hands.

  Rory’s pulse quickened. She saw the swift change that crossed his face, heard his intake of breath.

  “Help me get this off,” he said thickly, holding out his wrists.

  “Your… shirt?”

  “Unbuttoned the cuffs.”

  “No, Nick.” Rory retreated. But his fingers clasped her hand, dragging her toward him. Her palms connected with the warm skin of his chest, her fingernails curling into the crisp hairs.

  She met his gaze and saw herself reflected in his eyes. Swallowing, she glanced down in bemusement at his cuffs. As if from a great distance, she saw herself undo the buttons. His hands and wrists were deeply tanned and masculine. She’d never noticed before.

  He smelled good, too. That citrusy scent mixed with his own earthy smell. She filled her lungs, listening to his even breathing.

  When the cuffs were free, Nick yanked the shirt completely off and tossed it heedlessly on the floor. Slowly he reached for her, his fingers spanning her waist.

  “I can’t do this,” Rory said, pulse tripping.

  “Just let it happen.” His fingers gathered the hem of her sheer over-shirt, ready to slide it up her torso and over her head.

  “Nick…” she protested faintly.

  She felt his hands warm against her rib cage, holding her just beneath her breasts, his thumbs stroking her skin. “Do you know I’ve wanted you for years?” he said in a possessive voice that sent a thrill down her spine.

  “Nick… please…”

  “But it was so clear what you thought of me when I kissed you that first time that I never had the courage to ask again.”

  He gently, firmly, pulled the gray top over her head and dropped it on the floor next to his own shirt. Rory’s nipples stood taut and erect against her aqua tank top. “You didn’t want me then. You don’t want me now,” she said.

  “If this isn’t wanting,” he countered soberly, “I don’t know what is.”

  Rory’s heart lurched, then jumped again when his hands caressed her shoulders and neck before cupping her face, his thumbs gliding softly over her quivering lips.

  “You want me, too.”

  She couldn’t lie. She couldn’t speak. His head bent downward, his mouth finding hers with unerring accuracy. His breath was sweetly scented and warm and his mouth tasted of champagne. Rory’s lashes fluttered closed in spite of herself. What was one kiss? One simple kiss?

  The image of her father in another woman’s arms flashed across her mind. She could see it as clearly as if it were a moment ago. She could feel the anguish as if it had just happened.

  “Rory,” murmured Nick in a tortured voice.

  The image vanished. This was now and this was Nick. All her good intentions dissolved beneath his passion. His arms tightened around her. His breath expelled in a rush.

  His mouth was hot and wet and demanding. Desire surged through her veins. She clung to him, shaking. His hands slid convulsively down her spine, molding her to him, pressing her thighs against the hard pressure of his.

  “Nick,” she protested again, against his lips.

  “Shhh. Don’t say it.” She felt one hand move toward her breasts. Her skin tingled with expectation. She wanted to wriggle and move, aid him in touching her. She shifted instinctively, moaning with both fear and pleasure when his hard fingers finally possessed one straining, quivering breast. Nick caressed her through the thin cotton tank, his breath quickening. “I don’t want to wait anymore,” he urged tensely.

  He kissed her again, his tongue making little stabbing forays into her mouth, a precursor to his intentions. Rory went limp with emotion. She didn’t want to fight. She wanted everything he had to give her.

  Nick groaned at her submissiveness, clasping her so tightly her breath squeezed from her lungs. “Rory,” he murmured, his fingers tugging on the hem of her tank top, pulling it free.

  The cool air against her skin was a dash of sanity. “Not here,” she murmured wildly. “Not like this.”

  Nick’s eyes were dark with suppressed emotion. “What do you mean?”

  The memory of her father was too vivid. “Not in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, Rory. You little Puritan.” Nick laughed beneath his breath, gathered her into his arms and swept her off her feet. She clung to him as he headed for the hallway. Pressing her face into his neck, she blacked out her fears for the
future. Grab your happiness now. Take it. Stop playing it safe.

  He set her on her feet inside his bedroom. The room was dim, lit only by the shadowy light spilling down the hall from the kitchen. Nick didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. He pulled her hard against his chest, kissing her mouth, shaping it with his lips, thrusting his tongue inside in a way that made her head spin. She sensed his growing desire and responded instinctively. She opened her mouth to allow him greater access, sliding her hands around his waist, digging her fingers into his muscled skin.

  “Oh, God,” he murmured, pulling the tank top over her head. When she stood in front of him, naked from the waist up, she nearly panicked from embarrassment. But then he said “Rory” in a voice so full of need that she slid into his arms and pressed herself to his chest, squeezing her eyes closed.

  His belt buckle dug into her soft flesh. She glanced down and Nick slowly released her. And then she did the unthinkable. She unclasped his buckle, the soft jingle loud in the quiet room, then pulled down his zipper, the hissing sound sending a sharp thrill through her body. The intimacy of it shocked her. She wanted him so badly she ached.

  She stopped, unable to go on. She wanted to explore all of him, but she wasn’t that brave. She was ridiculously inexperienced. At this crucial moment she couldn’t even remember what it had been like with Ryan. Certainly nothing like this.

  Nick took the initiative. His hands skillfully undid her jeans and he pulled them and her panties to the floor in one swift movement. Rory’s first instinct was to cover herself. This hadn’t been the way it was with Ryan.

  Nick pulled her to him, his mouth near her ear. He kissed her softly over and over again, the touch so soft, the sound unbearably erotic.

  “Tell me you want me,” he whispered.

  Rory shook her head.

  “I can feel you want me. Why won’t you say it?”

  “Because I’m afraid.”

  “Of what? Me?”

  “Yes.”

  Nick made a sound of disbelief, pulling back to look into her face. “Why?”

  Rory inhaled shakily. He had no clue to her history. She’d never been able to tell him a single word. If she were ever going to be honest, this was the time. “I had a bad experience with a relationship once. When I was in college.”