Mine Tonight

by Lisa Marie Perry

  “Hey, Franco,” she said to his back, loudly enough to overtake the music. “Sofa not comfy enough for you?”

  “It’s good.”

  Yet he wasn’t relaxed. Tension was in the set of his shoulders and the tightness in his clipped response.

  Was he nocturnal or insomniac?

  Sympathy flared. As a kid she’d been burdened with anxiety-related sleep problems—nightmares and bed-wetting—triggered by unfamiliar environments. When she hadn’t outgrown it by age seven, her father had sent her to sleepaway summer camp with special “grown-up vitamins,” which she’d eventually realized had been her mother’s Valium. As she conquered the sleep difficulties, she’d met a new landscape of problems that had culminated in an accidental OD. She’d been so stubborn about delivering the lies that had been scripted for her to recite to hospital staff and guidance counselors, such a disappointingly unreliable liar, that she’d left her frustrated parents no other choice than to homeschool her. It’d taken them two years to wean her off the “vitamins” and transfer her dependency to something more socially acceptable.

  She sucked the fruit clean, dropped it onto a napkin and drizzled another cherry with dark chocolate.

  “The way you stomped up those stairs and slammed the door,” he said, not hassling himself to disrupt his playing, “I didn’t think you’d be coming back down.”

  An especially fat cherry stood out among the rest. Grabbing the stem, she smothered it in a profane amount of chocolate and carried it across the room. She joined him on the bench, but with her back facing the piano. “I love chocolate more than I despise you.”

  The fringes of her vision captured the slow turn of his head, toward her, then back to the piano’s keys. At least she’d made a dent in his focus.

  “Detest was the word you picked.”

  “Does it matter?” she asked, ripping off the cherry’s stem and polishing off the dessert. “It’s all the same.”

  “Except hate, right?”

  Attraction aside, she’d respected his honesty. Kind of envied it, too. It took massive balls to be honest. Of the Franco men, he was the most direct. Dependable. She couldn’t hate him for that.

  As he hammered out soul-startling notes, she imagined finding bruises on the keys. The piano’s howls drowned the sounds of rain and her own rushing heartbeat.

  “I’ve heard that musicians sometimes use their music to speak for them,” she said, raising her voice high. “This piece says you’re pissed off.”

  “Wouldn’t you be, if you were me?”

  “If you’re fishing for perk-me-up compliments, this pond’s all dried up,” she said. “You’re you, but I’m me. Age thirty, washed up, undeserving of Chia Pets. At rock bottom I reach out to my family and find out they want nothing to do with me. My friends are actually frenemies. I’ve got no prospects. And I’m on a glorious vacation because my fugitive ex neglected to have the reservations canceled.”

  “So you lied earlier. About being tight with your family.”

  “It’s hard to stare a truth that sad in the face twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Maybe I should turn around on this bench and play a pissed-off anthem with you.”

  “Or give that lullaby of yours another try?” When she didn’t comment, he asked, “What’d you mean earlier, when you said your mother was born a half Armenian, half German Jew?”

  “She converted to Christianity. My grandmother used to say she’s still Jewish and that having been born her daughter, I’m Jewish, too, but…I don’t really know what I am or where I belong, really.”

  The lullaby, her grandmother, their connection—all of it was off-limits. Ignoring his suggestion that she give the piano a try, she asked, “Where you live now… Was your baby grand moved there?”

  “It’s in my father’s house.”

  The Lake Las Vegas mansion was the Franco family home, and where Al’s first wife had died. From what Al had shared during one of his sobbing grief episodes that Bindi had promised to keep secret, she gathered that Santino was the heir who’d stood to inherit his father’s real estate properties in Las Vegas, Hawaii, Milan and Auckland—in addition to the majority of his assets. Not that his brother would’ve wanted for anything—co-ownership of a football team and shares of the eyewear manufacturer that had served as Al’s original source of wealth weren’t anything Bindi would’ve cried about.

  Of course, Al’s risky bets, multimillion-dollar losses and desperate deception had distorted whatever they hadn’t destroyed.

  “What for?” she asked. “It takes a half hour to call a loading company and have a piano carted someplace. Take it back.”

  “It’s just an instrument. Not a necessity.”

  She couldn’t believe that. “It’s got a language. It’s your voice.”

  “Tonight’s the first time I’ve played in months.”

  “Are you going to add this to the list of things you’ve lost?” Instantly she regretted her words. She truly was—much to Daphne Paxton’s chagrin, she was sure—her mother’s daughter. “Sorry.”

  “List, huh? What’s on it? NFL career, dignified retirement, inheritance, operations gig in the Slayers’ franchise, Dad, Tabitha.”

  “Al was responsible for all of that but Tabitha. She walked. Maybe you never had her to begin with.”

  “I loved her.”

  “Transpose the first and last words and you might see that relationship from a different perspective. One that doesn’t hurt so much.” Twisting around, kneeling behind him on the bench, she had clear intentions. Rest a hand on his shoulder; watch him command the piano. But her fingers ended up freeing his hair and lightly stroking the gray strands at his temples. “Just sex, without love to fog up everything.”

  “Sex is on the list. You know that.”

  Of course she did. The spinal cord injury had left behind erectile dysfunction. Just hours ago she’d mentioned it in a Hail Mary attempt to sting his ego and dial back her attraction to him in one shot. “Are you taking meds for ED?”

  “No, and never will.”

  “But… Okay, earlier—when you were holding me—I felt—”

  “What?”

  I’m not playing this game. I can’t. “C’mon, Santino…”

  “The words. Say the plain words. Don’t dress ’em up. What’d you feel?”

  “You were hard. I knew, even before you, what you wanted out of that kiss. The mind says one thing. The body contradicts. Can’t get them to agree, can you? How do you feel to be torn in two like that, to fight yourself?”

  “The same way you feel. We want the same thing right now, don’t we?”

  She got off the bench and sat on the keys, the noise unexpectedly jarring. “We can’t kiss again.”

  Bindi waited as the music disappeared into the hot silence, her breath held, her thoughts on pause, watching him. His tattooed forearms tensed as he stilled his strong fingers on the piano keys and sent her a slow, challenging smile.

  She absorbed that sexy smile and refused to rise to the bait, no matter how tempting it was. “Going there again would be a mistake you don’t want to make, Santino.”

  “Is it a mistake you want to make? Is that how you want to play this?”

  Caught off guard, she stammered, “This? There is no this. Don’t start thinking there is. What I mean is, you shouldn’t figure a kiss is going to make me more inclined to help you find Al. In fact, I’m less inclined. I’m done with him, and I want to be done with you.”

  Slowly, each motion tightly controlled, Santino rose from the bench, crowding her. “Can you last an entire conversation without lying?”

  “Yes.” Possibly.

  “Walk away.” Bunching the bottom of her dress in his fists, he repeated the grating plea. Again. Once more. “End it.”

  The soft vibration of his shaking hands stroked through her. “End it? ’Cause your conscience said so?”

  “A few months ago, you wore his ring.”

  “A few hours ago, your fin
ger was inside me. I let you get close. I was wet for you.”

  “A diamond deposit. He gave you a diamond deposit. A marriage license was your price. If he’d paid your cost, right now you would belong to him.”

  Deposit. Price.

  It would’ve been easier to handle harshness in his voice, not genuine concern. That seared her with shame. She’d been reduced to a commodity, had all but assigned herself a SKU number and dollar amount.

  Chest surging, breath light, she slammed her hands down beside her on the keyboard. “I belong to me. That’s always fact. That wouldn’t have changed, even if I’d married him, taken his name and slept with him.”

  “Bindi.” He spread his large hands on her thighs. “Tonight, that’s going to be different. ’Cause I need you to belong to me. Get him—get all those bastards—out of your head. Or walk away.”

  This wasn’t a transaction, a deal, a trade. What would she gain or lose to give herself freely for once?

  “I won’t do that, Santino.”

  Pain crackled in his dark eyes. “Okay.”

  “I won’t walk away.”

  Heat lunged from their bodies. It was electric, magnetizing. Searching her eyes, he let his hands disappear beneath her dress, snare the straps of her thong and drag it downward. Over her hips. To her knees, where it dropped to her ankles.

  “Get Tabitha out of your head.” It was her only demand. “Mute her. Ignore her. Because I can take what she can’t. I’m going to be kneeling in front of you—not her. It’s going to be my mouth on your body—not hers.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  She stepped out of the thong as he stood and shoved the bench back farther. Swearing, he leaned forward and kissed her. So many possibilities were in this teasing, seeking kiss.

  But no lies.

  Fear whispered that tonight wouldn’t be what she needed it to be, but merely a replay of one-night stands past. She’d offer a stellar portrayal of an eager lover, would do what was asked of her, then cry afterward, then her regrets would be eased with pretty gifts and hollow promises.

  Or he’d hit it, quit it and be done with it.

  Her newfound desire to do what she wanted on her own terms drowned out that whispering fear, demanded she take what she wanted. Right here, right now, with no expectations of any sort of future.

  Bindi scooted off the piano. “Sit down. On the bench.” She gave his chest a shove, and then it was on to the procedure she’d perfected. Unfasten the belt, open the closure, lower the zip.

  “Whoa—oh, God—whoa, whoa,” he said as his penis sprang into her hand and she started to work his rigid flesh. “Slow it down.”

  “Your hard-ons are sometimes-y, so…” She pressed a kiss, added a lick, got a little flushed at the stretch of his shaft and tightening of his sac. “Slowing it down’s a luxury we don’t have.”

  What few erections he had must be precious. ED could rob a man of not just “normal” sexual performance, but also a sense of virility and confidence.

  A couple of short years ago, Santino had been virility and confidence personified. An NFL star in his prime. A man whose charm and sex appeal she didn’t doubt seduced women to touch themselves.

  Those women had never had him in the palms of their hands or at the tips of their tongues.

  She did—and damned if she wasn’t self-satisfied about it.

  “Do something for me,” he said. “Take off the necklace. Locks and keys don’t have anything to do with this.”

  Together, they lifted the chains over their heads and tossed the necklaces. As she unpinned her hair and shook it out to sweep across her shoulders, he stripped off his shirt.

  Amazing body.

  “Do something for me now,” she said, taking off his shoes and socks and tugging at his pants because she was so anxious to get him completely naked. “Tell me what you like. Communication’s so sexy.”

  Groaning, he clasped her head, rocking gently against her mouth as she took him deep. “Bindi…I haven’t been this hard in… Baby, look, if I can’t keep this going, if I can’t get off, then so be it.”

  She rested her forearms on his thighs, kissed his pecs. “How’s your back?”

  “Stronger. Getting all considerate on me, Paxton?”

  “On the veranda, you had me off my feet for a while. I’m no feather.”

  Her slender, somewhat sylphlike form deceived most. She had height, curves and an outdoorsy athleticism that contributed muscles to her solid sort of heaviness.

  “Definitely not a feather,” he agreed. “Durable.”

  “Very.”

  “Come here, then. Get closer.” Guiding her up, he gripped her hips as she straddled him with her knees on the bench. A sudden slap on her fanny drew a surprised yelp.

  He’d slapped her ass.

  “Still durable?” he checked.

  “Incredibly,” she said. “If I rifle through your pockets, will I find any condoms?”

  “I’m not packing rubber. Didn’t think I’d need any.” His hands settled on her rump. “You should’ve filled one of those crystal dishes full of them, set it right on the table with the chocolate fountain and aphrodisiac buffet.”

  “Not every lock-and-key connection ended in sex.”

  “Just the lucky ones, then?”

  “You’re saying that only because you’re getting lucky.” Light words, but if either of them were genuinely lucky, tonight would remain in clear perspective. Penetrative emotions wouldn’t intersect with sex. She would give Santino Franco no more of herself than she’d given any other man. Except this time, she did it because she wanted the sex and nothing more. No ulterior motives. The new Bindi could sate her desires and not hurt anymore.

  “My condoms are in the master suite. I’m tingly and lazy and really don’t want to make that walk. I’m on the Pill and I’m clean.”

  “Okay.”

  “You believe me? I’m a liar.” It wasn’t something she’d highlight on a résumé, but until she changed it, she might as well own it.

  “If a liar tells the truth, does that make her an honest woman? And…if an honest man tells a lie, does that make him a liar?”

  That was a heavy question, and it provoked her to wonder whether good and bad weren’t so distinct after all. “If you’re going to ask philosophical questions, at least let me have a seat so I can really, carefully think this through.” But the humor evaporated even before it had a chance to form. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I believe you.”

  She wanted to kiss him hard, except he stared at her so closely and his hands kneaded her booty so tenderly, she wasn’t willing to interrupt. “What about you?”

  “Clean—yes. Pill—no.”

  Bindi surrendered to a smile as she lowered onto him. “Oh, damn, Franco, don’t be funny. I might start liking you, and then where would we be?”

  What she didn’t say was that it was already happening, and she was falling quickly into the most dangerous kind of trouble.

  Bindi rode, stealing his control, so determined to take him higher and lure him deeper.

  Hold me…

  But he didn’t. As a spasm seized him, he captured her hips in a tight grip and groaned as a series of hot spurts coated her.

  “I’m freakin’ lost in you.” Jerking softly into her now, Santino held her face, tasted her lips. “You’re so beautiful.”

  That word.

  Beautiful.

  As in compliant. As in available. As in pleasing.

  “I’m going to take a shower.” Peeling off her dress, she rose off Santino and pressed the expensive lace between her legs. “You might want to do the same.”

  He called her name, but she was already running to the staircase, running away, running so he wouldn’t see her tears.

  *

  Soiled dress in the wastebasket, Bindi emerged from the en suite bathroom after a cold shower to light a fragrant oil and go to sleep.

  She’d scrubbed herself clean, physicall
y and emotionally, and could use a few hours of nothingness.

  Abundant rain-spotted windows revealed a slightly tempestuous ocean shore and a sky that held an answerless darkness.

  She’d come to the Seychelles for anonymity and escape, so how had she ended up having sex with Santino Franco, of all men—the one man on Cora Island who knew her sordid history?

  Attraction. Greedy, destructive, inconvenient attraction.

  Another weakness. Another flaw. And she’d managed to give into it again despite her goal not to.

  What could she do now?

  Bindi shoved open window after window. Tangy, almost masculine oceanic scents of salty air and sand burst into the bedroom.

  Defying the rain-misted breeze, she raised her arms, closed her eyes and turned, twirled, spun. Reaching a point of dizziness where the bad didn’t exist, she laughed, sank down and knew what she would do.

  Get over it. She wouldn’t let this mistake cancel her plans to better herself. She’d survive this misstep. Learned a good lesson. Would keep going for herself. And for no other reason than to make herself worthy of her love.

  Finger combing her damp hair, she threw on undies and her favorite comic-book-hero T-shirt and meandered out to the dim hall to test her eavesdropping ears. There was no angry piano music, but she detected noise from the billboard-size television downstairs.

  Asleep, probably. Orgasms like the one he’d fired off could sap any man’s energy, and he, more than most, needed the release. He had seemed so restless from the second she met his eyes in that crowded party.

  How did he sleep? she wondered. Bare chested? On his side? With an arm flung over his eyes?

  Each question brought her a footstep closer to the staircase.

  “Forgot something?”

  Bindi froze as arousal started melting her insides. Wet from a shower, Santino jogged up the stairs. In pants. Just pants. Great-fitting pants.

  The horny-girl half of her brain instantly began devising strategies to remove them with her teeth. The other half prodded her to speak.

  “I thought you’d be asleep.”

  “Naw. Considered it, but my mind kept trying to imagine you naked.” Tugging something from his pocket, he said, “This didn’t exactly help a brother out.”