No Perfect Princess

by Angel Payne

  “Yes. It was my birthday gift. I think I was nine. We saw it together in a boutique in Paris when Mother dragged our asses over there for Fashion Week. When Caroline gave it to me, I didn’t just see the ring. I realized how much work she’d put in to calling the boutique after our trip, ensuring it was the exact ring I’d liked in the window that day, and then having it shipped to San Diego. She did all that despite the grueling schedule Andrea kept her to. The thought and heart she put in…it meant more than what the ring cost, or whatever extravagance Mother came up with that year…” I trailed into a timid snort. “God. That probably all sounds so stupid.”

  “No. Not at all. Stop interrupting your own story.”

  The man had a point. While I told him the story, he kept soothing my hair and back, lulling me into a calmer place. I was so relaxed now. The tears stopped. I felt myself drifting closer to sleep.

  “One day, I came home from school…and Caroline was gone.”

  “Huh?”

  I nodded. “All of her things were gone from her bedroom, her bathroom. Her car wasn’t in the garage.” I swallowed hard, burrowing deeper into the softness of the blanket and the firmness of his embrace, gaining strength to face memories I hadn’t visited in years. “I went to ask Mother about it, of course. She—she responded in a horrible, cold voice…nearly as awful as her silences, but not quite.”

  I felt Michael force down a hard gulp, too. “What did she say?” he whispered.

  “That she had gotten rid of Caroline. Fired her. She told me she refused to keep someone around who possessed more of my heart than she did.” I wouldn’t forget the day as long as I lived. For the first time in my life, I’d known full, awful, grief. “She told me I’d get beaten if I cried. That if I shed one tear for Caroline, she’d take away ‘the trashy ring’, too.” My fingers returned to the ring, twisting it quickly. “I held it to protect it. Probably, in some weird way, to guard my heart, too. Ever since then, when the shit goes down, I go to the ring for my center.”

  “Okay.” He murmured it with respect. I think I heard a little admiration. But no pity or fawning sympathy. Just the continued warmth and support of his arms, his body, his presence. “That makes sense.”

  “Sense?” I retorted. “I’m sure a therapist—and his field day—would beg to differ.”

  “Why? I don’t think it would take a therapist to understand why it means so much to you.”

  I sighed. “All right. Maybe not.”

  My voice sounded so far away now. Vaguely, I realized it was due to almost being asleep. Being here with Michael…his warmth, his assurance, his acceptance…I felt safer than I had in a very long time. On so many levels.

  Insanely enough, all thoughts of naughty sex were now trampled by the sleep sheep. I was absolutely positive I’d fleece a few of them in the morning in retaliation, but for the moment, I was so relaxed, a seven on the Richter wouldn’t budge me.

  *

  Jesus Christ!

  What was that noise?

  Was I dreaming?

  If so, it was actually a nightmare—about that disaster of a client meeting at the Rainforest Café. They were VIP guests of SGC and insisted on going, and since it was right up the street from the El Cortez, I’d thought it would be fun, too—until I was seated next to a mechanical toucan who make the squawkers in the Tiki Room seem like social outcasts.

  I had to pee. So dammit, I was definitely awake. No culinary torture trip. But I still heard birds. What the hell?

  Oh. Oh. Wait a minute. This wasn’t my bed. The pillow was way too soft. The sheets and blankets were just as decadent as mine but smelled really, really masculine…

  “Shit!”

  I jolted to my elbows. Had I gone home with the bartender, after all?

  Time for inventory. I wasn’t sore in any interesting places. A quick look under the sheets…okay, wow…I was still wearing every piece of my lingerie.

  All of it.

  And a T-shirt, too?

  “What…the…”

  My tongue practically stuck to my teeth then the roof of my mouth. Fuck, I needed some water. I tried swallowing but sand was rough with a gravel chaser. Thank you, Madame Cristal, for the worst hangover ever. My head throbbed like a midnight club scene, and my stomach felt like the alley behind it.

  Aspirin. Liquid. Now.

  I sat up carefully, in case my bedmate was a light sleeper. I was a master at the morning-after sneak-out, and the biggest secret to my success were the two Q’s: quick and quiet.

  A quick scan of the room and the night came flooding back.

  Michael.

  Ohhh, shit; I was at Michael’s.

  I jerked my head toward the space next to me. Empty—thank God.

  This was good. Really good.

  Now to quietly find my dress and quickly get the hell out of here.

  I swung out of bed and scanned the bedroom, only to come up empty on finding a stitch of clothing anywhere, his or mine.

  This was bad. Really bad.

  I could not get into the back of my car in a T-shirt and garter belt. Andre and I had shared a lot of interesting things over the years but some lines just shouldn’t be crossed. That dilemma was eclipsed by a second problem. Where the hell was my purse? But both those challenges were the cart before the horse—or in this case, the getaway before the pee stop.

  I tiptoed to the master bathroom, relieved myself as noiselessly as possible, and prayed Michael was as huge a control freak about his bathroom fixtures as the rest of his magazine-ready home. Yesssss; his uber-modern toilet flushed more quickly and quietly than mine. Impressive—though I had to hold back on delivering five full stars of props, having to leave without the chance to check out his shower and bathtub.

  I turned the faucet high enough to generate a trickle in order to wash my hands then strip the last dregs of makeup off my face. At the same time, I borrowed a little blob of his toothpaste, swishing it over my teeth with a finger. I turned to look for a towel—

  And wound up pumping a fist in silent victory. On the back of the bathroom door, my dress was hung on a lovely padded hanger, with my purse and shoes lined up on the floor nearby. I smiled, running a hand down the dress, practically feeling the care he’d taken with it through cosmic osmosis. How was it possible that the sweet, caring, and adorable best-guy-friend-alive existed inside the same rippled, tattooed body as the illicit lover who’d turned me totally liquid last night?

  The questions would have to remain unanswered. There was a higher mission at hand: getting the hell out of here before Michael discovered me. Enough snippets from last night had started coming back to me, enough that I knew a rehash was not in anyone’s best interests right now. My stomach lurched from the remembrance of telling him about Caroline. I’d never told that story to anyone. Claire didn’t even know that one, and she was the closest thing to—well, to anything—that I had.

  I needed to get home. Shower. Prep for my day at work—because that was how I rolled when the boss was going to be out for two weeks—then call him from the office sometime this afternoon to hash things out, when the hangover was a dim memory and I had the familiarity of my own turf for strength.

  Because dammit, I needed every ounce of strength when it came to talking about anything past holding hands with that man.

  I took one more second to dash off a text to Andre, directing him to pick me up a few blocks away from Michael’s house. That, of course, earned me a yes, ma’am—punctuated by half a dozen snarky emoticons. I let him have the brazen chain yank, choosing to focus efforts on more important tasks for now. There’d be plenty of time for bitch slapping the man later.

  Now…what to do about the—interesting—second half of my attire? Panties, garters, and hose weren’t what any self-respecting hooker wore in La Jolla, let alone a woman used to greeting Sundays in Roxy and Vans.

  Fist bump number two. There was a pair of track pants on the counter. After stashing my thigh highs, I yanked on the pants. Okay, t
his was good, despite the fact I had to roll the waist over twice and peg the bottoms so I wouldn’t trip. I could make it a few blocks barefoot like this, carrying my dress and shoes.

  I peaked out from the bathroom. The bedroom was still empty, the house strangely quiet. Michael’s side of the bed wasn’t disturbed at all. He must have slept on the sofa. Guess I needed to add flawless gentleman to his friendship, sex god, and dress care skills.

  Focus, dammit!

  I was going to need the extra effort. The last stage of my escape would be tricky. Heading out the front door wasn’t an option. The path would lead me right past the living room—and the sofa where he’d undoubtedly slept. But this was a classic bungalow. It had to have a back door. And back doors were usually near laundry rooms. So if I just found the washer and dryer…

  Back on ballet feet, dress and shoes and purse tucked under my arms, I turned and headed the opposite direction from the living room and kitchen. Morning sun streamed into the hall from a window, casting light into a hall into which I peered and—

  Bingo.

  At the end of the hall there was a door set with a window pane covered by a sheer curtain. Through that covering, I made out the familiar shapes of a quaint laundry space. Lo and behold, there was a security alarm panel next to the washing equipment, all lights green. Home free.

  Strangely, the back door was unlocked. Either Michael had forgotten to lock it last night after the party I brought to the door, or he’d already been up and was just keeping his peace, waiting for me to stir. I hoped for the former but took cautions for the latter, turning the knob and slipping out the door like a church mouse—wearing ballet slippers.

  Mission accomplished. I hadn’t made so much as a creak.

  “Morning, beautiful.”

  “Blahhhhhh!!” The scream erupted before I could think—and the blame lay thoroughly on the shoulders of the man who sat there with coffee cup in hand, the breeze in his hair, and sexy scruff on his jaw, soaking up the morning sun like the freaking Greek god he was. “Seriously?” I snapped, frantic that he viewed my devouring stare as nothing more than anger. “Is this your fun morning routine for all your sleepover guests, Pearson? Scaring the crap out of them for a giggle?”

  A smile teased his lips. Dammit if that didn’t double the palpitations now rocking my whole chest—tripled when he riffed on a Southern drawl, “Well, I do believe in hospitality, ma’am. This boy’s mama raised him right.”

  I forced myself not to bolt past him and tear down the street to—which was more like an alley, extending behind a shockingly big backyard—to find Andre. While the size was a stunner, the treatment wasn’t. The area was just as photogenic as the rest of his place, plants mingling with landscaping touches to evoke tamed ruggedness. The inviting feel of it only enforced my resolve to be free of it. I couldn’t allow myself any more threads of attachment to this place—or its owner.

  Still, my mother had managed to shove a few manners in, too. Michael wasn’t the creepy bartender. He deserved a few words of conversation.

  “So…why are you out here?”

  He swung a hand out. “Beautiful day. But even on the not-so-beautiful ones, I usually sit out here with my coffee. Good thinking time. I like listening to the birds in the trees. It’s a miniature symphony. Reminds me of home.”

  I canted a frown. “Gee. Put that way, birds are positively poetic.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  No. Comment. I slid a toe along the patio grout.

  “I had an ulterior motive this morning, though,” he went on. “Had a good hunch you would try to sneak away.”

  It nudged at accusation. My defenses prickled. “Is that so?” And if I had, why did he care?

  “That is so. And you know I couldn’t just let you do that.”

  And just like that, he blew my barricades apart by having the nerve to finish it off with a cocky wink and a wicked grin—conveniently oblivious to how he tilted the axis of my senses with that one look alone. As dizziness flooded, my stomach roiled harder, alerting me of the possibility I’d be revisiting all that champagne. The three bites of dinner I’d enjoyed gleefully proclaimed they wanted in on the action, too. My whole body fought back, breaking out in a sheen of sweat. I squirmed inside his pants I was wearing, barely fighting off the urge to tear off the T-shirt too.

  “I—I have to go, okay? I’m not feeling well.”

  “No shit. That’s an impressive shade of green, sugar.”

  “I’m…just going to leave…”

  “Margaux. Sit.”

  I went ahead and let him yank me into the chair next to him. Validation? He offered the one thing better than an easy escape. A huge glass of water. Though I greedily gulped the stuff down, it didn’t stop the horizon from teeter-tottering in my vision.

  Shit.

  I’d emptied my head—and maybe a little of my heart—to him in embarrassing detail last night. Now, I was going to empty my stomach on his patio. I begged heaven to wake me up from this nightmare—and to make it snappy.

  Chapter Ten

  Michael

  “Thanks.”

  She rasped it after polishing off her second glass of water. Instead of saying anything, I chose to estimate how much Cristal she’d really put away last night—then decided it was best I didn’t know.

  “Okay,” she muttered. “That’s better. I really do have to—”

  I cut her short by yanking on her hand. Good move, following instinct to keep our fingers linked after I’d pulled her down. It had simply felt natural—and outright amazing when she didn’t fight it.

  “Michael—”

  “Sshhh. Listen to the birds.”

  “Michael—”

  “Am I going to have to tie you down?”

  She snorted. “You’re not into that shit, remember?”

  “I like trying new things.” And damn, sugar, I’m not opposed to trying anything new with you…

  She let go of the water glass to scrape back her hair, closing her eyes and wincing against the sun. I took full advantage of the opportunity to just stare…despite how it aggravated the hugest erection I’d ever had in my life.

  She took my breath away.

  Sure, there’d been other moments when she’d done the same—but all of them had been shitty preparation for this. Screw the goddess in the red gown from the wedding. And the sassy trendsetter from the months before that. And the attitude-infused businesswoman from the years before that. I could barely remember those personas, let alone prefer them to the tousled, tentative woman curled up here now, clutching her clothes…but covered in mine.

  Mine.

  The word slammed, tempting me to drag her over, right into my lap. Or beat on my chest. Maybe both. I dragged a finger around the rim of my coffee cup, instead, battling not to remember what she hid beneath the T-shirt and sweats.

  My T-shirt and sweats.

  That corset. Those panties. Those naughty, gorgeous garters…

  Fuck. Closing my eyes only made it worse, joining her in cursing the sun as it blazed through my lids, bringing back the memory like a flame searing through rice paper.

  Her dress beneath my fingers, falling away as I slid down the zipper.

  The swish of the fabric, flowing down her ivory curves.

  The sight of her in that lingerie, stopping my heart and seizing my dick like I’d reverted to fourteen again, searching the internet for whack-off-worthy lingerie ads…that in the stroke of three seconds, she officially put to shame.

  Turned out to be the ideal metaphor—since the evening yielded the same results. Not that I’d planned it that way, after she’d detonated every cell of nobility in me before the dress came off. Maybe Chad’s exhortation had worn me down a little, too. Maybe I’d simply been too damn tired to fight her beauty—and our chemistry—any longer.

  And maybe you gazed into her eyes, stripped of their defenses by the booze, and saw that Neanderthal Michael wasn’t going to scare her in the least. Yeah?
r />   Ohhhh, yeah…

  But then she’d taken down yet another barrier. A secret wall, buried so deep inside her that I’d never expected it…

  And rocked me to equally deep levels.

  Levels that I fantasized about giving her, while escaping into the shower after she passed out. The levels I would have given her, if that hadn’t happened. The levels I gave her in my mind as I fisted myself, pumping faster and harder until I exploded in thick, hot streams beneath the spray.

  Groaning her name over and over again.

  I took a long, hard drag from my coffee. The motion gave me the chance to strategically hide the tent in my sweats. The pair she wasn’t wearing.

  Holy fuck, my shit looked cute on her. Was she still wearing those panties and garters underneath?

  Her soft laugh broke me out of that musing none too soon. “What?” I prompted.

  She shook her head as if freeing it from private thoughts of her own. “I was just thinking…”

  “Dangerous, huh?”

  “No shit.” Such drowsy relaxation. Instantly, I imagined her speaking those words from one of my pillows instead, stretching and arching tighter against me, winding the sheets around us…

  So much for getting rescued from the gutter of my own thoughts.

  “You were thinking…?”

  “That this should feel more awkward.”

  I twisted my hand a little, rearranging it so our palms fit together, letting the warmth in my chest soak into my response. “I’m glad it doesn’t.”

  She glanced up, though her gaze only climbed as high as my chin before she slipped her perusal across my small backyard. I seized the chance to drink in her profile as she looked down the gravel path that wound through the native bushes and wildflowers, out to the little waterfall and pond I’d put in for the bees, birds, and butterflies.

  “You’re right,” she finally murmured. “It’s really peaceful.” As a hummingbird whizzed by, she added, “And pretty.”

  “Thank you.” I meant it more than I let on. I felt like the geek who’d just won the science fair, getting noticed by the hottest girl in school because of it.