Addicted to Nick

by Bronwyn Jameson

  T.C. sighed with heavy resignation. Everything about the man—every damn thing!—was utterly alluring. His voice, the way he moved, that smile, the magic he made with a pot of pasta. Even his name was as exotically lush as the man himself. Niccolo Corelli. Why hadn’t he turned out to be the conceited self-interested macho man she had imagined him to be? Why hadn’t he been a carbon copy of Miles?

  Heart in mouth, she watched Star toss her head and bare her teeth. Nick didn’t move. He stood his ground, that one hand unmoving on the door, and she knew it was only a matter of time before the mare gave up the fight and came to him freely.

  Did she stand any better chance of resisting?

  She couldn’t watch any longer, couldn’t stand the apprehensive tension that churned in her stomach. Grabbing a head collar and lead, she strode to the door.

  “I’m taking her out for some exercise,” she said, more sharply than she had intended.

  He didn’t move, but she felt his steady scrutiny. “You want to take a passenger?”

  What harm could it do? Maybe he would be as delighted by the experience as Joe had been on his first ride…although she doubted that. It seemed far too tame for a man who chased extreme adventure.

  “Okay,” she agreed eventually. “But this isn’t a short cut to driving her. You’re only the passenger.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ten minutes later, when she picked up the reins and swung herself into the jog-cart, she remembered why she had delayed this moment. Proximity. The bench seat was supposedly wide enough for three, but Nick took up an extraordinary amount of space.

  So okay, she told herself, seated side by side there was bound to be contact, but that was no reason for her breath to hitch each time his sleeve brushed against hers. No reason for that bare whisper of sound to echo through her head, drowning out the cadent fall of hooves, the creak of springs, everything but the thunderous beat of her heart.

  Annoyed by such a ridiculous state of hyperawareness, she clicked into a jog and edged to her right. A fat lot of good that did her. Nick simply spread to fit all available space, and now his thigh rested flush against hers. No big deal, she told herself, as she turned onto the track and settled Star into a steady relaxed pace. No bare flesh involved, a simple case of denim against denim.

  All she needed was to redirect her senses.

  Tipping her head back a fraction, she narrowed her field of perception, concentrating on the sun that touched her face, the strong wind that sifted through her hair and plastered her shirt against her skin. She absorbed the steady rocking rhythm of the horse’s motion and felt herself start to relax.

  “This is nice.”

  “Pardon?” She blinked, stared up at Nick.

  “I said, I’m enjoying this.” He nudged her with his elbow. “No need to look so surprised.”

  “I didn’t think this would be quite your speed.”

  “You think I only like fast?”

  Vivid images of all the things she had imagined him doing not-so-fast flashed through her mind. Oh help, she did not need this now. To hide the disconcerting wash of heat, she edged forward on the seat and pretended to reorganize the reins. She could feel his gaze on her, measuring, assessing.

  “You love this, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes, felt the smile well up from somewhere deep within. “I love working with horses. I love how it makes me feel. It’s hard to describe, but it’s like…like this is where I belong.”

  “Did you feel that way about your father’s home—where you were brought up?”

  She thought about that. “I guess I did when I was younger. I know there were things I missed when I left, but there were other parts I couldn’t wait to escape. But what I’m feeling here isn’t about the physical things, it’s about the spirit of the place and how it touches you. It’s a sense of home.” She laughed, more than a little self-conscious. “Do you know what I mean?”

  When he didn’t answer, she turned, caught the hint of a frown. “I can’t say I’ve ever got that concept of home.”

  “What about Joe’s Portsea house?”

  “You’ve seen that place?” he asked with a mocking lift of one brow.

  Not face-to-face, but she had seen pictures—it hardly fit the standard definition of home. But she wasn’t talking about walls and lawns and manicured hedges, she was talking about feelings, and it seemed like he just didn’t get it. She shrugged off an enormous wash of disappointment. Seems like she had been harboring a secret hope that he would fall in love with the spirit of Yarra Park as quickly and unconditionally as she had.

  Only with Yarra Park, Tamara?

  Do not go there, she told herself firmly. You’d do better to take this as a timely reminder of the footloose, uncluttered lifestyle he prefers…and of how little you have in common.

  “You think I could do that?” he asked after a short, uncomfortable silence.

  “I thought we agreed you were coming along as the passenger?”

  He gave that lazy shrug he had down pat. “Worth a try.”

  T.C. snorted, then thought about it for another half-lap. “I’ll let you drive if you agree to talk to a solicitor about me signing my half over to you.”

  “Don’t you ever give up?”

  “Worth a try,” she countered with a mocking shrug.

  His bark of laughter sounded like equal parts exasperation and admiration; then he surprised her with a casual, “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah. I’ll talk to my solicitor.” He reached for the reins, but she didn’t hand them over.

  “When?”

  “As soon as I can make an appointment.”

  She shook her head. “Not good enough. You’re a Corelli—they’ll make time for you.”

  “Is tomorrow soon enough?”

  “Morning?”

  Laughing softly, he shook his head. “Can I have breakfast first?”

  Still, she hesitated.

  “Come on. It’s not so hard, is it, handing over the reins?”

  Yes, Nick, she thought. It is hard and it’s scary, putting yourself into someone else’s hands. Relinquishing control.

  With a deep sigh, she handed them over. He assumed the correct hold like a veteran. He didn’t ask any of the usual learners’ questions: Is this okay? Am I doing this right? With the natural arrogance of someone who did everything well, he simply knew he was doing fine.

  “You have good hands,” she praised reluctantly.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  By too many women, T.C. reminded herself. “Do you pick up everything this easily?”

  “Everything?”

  “All those action-man things you do—the heli-skiing and rafting and climbing. Were they this easy?”

  “If they were easy, there’d be no sense in doing them. No challenge.”

  “What about the risk?”

  He glanced across at her, his eyes as intensely blue as the autumn sky. Her heart flip-flopped. “It doesn’t hurt to take a few risks, Tamara, to push outside your comfort zone. That’s what makes you feel alive.”

  “No. This is what makes me feel alive.”

  Something in his expression as he took in her resolutely spoken words did strange things to her heart. She felt the compelling draw of his gaze but refused to meet it. The need to run, to escape, rode her hard, and she blew out a frustrated breath. “You want to try another gear?”

  “Yeah. I feel like I could blow off some steam.”

  “Then I’d better take over.”

  As she took the reins, his fingers grazed across hers. Awareness charged through her system, causing her to fumble. Star reacted by grabbing the bit and plunging forward. For a while T.C. needed all her skill to restrain the horse’s enthusiastic charge, but gradually the mare responded to her coaxing hands and soothing words.

  As she came back into hand, T.C. realized Nick was laughing—not with reactionary hysteria, but with sheer unrestrained pleasure. H
is mood tapped straight into T.C.’s adrenaline overload. Unable to restrain herself, she let go her own wild tension-relieving whoop. The sound caught and lifted in the breeze, mingling with the thick red dust that rose in their wake.

  Star picked up on the mood in a trice. T.C. felt her suppressed power shudder through the reins and let her run. They sped a full circuit on the very edge of control, and it was only as they eased back to a more sedate pace that she realized Nick had needed to grab hold of something during that helter-skelter spurt.

  That something happened to be her leg.

  She didn’t need to look down to picture his palm spanning the width of her thigh, his long splayed fingers boldly defined by the near-white of her faded jeans. Desire, as wild and unruly as that mad dash, bit with vicious teeth. The only thing holding her in check was the sound practical fact that the reins in her hands prevented her reaching out and putting them on him.

  Gradually Star came back to a jog, then a long, loping walk, and the air around them thickened with the sound of her elevated breathing, the sharp smell of exertion.

  “That was…unexpected.” Slowly, deliberately, he slid his hand from her leg. “Kind of makes me wonder what else you’re capable of when you let go.”

  His meaning should have sent her scuttling for cover, but it seemed like that high-speed ride had blown away more than steam and tension. It must have blown away a large dose of common sense, for she smiled as she said, “I guess it’s lucky I’ve got these reins in my hands.”

  “Lucky for who?”

  Lucky for me, T.C. responded silently as she turned Star back toward the stables and sanity.

  Jason was waiting at the stables, full of questions. Had Nick really taken the reins? How fast did they go? Was it a rush? The necessary explanations—together with the mundane task of unharnessing—went a long way toward settling the smoldering tension.

  They were both laughing easily at something Jason said when they reached for the girth strap at the same time. Their hands touched. The jolt—electric sharp, lightning fast—zinged through her, and she was instantly completely aware of him. The grave stillness of his gaze, his earthy male scent, the sheen of heat on his skin, the pulsing beat of his heart. If she closed her eyes, she swore she would hear the blood surging through his veins. But she didn’t close her eyes. They had fixed on the sensual curve of his mouth, so near she could feel his breath on her face.

  Oh help. If he kisses me, I’m sunk.

  His fingers curled around hers. His thumb stroked once across the back of her hand, and her insides turned to liquid.

  Oh help. If he doesn’t kiss me, I’ll die.

  “Are you two going to undo that buckle or stand about holding hands all afternoon?” Jase asked with a disgusted snort.

  T.C. reclaimed her hand and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. Jason gathered up the remaining gear and took it off to the tack room. Nick cleared his throat and asked if he should hose Star down. Star snorted and pawed at the ground, and Ug trotted in from an afternoon’s rat hunting.

  Everything back to normal, T.C. thought, although her pulse still skittered all over the yard like an unbroken colt. She watched Nick lead Star away and thought about the chores still to be done. She would rather watch Nick, or talk to Nick, or go take a long shower, then stretch out on her bed to think about Nick.

  Everything definitely far from normal, she thought uneasily. What was wrong with her? She still hadn’t moved several minutes later when a spray of water arced high above the concrete wall enclosing the wash-bay, closely followed by a muffled oath. By the time she arrived Nick looked about as wet as the horse with the hose clasped between its teeth.

  At the sound of her strangled laughter, his head whipped around. “Are you here to help or for the entertainment?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, definitely for the show.”

  “Which is undoubtedly funnier from where you’re standing.”

  At precisely that moment Star turned her head, gave him an innocent look and dropped the hose.

  “Thanks for your cooperation,” he muttered as the hose, still spurting water, snaked out of his reach. “Would you get that for me?”

  She shouldn’t have taken that call for assistance at face value. She should have noticed the narrowing of his gaze, the unholy light in his eyes. But she was too busy chortling at his predicament.

  She gathered the hose and brought it to him at the front of the bay, and Nick casually stepped around her to block the exit. Snookered. Her eyes widened on the weapon she had unwittingly handed him. “Oh, no,” she breathed, backing up the four steps it took to hit the wall. “You wouldn’t.”

  “No?” he asked, and his grin felt more than smug. It felt positively feral. “Are you sure about that?”

  No, she wasn’t. He caught the furtive glances as she assessed her chances of making it to the tap before him.

  “You can try, but you’ll end up very wet.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to get wet either way.”

  “You deserve to.”

  “If you’d been in my shoes, you’d have seen the funny side.” A small bubble of merriment escaped her lips as she tipped her head back against the wall. Then she caught his unamused expression and lifted her hands in the traditional gesture of surrender. “Okay, I can take a little water. Do your worst.”

  Hell. She was standing there with her shirt pulled deliciously tight across her breasts, her green eyes glimmering a wicked challenge, daring him to do his worst? His best right this minute would involve nailing her to that wall with his body and his mouth and sucking the remnants of laughter from her full bottom lip. His worst would involve nailing her to the wall, full stop.

  “Maybe you won’t get wet if you ask nicely.”

  “You want me to say please?”

  “I want you to say please, Nick.”

  She moistened her lips. His body responded with extravagant haste—to the glimpse of her tongue, to her softly parted lips, to the anticipatory pleasure of hearing those two little words, her voice breathless and husky.

  Please, Niccolo.

  She struck with lightning speed, catching him at a distracted disadvantage…but not for long. With his superior reach and strength, it was never going to be a fair fight, although her tenacity ensured that they both ended up very wet.

  Very wet and very close.

  When Nick finally restrained her, he was achingly aware of how close. The second their eyes met, she stopped struggling. With her body wedged flush against his, he could feel her tightly coiled tension, could see both the heat of sensual knowledge and a familiar wariness in her wide green eyes, and wondered how long before she started running. He thought about begging.

  Please, Tamara.

  His fingertips trailed across her abdomen, stilled when they found the small gap where her shirt had pulled clear of her jeans. He rested his palm where cold wet cotton met warm satin skin, heard her sharply drawn breath and waited for her to snap at him, to pull away, to slap his hand.

  She didn’t move.

  He looked down at the wet shirt plastered to the soft mounds of her breasts, at the clearly visible outline of her erect nipples, and his stomach clenched tight in an instant surge of need. He dipped his mouth and nipped at the earlobe that peeped through her softly mussed hair, at the smooth curve of her neck, at the point where that neck met her shoulder. He tasted the surface chill of cold water, then the fresh warmth of her skin, and, deeper still, the heat of pure desire.

  He wondered if it was possible to drown in lust.

  Everything about her aroused him, but nothing so much as the soft yielding in her eyes as her body swayed into his, as she cupped his face between her hands and muttered, “Will you please just kiss me.”

  “Please, Nick,” he prompted, as his hands swept over her back. He bit her bottom lip, dragged it between his teeth, then slowly released it. A low frustrated moan built in her throat and resounded through his blood, stirrin
g him, inflaming him…but it wasn’t the words he needed to hear. “Say it,” he demanded.

  Eyes glittering, she moistened her lips, but they remained silent. Desperate hands slid into his hair, then held him steady as she stretched on her toes and planted her lips against his. She kissed him with openmouthed carnality, encouraging his tongue into the warm, moist cavern of her mouth with a boldness that sizzled to his groin. He gripped her more tightly, his hands curving over her behind, drawing her nearer, molding the softness of her belly to the pulsing heat of his arousal.

  A groan rumbled deep in his chest as her hands stroked from his shoulders to his waist. He swore he heard steam sizzle in their wake. He did hear a low hiss whistle through his teeth as those hands continued their downward path, stroking over his butt, making him ache to be naked, skin to skin. Inside and out.

  He walked her backward. Two steps and she was against the wall. Hands planted either side of her face, he bent his knees to bring himself down to her height, so he could look right into her sultry green eyes while he rocked his hips against her. Just once. Then he closed his eyes and struggled to control the primal need that pumped savagely through him.

  Man, had he ever been so hard? So desperate?

  She touched his face, her fingers a cool, gentle contrast to the furnace in his blood. “Please, Nick,” she whispered as they locked gazes.

  Finally.

  “Please what?” he growled. “Tell me what you want, Tamara.”

  A shadow crossed her face. Indecision. She blinked it away, bit her lip.

  Hell. Nick blew out a short, frustrated breath. His splayed fingers closed, curled into tight fists. “Right this minute I’m about as close to exploding as I’ve ever been with my clothes on. But nothing more is going to happen until you look me in the face and tell me what you want. Just so there’s no mistaking. Your choice of words.”

  A slow flush bled into her face. “I can’t say…that.”

  Imagined alternatives to that drove a thick groan from Nick. Weak with wanting, he rested his forehead against hers. He thought about prompting her, tempting her with more kisses. Rejected it. She needed to make this decision all on her own. In the morning, he wanted to turn his head on the pillow, open his eyes and look right into sea-green eyes softly glazed with desire, not clouded with regret.