His Private Pleasure

by Donna Kauffman

  “In this town blood isn’t necessarily thicker than water.”

  “Not to worry. It used to be my business to make sure only the right people heard the right things. I know my way around a grapevine.”

  “Well, Hollywood’s got nothing on Canyon Springs when it comes to spreading the word. In fact, we could probably teach you all a thing or two. Who did you talk to?”

  She merely laughed. “I think you’re safe. For the moment, anyway.” She walked over to one of the heavy Adirondack chairs and reached in a big, blue canvas bag with some gold designer logo attached to the front. “I did manage to pick up a nice bottle of wine.” She pulled the bottle out of its paper bag. “My contribution to the meal.”

  He took the bottle and the house key she offered him. “Thanks. Looks good.”

  “It is.” When he lifted a brow, she said, “Those who can’t cook better know their wine. It’s the only way we get invited back.”

  “Somehow I think you have a few other qualities that might recommend you as a repeat guest.”

  She smiled. “Somehow I’m not as flattered by that comment as I might be if someone else delivered it.”

  Now it was his turn to grin. “I guess I’d better get the grill fired up.”

  “It’s your schedule. I’m just the guest.”

  He shook his head as he unlocked the door. Just the guest. He wondered what she’d say if he told her she was the first woman he’d had up here. Alone, anyway. He’d had the requisite housewarming, or should he say, his mother had. But other than that…well, he hadn’t really pictured having a woman in his home, not quite yet, anyway. He figured he’d get around to developing a social life again at some point, but with his mother shoving anything in heels down his throat, he’d resisted a bit longer than he might have otherwise.

  He glanced back at Liza, who was leaning against the railing, looking out at the view. He was enjoying the view as well. “Looks like the time for resistance is over,” he murmured.

  5

  LIZA GLANCED BACK in time to watch Dylan disappear into his house. Her smile faded to a thoughtful look. She wondered just what kind of phone call he’d taken. Despite their banter, the dark edges were more prominent now. A slight tension to his jaw, a certain flatness to his eyes… And his voice was a bit more clipped, even though he’d been nothing but charming.

  She laughed at herself. She’d known him, what? An hour or two? And already she was an authority on his moods? Maybe he was always like this at the end of a workday. On the other hand, she had built an exclusive clientele based on her aptitude for reading people, judging their needs, often before they even knew they needed something. She’d met Dylan under trying circumstances and seen him frustrated, irritated, annoyed. This…edginess she’d spied just now was totally at odds with the man she’d gotten out of that tree.

  Danger, danger, Liza, her little voice intoned. This was just for fun. A nice dinner, mix in a little flirting, a little seduction, a few hours of intensely pleasurable sex…and she had no doubt he could deliver it. Some things a woman just knew. And some women knew better than others, she thought with a private smile. She’d be back to her journey of self-discovery by morning. Certainly a little discovery of Dylan Jackson first wouldn’t do any harm.

  Sure, he was enigmatic in a way she wouldn’t have expected. Sure, she was intrigued by the big city–small town paradox he presented. But this was just an evening out. A little detour. He was offering to be part of her adventure. Nothing more, nothing less. She’d be a fool to pass up such a delightful and relatively safe proposition.

  And Liza Sanguinetti was no fool. At least, most of the time.

  Dylan reappeared on the deck with two glasses of wine and a bag of wood chips tucked under his arm. She took both glasses and set them on the small round table next to the railing. She wondered how many private little dinners had been set at this intimate table for two.

  She sipped her wine, then motioned to him. “You changed,” she said, faintly accusatory, although she admitted he looked damn fine in jeans and a soft ribbed Henley.

  He looked down at himself. “Sorry, I forgot about the uniform fantasy.”

  “Somehow I doubt you forget much of anything.”

  He simply grinned. “Mesquite smoked steak okay with you?” he asked, his back to her as he set about opening the top to his grill.

  “Sounds good.” Nothing fancy there, she noted approvingly, just a regular, well-used grill. No tools and gadgets bought to impress, nothing that screamed bachelor-on-the-make. In fact, despite the stunning setting and interesting structure, the house looked to be more home than showcase. She hadn’t gone inside, but she had looked through the windows. Heavy pine furniture stuffed with thick cushions in deep russets and golds were comfortably arranged on a rolled, handmade rug, fronting a cozy and also well-used wood burning stove. No macho fireplace and fur rug type thing happening here. It actually looked like a place a man lived in, not a place designed for seduction.

  What an interesting concept.

  Liza sipped her wine and hid a private smile. God, she was so jaded. She took in a breath of the rapidly cooling evening air, so clean and crisp it almost crackled inside her lungs. So the jaded one was trying something new, she told herself. Maybe this was part of her journey, after all, and not a detour. As long as she didn’t confuse this for something more than a pit stop, she’d be fine.

  He came back out of the house with two steaks and a pair of foil wrapped potatoes.

  “You were prepared, I see,” she said, wondering if she’d read the setup wrong. After all, maybe men out here in the mountains didn’t bother with all the seductive frills and finery meant to dazzle and impress. Meat and potatoes on the grill, meat and potatoes in bed.

  It was effective, however, as she was developing a powerful hunger for meat and potatoes.

  “Not really,” he said. “I just happen to think nothing tastes better on a summer night than a grilled steak and a cold beer. So I always stock some of both. You got lucky with the potatoes, though.”

  “Ah, lucky me. But here I’m forcing wine on you. Feel free to pop a cold one if you’d prefer.”

  He’d turned back to the grill and didn’t glance back at her as he spoke. “I’m a big boy. If I want beer, I’ll have one, but thanks for the permission.”

  She grinned and sipped her wine. “It’s been my experience that most men trying to get me into bed succeed more easily with flattery rather than censure.”

  “So now I’m ‘most men,’” he said lightly. “I thought we’d covered that with you earlier.”

  “So we did.” She noticed he didn’t refute the “get me into bed” part. “And why I ever thought to compare you to most men is beyond me. You’re one of a kind, Sheriff.”

  He shot her grin over his shoulder. “Why, thank you.”

  The punch of desire surprised her, the strength and potency of it. She’d certainly danced this dance before. And yet she didn’t feel as surefooted as she usually did. She couldn’t predict how he’d react to any given stimulus. Maybe that was the reason for her reaction to something as basic as a sexy grin. Uncertainty was a new emotion for her. She wasn’t quite sure she liked it. But she didn’t mind the way it heightened the tension between them.

  Her gaze drifted to his denim clad backside as he turned back to the grill. She had the strongest urge to walk over and stand just behind him, feel the heat of him and the fire mingle together, seep into her. So wired into that scenario was she that when he pulled several citronella candles off the railing and struck a match to light them, she actually felt like he’d scraped against something inside her. Her thighs actually flinched.

  She watched as he wiped his hands on his own thighs, and found herself running her tongue over her lips. Dear God. She jerked the chair out from the little table and made herself comfortable. Relatively speaking. She still felt a bit twitchy between the legs.

  She really had gone solo for too long, she told herself, if she
got this tightly wound over a mildly flirtatious bit of wordplay while watching a guy fire up a grill. He mercifully went back inside to get God knew what, allowing her to return her attention to the other view. She forced herself to keep it there when he returned.

  “This is a spectacular site for a house,” she said, needing to get herself back on the solid ground of innocuous first-date conversation. Sexual tension was one thing, but she really didn’t like the way her body leaped about at the slightest look from him. She wanted this, wanted him, but on her terms. After all, that was one avenue of self-discovery she didn’t need to traverse twice.

  “Land belonged to my grandfather, but he never did anything with it,” Dylan said. “I’ve always loved it up here and knew this was where I’d build when I came back. It took awhile and a bit of blasting, but I made it all fit.”

  And fit it did. Rustic wood jutting out of stone, with enough shiny glass to give it a veneer of polish. Just a little. Sort of like its owner. Why that was so damn sexy to her, a woman whose men usually matched her polish for polish, she had no idea. “Builder and sheriff, all in one package. Pretty handy guy.”

  He flipped the steaks and scooted the foil wrapped potatoes around on the grill. “I make do okay.”

  She just bet he did. She’d really never met anyone like him before. Secure, not working her for what else she might be able to do for him besides an evening or two of great sex. Another good reason to leave the superficiality of Hollywood. She supposed it was that very lack of calculation, the inherent honesty in everything he said, that undid her a little. He wasn’t after anything beyond what she was after. And he didn’t seem to care much if that worked out or not, either.

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Relieved to know that dinner and conversation could be just that, no harm, no foul? Or a bit put out, wanting to push him into caring that they didn’t let this opportunity pass them by?

  Maybe a little of both, she decided, and took another sip as she contemplated just how to play this evening out.

  He wanted her, and yet he wasn’t knocking himself out to do anything to insure he got her, other than just being himself. An original concept where she was from.

  She was still pretty damn sure she could get what she’d come here for. He wasn’t the type to play coy, and he knew what was what. She wasn’t going to have to be subtle. Except, in this case, she found herself wishing she didn’t have to be the pursuer.

  She paused midsip. Now where had that come from? She was always the pursuer. Even if the man was led to believe otherwise. Liza controlled what she got. That way she stayed safe and everyone had a good time. The one time she’d stupidly forgotten that rule, look where she’d landed. In the penthouse suite of the heartbreak hotel.

  So, despite her mild flirtation with that domination scenario, letting Sheriff Dylan Jackson call the shots was definitely not an option here. Not that he was trying to, she thought, with the tiniest of pouts. He could be a bit more aggressive about things. That tingle of awareness raced through her again, along with a few stray images of just how she’d like him to be aggressive. Say, a pair of handcuffs. Maybe some persuasive…interrogation—

  She hastily put her wineglass on the table. The alcohol, along with the crisp evening air, was obviously going to her head.

  It was those damn dark edges that caught at her, she supposed. Dark edges she had no desire to smooth. In fact, she’d like to rub up against one or two of them, just for the thrill of discovering how they felt. “Danger, danger, Liza,” she murmured, unable to stop picturing what it would be like between them.

  “Medium rare okay with you?”

  She blinked, startled from her hot little scenario by his voice. “I’m sorry, mind was wandering. What did you say?” Dammit, her voice was a bit hoarse. Maybe he’d attribute it to the wine. She knew he hadn’t when he straightened and turned to face her, a long grill fork in one hand, a bemused look on his face.

  There was the slightest twitch to his lips. “How do you like your meat?”

  She laughed; she couldn’t help it. “However you’re having yours is fine.”

  His gaze remained on hers a moment longer. “It gets pretty cold up here when the sun goes down. You have a sweater or something?”

  She could tell him her nipples were peaked for reasons that had nothing to do with temperature, but decided to forgo the direct approach for once. Besides which, she was pretty sure he understood her reaction was to him. A certain look in those melted-candy eyes of his told her that well enough. That he’d brought it to the attention of both of them only made her nipples pucker harder. “I’ve got something in the car,” she said. “I guess I should go get it.”

  She wandered down to her car, privately smiling at the idea that for an evening that would likely end up with them both naked, it was oddly erotic to be covering herself up. “All the more for him to slide off of you later, Liza.” She shivered and rubbed her arms in anticipation, all sorts of scenarios springing to feverish life inside her obviously sex-starved brain. Would he strip her? Or ask her to strip for him? Not that it would be the first time she’d done that for a man, but again, she was usually the one in control. In fact, handcuffs wouldn’t be a new experience for her, either…unless they were put on her wrists.

  “Okay, enough of this torture.” She yanked open the tiny trunk and unzipped her leather duffel. She’d purposely taken her little sports car so she’d be forced to travel light, figuring that focusing on where she was going would be much easier if she wasn’t lugging most of her past around with her.

  Of course, that hadn’t stopped her from buying and shipping home any little thing that caught her eye. She swallowed a wicked little snicker, wondering if she could mail Dylan Jackson home. He’d definitely caught her eye, all right, along with just about every other body part.

  If only it were so easy.

  By the time she got back to the deck, a thick white sweater buttoned at her throat keeping off most of the chill, he had plates and silverware set on place mats on the little table. Again, nothing fancy, but she was discovering the basic and simple held more appeal than she would have previously thought. “Can I help with something?”

  “Just your appetite.”

  Oh, I definitely have that. “Famished.” Noticing he was sipping his wine, she asked, “What do you think? Of the wine, I mean?”

  “It’s worthy of a repeat invitation.”

  She smiled. “For the wine, or for me?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about you yet.” He took another sip. “But the wine definitely passes.”

  “I’ll take my brownie points and quit complaining then.”

  “Smart woman.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I bet you have.”

  With both of them smiling, he turned back to the steak and she found her gaze drifting to the house. She wondered what his bedroom looked like. Basic, simple, down to earth, certainly. Big bed, small bed? Bathroom built for one…or two? “So you designed the house?”

  “In my head, yes, but I paid a professional to put it on paper for me. I did a lot of the work myself, but hired out what I couldn’t handle or didn’t know how to do.”

  Practical. Secure. No need to brag, but there was quiet pride in his tone and, when he glanced at the house, in his expression.

  “I can’t imagine tackling something like this,” she said truthfully. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  He laid his fork and tongs down and wandered over to the railing near where she sat. “What exactly was it you did in California?”

  “Publicist. Celebrities mostly. I ran my own firm.”

  “Then I’d say you have some experience in tackling big projects. It’s probably not much different. When you know what you want, I’m willing to bet you find a way to make it happen no matter how overwhelming the task might seem.”

  She stared at him, surprised by the insight. “I suppose you’re right. The problem comes when
you no longer know what you want, I guess. It’s hard to make your dreams come true when you’ve achieved the only ones you ever had.”

  He crossed his legs at the ankle and took another sip of wine. “Is that what you’re doing? On this sabbatical of yours. Trying to find new dreams?”

  “That’s a good way of putting it.”

  “Some people just enjoy the dreams they’ve realized, consider themselves lucky for the opportunity. Why did you give up what you were doing?”

  “Why did you give up being a vice cop?”

  He didn’t blink at the question, but handled it as directly as he handled her. She was really attracted to that quality in him.

  “I had this idea that being a cop in a big city was more important than being a sheriff in a small one. I found out I was wrong. Crime is crime and no victim is more or less important than another. Keeping the peace anywhere, or trying to, is a rewarding experience.”

  “Some anywheres are more challenging than others, I would imagine. You strike me as someone who enjoys a challenge.” She motioned to the house he’d blasted part of a mountain away to build.

  “True, but one isn’t less important than others. Las Vegas was definitely a challenge and I thought that was what I needed, would thrive on.”

  “How long did you work there?”

  “Nine years. The last three in vice.”

  “That’s a fair amount of time in a tough city.”

  “Felt like an eternity, if you want to know the truth. No matter what I did, how many people I busted, it seemed it never really made a dent.” He took a sip of his wine, his gaze drifting to the winking lights of the town sprawled below them. “I realized I needed to make a dent. Challenge is one thing, but after a while I needed the satisfaction of knowing what I did mattered.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, but Liza had the feeling the decision hadn’t been so easily made. “You don’t think what you did in Vegas mattered?”

  “Maybe. I can’t explain it. I suppose on some level, removing scum from the streets matters. But for every one I locked up, there was always another piece of slime ready and willing to slide in to take his or her place. In more cases than I can count, it was slime I’d already locked up before, out on the streets again. After a while, it starts to feel like you’re shoveling sand against the tide. I guess I needed more tangible evidence that I was making a difference.”