by Wylde, J. D.
“It’s not that bad.” It was awful, but Bobby Wayne wasn’t in a mood to be agreeable.
“Oh my god!” Lauren pushed her hand up into her lush mop of dark brown hair. The hair he loved to have teasing across his bare chest. She stared at the floor, the one illuminated way too brightly by the overhead chandelier. Of course, even if the light was snuffed and the room cloaked in darkness, the boldly-painted floor could not be missed. Or ignored. That was the beauty of fluorescent paint, he supposed. And the bane.
“Oh my god, oh my god!”
“Is that all you can say?”
She lifted those golden brown eyes to his. Eyes that used to soften to the color of warm honey when she looked at him were now flashing like the sparks of metal scraping metal. “What have you done to my house?”
“Our house,” he corrected her. “We jointly own it together, remember?” And that, foolish as it was, was the one thing he clung to. Even more than the constant worry he might not race again.
Lauren would never give up this house.
“You— you— you—” She sputtered her outrage like a blown engine spurting oil. “I can’t believe you did this!”
“I didn’t do it.” It was a technicality, but he needed all the help he could get. It was unforgivable what he’d allowed.
“There’s a victory circle painted on my parquet floor!”
The huge red circle surrounded by a neon yellow circle and flaming black and white checkered racing flags had been painted on their parquet floor by his ex-wife number four. “Our,” he corrected her again. “It’s our floor.”
“Oh, my god! My god,” she went on. Like a damn broken record. As irritating as Doctor Sadistic was when he said over and over again with every checkup Bobby Wayne went back for, you will not race again, Bobby Wayne. Even though everybody knew – especially Bobby Wayne – that he would race again.
“Oh, my god,” she was still going on. “Oh, my god! My god!”
“You said that already,” Bobby Wayne snapped. “A half-dozen times.” Hell, Bobby Wayne had said it a hundred times since that night he’d walked in to find Lauren’s beautifully renovated home trashed. Barbara Jean, ex-wife number four, may have called it interior designing, but it was tacky. Even for him. And he loved NASCAR.
And Lauren wasn’t supposed to be here seeing it before he could heal enough to get back to the track so a renovation expert and his crew could come in and fix the mess.
“Oh, my god! Oh, my god! Ohmygod!” She ran to the steps, the Italian marble ones, which made up the grand staircase. The staircase that dominated the entryway now painted flat black to look like an asphalt track, complete with a neon yellow warning stripe running down the outside edge of each step.
“Will you quit saying that?”
“They’re Italian marble, Bobby Wayne – Italian marble put in this house before the Civil War!”
“I know.” He knew. He’d been standing by her side, his arm draped possessively over her shoulder, her arm wrapped tight around his waist when the realtor had walked them through the house explaining its history, selling them on it even though it would need renovated. The turn of this century had not been kind to Harrington House and it had fallen into disrepair.
But Lauren had looked up at him with those honey-colored eyes. And when she said, “This is a house generations of one family lived in,” her voice soft and full of awe. “I want that, Bobby Wayne. I wanna home like this for us.” Hell, he’d have bought her five Harrington Houses just to have her looking up at him like he was everything she ever wanted and needed.
She wasn’t looking at him like that anymore.
And it was his fault. He should have gone after her. And he sure as hell shouldn’t have brought another woman into their house.
Her hand went to her chest, fisting right between her perfect breasts. The ones rapidly rising and falling – up and down, up and down with every frantic gasp of air… Like they used to when he made love to her, when he held them in his hands, his fingers stroking over her pebbled nipples as they both rode a wave of ecstasy. When she gasped out his name in pleasure as she came apart in his arms. “Oh, my god! Oh, my—”
“Jee-suz, will you quit sayin’ that?” And he needed to quit staring at her breasts. At the ones he knew would fit perfectly into his hands. And he needed to forget all the good times. The woman had walked away from him for crissakes! She’d broken his heart. “Give it a rest, will you?” he told her.
“You know what?” She spun around, blasting him with an arctic glare. “Why don’t you just run up to the top of those stairs, Bobby Wayne, and take a flying leap off them! That’ll give it a rest.”
He snorted. “Been there, done that, sugar.” He pointed a finger to the skin still knitting together over his right eye. “Have the stitches to prove it.”
Her eyebrows furrowed as she took a good look at him. She was the only woman he’d ever known who could see past the NASCAR god to the mortal man hiding behind the larger-than-life image. And he looked away before she saw his biggest fear. And the fact that no matter how mad he was at her for walking away from him without allowing him to explain, for ruining his racing season, for pushing him into a rebound marriage he hadn’t wanted, he freakin’ still loved her.
He needed her to leave. He needed her to stay because, damn, he missed her. He was half a man without her. And the half he’d been had been a pretty shitty excuse for one. And he needed to fix the mess he’d made of her home, which was exactly why he needed rid of her.
Damn! He’d gone full circle in less than 3.5 seconds.
He didn’t need the major distraction that she would be. And he sure as hell didn’t want to face her when he wasn’t at the top of his game. And he was about as far from the top as a man could get.
“Why aren’t you out on your A to Z tour?” he took a shot of his own. And far away from him, he wanted to add. He was supposed to be concentrating on unscrambling his head, getting back behind the wheel, racing for the cup and the unprecedented title of winningest driver. Ever. Not being blindsided by foolish hope she’d come back to him and he’d be whole again.
Her face drained of any color, and just as quickly, flushed with the heat of anger. “Oh, you had to go for the jugular, didn’t you?” Hurt made her voice waver and Bobby Wayne had no idea what the hell that was about. Or even what she was talking about. She was country music’s biggest star, touring all over the country, living the Nashville dream.
“Why aren’t you racing?”
Talk about going for the jugular. “What, you don’t follow me on Twitter, or Facebook?”
She didn’t say a word. Just grabbed her suitcase. And he had his answer. Hell, he had his answer a year ago when she’d walked away from him without a backward glance.
“Hey!” Bobby Wayne yelled as she marched up the stairs like Sherman marching into Atlanta. “Where are you goin’?”
“I drove non-stop for twelve hours. I’m goin’ to bed.”
“Oh, hell no, you’re not!”
She arched an eyebrow like she was still lady of the manor. Her eyes skimmed over his beat-up body. “And you think you’re gonna stop me?”
Chapter 4
“Sugar, I am just gettin’ started.” And damn! if Bobby Wayne’s dick didn’t twitch at the thought of starting things up again with Lauren. Of getting down and dirty with her. Of laying her out over those god-awfully painted steps. Of ignoring every warning sign she was hurling his way and licking and tasting every delectable inch of her until she screamed out his name. And then plunging deep into her, over and over and over again, until he forgot all the hurt she’d inflicted on his heart and on his soul.
She was long and leggy with a pile of wavy dark brown hair, small breasts and a lean body he’d never been able to get enough of. Three days max, even when she’d been touring. They were only separated three days before she was chasing him down between shows to whatever track he was at. And the same went for him. When he should have been at s
ome track testing, or at the garage, he was on a plane to wherever she was. And somehow they’d made it work. For a year and a half. And they’d been happy – blissfully happy – until she’d walked away from him.
“Where are you goin’?” he yelled, as he made his way up the long staircase behind her.
“I’m goin’ to my room.”
“It was our room,” he corrected her. And if she thought the downstairs remodeling was bad, she’d have a coronary when she got a look at the master bedroom. “And it’s not your room anymore,” he yelled, hoping to spare her the agony of the rest of Barbara Jean’s interior decorating disaster. By sucker punching her? His conscience reprimanded him. Way to go, Forsythe, it added.
She stopped. Spun around. Her lips were pressed tightly together.
And before she could rip into him, he said, “Hey! You left me, remember?” Christ! He never forgot. He’d never been able to forget no matter how many women he’d banged. Didn’t matter he’d married another one and supposedly moved on. It had always been Lauren.
She turned back around, nearly running down the hall.
“Dammit!” He ran up the remaining stairs. She was still running from him. And he was still running after her.
This is the first time you ran after her, the irritating voice of reason mouthed off inside his head. To which Bobby Wayne mentally mouthed back, shut the fuck up! Even though it was true; he hadn’t gone after her. He’d been too mad, too hurt.
“Oh my ga-awd!” she wailed.
One step from the top, Bobby Wayne stopped. Wearily leaned against the mahogany bannister. Dropped his head to his chest and cussed. She’d obviously found the master bedroom renovations.
“Oh my god! Ohmygod!”
“Will you stop sayin’ that!” he yelled, as he limped down the hall to the bedroom he’d shared with her. And with Barbara Jean. Well, it had been shared with Barbara Jean until he’d called out Lauren’s name while buried seven inches deep inside the other.
“Piston lamps, Bobby Wayne? Embroidered silk sheets with your car’s number?”
“Hey, those sheets are pretty cool.”
Her eyes got all squinty. Like she was sighting him down the barrel of Olivia Harrington’s antique hog leg pistol, the one he hoped to hell was still displayed on the wall in the study.
“And I see why you like them.” She flung an arm wide. “They go so nicely with your little racecar-shaped bed!”
He frowned as he stared at the custom-built metal bed Barbara Jean had made for them. It didn’t look like a racecar. Did it?
“Oh my god! Diamond-plated chest of drawers and dressers?” She stepped from the dressing room that was part of the bedroom. “What happened to the antique walnut dresser with the marble top?”
The rare, one-of-a-kind original piece from the Civil War era had cost Bobby Wayne fifteen-thousand dollars. The look on Lauren’s face when he’d had it delivered to the house had been priceless. Her way of thanking him had been a hot, steamy night of lovin’ he’d never forgotten. Or experienced with anyone else since.
“You know what?” She put a hand up, palm out. Hurt brimming in her eyes. “Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know.”
“Lauren.”
She ignored him. Grabbed her suitcase and stiffly crossed the room to the door.
“Lauren.” He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “I’m sorry.” It seemed inadequate. He was sorry for letting her go. And especially sorry for bringing Barbie into their home and then not being around enough, interested enough, or caring enough to stop the woman before she’d destroyed what Lauren had so painstakingly created.
Lauren wouldn’t look at him. She lifted one delicate shoulder. “You said it,” she softly told him. “It’s not my home.” And the pain in her voice, the hurt trembling from each word hit Bobby Wayne harder than that damn wall at Talladega. She pulled her arm free. Head down, she slowly walked toward the door.
“Don’t… Don’t go,” he begged her. He uncurled her fingers from the suitcase handle. Sat it back down on the floor. Gently turned her toward him. “This is your house.” He pulled her closer, his breath caught in his throat, waiting for her to give him something. Anything. She stepped closer, albeit reluctantly – or maybe guardedly – and his heart beat fast just the same. And then he pulled her a little closer still, always pushing the limit, until his groin brushed against the soft juncture of her thighs. And he got hard like he always did anytime she was near. He pressed into her wet heat once, then twice, and she sighed, melting over him. He dipped his head until his mouth was just a kiss away from hers. “You drove all the way from Nashville, sugar. Stay.”
She lifted her head and the air surrounding them grew thick with anticipation and want. And Bobby Wayne’s breath caught in his chest as he watched a battle playing out in her eyes. One he didn’t understand. One that didn’t make sense.
She should be pushing him away. She’d walked away from him. Yet she breathed out the breath of surrender. And her hand tentatively slid up his arm. The simple touch of her fingers brushing against his skin and his dick got harder. And he wanted so badly to lay her down on that bed and rewind the past year. To remind her of everything they’d had, of everything they’d been to each other. Of everything they could still be.
“Bobby Wayne,” she whispered his name and he loved the way she said it, all bunched up and fast. And then her eyes caught fire like they used to when she surrendered to the passion and hope ignited in his chest. And her hand slid up over his shoulder, up his neck and into his hair. “I never could resist you,” she whispered, right before she touched her lips to his.
His mouth closed over hers and he kissed her back. She opened her mouth wider. Their tongues tangling together, sliding over, wrapping around each other, picking up where they’d left off a year ago. Her hands slid down his back to his ass and she was hauling him closer and he was pulling her closer, grinding into her.
And too damn quick, she pulled away from him. Her chest heaving, the look in her eyes tortured. “I— I can’t— I can’t do this,” she whispered, and her voice broke.
What the hell was going on? How could one mind-blowing kiss cause so much pleasure for one and so much pain for the other? She looked ready to cry.
“Lauren,” he reached for her arm. “What’s—”
“I can’t.” She pulled away. “I just— I— I can’t do this.”
“Do what, sugar?” There was a time when it was all they did.
A single tear escaped to slide down her cheek. She wrapped an arm around her middle as if she were in pain. She pressed a trembling finger to her swollen lips.
Real concern and dread built inside him. “Tell me what’s wrong.” If she was sick, he had a fortune. He’d give it all to her. Pay someone to invent a cure for whatever ailed her. He reached for her arm.
She pulled away again. Looked up at him with the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. Her lips trembled.
“I want out, Bobby Wayne. I need out.”
Chapter 5
Lauren paced the upstairs bedroom, a room she knew to be Bobby Wayne’s, even though the other had been decorated solely for him. She could smell him on the plain white cotton sheets. Could still taste him in her mouth. She sank down onto the edge of the bed. The one she’d laid in all night, thinking of him, wondering… imagining. She lifted her head heavenward and shut her eyes. “God,” she breathed out. She was thirty years old. What had she been thinking? Kissing him last night? He’d lied to her! She needed to cut all ties with him; not entertain the possibility of a future with the man.
But it had always been like that between them. Intense and immediate. Combustible and all consuming. Zero to orgasmic bliss in two-point-five kisses. And nothing had changed. Nothing at all. Except she was smarter now.
Or she was supposed to be.
She picked up her cell phone from the nightstand. Glanced at the dozen text messages Jeremy had left her. She was in no mood to deal with him this morning. He’d been furious
when she’d made the decision to cancel the rest of her tour, less than understanding when she’d said she had to go back home. And while she knew she’d left him holding the bag, smoothing out the mess she’d walked away from, he wasn’t going to change her mind, no matter how hard he tried.
She didn’t want the gypsy lifestyle she’d lived all her life. She wanted a home, one in the same place for more than six months. And she wanted a man who loved her, one who’d come home to her every night.
And the thought she was even considering it again with Bobby Wayne after one kiss terrified her. He was a NASCAR driver! Gone thirty-six weeks a year, and much of the remaining time was spent preparing for the next season.
He wasn’t the right man for her, no matter how much she loved him, no matter how much she foolishly still wanted him.
She shut off her phone. Tossed it aside. She’d deal with Jeremy when he cooled down. And she’d tell him it was over. All of it: her career; his job as her business manager. And she’d end their fledgling romance, especially after one toe-curling kiss with Bobby Wayne. It was wrong to lead Jeremy on.
She turned toward the door. Caught her reflection in the mirror over the dresser and paused. She looked at the face which was such a blending of her mother and her father’s features that she couldn’t say for certain whose nose, or whose eyes she’d inherited. But one thing she did know. “You’re just like ’em,” she told the haunted reflection staring back at her. “You’re a running, one-step-ahead-of-disaster Foster, just like them.”
She sucked in a deep breath of courage. “Today that changes, you hear?”
Today she’d cut the ties with Bobby Wayne. She’d give up her home. And she’d find a new one. She wiped a tear from her cheek. She’d plant roots some place where they didn’t know Lauren Foster-Forsythe, country music starlet. She’d build a life. And eventually she’d find a man who loved her. One who’d come home to her every night, who’d be happy sinking deep roots in one spot for the rest of their lives.