No Strings Attached

by Susan Andersen - No Strings Attached

  She tossed back her drink, coughed, then carefully set the empty glass on the tray. When she looked up at him, her pale eyes were somber. And for a moment she was silent.

  Then, with a quiet exhalation, she sat back. She said something in a voice so soft he found himself leaning down to hear. “What?”

  She cleared her throat. “The night I was arrested,” she said a little more loudly, “the Bahamian police threw me in the back of a car and drove through the dark for what seemed like hours.”

  Feeling like a hunting dog going on point, he dropped onto the couch and sat at attention on its edge, his knees spread wide and his hands gripped together between them. Every atom of his being focused on her tense face. She had never discussed the particulars of that night—not with him, anyhow—and his heart drummed a ragged rhythm in his chest. This was something he’d wanted to know since discovering that night hadn’t gone the way he’d always believed it had.

  Yet a part of him didn’t.

  “There were three of them and me,” she said. “At one point while we were in the car, somebody called Inspector Rolle—the man in charge—on his cell. I don’t know if it had anything to do with my situation. I could only hear his side of the conversation, and that was mostly grunts and the occasional yes, sir, no, sir. But I got the impression he wasn’t happy about what he was being told, and shortly after he disconnected they took me to this small building in the middle of nowhere. It didn’t look like any police station I’d ever seen, but they fingerprinted me there and took photos and did some other police-type stuff.

  “I kept trying to tell them they’d made a mistake and asked repeatedly to be allowed to call the American embassy, but while Inspector Rolle had answered my questions when we were in the hut, suddenly it was as if no one except me even heard my voice. I thought at the time, the way they ignored me was the worst part of the night, because how was I supposed to get out of the clusterfuck I found myself in if no one would even talk to me?”

  She stared at the coffee table as if it fascinated her, then said with a wryness that struck him as forced, “It turns out I wasn’t even close. Because when they finished the booking part or whatever you call it...” Her voice trailing away, she reached for the bottle and knocked back a swig directly from it. She lifted the bottom of her T-shirt to wipe the neck of the pint, exposing a pale slice of her stomach, then returned the bottle to the tray. Finally raising her eyes, she looked at him across the table, and a ragged sigh stuttered through her lips. “They escorted me to a room, pushed me in and closed the door.”

  Horror colored her expression as she stared at him, and, wrapping her arms around herself, she commenced a subtle rocking motion in her seat. “It wasn’t even a room, really. It was more of a closet—about the size of the bathroom in my mama’s trailer. And, God, it was so dark in there.” Her eyes stared blindly ahead. “Why is it so dark? I’ve never seen a black so thick and dense. Shouldn’t my eyes have adjusted by now?”

  Her unseeing gaze and sudden lapse into present tense made Luc’s gut ice over and the hair on his arms stand on end, and he scrambled for a way to pull her out of it.

  Before he could come up with anything, she jerked. “Oh, shit, what is that?” Goose bumps flowed down her arms, and she batted the air. “Are those cobwebs? I can’t see— Oh, God, they’re sticking to me!” Muscles jumped under her skin, and her fingers went into a flurry of brushing and plucking at her head, her arms, her chest.

  He surged up off the couch, stepped over the table between them and picked her up out of her chair. Turning, he dropped into her seat so abruptly that her long legs flopped over the arm of the chair and bounced back up before settling. He nestled her on his lap, wrapped her in his arms and held her tight. That was when he realized her clothes were damp and, pulling his chin back, he saw the fine mist that clung to her hair.

  “It’s okay,” he said in a low, firm voice. “You’re not there now. You’re safe.” He rubbed his hands down her arms, then used his fingers to firmly stroke her cheeks, her nose, her lips, her chin in hopes of dispelling those remembered cobwebs. He looked down at her, but her gray-blue eyes were blank, as if looking inward rather than out.

  “Are they in my hair?” she demanded, thrusting her head at him to inspect. “I hate spiders—get them out of my hair!”

  The demand was whimpered, and he rubbed his palms over the richly textured mass from her hairline to the tips of her curls. “Shhh, cariño,” he murmured. Then, rethinking his strategy, he made his voice brisk and no-nonsense when he said, “No, forget that. Snap out of it! It was seven years ago, Tasha. There are no bugs in your hair now.”

  For a moment the studio was silent. Then...

  “Shit.” Her voice sounded more like her own, and as the tightly coiled tension left her in a rush, she sagged against him, her fingers uncurling their white-knuckled grip on his T-shirt. “I know that.” She blew out a breath. “Holy crap. I sound more psychotic than Norman Bates during his mother-issues period. But, God, Luc, it was such a horrid experience.”

  Looking up, she gave him a fierce stare. “I don’t go around reliving this every day, you know—I got past it a long time ago.” Her faint shrug dug her left shoulder into his chest for a second before it relaxed. “Every now and then, though, something sparks a memory, and it might as well have been yesterday, because I can recall everything. That my toilet was a bucket that a man, who never talked, emptied once a day. That it must have been over a hundred degrees in there and between the heat and that bucket it smelled like a sewer. That I didn’t smell much better.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. “And not just the spiders but the bugs. Jesus-God, I hate remembering those bugs. Do you know how many varieties there are in the Bahamas?” she asked wearily. “There must be hundreds, if not thousands, and I swear I had at least half of them with me in that room, clicking and scurrying around and— Oh, God. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.

  “But it was the not knowing that was the worst,” she said. “If they’d told me I’d be in there for two nights it would have still been awful, but knowing I had a finite number of hours to tick off would’ve made getting through it a little more bearable. But I didn’t know, and I was terrified I was going to be in that little hellhole of a room for the rest of my life. That I’d die in there screaming and clawing at my skin.”

  Suddenly, as if just now realizing where she was, she unfolded herself from his lap and climbed to her feet. Her usually unwavering gaze looked everywhere but at him, and the uncharacteristic uncertainty in a woman who always seemed to know just what she wanted left him feeling colder from more than just the body heat she’d taken with her.

  He, too, rose to his feet. “You’re always going to blame me for that night, aren’t you?”

  “What?” Her gaze snapped back to his, and she straightened. “No. That’s actually what I came to tell you tonight. In order to understand why I’ve been so angry with you, I thought you needed to hear what I went through. And I wanted to tell you face-to-face that I’ve let it go.”

  “You have?”

  He must have sounded as skeptical as he felt because she made an impatient movement. “I know, right? My behavior hasn’t exactly telegraphed that message.” She shrugged. “I don’t deny a big part of me wanted to keep blaming you. Even learning that you weren’t responsible for the drugs they found in the hut or hearing that you hadn’t deliberately left me holding the bag or discovering that, not only had you not known about my arrest, you’d actually believed I had run out on you, I still wanted to hold you accountable. Because my arrest never should have happened, and seeing you again brought up too many memories that I thought were behind me. I guess I believed if I could just place the blame squarely on you, it would somehow make them more manageable.”

  She looked at him with devastating earnestness and gave her head an infinitesimal shake. “But I need to let it all go. Being angry is turning me into someone I don’t recognize, and I don’t want to be that wo
man. I wanna be me again.” She straightened her shoulders. Blew out a breath. “So I officially absolve you, Luc Bradshaw.” Her cheeks flushed—with embarrassment, he guessed at her next words. “And I promise to do a better job of not being such a bitch to you. In fact—”

  A sudden calculation in those gray-blue eyes replaced the embarrassment, and she stepped up to him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she came up onto the balls of her feet and kissed him.

  His mind understood that this was her way of taking charge after displaying vulnerability in front of him.

  His body didn’t give a rat’s ass. And for a moment he went with it, absorbing the thrill of her being the one to instigate a kiss for a change. Taking in the feel of her vibrant heat beneath his palms as he held her to him and the almost overwhelming urge he felt to carry her to the bed in the little alcove at the end of the room. He wanted to lay her out and reacquaint himself with the energy and selfless giving he had never been able to quite forget.

  Instead, he reluctantly raised his head, breaking the kiss. Stroked his hands up her back and her raised arms until he could encircle her wrists. Pulling her arms from around his neck, he took a step back.

  “You have no idea how hard it is for me to say no,” he said and, hearing the embarrassing rasp in his voice, cleared his throat. “But you’ve been drinking, Tash, and you’ve had an emotional upheaval tonight, and I don’t want to give you a new reason to hate me in the morning. So I gotta send you home.”

  She shrugged and stepped back. “Your loss,” she said coolly.

  “You’re telling me, bebe. And anytime you’re ready to take another go at this when you’re clear-eyed and stone-cold sober, I’m your guy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She walked away, and a second later he watched as she closed the door behind her. He walked over to the nearest wall and thunked his head against it.

  “Idiot,” he said in time with each thump against the wood. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.”

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY, during the slowdown between the after-school rush and the dinner crowd, Tasha ran up to her apartment to change her T-shirt, because the one she’d started the day in had met with an unfortunate accident with an improperly sealed pizza-sauce container. Letting herself into the narrow hallway that ran the length of the building behind the apartments, she immediately spotted the manila envelope propped against her door. A moment later she bent to pick it up and saw that it was addressed to Luc.

  For one blank moment, she stared down at it in her hand. She could hear music thumping faintly from his studio, so she wasn’t sure why the mail hadn’t been delivered to his door.

  But as she straightened, she smiled.

  She’d been much less impaired by Luc’s bourbon Sunday night than he’d clearly believed. Yet she had to admit that the moves she’d slapped on him had been driven more by a need to eradicate her vulnerability and the less-than-stalwart mental stability she’d displayed when she’d told him what had happened That Night than they had been by a just-can’t-leave-him-alone craving.

  Not that she didn’t ordinarily feel that in spades. It just hadn’t been the primary force the other night.

  So, yeah, he’d probably been right to call a halt to things before they’d gone too far.

  And wasn’t acknowledging that grown-up of her? Grinning, she brought the envelope into her apartment and tossed it onto the dresser in her bedroom. She pulled her soiled shirt off over her head as she walked into the adjoining bathroom and dropped it in the sink, which she filled with cold water. A week ago she likely would have viewed his actions as a rejection. And, all right, considering the way he’d kissed her several times, she no doubt would have used said rejection to add fuel to her mad-on at him.

  Now, however...

  She dug her phone out of her apron pocket and punched in a number. It rang three times on the other end before it was picked up with a cheerful “Bella T’s Pizza.”

  “Hey, Tiff, it’s me. Something’s come up—do you and Jeremy think you can handle the dinner crowd?”

  “Sure. So far it’s looking a little dead, and midweek’s usually not that busy anyhow. We’ve got it under control.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She disconnected and filled the tub, throwing in a handful of bubble-bath crystals.

  She took a relaxing if not particularly long bath and reached for her razor as she pulled the plug, shaving her underarms and legs as the water lowered. When she climbed out of the tub, she patted herself dry, then rubbed lotion all over her body. After brushing her teeth, she walked naked into her bedroom and pulled open her undies drawer, pawing through it in search of her better lingerie.

  Her options in that category were pitifully limited, but she pulled out a ruby-wine unlined lace demi-bra and a matching pair of panties that she rarely wore because, frankly, she wasn’t all that fond of thongs and didn’t know what she’d been thinking when she’d purchased this pair. Okay, she did know—they were gorgeous, and she’d willfully disregarded the fact that they’d likely be uncomfortable. And at least they weren’t all raggedy like most of her underwear. She really needed to take herself shopping one of these days.

  For today’s purposes, however, the thong would have to do. She didn’t plan to have it on for long anyway.

  Not wanting to appear as if she’d fussed, she pulled on a pair of worn skinny jeans and a royal-blue Henley tee that was a couple of years old but still made her feel attractive every time she wore it. Then she tugged the coated rubber band from her braid, unplaited it and ran her fingers through the crimped strands. Gathering it loosely at the nape of her neck, she fastened it with the rubber band she’d removed from her braid, but didn’t double-or triple-twist the band to make it tighter the way she usually would. She pulled a few curls free for a messyish just-tumbled-out-of-bed look. Then she applied a little berry-colored lip balm and stood back to check herself out in the mirror.

  “Good enough.” She grabbed Luc’s mail, then let herself out of her apartment, traversed the short distance to his door and tapped on it.

  There was no answer, and she sagged. “Oh, for God’s sake.” All that buildup for nothing.

  Then the door opened, and Luc stood on the other side.

  She straightened. Slapped the manila envelope against his chest. “This is yours. It was delivered to my place.”

  He peeled it out from under her palm and looked down at it. “Thanks. I’ve been waiting for this.” He raised his gaze to hers. “Is that all?”

  “No. I’m clear-eyed and sober and ready to take another go at what you passed up,” she said, repeating what he’d told her she’d need to be in order to pick up where they’d left off Sunday night. “Did you mean it when you said you’re the guy to see if I still want a shot under those conditions?”

  “Oh, hell, yeah,” he said. And reaching out, he snagged one of her wrists, pulled her into his studio and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ONE SECOND TASHA was out in the hall. The next she found herself inside Luc’s studio, plastered to the door by a hundred and ninety pounds of hot-skinned, hard-bodied, turned-on man. Luc laced their fingers together and pinned her hands to the wooden panels on either side of her head.

  She stared up at him, struggling to draw air into lungs suddenly unable to function. She didn’t have time to catch her breath before he bent his head and kissed her. Which only guaranteed that she wouldn’t be catching it anytime soon.

  The man could kiss. Given the urgent full-body press and his rigid erection caught so hard between them it wouldn’t surprise her to discover its imprint on her stomach, she’d expected a hot, wet, out-of-control kiss. The kind that ground the back of a woman’s head against the hard wood she found herself pinned to.

  Instead, he came at her openmouthed, only to pull his kiss centimeters from making contact. Then the dirty tease did it again. And yet again.

  But just as she was about to wrest her hands fr
ee so she could wrap them around his skull to hold him in place and show him how they did things in Small Town, U.S.A., he dipped his head and gave her bottom lip a quick bite. She jerked, and he lifted his head to look into her eyes. Then he transferred his attention to its mate.

  Except this time he was anything but quick. Hot-eyed gaze watching her, he made love to her top-heavy upper lip leisurely, lazily. And, oh, God. So very, very thoroughly. The slickness of his inner lips massaged the fullness he’d caught between them. Her eyelids slid closed, but that only made the sensations all the more powerful.

  And dragged a long, shuddering sigh from her.

  He made a sound deep in his throat and gently bit the lip he held captive. He scraped his teeth over it, testing its tensility before allowing it to slip free. His warm exhalation set up a slight chill across the skin he’d left dampened, and he used the tip of his tongue to trace the sharp edge of her front teeth.

  Then finally—finally!—he slid his mouth over hers and, slipping his tongue between her teeth, engaged hers in play.

  Deep inside, she tightened, dampened, clenched—and she bucked against his hold. The fingernails with which she longed to anchor herself to him scraped impotently against the knuckles of the hands preventing her from doing so. “Inside me.”

  He ground against her for an instant, then brought himself up short. “Not yet.”

  “Yes. Now.” She gave his tongue a strong, remonstrative suck.

  And the tension that had strung between them like stretched-thin silver wires snapped.

  Releasing her wrists, Luc speared his hands through her hair, his thumbs framing her cheekbones, his fingers gripping the base of her skull. He widened his mouth over hers and kissed her harder, deeper.

  Wrapping her arms around his waist, she dug her fingers into his back. She rose onto her toes to bring them more directly in line and, hooking the back of her knee over his lean hip, yanked him even closer than before.