Just Not Mine (Escape to New Zealand)

by Rosalind James

  “Wow,” she said blankly. “I never really thought about it. Not seriously.”

  “Aren’t there actors who write as well?” he asked. “I know there are some who are directors, right? So why not writers?”

  “Yeh,” she said. “A few, I guess. I guess I could try.”

  “You can always try,” he agreed.

  “Then I will,” she said. “I’ll have a go.” She blew out a breath. “Phew. Not what I expected to be talking about over dinner with you.”

  “That’s why we’ve got all night,” he said, and smiled at her again.

  He realized they’d finished eating long ago, and that his beer was gone, her wine nearly so. “Need another?” he asked her, gesturing to her glass.

  “I usually don’t drink two, but …” She laughed a little. “This is too good. All of it. You going to carry me home if I get too wild?”

  “I am,” he promised. “I’d carry you anywhere.”

  He couldn’t believe he’d said it, but her expression had softened, so it had clearly worked, and that was good enough for him. “And I’ll get you another glass of wine, too,” he told her.

  He crossed the room to the crowded bar, placed the order. The bartender nodded, his hands and feet moving fast on this Friday night, and Hugh resigned himself to a wait and thought about her. About her face, telling him her plan. About how much more she was than what she appeared. About all the surprises of her.

  “It’s her. I’m sure of it.” The voice came from the closest of the three raucous blokes next to him. “Can’t mistake those tits, eh. Bet I’ve spent more time looking at hers than my girlfriend’s.”

  Hugh looked up, startled, and realized that Josie was sitting facing them, looking beautiful, and looking alone, and that they were all staring at her across the long room.

  “Because she actually shows you hers,” one of his mates said, “and we all know your girlfriend’s not giving you any. Watch a lot of Courtney Place, do you, while she’s got you doing the washing-up?”

  “Only the good bits,” the first man said with a loud laugh. “And our Jocelyn’s got the best bits in the business. Wouldn’t mind having a squiz at them, up close and personal.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having more than a squiz,” the other one said. “I’ll have the whole lot, thank you very much. And it’ll take a while, because I’ve got a whole list to get through.”

  Where the hell were his drinks? He was meant to be wining and dining Josie tonight, not doing some bastard over, but that was what was going to be happening if this took much longer.

  “Yeh, right,” the biggest—and the loudest—of the three mocked. Pissed as a fart, too, Hugh saw. “She’d have you bent over the bed, giving you six of the best with her riding crop, before you could say Bob’s your uncle. And have you thanking her for it and begging for more.”

  “Nah, mate. Other way round. Got to be the other way round, when it’s my turn,” his friend said.

  And that was it. That was enough, and Hugh had shifted to face them, invaded their space. “Shut up. Now,” he told them, and he made sure they could hear it.

  “Who invited you, mate?” the loud man said. “Piss off.”

  “I invited myself,” Hugh said, keeping his hand with difficulty off the other man’s collar. “Shut up, or I’ll do it for you.”

  One of the others was talking, low and urgent, to his friend, and they were both looking hard at Hugh now, but all Hugh’s attention was on the loud man.

  “I’ll shut you up,” the bloke said, and that was a fight that would be over in about five seconds, if it started at all. Which it wasn’t going to, because Hugh stood a little taller, shifted his weight, and stared hard. He watched with satisfaction as the fella broke eye contact, had one of his mates grabbing his arm, talking fast in his ear.

  “Excuse me, Hugh.”

  He whirled. Josie. What the hell?

  The men gawked, but she merely cast them a cool glance that seemed to sum them up and dismiss them in a instant, then turned away with that panther’s stalk, and Hugh offered one more challenging look around and walked around the corner with her.

  “Everything all right?” she asked him.

  He pretended it was. “Yeh. Fine.”

  “I’ll be back in a moment, then,” she said. “Ready to have that drink with you.” She smiled at him, put a light hand on his arm, and stretched to give him a soft kiss on the lips.

  “See you soon,” she murmured before swaying across in the direction of the toilets, and he went back to the bar, shot another look at the three blokes, who’d moved about as far away as they could get, and picked up his beer, because he was going to stay there until she got back. When she walked across the room again, she wasn’t going to be walking alone.

  “All right?” the bartender asked him.

  “Yeh,” Hugh said.

  “I’ve got a proposition for you,” the bartender said, pulling a beer from the tap for another customer. “I get them chucked out, and you don’t get into it in my bar, because you don’t need that and neither do I. Fair enough?”

  “Yeh,” Hugh said again. “That works for me.”

  “What was that about?” Josie asked when they were seated again and his blood pressure was more or less back to normal.

  “Oh, just …” He shrugged. “I took exception to their topic, let’s say.”

  “Ah. Thought so. Defending my honor, eh.”

  “Well, starting to. I’d have enjoyed it, too. Pity you came along and broke it up, because there was a face there that needed my fist in it.”

  “Probably be a good idea for you to get used to that,” she said. “It comes with the territory.”

  “Not happening,” he said briefly. “Not if they say it around me, it’s not.”

  “Then you’re going to be a busy man.”

  “I’m already a busy man. And intimidation,” he said with a smile for her, “is what I do.”

  She looked at him, and then she smiled, slow and sweet. She put a hand out, began to trace the muscles of his forearm with delicate fingers, and the evening had suddenly taken a whole different turn, leaving him reeling along in its wake.

  “It looked like you were doing it pretty well, too,” she said, her voice, her eyes so soft. “I wouldn’t want to be facing you like that. In fact, you’ve got me a little scared now. You going to intimidate me too?”

  “Never,” he promised, his heart hammering. “You, I’ve got other ways of dealing with.” Her hand was caressing, and his beer was half-drunk, and half was enough.

  “Oh, yeh?” she asked, and took another careful, deliberate sip of wine, kept smiling at him. He could tell she knew exactly what effect that sip, that smile, had on him. And then she put the tip of her tongue out and licked the rim of her glass, just the faintest touch, and it was as if she’d put her hand straight onto his groin under the table. She looked at him, tipped her head back, and drank, and he watched the movement of her golden throat as she swallowed.

  “I think,” she said, setting her glass down, drawing a slow circle around its rim with one long finger, “that you should take me home and show me exactly how you’re going to deal with me.”

  “I’m going to do that,” he told her over the pounding in his head. “In about two minutes. But only if you stop making love to that wine glass so I can walk to the door.”

  “You want me to stop?” she asked, her finger still moving. “Not touch it anymore? That doing things to you?” She was caressing the stem now, her fingers running lightly over its length, stroking it. “This bothering you too?” she purred. “Poor Hugh. How can I make it better?”

  “You’re not going to make it better,” he said. “That’s going to be my job. And if you want to know how …” Now he was the one smiling, and her eyes had widened a bit, and she wasn’t being Dr. Eva anymore. “All I’ll tell you is this,” he said. “How? In all sorts of ways. Ways you’ll remember next time you’re doing that act of yours. Ways that will r
emind you not to play with fire, because you just might get burned.”

  A Maori Thing

  She’d walked out the door with him, had taken his arm, had wondered in a detached corner of her mind why her legs weren’t actually shaking.

  He hadn’t taken her back to the car after all. Because he’d taken her straight into a hotel lobby.

  “Wait here,” he told her, leaving her in the corner next to the lifts, and she knew why. So this wouldn’t make it into the papers.

  She stood, pretended to study the menus for the hotel restaurant on the wall, and didn’t see a thing. She should have worn some less microscopic undies tonight, too, because the ones she had on weren’t doing the job. She shifted her weight in the high heels, felt the throb, and it was as if she could already feel his hands, his mouth on her.

  He was back, punching the button for the lift. And not reaching for her when they got inside. She looked at him, and he said, “Camera,” and she nodded.

  “But no microphone,” he said, “so I’ll say this. Your clothes are going to be coming off slowly tonight, but the first thing that’s going to be happening is that pretty dress hitting the floor.”

  She couldn’t help it. She actually shivered, a delicious sensation, and he saw it and smiled a little. “You like that, don’t you? You’re so used to doing the talking, nobody ever tells you the good stuff.”

  He was leaning closer now, and his mouth touched her ear as he murmured, “No worries, though. I’m going to tell you all the good stuff tonight. And this would be the night when we find out how many times you can come.”

  The doors opened, and he stepped back and smiled at her, then led the way to the room, and she followed and tried to think of something to say, but for once, she couldn’t come up with a thing, because, if the truth were known, she was having a hard enough time breathing and walking.

  He opened the door, held it for her, switched on the lights, but he didn’t take her into the bedroom, and he didn’t reach for her, either. Instead, he walked across the lounge and turned on the lamp set on the end table next to the window, then came back and turned the rest off, leaving him behind her, in the dark.

  “Thought I was getting the Demon Lover,” she said, trying to get a little control over the situation. “And here you are, not rushing me. But I see we’ve got the lights down. I didn’t think that was your style. I thought you were a watcher.”

  “There are ways and ways of watching,” he said. “And there’s no rushing tonight. I told you. We’re going to take it slow.” He walked across to the window again, pulled the drapes, and the Auckland night sky was revealed in all its glory, the Sky Tower glowing purple tonight, the skyscrapers dropping away down the hill to the blackness of the Harbour beyond.

  “Pretty,” she said. “We star-gazing, or what?”

  “I’m star-gazing,” he said, coming back around her, then reaching to pull her against him from behind, wrapping his arms around her. “The difference is, I’m only looking at one particular star. My favorite one.”

  He reached a hand out to pull her hair back, kissed her cheek, and then his lips were moving, warm and firm, over her ear, down the side of her neck, the rasp of his beard adding so much more stimulation, wakening every nerve fiber it encountered along the way.

  “So pretty,” he murmured, and she realized what he was doing. He wasn’t looking at the view. He was looking at their reflection in the window that stretched almost from floor to ceiling, from wall to wall, revealing them nearly as clearly as a mirror, but so much darker, all glowing light and mysterious shadow, so much more exciting than a mirror could ever be.

  “Watch this,” he told her, “because it gets even better.”

  He had brushed her hair over one shoulder, and both hands were on the back zip of her black dress, pulling it slowly down, all the way to her hips, his hands easing the garment over her shoulders, down her body.

  “Step out,” he told her, and she did, and his hands went around her shoulders, pulled her back against him.

  “Look at that,” he said. “Aw, that’s so nice. Look what I’ve got.” His hands stroked over her arms, and then they were cupping her breasts, his thumbs tracing lightly over the mesh of her demibra, and she watched her reflection, saw his hands on her, saw the woman with her waves of hair cascading over one shoulder, eyes half-closed, wearing a low-cut, nearly transparent black bra, a tiny thong, and a suspender belt, its thin black straps circling her hips, holding up the sheer black stockings, her body rocking a little in the cruel black stilettos under the influence of his hands.

  “Want a little more, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered. She watched his hands slip inside the mesh, and moaned as he stroked her.

  “So pretty,” he said again, dragging the fabric down, exposing her full breasts, lifting them for him. “And that’s even prettier. Look at that.” He was rolling her nipples between finger and thumb, pinching, at the very edge of too much, and her mouth had opened a little, her head was back against his chest, and she was breathing hard.

  “Look what else we have,” he said, his voice low. “What a present for me. You’re all wrapped up with ribbons. What a good surprise.” One big palm glided over her belly, traced the edge of the belt, his fingers exploring the intersection where ribboned straps met firm golden flesh, all the way across her belly.

  “Turn me around,” she got out, “and you’ll see the rest of it.”

  “Oh, I’m not turning you around,” he said. “Then you couldn’t watch, and you’re enjoying watching, aren’t you? But I’ll have a look all the same.” He kept his hold on her hips, took a pace back, and she missed the press of his body.

  “Ties,” he said, his hands tracing them, moving over the curve of her cheeks. “You’re all tied up for me back here. And as you have the most gorgeous arse I’ve ever seen in my life, I’m going to have to spend some more time looking at it. Later.”

  “This one …” she said, shivering at his touch, “I can’t wear on TV. This one is just for you.”

  “Oh, I think it’s all just for me, don’t you?” He got a hand under the crisscrossed straps, pulled her back by them until she was pressed against him again. “Especially this. This is all for me, every bit of it.” His hand had moved around, had edged lower now, was gliding over the top of the minuscule triangle of sheer black mesh. “Hardly seems worth wearing, does it?”

  “You wouldn’t want me to come out without my knickers,” she managed to say. “You wouldn’t want a bad girl like that.”

  “I’ve got a bad girl just like that, though,” he said, “and you know it.” His hand was still moving, touching her through the thin mesh, finding the dark seam that ran straight up the middle of that tiny vee, and he was running his fingers over it, up and down, over and over. “And we both know she’s not going to be wearing these much longer. But since she is, I’ll make the most of them. Touching this little line—that feels so good, doesn’t it? This is what you like.”

  His other hand was cupping her breast again, and she was watching him in the black expanse of glass, watching her body straining against his hands as he worked on her.

  “No,” he decided. “On second thought, I don’t think I want them after all.” And then she jumped, because he had both hands around the whisper-thin string at one side of the undies, had snapped it with one quick yank, pulled the tiny thong from around her and tossed it to the floor.

  “So much better,” he told her. “Because now, you’re dressed exactly appropriately for this date. Ready for anything.”

  His hand was back again, and she was completely exposed to his gaze and her own, watching as he rubbed, stroked, explored, and she wouldn’t have been able to stand at all if he hadn’t been holding her up from behind, one big arm wrapped around her waist.

  “Look at you,” he said. “You’re a prize worth fighting for, aren’t you? A prize worth winning. And I’ve won you, haven’t I?”

  “Yes,”
she sighed, squirming in his grasp. “Yes.”

  “You make me think these things,” he said, his voice husky in her ear. “Things I shouldn’t say, but I’m going to say them anyway. About what I’d have done if you really were the Maori princess I’ve always thought you were. About how I’d have fought for you, and how, once I’d won you, I’d never have let you go. How I’d have kept you forever, no matter what.”

  “What if …” she managed to say, because she was almost past the point of talking, “you’d lost, though?”

  “I wouldn’t have lost,” he said, and he sounded so sure, so dark and dangerous. “I’d have won you, and I’d have kept on winning. I’d have fought all the way to have you. I’d have done whatever it took. And then I’d have showed you what that meant.”

  “What would … it mean?” The thrill was strong now, a shudder coming from someplace deep inside, and she was so close.

  “You really want to know?” he asked her. There was real intent in his touch now, and she was burning.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Then once you come for me,” he said, “we’ll find out.” His hand was moving harder now, faster, and she couldn’t talk anymore, because he knew so well how to touch her. “Come on, now,” he said. “Come on, Josie. Show me you belong to me. Show me what you’d do for me.”

  That was it. She was crying out, spasming against his hand, watching the woman in the glass being pushed over the edge, her body stiffening, shuddering with the dark, hard pleasure of it.

  He held her until she finished, and she could see from his face in the window, the press of him against her just how much he was enjoying watching. And then he turned her in his arms and kissed her at last, deeply and so possessively, his hands going down to cup her cheeks, pull her up against him, trace the straps, the ties, and she was still shaking.

  When he lifted his mouth from hers, she reached trembling fingers for the buttons of his shirt, began to unfasten them, one slow hole at a time, her mouth closing over the side of his own neck. She sucked at him there, bit and licked, heard him groan deep in his throat, his hands tightening over her bottom. He’d excited her to a point she’d never reached, but two could play at this game, and she was a very good player.