“Bad experience?”
“No, not mine. My dad. He and my mum covered each other in ink—hearts and flowers and poetry, all this gooshy soul mate stuff, and when she left…God this is the worst first date talk ever.”
Scott placed his hand on hers. Just put it there like it was the most natural thing in the world. “It’s fine. You don’t have to finish if you don’t want to.”
Sam looked at their hands and found she did want to finish. “When my mum left, we could hide the photos and give away her clothes and not talk about her, but dad was walking around with her art all over him. It sounds superstitious, but it felt like the tattoos kept her…tied to him in a way he might not have been otherwise.”
“And you don’t want to risk the same thing?”
“It’s not about the risk,” Sam protested. “I just don’t think you should take something as permanent as ink and use it to seal something as ephemeral as romantic love.”
“I see your point, but what if a boyfriend really wanted you to tattoo him?”
“Then I’d encourage him to find someone who works in the same styles as me and tell him to go for it.”
“Ah, but what if he wants it to be you because it would be you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that one of the most important things about you is your work. I’ve seen what you can do and it’s exceptional. I’d imagine any man who fell in love with you would feel the same way, so why wouldn’t he want to carry a piece of your talent on himself?”
“Because of the whole break-up/ bad feels thing?”
“Well, what if he promised that no matter what happened, he’d look at the tattoo and remember how it felt to love you when things were going well?”
“I…” Sam racked her brain for an answer but she couldn’t mold what she was thinking into words. She just kept seeing Scott Sanderson standing in front of her, her work carved into his shoulder and chest. Hers. She felt a traitorous flush spread itself across her cheeks.
“Sam?” Scott said. “Surely you can see why your boyfriend or husband would want to be tattooed by you?”
No, the only thing she could see was him and it was making her feel fucking…weird inside. Too hot and simultaneously too cold.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, your entrees.”
Salvation had come in the form of the waiter bearing a tray of baked camembert, goose liver pate and toasted sourdough. As he unloaded the delicious-smelling food, Sam’s mouth filled with spit. Between work and nerves about the date, she hadn’t eaten in hours.
Scott held out the cheese knife. “Would you like to go first?”
“If you let me hold the cheese knife, I don’t think this will be dignified.”
He smiled. “Go ahead. Do your worst.”
Sam managed not to attack the camembert with both her hands, but it was hard work. When she cut into it, cheese oozed out like fragrant lava and she made an effort to spread it onto the bread and pair it with the silky red-brown pate and little square of quince paste, instead of just shoving it in her mouth.
“This is amazing,” she said.
“Glad to hear it.” Scott hailed the waiter and ordered a bottle of Bordeaux. When it arrived, he managed to do the whole smelling/tasting/nodding approvingly at the waiter thing, without looking like he was imitating something he’d seen wine-savvy people do.
“You’re legitimately classy now, aren’t you?” Sam teased, scraping up the last of the cheese and eating it off the tiny knife. “What happened to the boy who used to throw water balloons full of dishwashing liquid at me?”
“He grew up. A small amount at any rate.”
Throughout their entrees and mains, they managed to keep conversation light, discussing books and current events and carefully avoiding those topics peppered with unexploded landmines—childhood, family, school and business. Despite the invisible boundaries around them, Sam enjoyed talking to Scott. He was a good listener and as she talked animatedly about her fascination with polar bears, she realised something simple. She was glad to see Scott again. Whatever happened between them going forward, she was glad she could lay the memory of their complicated past to rest. She was this tattooed woman now and he was this well-dressed man who liked chips and everything was just…okay between them. Everything was good.
“Are you still hungry?” Scott asked. “We can get dessert, if you like. I think there’s a citron tart on the special’s board?”
Sam considered it, but truthfully she didn’t want more food. It was high time the purging—the real reason for this date—commenced. She leaned forward across the table, knowing it made her top gape. “Are there other options?”
“There might be,” Scott said, refusing to glance at her cleavage. “What do you feel like doing?”
“What about finding a quiet place to discuss what we did in your car?”
He met her gaze and the space between them heated as tangibly as though someone had lit a bonfire. “That could be arranged.”
Sam liked the threatening note beneath his posh accent. As though she was going to pay for her flirtations in all the right ways. “Any location recommendations?”
She expected him to suggest his apartment, but instead he cleared this throat. “I, uh, booked a room at the Windsor.”
“Oh, did you now? High expectations.”
Scott’s cheeks turned pink. “I don’t want to pressure you, I just thought the neutral territory might make this a little…simpler.”
And there it was again, the reminder their past was fraught with unresolved issues. Sam touched her fingers to her lips. “What would you do if I said I didn’t want to go back to your hotel room with you?”
“Then I’ll go back there alone,” he said at once. “I love hotel rooms. They have lovely baths and it doesn’t matter how much mess I make in them.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, partly because the image of Scott Sanderson sprawled out in a hotel bathrobe was too adorable, mostly because she could tell he meant it. He wasn’t counting on sleeping with her tonight. He’d simply taken precautions and was allowing her to make the choice. She smiled at him. “I think we should get out of here. Two people can make twice the mess in a hotel room, you know.”
“Here’s hoping.” Scott raised a hand in the air so that the waiter magically appeared at his side. As he sorted the bill, Sam excused herself to go to the bathroom. She was washing her hands in the sink, humming a little when a short blonde waitress entered. Sam moved aside to give her room to get into the toilet, but she didn’t move.
“Are you Samantha DaSilva?”
Sam frowned. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“I have a message from your sister, Nicole. She says you don’t have a phone and she needs to tell you something.”
“Okay…what does she want?”
The waitress looked around ostentatiously, as though Russian spies might be hiding in the walls. “It’s a bit weird. ‘Don’t go home with Scott.’”
“What? Why the hell did she tell you that?”
“Um, she said his signature was on the application for the heritage listing and he and his dad were the ones who lodged the application. She thinks he asked you out tonight—”
“…to get me out of the fucking way,” Sam finished. Blood was thudding in her temples like heavy metal. So that’s how it was, huh? Family loyalty over friends? Pretend peace all the while schemes ran rampant? More mean spirited pranks to fuck over her family when it was at its most vulnerable? She remembered the smooth way Scott had ordered the wine and food. God, how did she ever think someone like him was interested in her, all broke and covered in tattoos? And all that shit about wanting a proper date instead of a shag, as if any man on earth wanted that. She remembered the pie, smashing across the back lawn. Her stomach roiled with nausea. How did she think he wasn’t capable of betraying her when he’d already done it? When he’d already cut her so deep? Well, he wasn’t getting away with this shit again.
“Did my sister say anything else?” she demanded.
“Um, to please not to do anything psycho and that if you’re not home in half an hour, she’s going to call the police.”
Typical.
“Thanks.” Sam pulled open her bag and extracted ten bucks and her notepad and pen. “Can you do something for me? I’ll pay you.”
“Sure! Um, are you okay?”
“Uh-huh. Just peachy.” Sam scribbled Nicole’s mobile number on the notepad and handed the paper and the money to the waitress. “Please call my sister back and tell her I’m fine and going out for drinks with my friend, Kelly. Also, tell her if she calls the cops on me, I’ll call the cops on her for that thing she did to my suede skirt in year eleven. Make sure you mention the skirt.”
“Hell yeah, thanks for the cash.” The waitress tucked the money into her apron and slipped out of the bathroom.
Delaying the moment when she would have to put her plan in action, Sam withdrew her lipstick from her bag and painted her mouth scarlet. She could talk to Scott, ask for an explanation, storm out, go home, but she was done playing nice. Their almost lifelong association was about to be terminated and she was going to give him a nice parting gift.
She left the bathroom to find him standing at the reception desk, his hands in his pockets. His face was smooth and utterly calm. How couldn’t she have seen that he was playing her? Acting all excited and love-struck. God, she was such an idiot. She straightened her spine and walked over to him, smiling as though he’d personally hung the moon. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Scott extended an arm and she took it, thinking all the while about how she was going to make this the worst date of his entire life.
“Shall I call an Uber?”
Sam smiled sweetly. “I’ve got a better idea. How about we hit up a cocktail bar first? I feel like a margarita.”
A small frown creased Scott’s forehead. “Sure, is everything okay?”
She moved closer to him, brushing her chest against his shirtfront. “Yes, I just want to prolong the moment with you. Is that okay?”
“Of course.” Scott’s gaze fell to her mouth. “Whatever you want.”
“Great,” she said with a smile. “There’s a great bar on Queen Street. I’ll lead the way.”
Chapter 13
Scott’s head was swimming. The cocktail bar Samantha had taken him to was lovely; dimly lit with dark wood tables and red velvet curtains. He’d hoped they’d nurse a single drink before heading back to the hotel, but Sam had ordered a tequila-tasting board and he’d decided to roll with it. That was several hours ago. Now she had an arm through his and was guiding him toward his hotel room while he focused on keeping every stupid thought in his head from burbling out of his mouth.
Samantha, you’re so beautiful, I’m so glad I came home to Melbourne and saw you again.
Samantha, I want to make love to you so badly, but only if you want me to.
God, I hope I don’t throw up later.
His vision seemed to wobble as Sam steered him around a pair of bickering teenagers. How had this happened? Yes, he’d had a bit to drink, and yes he’d been too nervous to eat much, but he was wankered. And how?
Christ knew this wasn’t his first rodeo. His mates drank like their trust funds depended on it and he’d spent his first two years at Cambridge learning to hold his own. He’d thought he was well versed in the art of boozing, but here he was, laid low by a bottle of wine and a few cocktails. Well, not just that. He’d barely gotten any sleep for the past couple of nights thinking about Sam and their date and what it would mean if they finally, finally, got things together. Even his morning coffee had made him feel light-headed. He should have known better than to pile alcohol on top of that feeling.
“Look out,” Sam said happily, directing him around what looked like a fresh patch of vomit. “Someone’s all partied out early.”
“Yeah,” Scott said, happy it wasn’t him.
Getting drunk wasn’t a complete arsehole move, not if Sam was still enjoying herself, but how was he supposed to perform six sheets to the wind? He needed coffee or cocaine or something. He contemplated telling Sam he needed to buy condoms and instead buying a bunch of those caffeine pills truckers used, but then she might think he was the kind of prat who didn’t pre-prepare for safe sex and he was not that kind of prat. He was the kind of prat who couldn’t safely moderate his drinking. As though to prove his point, he stumbled over a crack in the pavement.
Sam gripped his arm, stopping him from falling over. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, Jesus Christ, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “Is the hotel much further? Actually, don’t worry. I’ll look it up on your phone. Can I have it please?”
Scott gladly handed it over and an unspecified amount of drunk-time later, he and the most beautiful woman in the world were crossing the hotel foyer and heading for the elevator.
“Which floor?”
“Uh…twelve.”
She leaned forward to push the button and her hair slipped over her shoulders, exposing the small key and heart on the side of her pale neck. He brushed the place with his fingertip. “Is that new?”
Sam bit her lower lip. “Um, yes. I had it done last week. I’m surprised you noticed with all this other stuff happening.” She held up her arms, displaying her tattoos.
“I notice everything about you,” Drunk-Scott said, before Regular-Scott could stop him.
Sam pursed her lips and he felt like an idiot.
“I remembered, you didn’t have it when we tackled that bad guy,” he corrected. “Well, you tackled a bad guy, I yelled at teenagers.”
Sam’s perturbed expression softened slightly. “It was still nice of you to stand up for me.”
“I’d do anything for you.”
Scott had been aiming for rugged drunken charm and realised a beat too late that what he’d said was:
a) True
b) Another one of those drunk thoughts that should have stayed safely inside his brain-box.
He opened his mouth to explain, or perhaps dig himself a deeper hole, but Sam’s arms were slipping around his neck and her mouth was on his. There was desperation in her kiss, as though she was going as fast as she could before some unknown circumstance ripped them apart.
He kissed her gently and then backed away, looking into her eyes. “Are you uncomfortable? We can stop if you’re uncomfortable.”
“No, I’m fine,” she said, but Scott noticed her gaze flicked to the side. Maybe she was worried that if they didn’t hurry up, he would pass out. He needed to correct that. “I know I’m a bit pissed, but you need to know I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel good.”
Sam gnawed her bottom lip. “I just think a decent person would drop you off. You’re pretty loose, Galahad.”
Scott laughed. “I’m fine, Samantha, I’m practically sober. Well, not sober, but a three out of ten at most.”
He was talking out of his arse but Samantha seemed slightly mollified. He wasn’t going to not get off with the girl of his literal dreams thanks to his own shitty drinking behaviour. The elevator dinged and they vacated to attempt to find his room among the labyrinth of identical doors. After a false start, he found room 919 and fumbled with his key card, failing to insert it in the tiny slot until Sam took it away and did it for him.
“I know this seems bad, but again, I promise I’ll be focused when it comes to any and all bedroom action.”
Sam held the door open for him. “That’s okay, I’m focused enough for both of us.”
Scott was on the verge of asking why that was, considering they’d both taken the tequila bus to drunkville, but Sam was slipping her top over her head, showing porcelain skin and breasts and more delicate vine tattoos. He imagined tracing them with his tongue and his cock thickened against his thigh.
“We don’t have to r-r-rush,” he said, too overcome to berate himself about stuttering. “Do you want a
cup of tea?”
“Not even a little bit.” She unclipped her bra and he moaned at the sight of her nipples. He barely had time to focus before she dropped her skirt and was standing in front of him in only panties and heels. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. Was this real? Clothed Sam was gorgeous, but semi-naked, she was a vision. Her tattoos were stark against her skin, ink-black and beautiful—a kitten on her right side, a spray of roses across her stomach, and a wicked-looking woman on her left shoulder. As he stared, Scott was sure he recognised who he was seeing. “Is that Morgan Le Fay?”
Sam blinked. “You noticed?”
“My grandfather was an Arthurian professor and I already told you—”
“You notice everything about me.” She twisted so he could see Morgan more clearly. “Do you like her?”
“I think she’s beautiful. I think you’re beautiful.” His drunkenness prompted him to ask the question on the tip of his tongue. “Did I have anything to do with Morgan? I mean, not why you got her but the whole…the two of us sitting in the tree reading Le Morte d’Arthur together?”
Sam licked her lips. “I…yes. I’d imagine it had a lot to do with you, Galahad.”
Scott grinned, feeling like a million dollars before he watched Sam’s face harden again. For a moment he was confused, and then he realised exactly what was wrong—he wasn’t doing anything useful or sexy, he was just standing there trying to take credit for her tattoos. He needed to show what he was made of. Without stripping off his jacket, he strode toward her, kissing her with all the intensity he could muster. To his relief, she responded with hungry enthusiasm, squeezing his ass before pushing him back onto the bed.
Knowing she was into him having the upper hand, Scott flipped them, pressing his hips between her legs and stroking her velvety skin. His head swam a little, and fearing he might accidentally head-butt her, he moved down her body, kissing and licking the lines of her tattoos.
“Like what you see?” she said above him, her hands smoothing through his hair.
“Yeah.” He brushed his lips across her navel. “I thought I couldn’t find you sexier, but I can. You blow my fucking mind.”
So Wild Page 18