by Nora Roberts
“Oh, but—”
“Not till I’m finished.” Zoe cut Malory off as she dabbed on eye cream. “The lower floor has two wonderful bow windows. Perfect for displays. There’s a central hall, and on each side are those nice rooms. If someone was interested in opening a tasteful gallery for art and local crafts, she couldn’t find a better place. At the same time, on the other side of that hall there’s a wonderful set of parlors that would make a terrific bookstore, with room for a hip little bistro or tearoom.”
“I didn’t hear anything about a salon in there,” Dana pointed out, but she was listening.
“Upstairs. When someone comes in to get her hair or nails done, or enjoy any number of our wonderful treatments and services, she’ll have to pass by the gallery and the bookstore, coming and going. Perfect time to select that lovely gift for Aunt Mary, or pick up a book to read while she’s being combed out. Maybe even have a nice glass of wine or cup of tea before heading home. It’s all there, in one fabulous setting.”
“You really have been thinking,” Malory murmured.
“I sure have. I even have a name for it. ‘Indulgence.’ People need to indulge themselves from time to time. We could do packages and cross-promotions. I know it’s a big idea, especially when we haven’t known each other very long. But I think it could work. I think it could be great. Just look at it before you say no.”
“I’d like to see it,” Dana said. “I’m miserable at work. And what’s the point of being miserable?”
Malory could almost see the energy and enthusiasm for the idea pumping off Zoe in waves. There were a dozen rational comments she could make to point out why it wasn’t just a big idea but a messy one.
She didn’t have the heart to do that, but she felt obliged to ease carefully back. “I don’t want to muck things up, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be asked to come back to The Gallery. In fact, my old boss called this afternoon and asked if I’d come in and speak with him tomorrow.”
“Oh. Well. That’s great.” Zoe stepped behind Malory’s chair, began to run her fingers through Malory’s hair to get a feel for the weight and the lines. “I know you love working there.”
“It was like home.” Malory lifted a hand, covered one of Zoe’s. “I’m sorry. It did sound like a good idea. A fun one, but—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Hey.” Dana waved a hand. “Remember me? I’m still interested. I can take a look at the place tomorrow. Maybe we can make it work between the two of us.”
“Great. Mal, let’s wet down your hair.”
She felt too guilty to argue, and with her hair dampened, she sat stoically while Zoe snipped.
“I’d better tell you both why I went by the newspaper this morning to see Flynn, to whom I’m no longer speaking.”
Zoe continued to snip as she told them about the painting in The Gallery and her belief that it was done by the same artist.
“You’ll never guess who bought it,” she continued. “Jordan Hawke.”
“Jordan Hawke?” Dana all but squeaked. “Goddamn it, now I want chocolate. You must have some.”
“Emergency supply, deli drawer of the fridge. What’s the problem?”
“We were semi-involved a million years ago. Damn it, damn it, damn it,” Dana repeated as she yanked open the drawer and found two bars of Godiva. “Godiva’s your emergency chocolate?”
“Why not have the best when you’re feeling your worst?”
“Good point.”
“You were involved with Jordan Hawke?” Zoe wanted to know. “Romantically?”
“It was years ago, when I was still young and stupid.” Dana unwrapped the bar, took a big bite. “Bad breakup, he took off. End of story. Bastard, creep, asshole.” She took another bite. “Okay, I’m done.”
“I’m sorry, Dana. If I’d known . . . Well, I don’t know what I’d have done. I need to see the painting.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m over him. I’m so over him.” But she picked up the chocolate bar again, had another bite.
“I have to say something, and you might want the second emergency bar after I do. I can’t buy coincidence on this. I can’t rationalize it all. The three of us—and Flynn, your brother. Now Flynn’s two best friends. And one of those friends is a former lover of yours. That makes a very tight circle.”
Dana stared at her. “Just let me go on record as saying I really hate that part. Do you have another bottle of this wine?”
“I do. Rack above the fridge.”
“I’ll either walk home or call Flynn to pick me up. But I’m planning on being toasted by the time I leave.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Zoe offered. “Go ahead and get toasted—as long as you’re ready to leave by ten.”
“YOUR hair looks fabulous.” Swaying a little from trying to keep Dana company with wine consumption, Malory waved her fingers at Dana’s new hair.
The subtle blond highlights accented Dana’s dusky skin tone and dark eyes. And as a result of whatever else Zoe’s magic fingers had done, the long, straight sweep looked sleeker, glossier.
“I’ll have to take your word. I’m pretty blind.”
“Mine looks fabulous too. Zoe, you’re a genius.”
“Yes, I am.” Flushed with success, Zoe nodded at both of them. “Use that night cream sample I gave you for the next couple of days,” she told Malory. “Let me know what you think. Come on, Dana, let’s see if I can pour you into the car.”
“ ’kay. I really like you guys.” With a drunk and sentimental smile, Dana threw her arms around each of them. “I can’t think of anybody I’d rather be in the big mess with. And when it’s over, we should have hair and drinking nights once a month. Like a book club.”
“Good idea. ’Night, Mal.”
“You want some help with her?”
“Nope.” Zoe wrapped a supporting arm around Dana’s waist. “I’ve got her. I’m stronger than I look. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Me too! Did I tell you Jordan Hawke is a jerk?”
“Only about five hundred times.” Zoe guided Dana toward the car. “You can tell me again on the drive home.”
Malory closed the door, carefully locked it, then wove her way to the bedroom. Unable to resist, she stood in front of the mirror and experimented with the new cut, tossing her hair, tilting her head at different angles.
She couldn’t tell, not exactly, what Zoe had done, but whatever it was, it was right. Could be, she mused, it paid to keep her mouth shut for a change instead of directing the hairdresser’s every snip.
Maybe she should feel guilty and drink wine every time she visited the salon.
She could try the combination in other areas of her life. The dentist, ordering in restaurants, men. No, no, not men. She scowled at herself in the mirror. If you didn’t direct men, they directed you.
Besides, she wasn’t going to think about men. She didn’t need men. She didn’t even like men at the moment.
In the morning, she would spend an hour working on the puzzle of the key. Then she would dress, very carefully, very professionally. A suit, she decided. The dove gray with the white shell. No, no, the red. Yes, the red suit. Powerful and professional.
She raced to the closet, scanned her wardrobe, which was arranged precisely according to function and color. With the red suit in hand, she danced back to the mirror, held it in front of her.
“James,” she began, trying out a sympathetic yet aloof expression, “I’m so sorry to hear that The Gallery is going to hell in a handbasket without me. Come back? Well, I don’t know if that’s possible. I have several other offers. Oh, please, please, don’t grovel. It’s embarrassing.”
She fluffed her hair. “Yes, I know Pamela is the devil. We all know that. Well, I suppose if things are that bad, I’ll have to help you out. Now, now, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be perfect again. Just as it should be.”
She snickered and, pleased that all would soon b
e right with her world again, turned away to prepare for bed.
She undressed and lectured herself into putting her clothes away instead of just throwing them around the room. When she heard the knock on her front door, she was wearing only a white silk sleep shirt. Assuming it was one of her friends who’d forgotten something, she turned off the locks and opened the door.
And blinked at a grim-faced Flynn.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you,” she responded, trying to enunciate each word instead of slurring them together.
“We need to work this out if we’re going to . . .” He took a good look at her, the wonderfully tumbled hair, the glowing face, the slim curves under clingy white silk. And the vague and glassy look of her eyes.
“What? You’re drunk?”
“I’m only half drunk, which is completely my business and my right. Your sister is fully drunk, but you’ve no cause for concern as Zoe, who is not in any way drunk, is driving her home.”
“It takes countless beers or an entire bottle of wine to get Dana completely drunk.”
“That seems to be correct, and in this case it was wine. Now that we’ve established that, I’ll remind you I’m only half drunk. Come in and take advantage of me.”
He let out what might’ve been a laugh and decided the best place for his hands—well, not the best but the smartest—was his pockets. “That’s a delightful invitation, sweetie, but—”
She solved the problem by gripping his shirt firmly and giving a good yank. “Come on in,” she repeated, then fixed her mouth on his.
Chapter Eleven
FLYNN found himself shoved back against the door, tripping over his own feet as it swung shut behind him. Most of the blood had drained out of his head by the time she’d gone to work on his throat with lips and teeth.
“Whoa, wait. Mal.”
“Don’t wanna wait.” Her hands got as busy as her mouth. Had she actually thought she didn’t like men? She certainly liked this one. So much that she wanted to gobble him up in quick and greedy bites.
“How come people always say you gotta wait? I want you to . . .” She clamped her teeth on his earlobe, then whispered a creative demand.
“Oh, God.”
He wasn’t entirely sure if it was a prayer of thanks or a plea for help. But he was sure his willpower had a very specific limit, and he was fast approaching it.
“Okay, okay, let’s just calm down here a minute. Malory.” She slid her body over his, and when her eager fingers danced down, down, he felt his eyes do a slow roll to the back of his head. “Now hold on.”
“I am.” She tipped her head back to send him a wicked grin.
“Ha, ha. Yeah, you are.” He closed his hands over her wrists and with no little regret lifted her busy hands to his shoulders.
He was out of breath and hard as stone. “We’ve got a choice here. You can hate me in the morning, or I can.” Her eyes sparkled up at him, and her lips were curved in a feline smile that had his throat going dry. “God, you’re pretty when you’re half plowed. You should go lie down now.”
“Okay.” She pressed herself against him, gave her hips a suggestive little grind. “Let’s.”
Slippery knots of lust tied and tangled in his belly. “I’m just going to back away from the beautiful drunk woman.”
“Uh-uh.” She rose on her toes to rub her lips over his again, felt the desperate plunge of his heart. “You’ll never make it out the door. I know what I’m doing, and I know what I want. Does that scare you?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Honey, I came by to talk to you, about something I’m currently incapable of remembering. Why don’t I make us some coffee and we’ll . . .”
“I guess I have to do everything.” In one fluid motion, she slid the sleep shirt over her head and tossed it aside.
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Her body was pink and white—delicious—with that elegant cloud of hair tumbling down to tease her breasts. Her eyes, deeply blue and suddenly full of knowledge, fixed on his as she stepped close to him again.
Her arms had wound around his neck, and her mouth was a hot, silky temptation on his. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “I’ll take very good care of you.”
“I bet.” Somehow his hands had gotten lost in the sexy mass of her hair. His body was a maze of aches and needs, and reason couldn’t find the exit. “Malory, I’m no hero.”
“Who wants one?” With a laugh, she nipped at his jaw. “Let’s be bad, Flynn. Let’s be really bad.”
“Since you put it that way.” He swung her around, reversing their position so she was trapped between the door and his body. “I hope to God you remember whose idea this was, and that I tried to—”
“Shut up, and take me.”
If he was going to hell, he’d make damn sure it was worth the trip. With his hands on her hips, he jerked her up to her toes, and caught the light of triumph on her face an instant before his mouth crushed hers.
It was like holding a lit fuse, all sizzle and spark, a dangerous woman who knew her own power. Who was testing his. Her skin was already flushed and hot, and as he took his hands over her the soft sounds she made in her throat weren’t whimpers but urgings. Already desperate, he buried his face in her hair, pressed his hand between her thighs.
She erupted. A throaty cry, a bite of nails on his back, a lightning surge of hips. Then she was dragging his shirt over his head, scraping her teeth over his shoulder as her quick hands yanked at his jeans.
“In bed.” Though he had wild, erotic visions of taking her against the door, the pleasure would end too soon that way. Instead he circled her, prying off his shoes as they bumped into a corner of the wall.
She didn’t care where. She only wanted to go on feeling this wild whiplash of power, having these wonderful pulsing aches continue to dominate her body. She was spinning in some mad world of exquisite sensations, and every touch, every taste, added more.
She wanted to feel his muscles quiver, to feel the heat pumping out of his pores. And to know, deep inside, that she had caused it.
They fell on the bed, breathless and insane, and rolled, an erotic tangle of limbs on the pretty pastel covers.
She laughed when he clamped his hands on hers and yanked her arms over her head.
“Gotta slow down a little,” he managed.
She arched up to him. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to do things to you, and that takes time.”
She ran her tongue over her top lip. “Where would you like to start?”
His belly tightened to the edge of pain. He lowered his head to start with her mouth. Plump and soft, hot and wet. He drugged himself with her until they both trembled. He slid his tongue over the hollow of her throat, where her pulse hammered. Then down, slowly, until he could taste the delicate, scented breasts. And when he caught her nipple between his teeth and tugged, she began to moan.
She gave herself over to the pleasure, the sheer bliss of being savored and exploited. Her body was open to him, to that ravenous mouth, those questing hands. When he took her up, she flew free, riding the hot punch of air, tumbling down again to draw him closer.
She could see him in the light that spilled from the hallway, and her heart leaped at the intensity on his face as he watched her. Love and delight raced through her. Here was an answer, the answer to at least one question.
He was for her. And she rose up, wrapping herself around him with a kind of giddy glee.
Their mouths met again in a deep, shuddering kiss that had his heart flipping over inside his chest.
She smelled of something secret, of seduction. Those quick, catchy gasps coming from her sliced through him like tiny silver knives. He wanted to bury himself inside her until the world ended. And when her hands cruised over him, when those soft sounds of approval hummed in her throat as she explored him, he wondered if it already had.
She scraped her nails over his belly and had him quive
ring like a stallion. “I want you. I want you inside me. Tell me you want me.”
“I do. I want you.” He lowered his mouth to hers once more. “Malory. From the first minute.”
Her lips curved under his. “I know.” She arched her hips. “Now.”
He braced himself, then a sliver of sanity cut through the madness. “Oh, Christ. Condom. Wallet. Pants. Where are my pants?”
“Mmm. It’s okay.” She rolled over him, nipping at his shoulder as she pulled open the nightstand drawer. “Condom. Drawer. Nightstand.”
“Have I mentioned that I love practical, prepared women?”
“Why don’t I help you on with this?”
She took her sweet time so that he had to fist his hands in the tangled spread to keep himself from flying to the ceiling.
The woman had wicked hands, he thought and bit back a groan.
Wonderful, wicked hands.
She rose over him, shook her hair back. And smiled. “Now,” she said.
He moved fast, flipping her onto her back, pinning her body with his. “Now,” he repeated and drove deep inside her.
He watched the shock race over her face, felt the waves of it vibrate through him. They trembled there, each caught on some fine edge.
And with her eyes locked on his, she began to move. A rising up, a falling away, so smooth, so fluid it was like sliding through silk. Her name echoed in his head, like a song, or a prayer. He clung to the echo of it, clung to the frayed threads of control as she shattered around him.
She fell apart. Oh, God, the most wonderful sensation. A losing of self, then a gathering back. Her mind hazed. And with one last liquid sigh, she rode the final crest.
Locking him close, she took him with her.
HE didn’t want to think. Thinking under the current circumstances couldn’t be productive. It would be much better for all involved if he kept his mind a solid blank and just enjoyed the superior sensation of having a soft, sexy woman under him.