Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Take Me Twice

Take Me Twice
Isabel Sharpe


She's looking for some action…Laine Blackwell has quit her job and plans to enjoy herself before heading to grad school in the fall. At the top of her list of fun things? Finding a Man To Do! When her hot-and-sexy ex, Grayson Alexander, asks to stay with her and promises not to take advantage of the situation, Laine's fine with it. But how can she meet a Man To Do when the man she's always wanted is sleeping right in the next bedroom…?He's gonna give it to her!Grayson's never forgotten Laine. As much as he's tried, she's always been on his mind…and she still turns him on. Moving in with her seemed like a great idea–what's a little sex between friends? Her mission to find a Man To Do, though, has put a wrench in his plans. But Grayson's not one to simply roll over and play dead. Seducing Laine won't be easy, but it'll be the most fun he's ever had!









“Stop trying to get into my pants,” Laine whispered


“Why?” Grayson meant the comment playfully, but he wanted her. It looked as if that wasn’t going to happen right now, and he didn’t understand why not.

“Because my pants are off-limits.”

“From what you just told me about Men To Do, it sounds like open season.”

“Not for you, Grayson. Been there, done you, not going there again.”

“Okay. Message received and understood.”

“Good.” She let out a breath and grinned a sweet grin he was in no mood to return. “Now that’s out of the way, are you hungry?”

She turned and reached up into a cabinet, causing her shirt to lift and expose the smooth skin of her midriff.

“Yeah, I’m hungry,” Grayson muttered. Laine had no idea how hungry. But damn it, getting the meal he wanted was going to be much more of a challenge than he thought.







Dear Reader,

Here is my latest in the MEN TO DO series!

I deviated from the norm this time—my heroine Laine’s Men To Do adventures don’t work out quite the way she thinks they will, thanks to the reappearance of her first love, Grayson Alexander.

The two of them try so hard not to fall back in love it’s pathetic. But of course they were never really out of it in the first place. I read recently that some psychologists think you actually imprint on your first love, which is why they theorize those men are so tricky to remove from our hearts! Maybe you were lucky enough to marry your first love? I’d love to hear the story (e-mail me through www.IsabelSharpe.com).

And don’t forget to check out the other MEN TO DO books at our Web site, www.MenToDo.com.

I hope you enjoy Laine and Grayson’s story.

Cheers,

Isabel Sharpe




Take Me Twice

Isabel Sharpe







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to Namumi with great love.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14




1


From: Laine Blackwell

Sent: Friday

To: Angie Keller; Kathy Baker

Subject: Joining in the fun

Hey, all. I am sitting here at my itsy-bitsy cubicle pretending to be typing up important memos, but it’s my last day in this place (finally!) and all I’m really doing is watching the clock until my going-away party starts so everyone can come as an excuse to stop working, get free food and booze, and pretend they’ll miss me and will keep in touch.

Wanting to spew coffee at the thought.

In any case, as you all know, the fact that I am leaving means, as I promised, that Men To Do season is wide open. I have an entire summer of unemployed bliss ahead of me before graduate school starts in September. During that time I plan to make some man or men extremely happy to be alive, and assume they will return the favor.

When September comes, I will start a part-time job, begin my studies and remember once again that men are more than penises mounted on thrusting devices.

For now, however, let the games begin.

Laine

“BYE, LAAAAAINE! We’ll miss yooou, please keep in touch, okaaaaaay?”

“Oh, I will.”

Not.

Laine returned the bare squeeze her soon-to-be ex-co-worker proffered, and nearly gagged on the way-too-familiar perfume stench. Eau de Suffocation. She sure as hell wouldn’t miss that. This fact-checking job at I am Woman magazine was her fourth since graduating from Princeton eight years ago and she was done. Done! June first, and she was on her way to a summer of fun and relaxation before she started Columbia journalism school in the fall. Her first real break since…ever.

Ha! Take that, repressive slave-driving capitalist tools. She was history.

Her boss, Petunia Finkseed—whose real name was much less fun so why think of her that way—shook her hand gravely. “Thanks for the hard work and good luck, Laine. When you graduate, if you want to come back, please do. There’s always a job for you here at I am Woman.”

Laine grinned broadly, murmured thanks, and wondered just how high those pigs would have to fly before she’d think about coming back. Not that it had been a bad job, by any means. But she was free! Free! Free from the constant pressure, from the snarly office intrigue, from the barely veiled leers of the company V.P.

An entire summer stretched ahead of her; she’d take Manhattan by storm, do all the things she’d wanted to since moving here after college but had never had time for. Sleeping late, reading the paper every day, taking long bubble baths, sight-seeing, irresponsibly late nights dancing during the week, trips to the beach, a solemn vow to avoid panty hose before 8:00 p.m. She wanted to take French, pottery, learn yoga, skydiving, tap dancing, cooking…

And…find a Man To Do. Or a couple of them.

She’d joined Eve’s Apple, an online reading group, after her high school friend Samantha recommended it not only as a place to find fun and stimulating reads, but also as a good place for female companionship. Not long after, Laine had joined the smaller e-mail subset of the group, Men To Do Before Saying I Do. Their mission? To find unattached, sexy, thoroughly inappropriate males…and do them.

What could be more perfect? Call it an age-thirty midterm break. Then in September, graduate school at Columbia and the rest of her life would get started. She’d be on her way to becoming America’s best reporter. Granted a few years ago she’d enrolled briefly in a master’s English program at Boston University, and thought she was on her way to writing the Great American Novel; and granted after college she’d applied to medical school, but this time she was on her way. For real. She was pretty sure.

She grabbed her small box of personal items—pictures of her parents on their vacation at the Grand Canyon, her niece Carolyn on her first birthday, the scraggly air fern that, frankly, she couldn’t tell was alive or dead, and the gold-plated bracelet her coworkers had chipped in and bought for her.

Outta here!

Her next-door cubicle prisoner, Fred, got a genuine hug and a promise of lunch sometime, and Laine fled.

Down the hall, down the elevator filled with tall, gorgeous women in black and men in dark suits, across the huge marble lobby filled with tall, gorgeous women in black and men in dark suits, and hot damn, out into the gritty dusty chaos of Times Square. Free! She wanted to hug the harassed mom with three cranky kids, she wanted to kiss the gorgeous blond guy across the street, she wanted to create a scene by skipping, no, frolicking, no, gamboling her way to the subway, kicking up her heels and crowing like Peter Pan.

Except, in Manhattan, no one would even blink.

She bounced down the 42nd Street subway stairs and pushed her way through the turnstile, following the commuting crowds the same way she always did. But instead of bleary-eyed, leaden, sheeplike, obedient herding, she practically danced onto the subway platform. Hello, New Yorkers! Laine’s here!

She must be practically glowing. People would raise their heads and murmur when she walked by. Who was that woman with so much joy in her heart? What was her secret?

Instead she stepped in some just-chewed gum and spent a good three minutes trying to scrape the goo off the bottom of her chunky black heels.

No more black! The rest of the summer she’d avoid it like the plague. Except of course a killer black minidress on a hot date.

She filed onto the C-train, headed downtown and clutched her box of belongings, bumping against the other commuting bodies when the train swayed. She gazed at the ads along the top of the car to avoid gazing at other people, though she wished sometimes she could stare openly, like a child. Maybe she would do that sometime. People were so fascinating.

A body came a little too close behind her, pressed a little harder than the crush of commuters would make necessary. A pelvis planted firmly against her rear end. Ewwww. She grimaced and let her elbow make “accidental” forceful contact with the soft male belly behind her. There was a grunt, and the body moved away. City living could be so charming. But nothing could keep her down today. Nothing! Not even a gross grinder.

So what would she do tonight? Champagne? A soak in the tub? Maybe rent a nice romantic movie? Or maybe her roommate of six months, Monica, would want to go out, not that she ever did that anymore since she’d started dating Joe the Smotherer.

Just as well. Laine shouldn’t go too wild too soon. Taking into consideration her grad school tuition and expenses, she’d saved barely enough to scrape through the summer without a salary, but finances would be tight if she went too crazy. She had a part-time job as a marketing writer with an architecture firm lined up this fall, but she’d really, really wanted the summer totally free.

The train arrived at Fourteenth Street. She got off and tossed a glare at the subway humper, who grinned back obscenely.

Ick.

Somehow she was always the target for the creepos. Maybe because she was tall, she hadn’t a clue. Maybe she had been born with weirdo-magnet genes.

She charged up the stairs, enjoying the challenge to her body, and strode down Eighth Avenue to Jackson Square and toward her building on Horatio Street, mildly breathless. The sun was shining. Pigeons fluttered, shop windows sparkled, subways rumbled underground, taxis endangered pedestrians.

Everything was perfect.

She pushed through the revolving door to her building and waved at the tall, bushy-haired evening doorman. “Hey, Roger, what’s going on?”

“More flowers.” He bent slowly and pulled out a huge spring bouquet of tulips and irises from behind his station.

She shook her head, chuckling, and glanced at the card, not that she needed to. Ben. A guy she’d gone out with once or twice, a close friend of her cousin, Frank. Sweet man. Lovely man. Zero chemistry. At least on her end. And she wasn’t sure on his, either; he acted more like a protective brother than a suitor. Maybe Frank had told him to watch out for her.

“This guy is nuts about you, huh?”

“Between you and me, Roger? He’s just nuts.”

Roger shrugged and fingered one of his enormous ears. “He’s sure trying hard.”

“He loves sending flowers, I guess. You want this one for Betty?”

Roger’s red, lined face broke into a smile that transformed him from a sour, craggy Scrooge to an indicator of the handsome man he must have been thirty years ago before, she suspected, a love affair with the bottle had begun. “Betty thinks I’ve gone nuts. But she sure appreciates it.”

“They’re yours. He won’t let me send them back, refuses to stop, and the bouquet upstairs is still plenty fresh.”

She waved to acknowledge his thanks, got her mail from the back room and took the elevator to the eighth floor.

Friday evening, sprung free from employment, the city waited, the summer was at her feet.

She put her key in the lock of apartment 8-C, pushed open the door and stopped. Monica was sobbing over an open suitcase on the living room couch, clothes strewn all around it.

“Monica!” Laine rushed into the room, forgetting to hold the door, which slammed behind her, sounding like doom. “What’s going on?”

“He…he…he…”

Laine waited while the word surfed out on sobs. “Joe?”

She nodded. “He…he…he…”

“Oh no.” Laine moved forward and put her hand on Monica’s shoulder. Whatever he…he…he had done, it didn’t sound good. And from what she’d seen of Joe—cocky, brash, overbearing, big-nosed, obnoxious—she was only surprised it had taken this long.

“Dumped you?”

“Yes.” The word came out on a wail of anguish.

“So—” Laine gestured around “—why are you packing?”

“I’m going home.”

Laine turned her shaking roommate around by the shoulders, melting in sympathy. She’d been exactly where Monica was four months ago, with Brad—a stunning, charming, self-absorbed, cheating sleazebag. “I totally understand. A little TLC from your parents is just what you need.”

“No. You don’t understand.” Monica pulled back and wiped her blue eyes, smudging her already smudged mascara into bigger raccoon circles. “I’m not visiting. I’m moving.”

Laine’s melting sympathy froze temporarily. “Moving?”

Monica nodded and fished inside the pocket of her black stretch jeans, most likely for a tissue.

Laine blew out a breath, trying very hard to concentrate on her latest roommate’s emotional needs. No way could she afford the rent on this place by herself all summer with no salary.

But this wasn’t about her. And even pushing aside her selfish concerns, she genuinely thought Monica was making a mistake. No man was worth running back to Iowa. Not after Monica had worked so hard to make her dream of living in the Big Apple come true.

“You can’t let him win like that.” Laine gestured impatiently. “You can’t toss aside your independence and career and dream just because one big, butthead male hurt you. You’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

“That’s not all.” She sniffed and tried another pocket.

“Oh.” Laine went for the box of Kleenex, half feeling as though she might need one herself. “Well, what else?”

“Mr. Antworth made another pass at me this afternoon, and I quit.” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose, then went back to her misery-impaired packing.

Laine’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, you’re right. This was a seriously awful day. Mr. Antworth should have a dick-ectomy. But you can press charges. You can fight to get your job back and bring him down. Or get another job. You don’t have to—”

“And my mom’s back in rehab.”

Laine took two steps west until the back of her knees hit her couch. She sat. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Oh my God, Monica.”

Monica closed her suitcase and zipped it. “I’m going home. My dad needs me, and I need to get out of here.”

“Oh, God, yes. Okay, yes. Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m really sorry to leave you like this.” Monica started crying again. “I know you wanted to take the summer off.”

“No! No.” Laine waved her concerns away. “I’ll be fine. It’s June, there must be tons of people looking for a place to live. It’s fine. Don’t worry about me. You just take care of yourself.”

“Thanks.” Monica lugged her suitcase off the couch. “I better go.”

“Now?” Laine blinked at her stupidly. “You’re leaving now?”

“My plane leaves at nine tonight. I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff or send for it or…something. I just can’t deal with it now.”

“Oh. Okay.” Laine nodded even more stupidly. Her brain was barely taking this in. Instinct told her Monica was doing this all wrong, that making a major life change should be done in a calmer, more rational mindset than she was in today.

One more look at the confused misery in her roomie’s eyes and the solution hit. “Leave the stuff here. I’ll find someone temporary to see me through for a while. Take a couple of weeks at home, or a month, or two, and see how you feel. If you change your mind the place is still yours. Okay?”

Monica’s face crumpled in gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Yes, okay. I just need to get out of here now.”

Laine hugged her. “I understand. I really do. The place will be waiting. You take your time and sort things out.”

“Thanks for everything.” Monica stepped back and wiped at her face with the by-now-soggy tissue, rapidly turning gray with a little help from Maybelline. “Say goodbye to Gentle Ben for me. I’ll miss all the flowers.”

“I’ll have every other bouquet forwarded.” Laine laughed unsteadily. “Stay in touch. You know the number.”

“I will, I will.” Monica sniffed once more and wheeled her suitcase out of the apartment. The door slammed behind her. Laine stared at it.

“She’ll be back, won’t she?”

The door didn’t answer. The apartment seemed eerily silent.

Laine crossed her arms over her chest, wandered into the bathroom and turned on the water to wash her workday makeup off. Poor Monica. Hit from every direction at once.

The cold water faucet squeaked on its way to off. Laine grabbed her pink towel and held it to her dripping face. Monica had been the best roommate she’d found, the friend of a friend of a friend. They fit perfectly. Similar habits, tastes, schedules, temperaments. How likely was it she could find someone like that again?

Not very.

How likely was it that she could find someone like that again immediately, who would be willing to be booted out on a moment’s notice if Monica decided to come back?

Even less.

She pulled the towel down and looked at her pink-scrubbed face in the mirror, pulled the scrunchy off her ponytail and let her hair dissolve into a blunt, shoulder-length, too-straight mane around her face. For the past six months Laine had looked forward to this summer, free from work, free from relationships, looked forward to this free-from-responsibilities blast-off period for a new rewarding chapter of her life.

Now, unless she could find an instant miracle roommate, that freedom, that cherished vision of a playtime summer all her own wasn’t going to happen.



GRAYSON ALEXANDER’s clock radio went off—6:00 a.m. He groaned and opened his eyes reluctantly. Extremely reluctantly. Because before National Public Radio news had come on with a story about Wisconsin dairy farmers, he’d been nestled between two of the most fabulous legs he’d ever come across in all his thirty-two years. Legs that knew exactly what they were doing. It had been years since they’d been wrapped around him, but he’d never forget them. And if his subconscious had anything to do with it, he’d never stop wishing to be back between them.

He reached out, thumped the snooze button on top of his clock radio and buried his head back in his pillow, trying to recapture the vivid clarity of the dream. He could still almost smell her, that incredible scent she wore, could almost feel the softness of her skin. The dreams he had about Laine were totally different from the dreams he had about anything or anyone else. They were so real he always woke up—hard as granite, yes—but also feeling as if there was something he should do, as if the dreams brought some message he shouldn’t—and generally couldn’t—ignore.

Usually he called Judy, his and Laine’s friend from college. He’d ask how things were, chat uncomfortably for a while, knowing he wasn’t fooling her a bit by pretending interest in her life, and eventually he’d ask what Laine was up to. Was she happy? Was she thriving? And, damn it, always that question that could never come out sounding casual and disinterested no matter how hard he tried—was she seeing anyone? Invariably she was, though rarely the same guy as the last time he and Judy had spoken.

The weird thing was, he always seemed to have these dreams when her life had changed in some way—another job didn’t work out, another man bit the dust—which freaked him right out. Purportedly, he didn’t buy into all that mystical collective unconscious stuff. Nor did he believe he and Laine had some special link, though God knew he’d never come close to feeling what he did for her with anyone else. But he sure as hell couldn’t explain this. Worse, rather than being satisfied having found out what Laine was up to, he’d hang up from the calls feeling frustrated and angry, and never able to put his finger on why.

Then a few months or a year down the road, he’d dream another dream, and do the entire stupid-assed routine again. Doubtless this morning, after his workout and before he started his calls, he’d be on the phone to Judy again.

He let out a groan and bunched the pillow around his ears, then sat up and shot both hands through his hair. Fine. He still thought about her once in a while. He still wanted her. Didn’t mean his whole life revolved around her. He’d work out, shower, call Judy and get the whole thing out of his system.

For now.

He pulled on his running shoes, shorts and a T-shirt, went down the hardwood stairs to his large, sunny kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. A little sugar in his system to get him through his run. Then out the front door, greeting the morning with a huge breath, stretches in his driveway and a two-mile trip through Princeton’s peaceful residential neighborhoods, particularly gorgeous in the spring when homeowners outdid each other with floral splendor, and dogwoods and magnolias blossomed in the woods and along the streets.

Back home on Knoll Drive, he went into his basement for extra punishment with his weight machines. He and Laine used to work out together. Sometimes he’d do her girly aerobic tapes, which he’d never admit busted his ass, and sometimes she’d come with him jogging. Those legs of hers could run forever. Once in a while he’d drop behind her deliberately to enjoy the sight—her ponytail bouncing, feet pounding, arms pumping an easy rhythm. They’d shared a passion for working their bodies to the limit, in bed and out.

The barbell clanged back onto his weight rack. Damn it all to hell.

He wiped off with a towel and stomped upstairs in disgust. They’d broken up because of his immature collegiate stupidity twelve years ago, thinking he could have his Laine and eat Joanne, too. He was still suffering for it, even though they’d managed to stay friends after the worst blew over. In fact, they’d seen each other off and on for the next seven years while they’d both lived in New York, before he moved to Chicago and they’d lost touch. Or rather, he’d tried to block her out.

Fat chance.

He took the second set of stairs two at a time and ran into the bathroom, shed his clothes, turned the stream full-blast and hot. Scrubbed furiously at his skin and hair, then stood, eyes closed, letting the water flow over him, then letting the memories do the same. He and Laine loved sex in the shower. She’d slide her slippery, soapy body over him, down to her knees, take him in her mouth and blow his mind. She’d tip her head up, his cock still between her lips, and give him that look of sensual mischief that said, You are so in my power, little boy. He’d reach for her and push her against the cracked yellowing tile in his crappy New York apartment and show her who was really in control.

God, they’d had fun. Sure, sex with other women since then had been fun, too. But nothing like the wild, playful passion with Laine. Even after their initial breakup, after the anger and bitterness and pain had blown over and they’d managed to be friends again, getting together invariably involved sex. Plenty of it. All incredible.

Grayson yanked off the shower, grabbed his towel and dragged it roughly over his body. Better get going. Time spent in useless mooning was wasted. He wasn’t even going to call Judy today or any other day to see what was up with Laine. Now that he was back east, the temptation to start things up again would drive him nuts. He hadn’t seen her in five years, not since he’d moved to Chicago. What was done was done.

He pulled on shorts and a cotton shirt and prepared for his morning commute to his office—a converted bedroom on the second floor. Given his and Chuck’s start-up company’s cramped and only semiprivate office space at 1841 Broadway, opting to call from home had been a no-brainer.

He sat at his desk and brought up the week’s schedule on his monitor. Meetings in the city nearly every day this week, which meant he’d get into the office fairly regularly, but spend too many back-and-forth hours on NJ Transit trains. Damn shame he couldn’t afford a studio for overnights. But with the price of real estate in N.Y., a midtown, one-room apartment would set him back more than his entire three-bedroom house here. And Princeton wasn’t exactly bargainsville.

He opened his e-mail program, scanned the messages, deleted ads promising him a larger penis or a chance to earn thousands at home.

Good. Carson Industries wanted a bid for their Web site; he’d send an e-mail to Chuck to let him know. And he’d managed to sell Granger Healthcare on the idea of redesigning theirs; they wanted a bid, too. Excellent. Other than that, more calls to make, trying to put Jameson Productions on the map in the Web design business. They’d done very well so far—he’d brought in enough jobs that they’d had to hire a second programmer, and Chuck had finally gotten his dearest wish—an assistant to spare him paperwork.

So it looked as though he’d be on the phone most of the day. Just not to Judy.

He picked up the receiver, made a call to Ralph Scannell, V.P. of Marketing at Office Mart, who was not Judy and who knew nothing about Laine. Ralph wasn’t interested in a new Web site or any other promotional material. Grayson shrugged. Rejection was part of the job. He made another call, strangely enough also not to Judy. Managed to chat with the office manager, but was stalled trying to get someone higher up in marketing. Three more calls, then three more, none of them to the woman known as Judy or anyone who could possibly tell him anything about his sexy ex-girlfriend Laine Blackwell.

In fact, he was going to sit here, with his butt parked in his overpriced ergonomically correct chair and not call Judy all damn morning long.




2


“YOU’LL NEVER GUESS who called me.”

Laine glanced up from her menu at Clark’s Diner, her and her oldest friend Judy’s regular Saturday lunch spot. She had a pretty good idea. The same person it always was when Judy said, “You’ll never guess who called me.”

“Who?”

Judy leaned forward, one dark brow lifted, brown eyes sparkling behind her narrow, aqua-framed glasses. “Grayson Alexander.”

“No kidding.” Laine did a quick internal scan of her emotions, noting with triumph that she wasn’t feeling even a hint of that crazy thrill his name used to provoke in her without fail. Nothing but friendly, affectionate warmth. “What’s he up to?”

“The usual.” Judy sat back, watching Laine entirely too carefully, so Laine continued to explore the menu she knew practically by heart. She wasn’t in the mood to be psychoanalyzed. She’d been trying to find a roommate for an entire week, in fact had interviewed her sixth candidate this morning. A woman named Shadow, who hoped it would be okay if she burned incense every day. Oh, and her pet rat would be welcome, wouldn’t he? Worse, Shadow had been the most promising candidate.

“He and Chuck Gartner—do you remember him? He was a year older than us at Princeton. Charming geek, about twenty feet tall…”

“Yes, I remember.”

“He and Chuck are making a go of their interactive media business. They have an office on Broadway by the park. And Grayson bought a house in Princeton on Knoll Drive.”

Laine nodded. “Sounds like he’s doing well.”

“I know. Huge sigh.” Judy patted her ample chest. “He still makes my heart go pitter-pat. Killer looks, perfect body and enough charm to sink the Titanic. Not that he’d look at a lonely, overweight doormat like me.”

“Oh, will you stop.” Laine glared and held up a finger. “One, you are not overweight and—”

“Ahem.” Judy raised her hand to interrupt. “I weigh what you do and I’m a foot shorter.”

“Eight inches. And I’m a beanpole. Two—” she held up a second finger “—you’re only lonely because you don’t get out there and find people to—”

“So shoot me, I’m shy.”

“Three, you—hey!” Laine let her hand smack down on the table. “Why don’t you find a Man To Do, too?”

Judy scrunched up her face incredulously. “Me? Are you kidding? I walk into a bar, men run out screaming.”

Laine rolled her eyes. “Utter crap. What about…whatshisname? At that bar we went to the night you—”

“Roy?” Judy pointed to her chest. “He was just into boobs.”

“Well…there’s a start. I mean they’re part of you.”

Judy let out a snort of laughter and shook her head. “Men To Do is not for me. I can’t screw a guy for the hell of it. I have sex once, I want to wash his socks for all eternity. It’s just who I am.”

“Nonsense. I used to be that way, too, but I evolved. You can, too.”

“Evolved?” Judy scoffed. “You mean you got massively hurt by Grayson and are scared to try again.”

“No.” The casual denial came out not so very casually and a strange, angry feeling invaded her stomach. “You’re always romanticizing our relationship. I was twenty. He was my first love. At that age, I thought if you fell in love, that was that, you had forever all sewn up.”

“It can be that way.”

Laine put down her menu and pressed tense fingers to her temples. “Trust me, I know. I hear it every time I go home. That’s how it was with my mom forty years ago and my sister ten years ago and what’s the matter with me that I can’t hang on to a man? I say they were just plain lucky meeting Mr. Right the first time. Nothing is ‘forever’ for sure. Not marriage, not career, not anything.”

Judy waved her off dismissively. “Gloom and doom.”

“It’s not all gloom. Look at all the stuff I’ve done in my life. I’ve had four jobs, dated six men, tried two different grad school programs and am headed for a third, met tons of people—I’ve had a blast. I’ve really lived, unlike my parents and sister who’ve done the exact same thing every day of their lives since birth. If I’d married Grayson I’d probably be at home now in the same house I’d lived in forever, in the same bathrobe and slippers I’d had forever, trying to keep track of about a hundred children.” She shuddered. “Now that is gloomy.”

“I don’t know.” Judy sighed and fingered the necklace of colored-glass beads at her throat. “Sounds pretty great to me.”

“Instead.” Laine picked up her water glass and toasted her friend. “Instead, I’m totally free and about to embark on my next great adventure.”

“Right.” Judy’s cynical eyebrow crept up the left side of her forehead, even as she hoisted her water glass and clinked with Laine. “He’s not seeing anyone, you know.”

“Who?” She knew damn well who. She just didn’t want to admit that he’d stayed in her mind even this long.

“Grayson.”

“And?”

“Neither are you.”

“And neither are you, Ms. I’ll-always-love-Grayson. Why don’t you try to go out with him?”

“Ohhhh, no. Oh, no. Ohhhh, nononono.” Judy turned a lovely shade of pink to match her cotton sweater. “Not me. This guy will always belong to you.”

Laine threw up her hands in surrender. “How can you think that? You were there for the entire fiasco in college. We weren’t meant to be. What’s the point of drumming all that up again?”

“Let’s just say that as much as it would make my life, I am under no illusion that he wants to know how I am when he calls. He always mumbles for a while then gets to the real point—‘How is Laine doing?’”

“So?” Laine picked up her menu. She was not getting into this. She was hungry and it would only make her cranky. Grayson was ancient history, and happily so. It had taken her years and years and years to get over him, her first real love; she wasn’t anxious to stir that up again. “He just wants to know how I am.”

“Nope. It’s more than that. He gets all awkward and choky-sounding when he asks.”

“Hair ball?” She moved from Salads to Sandwiches. Nothing appealed.

“Laine.”

“Maybe he’s eating.” Burgers, no. Chili, no.

Judy made a sound that demonstrated in no uncertain terms what she thought of that possibility. “I told him you were looking for a roommate.”

“Uh-huh.” Laine’s eyes zeroed in on her usual lunch order. Okay, so she always had it, but today was a comfort food kind of day and the chicken noodle soup at Clark’s was delicious, rich and full of big pieces of chicken.

“He said he was interested.”

Laine’s head jerked up. “Interested?”

Judy crossed her arms over her chest, looking like the winner of a smug contest. “I thought that might grab your attention.”

“Interested in what, interested?”

“Interested in being your roommate, interested.”

Laine closed her menu. Her body and brain seemed to be on hold until they decided how to react to that one. “I thought you said he had a house in Princeton.”

“He does. But he has appointments in the city, and it would be easier for him not to have to commute back and forth on the train.”

“Oh.” Still no reaction. She wasn’t sure if that was good or not.

“He’s willing to cough up half your rent and only stay there when he needs to.”

“Oh.”

Judy beckoned as if she were trying to coax words out of Laine’s mouth. “So?”

Laine stared at her friend, no doubt looking utterly blank. She hadn’t a clue what to think. Or feel. Grayson Alexander wanted to be her roommate. Grayson Alexander. Wanted to be her roommate. Her roommate. Gray—

“So, what do you say?” Judy was leaning forward again, scheming eyes alight.

“I don’t know.” Laine glanced around the diner as if the other customers might be able to step in to tell her what to say. “I guess it sounds…ideal.”

“You don’t sound like you guess it sounds ideal.”

“No. It does. It sounds ideal. I guess.”

“Of course it sounds ideal. Because it is ideal.” Judy pounded her small fist on the table. “It’s totally ideal. You guys are friends, you know him, you can trust him not to steal from you or have any weird habits or friends. No risk. And he won’t even be there most of the time. I’m telling you, it’s perfect.”

“Well.” She nodded seriously. “I guess it is.”

“It’s more than perfect.” Judy gestured into the air, then clasped her hands. “It’s fate.”

Laine narrowed her eyes. “Okay, let’s not get carried away.”

“But you’ll say yes?”

She shrugged, feeling off balance and totally unused to the feeling. It was pretty amazing timing that Grayson had called Judy just when Laine was looking for someone. And it did seem the perfect solution. The obvious choice.

It’s just that this little tiny voice inside her was sounding a warning. Perfect solutions and obvious choices had this way of turning on her. Jobs turned out to be deadening, men turned out to be wrong for her, graduate programs turned out not to be her calling.

But the voice wasn’t really loud enough for her to hear the details of what it thought was so wrong, and the overwhelming practicality of the solution was pretty compelling. In one stroke she could secure her playtime summer, save herself from having to live with a stranger and, as it turned out, she’d have the place to herself most of the time anyway.

Laine looked at the anxious face across the table and grinned. Not to mention Ms. Puppy Love would have easy drooling access. How could she say no? “Well, I mean, if he calls and asks and it all seems…well, yeah.”

“Hurray!” Judy threw up her hands and nearly punched the waitress who had finally arrived.

Laine smiled wanly and placed her order for the chicken soup. Definitely a comfort food day. She hadn’t seen Grayson in years. Five to be exact. She heard news of him now and then, maybe a couple of times a year if that, through Judy. After the initial nasty breakup, when she’d caught him with his fingers in another cookie jar, they’d managed to be friends for years, though admittedly they’d always seemed to stretch the boundaries of “friendship” to include sex. Lots of sex. Fabulous sex. Then he’d moved to Chicago and that was that. An unspoken agreement that it was time to move on. Now he was back in the area and she’d not only see him, she’d share intimate living space with him.

Okay. She could do that. She was way over him. They were friends. Buddies. Right?

“You okay?”

Laine blinked across the table to find Judy looking at her over the tops of her funky glasses with concern. A giddy bubble of laughter swelled in Laine’s chest. Her worries were ridiculous. Grayson was an old friend—granted, a friend she’d wanted to marry at one point, but that was years and years and years ago. They’d both moved on and she was a different person now. Rooming together was merely a practical arrangement to get them through the summer. She’d be out most of the time in pursuit of her adventures and her Man To Do and he’d be into whatever or whoever he was into.

Of course she was okay.

“Yes. Yes. I’m fine. I’m totally fine. I’m more than fine.” She laughed and handed her menu to the waitress. “In fact, thanks to Grayson, this is once again going to be the best summer of my life.”

From: Angie Keller

Sent: Sunday

To: Laine Blackwell; Kathy Baker

Subject: Men To Do

Why, honey chile, welcome to paradise! I am so glad you will be joining us! Me, I found a Man To Do only last night and my, my, my, I am feeling quite Queenly today. He was extremely manly and possessed an oh-so-talented tongue. My mama would have fainted dead away if she knew how I carried on. But I say God gave me this body to use, and I’m doing it.

Have fun!

God bless,

Angie

From: Kathy Baker

Sent: Sunday

To: Laine Blackwell; Angie Keller

Subject: Way To Go!

Wow, Laine, you are ready to roll! And okay, you have given me courage, I really need to do this (one of these days). I just don’t know where to meet men! The ones online here in Milwaukee seem so not my type—okay, maybe I overanalyze—but I can’t get excited about any of them just from a squinty little picture. Guys, a little tip: it is so not enticing to see half an arm around your neck from where you cut your last girlfriend out of the photo.

I wish I had Harlot Angie’s balls and could walk into a bar and just pick a guy out.

Anyway, congrats on your free summer and keep us posted!!

’Bye,

Kathy

GRAYSON HUNG UP the phone in total unabashed triumph. He was the salesman of all salesmen. The über-salesman. He’d just taken a call from a guy named Bob, who was trying to sell him some sales-training course. In the space of a half hour, Grayson had carefully and skillfully turned the conversation around, found out Bob’s company needed a new Web site, and secured a sales appointment for Jameson Productions, his own damn company.

He chuckled, reveling in that moment of rare beauty when Bob the Salesman Trainer had realized what was happening to his high-pressure call.

Hey, you’re selling me.

Grayson stretched one side of his body, then the other and leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.

Listen. That was all you had to do. Listen and ask questions. People would always tell you what you needed to know to get in. Too many salesmen did the professional equivalent of trying to carve a delicate wooden figurine with an ax. The good citizens of this country were axed every day with information, requests, advertisements, news, bothered at home by telemarketers, overwhelmed with options. To make a difference, all you had to do was shut up and listen. Use your tiniest chisel and, bit by bit, make that figurine emerge.

In six months Grayson had grown his and Chuck’s company to where they were on target for a half-million in annual business. And he was only just starting. What he needed now was one plum, one ripe, gorgeous, enormous company with ongoing needs for Jameson’s Web design and interactive media offerings.

It was out there. He just needed to find it. Having Laine’s place to stay in would give him more time in the city, more time for appointments, more time to see Chuck and the programmers for face-to-face consulting on projects, and less time commuting.

He pushed back against the chair, making its upholstered metallic innards creak. Not that less time sitting on trains was the only reason he’d jumped at the idea. He called Judy because he was being ridiculous, acting as if sitting home avoiding Laine was some show of strength. He wanted to see her again. Wanted to find out why she still invaded his dreams. And yeah, he wanted to do some other things that he better not admit, because it wasn’t very gentlemanly of him to be thinking of her that way after five years, before he’d even been able to talk to her again.

Grayson picked up the phone and dialed her number, his heart still racing from his morning run, coffee and the thrill of success securing another appointment. He’d been about to call Laine when this bozo Bob had called him. Now he couldn’t wait to hear her voice.

“Hello?”

She was out of breath. A grin spread over his face. Hot damn. He couldn’t help it. She sounded so good.

“You working out or something more fun?”

“Grayson?”

The sound of his name from her mouth made him smile harder. “How are you, Laine?”

“Grayson! I’m fine, how the hell are you? Judy said you’d call. God, it’s been five years.”

“I know. But I thought of you every one of them.”

She gave a familiar snort of laughter. “How sweet.”

“Yeah, well…” He put his feet up on his desk. “That’s me.”

“Though I noticed when you picked up the phone, you always called Judy.”

He went to cross his ankles and both feet slipped off the desk, nearly toppling him out of his chair. “Hmm…yeah, well…Judy is…she’s…Judy is Judy.”

“And Laine is Laine?”

“And never the twain, yeah.”

He grinned, picturing her talking to him on the phone—tall, slender, dark hair, blue eyes, flushed from working out. The kind of woman who drew men’s stares everywhere she went, all the more because she was so unconscious of how stunning she was.

“So now after five years, five thoughts of me and phone calls to Judy-who-is-Judy instead of Laine-who-is-Laine, you suddenly want to move in with me?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, there’s a switch.”

He left the barb alone. “Work with me here, Laine.”

“I don’t know…” She responded to his tease with mock hesitancy. “I’m not much of a worker these days.”

“Then play with me?”

“Play with yourself.”

He burst out laughing. Bam! Walked right into that one. You couldn’t get much past Laine Blackwell. “Okay, okay. Yes, I want to move in with you. A few nights a week when I have appointments in the city.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t Judy tell you?”

“Forget Judy. Tell Laine-who-is-Laine.”

“Okay, Laine-who-is-Laine. Having an apartment in the city will help me professionally.”

“Ah.” She blew out a sigh. “So you finally admit you need professional help.”

He couldn’t stop grinning. He suddenly missed her fiercely, as if all the years they’d been apart had hit him retroactively. “That’s right.”

“This is good. You must have come a long way.”

“You know I can come a long way.”

Her turn to laugh, that big, loud, honest belly laugh she released when something really struck her. He was pumped by the sound, even higher than he’d been. And turned on, totally jazzed by their sparring. He couldn’t wait to see her. And yeah, there were still one or two of those ungentlemanly thoughts on his mind. In fact there were lots of them. Who was he kidding? He was no gentleman when it came to Laine. Though only once had he stooped to being an outright jerk, an episode he still wished he could go back in time and erase.

“Are you going to let me in, Laine?”

“Into my apartment.”

“Of course? What else would I mean?” He grinned, waiting, rubbing his thumb along his chin.

“Nothing.” She took a deep breath and let it out.

His grin faded. “Is there a problem?”

“No. No. There’s not a problem.”

He cocked his head. There was a problem. He hoped to hell she was merely rediscovering her need to be naked under him. “Why the hesitation?”

“It’s fine. You can stay here when you need to. It will be fine.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“I’m sure.”

She wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d gone too far. “You understand that I’m doing this because of my job.”

“Oh, of course. Of course. I understand that.”

Was she relieved? Sorry? Embarrassed? He couldn’t tell without seeing her face. “Because given our history, I didn’t want you to think I was only trying to get into your pants again.”

Which was true. He wasn’t only trying to get into her pants. He did need a base in Manhattan.

“Oh, no. I didn’t think that at all. Honest, Grayson.”

He frowned. Where was the zinging comeback? She sounded utterly sincere. It must have occurred to her they could get back together for some fun. Judy had said she wasn’t involved with anyone. Two consenting adults with a history of explosive chemistry. In the same apartment. All night long. Didn’t take much imagination to keep the scenario heating up.

But then she’d always been pretty naive about his basely motivated gender. For a second he nearly felt ashamed of himself, but then shame was a useless emotion and it wasn’t as if he was planning to force her. He knew he could make her want him, even after this many years. Whatever that sexual TNT was between them, he had a feeling it would never go away. He’d bet his company they’d be in the sack together within a week.

And Grayson Alexander never made bets he could lose.




3


From: Laine Blackwell

Sent: Monday

To: Angie Keller; Kathy Baker

Subject: Men To Do and (ack!) Old Boyfriend Returns

First things first, I’ve decided that hanging out in bars is not going to get me my Man To Do. Too iffy, too expensive, too dangerous. And I’ve either met or dated all my friends’ available male friends, so no point going that route. Therefore (drumroll and trumpet flourish), I’ve been cruising NYdates.com. Can’t say for sure I won’t find any weirdos there, but I figure if I can thumbs-up pictures that attract me and thumbs-down men who can’t put two sentences together (or punctuate, what is up with that?), then I’m ahead of the game.

And, well, what do you know, I have found a few possibles, one in particular, Antonio, a dark and very sexy-looking Italian (attached is the link to his profile and photo), who fits my height and punctuation requirements and who sounds totally full of himself, which I’m thinking would classify him as…let’s say…the Vain Foreigner. I’ve e-mailed him, so we’ll see what happens.

Woohoo! This summer is going to be so incredible! I’ve signed up for a yoga class and a cooking class, and I found this skydiving company in N.J. and a tap-dancing class and I’m going to take a French class, too, and I’m so into this!

Okay, I better go. In a very short while, Grayson shows up. I’m excited about seeing him and, okay, nervous and not really sure what it will be like. I mean we were sort of obsessed with each other for a lot of years even after we broke up. It took him moving to Chicago to finally get him out of my head, not to mention my bed. But he’s definitely out and will stay out of both! So we’ll see.

’Bye!

Laine

P.S. Of course I’ll give the full report if my Vain Foreigner writes back.

GRAYSON STRODE DOWN the dark, stuffy, narrow eighth-floor hallway of Laine’s apartment building, carrying his overnight bag, briefcase and laptop, and clutching the enormous bouquet Roger the doorman had asked him to bring up. Apparently some guy named Ben was sending Laine flowers on a regular basis. Grayson did not like the sound of that, not that he had a claim on her anymore. Not yet at least.

Eight-K, 8-L… He reached 8-M before his brain kicked in that he was going the wrong way to get to 8-C. He let out a groan and turned around, wanting to wipe away perspiration at his temple, but too impatient to drop everything to take care of it.

What a day. Disaster meeting at Borg Engineering, a cancellation at ETJ Hutchins, which they hadn’t bothered to mention until he’d shown up, and now he found the idea of this guy sending Laine flowers damned irritating. A lot of money to be spending on a woman who wasn’t interested if what Roger said was true. Grayson wasn’t so sure. A guy would have to be nuts to invest that kind of money and energy into anything but a sure lay.

No point wasting time sniveling about it. Grayson was going to be spending time with her—intimate, everyday-living time. If this guy wanted her, he was going to have to do a lot better than dialing his florist.

Eight-A, 8-B and bingo, 8-C. He grinned at the number and jabbed the buzzer—four short, one long, two short, one long—Morse code for S-E-X, a silly game they’d started in college. It was going to be so good to see her. He wouldn’t be surprised if the sight of her induced the rush it always had, even when he saw her every day.

The door swung open and she stood there smiling. Yeah, the same rush hit him, maybe twice as hard for all the years he’d been without her.

“Laine.” He bent to ditch his laptop, overnight bag and briefcase, and gathered her in for a one-armed hug, inhaling her scent, wishing he could drop the damn vase to hold her the way he wanted. She always managed to smell as if she’d just come home from a day in a field of wildflowers. Total aphrodisiac.

He released her only far enough to bring her face into focus. Five years older, but only more beautiful. Blue eyes shining under straight, dark hair, perfect skin—to hell with getting reacquainted; he wanted to drag her off to his cave right this second. “It’s much too good to see you.”

She pulled away, laughing and flushed, and took the flowers he handed her. Immediately he missed her warmth and energy and wanted them back.

“Wow, are these from you, Grayson?” She lifted the vase, teasing already. She knew the odds of him thinking to buy her flowers were about one in several hundred million.

“Aren’t they always?”

“Um, no?”

“Some guy named Ben apparently makes this a habit.” He watched her closely. “Friend of yours?”

“Not really.” She darted a glance down and back. “A friend of my cousin’s. He’s just—”

“Trying to get in your pants? Or thanking you for having been there.” He registered the sharp edge in his voice at the same time she did and wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised. Down, boy. Stay cool.

“Oh, for—” She threw up her free hand in a typical Laine gesture of exasperation. “Still thinking with your other head, I see.”

“It’s my favorite.” He shrugged, all innocence.

She grinned unwillingly. “Ben’s harmless. Zero interest on my part, I even told him so. Right now he’s just my self-appointed protector and florist.”

“You told him you weren’t interested, and he’s still sending you flowers?”

She nodded and inhaled rapturously over the blooms. “He’s a very sweet man.”

“No one’s that sweet.”

“Hmm.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Not that I would expect you to know anything about the concept, but apparently some men are.”

“Ha!” He grinned and put his hands on his hips, studying her, the tension of the day falling away, the energy she’d always been able to light in him strong as ever. “It’s damn good to see you, Laine.”

“You, too, Grayson.” Her gaze lingered and softened. “You look great.”

“Not as great as you.” He meant it. She was still his every fantasy of woman—city sexiness and sophistication layered over this elusive country-fresh thing she had going. His very first glance at her clingy midthigh skirt and knit sleeveless top told him her body was still strong and lean. And he knew what she could do with every square inch of it.

But he supposed suggesting they retire immediately to her bedroom for some naked gymnastics would be pushing it.

“How are your folks?” He reached to her forehead to brush aside hair that wasn’t out of place.

“Fine. Terrific. Whatever.” She lifted her arm, let it drop down against her thigh. “I’ve lived here for eight years—Mom still tells me I better come home where I belong and did I know Geoffrey Wrango was divorced and he’s always asking after me, and my sister is expecting her gazillionth child next month and aren’t I worried about getting too old? Because I can have a career anytime, but the longer I wait the greater my chances of having a kid with Down’s or not conceiving at all, plus at my age the good men are going fast, and by the way my father isn’t going to last forever and how hard could it be to jump on a plane back to Ohio and blahblahblahblahblah.”

She took a huge breath to replenish. “In other words, nothing new. Yours?”

He didn’t answer right away, actually he couldn’t. Or didn’t want to. He stood there, grinning at her, letting delight wash over him. And even though delight was a total girly emotion, damned if she didn’t delight him. He hadn’t felt this buzzed since…the last time he’d seen her. Only clinching a big deal came close to a Laine high.

“Hello?” She quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward as if to inspect his skull for some sign of occupation. “Your mom and stepdad? How are they?”

He bent to match her movement, so their faces were only inches apart. She blinked in surprise, then her sexy mouth curved up and she lifted her other brow expectantly.

“Let’s see.” He dropped his gaze to her grin, then back up to her eyes. Blue and enticing, black-lashed and mischievous. He’d spent so much time inside them that staring at her up close this way felt like coming back to a place he’d always loved. “Paris this month, Costa Rica in the fall, concerts, parties, gardening, dinners at the club, sorry, can’t talk long, the Harrises are due any minute, you remember Bob, don’t you, head of his class at Harvard, he’s now CEO of his own Fortune 500 company. In other words…”

“Nothing new.” She laughed, then lingered long enough to dart a glance at his mouth and straightened. “Come on in and see the palace.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He followed with his bags, staring unapologetically at the sway of her firm rear, imagining himself into the beginnings of an erection. God, what pigs men were. He should be asking her how she was doing, where her life had been, where it was going, not salivating over her ass. But damn it, the woman had one fine ass.

They passed the tiny kitchen area to the left and entered the living room straight ahead, where Laine put the vase on a glass-topped coffee table, picked up what must be last week’s fading bouquet and disappeared into the kitchen to dump it. Regardless of what Laine said, this Ben guy must have reason to think he’d caught the scent to heaven. No guy was that much of a sap otherwise.

Grayson parked his stuff against a beige couch and looked around. Hardwood floors with the Oriental rug she bought in Murray Hill a few years after college, TV in a wooden cabinet whose open doors revealed a disarray of workout tapes and chick movies and a white ceramic lamp that had belonged to her mother. Against one wall stood the dining table; above it hung the detailed print of the Sacre Coeur she’d bought on a high school trip to Paris. He glanced at the overstuffed armchair he and Laine had found on a curb, hauled up to her old apartment together and had re-upholstered. He ran his hand over the armrest. The chair probably wasn’t worth a cent, but to them it had been the fantasy of stumbling over a discarded priceless antique.

Other unfamiliar things must be new acquisitions or belong to her roommate. He walked to the huge windows and pushed aside the sheer white curtains. Pretty decent cityscape thanks to the low buildings around them. Though he bet she used to be able to see the Twin Towers out this window.

He grimaced, then dropped the curtain and turned when he heard her come back into the room. She stood near the couch, clear eyes on him, shooting off her patented Laine energy even standing still. If he didn’t know how amazing it was to be a whole lot closer, he’d swear he could be happy standing here watching her for the rest of the day. God he’d missed her. Didn’t realize how much until he saw her again. No wonder he still dreamed about her. He was ready to dive back in without even knowing where they’d land.

“Want to see the rest of the place?”

“Sure.” He picked up his bags and followed her down the hallway, not understanding the mischievous smile she shot back until she gestured him into a small, unbearably feminine bedroom with flowered curtains and matching yellow bedspread and rug.

“Wow.” He put his bags down and surveyed the room, wondering if he’d emerge from this summer with the urge to wear panty hose. “This is so extra special.”

“I knew you’d like it.” Laine laughed behind him. “You’re so fetching in pastels.”

He sent her a grin over his shoulder. “It’s fine. It’s just what I need, Laine. And thanks for agreeing to let me use it.”

“Well, it helps me out, too.”

He turned, deciding he really liked being in a bedroom with her again. “You scratch mine, I’ll scratch yours?”

“Something like that.” She cocked her head and gave him a strange Mona Lisa smile. “Come see the rest? Or do you want to unpack?”

“Nothing to unpack really, since I’m only staying tonight this time.” He pulled off his tie and threw it on the yellow bedspread, slipped slowly out of his jacket, watching for her reaction. “I am dying to get out of this suit, though.”

“Okay.” She took a step back and paused in the doorway. “I have a couple of e-mails to send, then we can have dinner.”

He tossed his jacket on the bed and started to unbutton his shirt, giving her what they used to call the Green Light Grin. “What, you don’t want to stay and watch me change?”

“Ha!” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, then directed them down to his chest as if she couldn’t help wanting to see it again. “You’ll never change.”

“Ah, Laine, but would you want me to?” He tossed the shirt over the jacket and slowly started to unbuckle his belt, watching her, waiting for when she’d start darting those hungry glances down.

Instead she paused and looked thoughtful, apparently taking the question more seriously than expected. He stopped in the middle of unzipping his fly. He did not want to hear this answer standing in his underwear.

“I guess not.”

“Okay.” He hadn’t a clue how to respond. She guessed not? How was he supposed to take that? “I’ll just be a sec.”

She nodded and left, turning to the right, away from the living room toward what must be her bedroom.

Well, okay. He hadn’t seen her for five years, maybe it was unreasonable to expect that the sight of him in an undershirt would send her into paroxysms of lust. But he knew Laine. She could jump-start into sexual arousal like nothing he’d ever seen. Sometimes all it took was the Green Light Grin to get her going. He’d loved touching her, exploring her body, but unlike other women, it wasn’t so much foreplay as teasing.

Grayson shrugged, took off his pants and undershirt, and hung the suit in the closet next to a brilliant array of female suits and cocktail dresses. Just because he could shake off the years apart at first sight didn’t mean the same was true for her.

He pulled on jeans and a collarless teal polo shirt, a near duplicate of one Laine had bought him shortly before he’d moved away, saying she was sick of him wearing neutral colors. Finally, unpacked and feeling cooler, he scooped up his bathroom supplies and made his way in the direction Laine had gone, found the bathroom and grinned at the nearly bare counter and cabinet.

His ex-girlfriend in Chicago, Meg, had an entire drugstore in her bathroom. Cosmetics and lotions and cleaners—no, excuse him, cleansers—and polishes and waxes and miracle creams and toners, whatever the hell those were, plus puffs and poufs and wipes and assorted metal instruments of torture. No amount of persuasion convinced her she looked fine as is, maybe even better without all that crap slathered on. The fountain of youth was alive and well in the human brain, not in a million dollars’ worth of merchandise. Someone like Laine would still be a young woman at age eighty-five.

He emerged from the bathroom and headed for the only doorway left unexplored in the place. Laine’s bedroom. Where he hoped to be spending a lot of time this summer.

The room was evocatively familiar. She still had the queen mattress they’d bought together—in the same walnut frame—the same rose-colored bedspread, right now strewn with pamphlets and magazines, still had her grandmother’s dark wood dresser and the matching antique vanity. New to her setup, though—a computer workstation and a more up-to-date PC than the one she’d used when they were together.

At this PC, staring intently at the screen, sat Laine, sucking on a lollipop—ever the snack addict. Even though the door was open, he knocked.

“Come in.” She swiveled her chair toward him and smiled. “Got everything you need?”

He bit back the obvious answer and gestured around the room. “This looks awfully familiar.”

“Same old stuff. I’ll just be a second here, then we can have a beer.”

“Beer sounds fine.” He moved toward the bed and picked up a handful of printed material. “What’s all this?”

“I’m planning all kinds of fun this summer. Stuff I’ve always wanted to do but never had time.”

“You’re doing all this?” He shuffled through the magazines. “Yoga? Pottery? Cooking school? Dance classes? Skydiving?”

“Yup.” She hit a key, closed out the window on her screen and jumped up, coming to stand next to him. “Cool, huh? That skydiving place looks amazing. They’re booked up for a few weeks, but I think I’ll sign up. You only need a half hour of instruction, then you can do a tandem jump with one of the instructors.”

“Wow.” He was already envious of the instructors. Her scent was getting to him; she was slightly nearsighted and stood close to see the magazines. If he moved his left arm, he’d probably brush against her breast.

“And this.” She took the lollipop out of her mouth, reached to point, and her breast brushed against his tricep all by itself. “Is the yoga class I signed up for. Judy takes it, too. She says it’s changed her life.”

“Really.” He was barely listening, just taking her in, the sweet smell of cherry lollipop, the warmth of her nearness, the softness of her breast on his arm.

“And this.” Another point to another publication, another brush. “Is a place where you can sign up for cooking lessons. The woman running the place teaches French, Thai, a whole bunch of cuisines. Each session gives instructions for a complete meal. And this…”

Enough torture. He dumped the magazines back on the bed, lifted her under the arms and swung her against the wall.

“Grayson!” His name came out slightly garbled from the lollipop shoved against her cheek. “What are you doing?”

“I was wondering—” he grinned at her breathless tone, the darkening of her eyes, and looked down at her mouth, the white paper stick pressed firmly between her sexy lips “—when you were going to offer me a suck.”

She snorted with surprised laughter, nearly losing the lollipop. He commandeered it and pushed it slowly into his own mouth. “Mmm, cherry. My favorite.”

“You are awful. Give me that.”

“Okay.” He took it out of his mouth, held it out of reach when she tried to grab it back. “Open your mouth.”

“Grayson…”

“Open.”

She stared at him for a second with an expression he couldn’t read, then opened her mouth. He licked the candy one more time, then painted it, sticky and wet, across her lips.

She sucked her breath in sharply and froze. Grayson suppressed a smile of triumph. He had her right where he wanted her. Remembering a certain other lollipop—grape, as he recalled—that he’d drawn over her lips just like this, then back into his mouth to moisten like a water-colorist dipping his brush into water. Then he’d painted the candy again over her nipples, around her navel, between her legs, leisurely sucking off the sticky sweetness after each application.

This time she licked her own lips clean and grabbed for the sucker, which he held out of her reach again.

“Say please,” he said in the low whisper he used when they were playing sex games, when he’d make her beg.

“No. Grayson…” She pressed back against the wall, eyes wide, face flushed, but not with pleasure. She looked confused, troubled.

Immediately he let her go, put the lollipop back in her mouth and held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Just playing.”

“I know. It’s just…” She laughed uneasily, grabbed the stick and crunched the lollipop into bits. “Well, how about that beer now?”

“Beer sounds fine.” He followed her to the tiny kitchen, uneasy, deflated, and perched on a stool across the tile counter. What was that about? She still wanted him, she’d responded, but something was keeping her back. “Are you seeing someone?”

She put two bottles on the counter and turned to fish through a drawer. He picked one, gave the top a mighty twist and let go in a hurry, shaking his hand to ease the sting.

“Opener?” She pushed one across the counter and leaned forward on folded arms. “No, I’m not seeing anyone…yet.”

Yet? “Ben.”

“No, not Ben. I told you not Ben.”

He shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t feel, pulled open the top to her beer, then his and took a long swallow, watching the top of her bent head. “Then who?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He paused with the bottle against his lip. “You don’t know.”

“Well some friends and I…some online friends from this reading group, Eve’s Apple…” She gestured aimlessly, then clutched the beer bottle in both hands. “We split off from the main group and we’re…looking for Men To Do.”

“Men to do?”

“Men To Do Before Saying I Do.”

He lowered the bottle to the counter, his taste for beer gone. “Work with me here, Laine. What the hell are you talking about?”

“We want to find men who are totally inappropriate for marriage—or even relationships—and…” She waggled her eyebrows.

“Do them.”

“Yup.” She straightened suddenly and opened a cabinet behind her. “You hungry?”

“No.” He folded his arms across his chest. Call him a caveman, call him irrationally possessive, call him whatever you wanted, he did not like the sound of this. “So you haven’t found a man yet?”

“Not yet.” She brought down a bag of sourdough pretzels, her mood entirely too cheerful for his taste. “I’ve found some possibles, though.”

“Where? Wait, don’t tell me. Men To Do magazine? MenToDo.com? The Men To Do Show?”

She tore open the bag and rolled her eyes, then walked around the counter and sat on the stool next to him. “NYdates.com.”

“Okay.” He pictured her e-mailing furiously in her bedroom just now and felt vaguely sick. “So what happens next?”

She crunched on a pretzel. “I find someone I like, we write back and forth, and if he sounds good, then I go meet him for a drink or dinner or something.”

“And do him.”

She chased the pretzel with a swallow of beer. “Yeah, if it works out.”

“And will you tell this guy that you’re just ‘doing’ him and not interested in anything more than that?”

“Like a guy would care?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Okay, you got me on that one.”

She laughed and punched him playfully; he caught her hand and pulled her off the stool, opened his legs and brought her in just between his knees. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“It’s perfect. Just right for my summer of fun.” She tried to pull away, but he kept her there, hands at her slim waist, dying to pull her forward flush against him but not wanting to upset her again.

“What if you meet a psycho?”

“Honey, I already dated you, what’s a psycho going to do?”

“Ha.” He tightened his hold, pulled her toward him another inch, and splayed his fingers along the sides of her body. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She gave a forced laugh. “Too bad you didn’t feel that way when we were together.”

He started, shocked at the bitterness in her tone even though her expression stayed teasing. Okay. Maybe the past hadn’t been laid to rest on a lot of levels, but he wasn’t digging all that crap up now. “We’re talking about you and the Neanderthals of New York.”

“Getting hurt is not an option. These will be deliberately inappropriate men. The only thing involved will be my body.”

He suppressed a primal growl and moved his thumbs up and down her firm stomach, noting her sudden stillness with satisfaction. “So when you bring these guys home to do, can I watch?”

“Ha.” She gave a distracted grin as if she was responding on autopilot. “I don’t think so.”

He moved his thumbs up her rib cage, tugged her in even closer. “Maybe press a glass to the wall and listen?”

“Pervert.” She mumbled the word somewhat dreamily.

“Because I wouldn’t really need to see, if I could hear.” He spoke softly, moved his hands slowly up until his thumbs would be able to brush across her breasts if he extended them. “I already know the noises you make. I’d know when you were getting close, when you make that whimpering sound like nothing else in the world matters to you right then but coming.”

“Stop.” She was whispering, too, still motionless, caught.

“Stop what?” He was getting hard touching her, talking about her, picturing how she looked right before she came. “What am I doing?”

She pushed away and went back around to her side of the counter, grabbed her beer and shoved her hand into the bag of pretzels. “Trying to get into my pants.”

“So what’s your point?” He meant the comment playfully, but his dick was hard, he wanted her, it looked as if that wasn’t going to happen right now, he didn’t understand why not, and it pissed him off.

“My point is that my pants are off limits.”

“From what I just heard, it sounds like freaking open season.”

“Not for you, Grayson. Been there, done you, not going there again.”

She said the words calmly, looking right into his eyes. He tightened his mouth, felt a reflexive jerk in his gut. That time she was serious. Her body might still want him, but her brain was firmly opposed.

“Okay. Message received and understood.”

“Good.” She let out a breath and grinned a sweet grin he was in no mood to return. “Now that’s out of the way, are you hungry?”

She turned and reached up into another cabinet; the gesture parted her shirt and skirt, exposing smooth skin and accentuating the curve of her gorgeous ass.

“Yeah, I’m hungry.”

She had no idea how hungry. But damn it, getting the meal he wanted was going to be much more of a challenge than he thought.




4


From: Angie Keller

Sent: Tuesday

To: Laine Blackwell; Kathy Baker

Subject: Re: Men To Do and (ack!) Old Boyfriend Returns

Hey, girl. I’d say you have yourself a winner with this Antonio guy. Mmm-mmm, them’s good eatin’. If things don’t work out, you can send him on down here to North Carolina, and I’ll show the boy how to boogie.

But what I really want is to see pictures of this ex of yours, butt-naked if possible. And come on, give Angie a break. You’re planning to live with this guy all summer who was heaven-on-earth to screw and nothing’s gonna happen? Yeow! I’m betting the air was pretty darn thick when he walked in. Or maybe you two have already revisited paradise? That kind of chemistry doesn’t just get up and walk away.

Heck, girl, live a little! Two at once. Vain Foreigner and the Gray Stud.

Just make sure to send details. And pictures. And detailed pictures.

Me, I’m still prowling the bars of Asheville, N.C. No luck last night unless you count the drooling icky married guy, but come the weekend, I’m there again.

God bless,

Angie

From: Kathy Baker

Sent: Tuesday

To: Laine Blackwell; Angie Keller

Subject: The Vain Foreigner and Old Boyfriend

Of course I’m not such a god-awful slut-puppy as Angie, so I’ll say hey, the Vain Foreigner person sounds good and looks yummy, but Auntie Kathy just has to chime in and say be careful. Don’t give him your phone number or address or even your last name. And don’t let him pick you up at your apartment—meet him at the restaurant or wherever you go. And if you’ve done all that, then I’ve done my Auntie Duty, so have fun! And tell all when you come home. If you come home (nyuck nyuck).

As for this boyfriend-type person, hmm. Danger there, I won’t say more, but I’ll be curious to see how it all pans out. And yeah, how about treating us to a picture of him, too?

Me, I have a guy at work that would make a perfect Man To Do, but I think taking coworkers to bed is right up there in the stupidity department with handing steak through the bars of a lion’s cage (typed “bras of a lion’s cage” the first time. Hello?). So I will continue to search far and afield (is that the right expression? What field? Where?) for my man.

Hmm…maybe the hunky UPS guy who just pulled up…

Gotta go!

Kathy

LAINE LIFTED the ten-pound weight up, then down, up, then down, working her biceps, following the chirpy instructions of the exercise instructor on the video. Laine needed a workout in a big way this morning; she’d slept like crap knowing Grayson was in the next bedroom, and woke with a tired and bleary brain. Thank goodness he’d left early, gone already when she got up at eight. She was not in the mood to handle the all-too-familiar intimacy of a shared morning.

Up for two, down for two, hold for a pulse of three. She finished working her arm, got the matching weight and moved both to her shoulders for leg work. Then the other arm. Aerobic intervals. More leg work—squats, lunges, dips. Her body felt good, clean and strong, the weights satisfyingly tough to handle. And her brain was responding slowly, returning from its Grayson-induced disorientation.

Seeing him had been totally different than she’d expected. Instead of the sisterly affection she was so sure would comprise her now and future feelings, the second she opened the door and saw him standing there—masculine, magnetic, full of life—she’d been shot back into her own past, which she’d worked so hard to leave behind. Yeesh. The rest of the evening, even when he wasn’t coming on to her—force of habit for God’s sake, the man was a walking pass—she’d been struggling against the pull of what they’d been together.

She draped herself on all fours over her exercise step, fitted a three-pound weight behind her knee and bent her leg to keep it in place. Lift and down, lift and down, sixteen reps, then up and cross over the other leg for eight. Her deepest fear? If the initial thrill of seeing him didn’t fade, she might find out, to her ultimate horror, that she hadn’t managed to put him on the shelf after all. That couldn’t happen. If she didn’t get herself under control, she’d be toast. Burned black. Never survive the summer.

Leg reps over, she sat back to stretch, then lay on one side and started working her adductor muscles, the three-pound weight now resting on her outer thigh. Lift leg, lower, lift, lower, toe pointed down. She couldn’t think that way, couldn’t even acknowledge the possibility that her feelings weren’t dead and buried. She was older and wiser now, understood exactly why she and Grayson had been bad together.

For him, it was always about the chase. When they’d been legitimate boyfriend and girlfriend in college, he’d been so passionate, so into her, so sincere. She’d gradually come to trust him and fallen hard, finally told him she loved him, that she could see their future working out together. Complete capitulation, end of chase. He’d given a hunted smile and run off to immerse himself in a French kissathon with Joanne Randle, which Laine had been lucky enough to walk in on a few hours later. Such fun.

After that she’d slammed her emotional door shut, locked her heart safely away from him and away from the pain that little incident had produced—more than she would have thought possible. They’d never even sat down to discuss what had happened, apart from the first few accusatory shouting matches. And even though she’d been crazy enough, or helpless enough, or hooked enough to allow their sexual relationship to continue on and off for years before he moved away, she’d never allowed those deep-down feelings to resurface entirely. On the few occasions when she’d slipped, became too tender, made assumptions about the future, even in terms of weeks, he’d bolt and she wouldn’t hear from him. For a week or two, a month, two months, three… Then he’d call, and she’d go back like an addict unable to quit.

She finished stretching the other leg, lay on her back and began the killer abdominal crunch series. However— Hello. Attention, please—in the past five years she’d made tremendous strides, and she was no longer so crazy or hooked or helpless as to let him pull her back into that kind of destructive pattern again. If for no other reason than because Grayson was still so much the same.

Within a minute of his arrival he’d jumped to the conclusion that the only thing on Ben’s mind was sex, which would of course be correct if Grayson were the flower-sender. Nothing she said would change his mind. Then he tried to manipulate her into resuming a sexual relationship—didn’t ask, didn’t invite, manipulated. Assumed she would still respond to him the same way—okay, never mind that she did—that she’d jump right back in, no questions asked, nothing to discuss. And he was still the champion of suppressing his emotions to cool, in-control masculinity—like pretending her Men To Do scheme didn’t bother him.

Oh, please.

She’d had the distinct satisfaction of watching his okay-you-can-worship-my-bod-all-over-again routine crack and nearly fall apart.

The video instructor mercifully stopped and Laine flopped back, letting her body relax into the glow of fatigue. Stretches done, she headed for her bedroom, stripped, tossed her workout clothes onto her bed and jumped into the shower, exulting in the lukewarm stream on her heated body.

Honesty time? Yeah, she’d been worshiping his bod. Surreptitiously she hoped. What a bod it was. Only better now that he’d bulked into real manhood. When he’d started undressing in Monica’s room, she’d been hard-put to leave. Which meant she’d sort of responded the way he assumed she would. That damn lollipop trick—he knew just what buttons to push. Knew when he dragged the wet candy across her lips, she’d instantly start reliving the first time. The way he’d licked the lollipop—that one was grape—painted it on various parts of her body, then sucked the flavor off her skin. The way he’d dipped it all the way inside her, then put it back in his mouth, circled her clit and sucked off the melted sweetness…she’d come within seconds. Practically set the bed on fire.

Laine blew out a breath and reminded herself to move. She turned the knob to stop the shower, opened the curtain, then stared at the water running out of the tub faucet.

Oh, it was just too tempting.

She grinned, sank down and scooted close, leaning back on her elbows. Dropping her head back, she let the warm splashing stream play between her spread legs. Within seconds her breathing grew rough, her hips arched. The stimulation was warm, liquid and so intense. She gasped, felt the climax building, gasped again and moaned. Nearly there. Nearly there. Nearly…

The door burst open. She squealed and rolled to the side, huddled down in the tub and peeked over the edge, heart racing. Grayson. In suspiciously tented running shorts and nothing else.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Sorry.” He backed toward the door. “I was, uh…”

“Spying, you creep.” Laine lunged to the end of the tub, grabbed her towel and stood, wrapping it around her, brain enraged, body bewildered by being jerked away from its anticipated completion. “Damn it, Grayson, we are going to make rules around here.”

“I’m sorry. I really am.” He held his hands up in surrender, dark eyes earnest, face and hair damp with perspiration from his run. “I wasn’t sure you were here, I pressed against the door to listen and it gave on me.”

“Oh, right.” Her gaze skittered over his chest and back to his eyes. Grrrrr. Why did she have to check that out? “It didn’t occur to you to knock?”

“Next time I will.” His eyes flicked to the water still pouring out of the tap and took on a wicked gleam. “Still your favorite method?”

She bent, blushing furiously, one hand pressing her towel in place, and yanked off the faucets. The guy knew way too much about her. “I was just turning off the shower when you barged in on me.”

“Really.” He crossed his arms over his fantastic chest, which made the stupid part of her brain still wanting that orgasm send her eyes down again. “Turning off the shower makes you moan like that?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You were listening, you pig.”

“I heard. I wasn’t listening. There’s a diff—”

“Hair-splitting pig.”

“That’s Mr. Hair-Splitting Pig to you.”

She fought off laughter, clutched the towel in both fists, face still hot, body trembling. This was exactly Grayson’s operating mode: sneaking around, coming from behind—figuratively, she meant—to try to get what he was after. Well she wasn’t playing that game anymore. “Okay, you’re done, you’ve apologized, you can go.”

His eyes dropped from hers to her bare shoulders, wandered across her well-covered breasts, sauntered down suggestively further, then back up to her eyes, with that look of sleepy desire he was so freaking good at that her freaking traitorous body responded, Oh, goody, here’s what we want, let’s get started.

She swallowed loud enough to be heard and pointed to the exit. “Go.”

“Okay.” He nodded, his voice low and husky, turned, then paused in the doorway, head to one side. “You still make me crazy.”

She stared at the door closing behind him, at the crack in the ivory paint that looked like a clumsily drawn bolt of lightning. She wanted to throw something after him, to hear it crash against the wall and thud to the ground, to yell, to throw him out for good. He’d engineered the entire episode, from pushing open the door once he figured out what she was up to, to saying she made him crazy just before his convenient exit. He’d intended to leave her stunned and drooling after him. Pig, pig and double, triple pig.

He made her a lot crazier than she made him. And not crazy in the same way he meant. But he wouldn’t take control of her again. Absolutely not, either sexually or emotionally. She had let him go and he was going to stay gone.

Taking a deep breath and holding the towel firmly around her, she sailed out of the bathroom and into her room, closed the door behind her and made sure it latched properly in case Peeping Tom decided he wanted more sicko action.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/isabel-sharpe/take-me-twice/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.