Addicted to Nick (8 page)

Star picked up on the mood in a trice. T.C. felt her suppressed power shudder through the reins and let her run. They sped a full circuit on the very edge of control, and it was only as they eased back to a more sedate pace that she realized Nick had needed to grab hold of something during that helter-skelter spurt.

That something happened to be her leg.

She didn't need to look down to picture his palm spanning the width of her thigh, his long splayed fingers boldly defined by the near-white of her faded jeans. Desire, as wild and unruly as that mad dash, bit with vicious teeth. The only thing holding her in check was the sound practical fact that the reins in her hands prevented her reaching out and putting them on him.

Gradually Star came back to a jog, then a long, loping walk, and the air around them thickened with the sound of her elevated breathing, the sharp smell of exertion.

“That was…unexpected.” Slowly, deliberately, he slid
his hand from her leg. “Kind of makes me wonder what else you're capable of when you let go.”

His meaning should have sent her scuttling for cover, but it seemed like that high-speed ride had blown away more than steam and tension. It must have blown away a large dose of common sense, for she smiled as she said, “I guess it's lucky I've got these reins in my hands.”

“Lucky for who?”

Lucky for me,
T.C. responded silently as she turned Star back toward the stables and sanity.

 

Jason was waiting at the stables, full of questions. Had Nick really taken the reins? How fast did they go? Was it a rush? The necessary explanations—together with the mundane task of unharnessing—went a long way toward settling the smoldering tension.

They were both laughing easily at something Jason said when they reached for the girth strap at the same time. Their hands touched. The jolt—electric sharp, lightning fast—zinged through her, and she was instantly completely aware of him. The grave stillness of his gaze, his earthy male scent, the sheen of heat on his skin, the pulsing beat of his heart. If she closed her eyes, she swore she would hear the blood surging through his veins. But she didn't close her eyes. They had fixed on the sensual curve of his mouth, so near she could feel his breath on her face.

Oh help. If he kisses me, I'm sunk.

His fingers curled around hers. His thumb stroked once across the back of her hand, and her insides turned to liquid.

Oh help. If he doesn't kiss me, I'll die.

“Are you two going to undo that buckle or stand about holding hands all afternoon?” Jase asked with a disgusted snort.

T.C. reclaimed her hand and avoided meeting anyone's eyes. Jason gathered up the remaining gear and took it off
to the tack room. Nick cleared his throat and asked if he should hose Star down. Star snorted and pawed at the ground, and Ug trotted in from an afternoon's rat hunting.

Everything back to normal, T.C. thought, although her pulse still skittered all over the yard like an unbroken colt. She watched Nick lead Star away and thought about the chores still to be done. She would rather watch Nick, or talk to Nick, or go take a long shower, then stretch out on her bed to think about Nick.

Everything definitely far from normal, she thought uneasily. What was wrong with her? She still hadn't moved several minutes later when a spray of water arced high above the concrete wall enclosing the wash-bay, closely followed by a muffled oath. By the time she arrived Nick looked about as wet as the horse with the hose clasped between its teeth.

At the sound of her strangled laughter, his head whipped around. “Are you here to help or for the entertainment?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, definitely for the show.”

“Which is undoubtedly funnier from where you're standing.”

At precisely that moment Star turned her head, gave him an innocent look and dropped the hose.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” he muttered as the hose, still spurting water, snaked out of his reach. “Would you get that for me?”

She shouldn't have taken that call for assistance at face value. She should have noticed the narrowing of his gaze, the unholy light in his eyes. But she was too busy chortling at his predicament.

She gathered the hose and brought it to him at the front of the bay, and Nick casually stepped around her to block the exit. Snookered. Her eyes widened on the weapon she had unwittingly handed him. “Oh, no,” she breathed,
backing up the four steps it took to hit the wall. “You wouldn't.”

“No?” he asked, and his grin felt more than smug. It felt positively feral. “Are you sure about that?”

No, she wasn't. He caught the furtive glances as she assessed her chances of making it to the tap before him.

“You can try, but you'll end up very wet.”

“I have a feeling I'm going to get wet either way.”

“You deserve to.”

“If you'd been in my shoes, you'd have seen the funny side.” A small bubble of merriment escaped her lips as she tipped her head back against the wall. Then she caught his unamused expression and lifted her hands in the traditional gesture of surrender. “Okay, I can take a little water. Do your worst.”

Hell. She was standing there with her shirt pulled deliciously tight across her breasts, her green eyes glimmering a wicked challenge, daring him to do his worst? His
best
right this minute would involve nailing her to that wall with his body and his mouth and sucking the remnants of laughter from her full bottom lip. His
worst
would involve nailing her to the wall, full stop.

“Maybe you won't get wet if you ask nicely.”

“You want me to say please?”

“I want you to say
please, Nick.
”

She moistened her lips. His body responded with extravagant haste—to the glimpse of her tongue, to her softly parted lips, to the anticipatory pleasure of hearing those two little words, her voice breathless and husky.

Please, Niccolo.

She struck with lightning speed, catching him at a distracted disadvantage…but not for long. With his superior reach and strength, it was never going to be a fair fight, although her tenacity ensured that they both ended up very wet.

Very wet and very close.

When Nick finally restrained her, he was achingly aware of how close. The second their eyes met, she stopped struggling. With her body wedged flush against his, he could feel her tightly coiled tension, could see both the heat of sensual knowledge and a familiar wariness in her wide green eyes, and wondered how long before she started running. He thought about begging.

Please, Tamara.

His fingertips trailed across her abdomen, stilled when they found the small gap where her shirt had pulled clear of her jeans. He rested his palm where cold wet cotton met warm satin skin, heard her sharply drawn breath and waited for her to snap at him, to pull away, to slap his hand.

She didn't move.

He looked down at the wet shirt plastered to the soft mounds of her breasts, at the clearly visible outline of her erect nipples, and his stomach clenched tight in an instant surge of need. He dipped his mouth and nipped at the earlobe that peeped through her softly mussed hair, at the smooth curve of her neck, at the point where that neck met her shoulder. He tasted the surface chill of cold water, then the fresh warmth of her skin, and, deeper still, the heat of pure desire.

He wondered if it was possible to drown in lust.

Everything about her aroused him, but nothing so much as the soft yielding in her eyes as her body swayed into his, as she cupped his face between her hands and muttered, “Will you please just kiss me.”

“Please, Nick,” he prompted, as his hands swept over her back. He bit her bottom lip, dragged it between his teeth, then slowly released it. A low frustrated moan built in her throat and resounded through his blood, stirring him, inflaming him…but it wasn't the words he needed to hear. “Say it,” he demanded.

Eyes glittering, she moistened her lips, but they re
mained silent. Desperate hands slid into his hair, then held him steady as she stretched on her toes and planted her lips against his. She kissed him with openmouthed carnality, encouraging his tongue into the warm, moist cavern of her mouth with a boldness that sizzled to his groin. He gripped her more tightly, his hands curving over her behind, drawing her nearer, molding the softness of her belly to the pulsing heat of his arousal.

A groan rumbled deep in his chest as her hands stroked from his shoulders to his waist. He swore he heard steam sizzle in their wake. He did hear a low hiss whistle through his teeth as those hands continued their downward path, stroking over his butt, making him ache to be naked, skin to skin. Inside and out.

He walked her backward. Two steps and she was against the wall. Hands planted either side of her face, he bent his knees to bring himself down to her height, so he could look right into her sultry green eyes while he rocked his hips against her. Just once. Then he closed his eyes and struggled to control the primal need that pumped savagely through him.

Man, had he ever been so hard? So desperate?

She touched his face, her fingers a cool, gentle contrast to the furnace in his blood. “Please, Nick,” she whispered as they locked gazes.

Finally.

“Please what?” he growled. “Tell me what you want, Tamara.”

A shadow crossed her face. Indecision. She blinked it away, bit her lip.

Hell.
Nick blew out a short, frustrated breath. His splayed fingers closed, curled into tight fists. “Right this minute I'm about as close to exploding as I've ever been with my clothes on. But nothing more is going to happen until you look me in the face and tell me what you want. Just so there's no mistaking. Your choice of words.”

A slow flush bled into her face. “I can't say…that.”

Imagined alternatives to
that
drove a thick groan from Nick. Weak with wanting, he rested his forehead against hers. He thought about prompting her, tempting her with more kisses. Rejected it. She needed to make this decision all on her own. In the morning, he wanted to turn his head on the pillow, open his eyes and look right into sea-green eyes softly glazed with desire, not clouded with regret.

He took stock of his surroundings for the first time in fifteen minutes. “I guess we're lucky Jase didn't walk around the corner. Or that one of your smarter animals didn't decide to break this up.”

Her half-laugh, half-sigh flowed warm against his throat. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Not pressing me. Giving me a chance to get sane about this.”

“Ah, that would be my noble streak.”

He eased back far enough to look down into her face. The undertow of insecurity lurking in the depths of those amazingly expressive eyes grabbed him hard. For a moment he felt winded, as raw desire made space for a strong surge of tenderness. He brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheekbone, pressed a kiss to her nose, another to her lips, a third to her chin, then pushed himself away from the wall. Away from temptation.

“I think this would be a good time to go ring my solicitor friend, see if he can't fit a Corelli in this afternoon.” He touched a finger to her lips, then stepped away. “Don't go getting too sane about this, okay?”

Slumped against the wall, T.C. watched him walk away. She wanted to call him back while she could still taste him on her lips and feel him on her skin, while the fever of need still burned in her blood. Before the return of sanity. But what would she say?

Yes, I want you to make love to me. I want your scorch
ing kisses and velvet-cloaked caresses, your incendiary words and soft midnight whispers. I want to feel beautiful and strong and craved; I want to feel like a woman who is your equal. But how could she call him back when her insecurities cast such a thick shroud over her desire?

She feared the afterward, when his male hunger was slaked, when he tossed her a casual goodbye and a consolatory kiss, then sauntered off into the sunset. She feared the desperate ache of withdrawal from the loving she'd grown addicted to, and most of all she feared the loneliness of the nights that stretched ahead with only her hollow pride for company.

It was those fears that constricted her throat and dried her mouth as she watched him walk away. It would take less than a night of loving to become addicted to Nick, and despite the power of the attraction, despite everything he could make her feel, he was still a man who didn't know the meaning of home, a man who liked to move on. He was still perfectly unsuitable for her.

W
hen he drove down the road less than an hour later, she should have been relieved, able to breathe again, but instead she thought about the day when he would head down that same road en route for the airport, and it felt as if her heart plummeted to her toes. And maybe it stayed there, because her feet seemed to drag heavily through every long drawn-out hour of the day, right up until the setting sun painted the horizon in multicolored dusk.

Then a sense of expectancy quickened her blood, and any noise prompted her heart to bound into her throat. She tried to distract herself with television, flicking indifferently past a score of channels, thinking that at least the volume would prevent her ears from straining for the sound of his vehicle. Fat chance. Minute by minute, her restlessness grew until she couldn't sit still any longer.

She punched the off button on a noisy sitcom and blew out an exasperated puff of air. How lame was she? Sitting here in the semidarkness waiting for him to come home,
not even knowing if he would drive back tonight. And if he did, what would she say to him? Certainly nothing that he wanted to hear.

Tell me what you want, Tamara.

Well, Nick, I want what you want, with the same intense hunger I felt in your kisses, in that one grinding pulse of your hips, in your voice, so hot and tight. But I want it every day for the rest of my life.

No, she didn't think he would want to hear anything quite that honest.

That's it,
she declared with savage purpose. I will not sit here torturing myself any longer. I need company. She tried Cheryl's number, but no one answered. Undeterred, she changed into narrow white jeans and her favorite lime-green stretch shirt, brushed her hair until it gleamed with life, touched her lips with gloss and headed out the door.

At the sound of an approaching vehicle, her hand stilled on the lock. Not his car, she realized after her pulse had done its first crazy stop-and-go, but the low throaty roar of a powerful bike. The sound resonated through her body and she didn't move—
couldn't move
—as a single headlight arced across the garden, then caught her in its searching eye. Seconds later the bike throbbed to a halt beside her.

It was a big, dark, dangerous beast of a bike, the kind that made her blood pump faster with reckless images of the forbidden. The kind that fit Nick as perfectly as his black biker's jacket and faded denim jeans.

He killed the engine, and the silence vibrated around her, keeping time with the accelerated beat of her heart. The sight of his booted feet, spread wide and planted on either side of the monster bike, made her own legs tremble. Her gaze floated upward, all the way to his full-face helmet, and even through the smokily opaque visor she could feel the intensity of his gaze.

Watching her.

She moistened arid lips, felt his gaze touch her, burn
her, as he removed his helmet. The contrast from smoky shades of darkness to pure light-filled blue was breathtaking. It was like looking into the center of the sun. Then he lifted a hand to rake the unruly hair back from his face, breaking the searing connection.

T.C. cleared her throat. “Where did you find this baby?”

Humor sparked in his molten eyes. “The stork sure didn't bring it.”

“It would have had to be a mighty big stork,” she mused, moving around the bike, compelled to look, to touch.

“You like her?”

“No way is this a feminine machine.”

“No? She reminds me of Stella. All that brute power, scarcely contained.”

She smiled. Yes, she could see that. Liked that he'd drawn the comparison, and the way he called Star the Italian version of her name. The less ordinary, the more exotic.

“Plus I don't much care for the notion of throwing my leg over anything I refer to as ‘he.'”

Well, no. She could see that, too. She touched a fingertip to the handlebar, cleared the heat from her throat. “You asked if I like her…. I'm not sure anyone could simply
like
a beauty like this.”

“You're right. I'd forgotten how it feels to ride one of these. To open her up and feel all that power surge through you.”

He laughed, the sound low and throaty and as shockingly arousing as his words. T.C. rubbed her hands over her goose-bumpy arms. She felt his gaze follow the action, caressing her bare skin into complete awareness, brushing the length of her throat, resting on the curve of her waist. Touching the painfully tight thrust of her nipples.

“You're going out?” All the laughter was gone from his voice.

“Yes.”
But if you ask me to stay, if you ask me to take a ride with you…

He didn't ask, and in the awkward silence she found herself circling the bike again.

“So…did she follow you home or what?” She trailed her fingers across the back of the wide leather seat. It was sleek and surprisingly cool, a stark contrast to the rough heated edges of her own mood.

“Graeme loaned her to me for a couple of days.”

“Graeme?”

“A partner in Kermit's firm. We were at school together.”

“Your solicitor friend,” she guessed. Then, “I can't imagine a suit riding one of these.”

He shook his head. “There you go with your preconceptions again.”

She leaned back against the door of her truck and folded her arms across her chest. “What do you mean by ‘again'?”

“You'd made up your mind about me long before we met.” He climbed off the bike, his expression unreadable. “That's why you've been so wary of me from day one. Because of who you think I am.”

What could she say? That she'd been building a defense? That she feared she would fall for him totally, completely, inextricably? All she could say was, “I have to go.”

He uttered a polite, “Have a nice time,” turned and walked away.

T.C. was halfway to town before she realized she hadn't asked him what he'd found out from his solicitor friend.

 

Nick hadn't hesitated when Graeme offered to loan him the Ducati. He'd thought the ride home would help cool
his simmering blood, but the moment he'd seen her standing there with her tight jeans and gloss-slicked mouth, he'd felt the burn like a flamethrower in his gut.

It had burned harder when she'd refused to talk to him—when she'd run away again—and hadn't let up the whole night, not even when he heard her vehicle cross the stock-grid into the yard. Not yet eleven, he noted. She can't have been having much fun. He tried to smile but barely managed a sneer.

Her soft footfalls sounded in the hallway. He heard them pause outside the office door; then he heard nothing but the wild pounding of his heart. His nostrils flared instinctively, and he swore he could smell her light enticing scent. He knew her essence filled his senses, had done so all week, ever since that first kiss.

He was instantly hard, intensely hard.

If you knock on that door, there'll be no more noble streak. There'll only be me and you and enough fire to incinerate this whole county.

He felt the sheen of heat on his skin and the coiled tension of every muscle as he sat, barely breathing, poised like some big cat intent on its prey. When he heard her footsteps retreat toward her room he almost howled with frustration. Instead he cursed whatever odd quirk of conscience or honor or pure male pride insisted he wait for her to come to him.

 

T.C. rose early and pushed herself hard throughout the next day, hoping to drive yesterday from her mind. “Might as well hope you'll grow wings and morph into Pegasus,” she told Duke as she rugged him late in the afternoon.

The phone was ringing as she came into the house, tired from physical exertion and edgy with the prospect of facing Nick. She grabbed the receiver without thinking. “Hello?”

Her greeting was met with a beat of silence long enough
for her heart to bound and lodge in her throat. Surely not…not after a week of silence.

“Hello?”

T.C. pressed a hand to her chest and closed her eyes. Thank God! There was someone there. A voice. A woman.

“Hello?” the woman repeated. “Is anyone there?”

“Yes. Sorry. This is Tamara Cole. Can I help you?”

Another curious beat of silence. “Now I'm confused. I was sure George said you'd moved.”

“Who is this?”

“Oh, how rude of me.” The woman sounded more richly amused than contrite. “I'm Sophie Corelli. Could I possibly speak to Nicky?”

Nicky?

“I've been trying to reach him for days, and he never returns my calls.”

“I'll see if I can find him,” T.C. said weakly, although if he was in the office, he would have picked up Sophie's call. God forbid she would have to hunt him down in his bedroom or shower.

Cordless handset clutched to her chest, she peered around the partly open office door. No one home. Mind made up to take a message, she went in but found her purpose immediately overtaken by curiosity. Carefully she set down the phone and looked around. There wasn't much to see.

A blank computer screen, paperwork stacked in several untidy piles, a couple of notes scrawled even less legibly than his shopping list, a tray of computer printouts—charts of some kind—and sitting on top of them a pair of metal-rimmed glasses. She ran a tentative finger along one ear-piece and told herself the strange little tug around her heart was the reassuring notion of Nick with an imperfection, not the incredibly endearing image of him wearing glasses.

“Looking for something?”

She turned quickly, backing away from the desk as if
she'd been caught snooping…which of course she hadn't. Luckily the bookcase provided support for her sudden weak-kneed breathlessness when he came into the room, wet hair flopping over his forehead, shirt untucked and hanging open.

All endearing thoughts evaporated in an instant haze of heat.

“Tamara?”

“Oh…a…um…call. For you.” Four words, four syllables, yet she had trouble stringing them together. Swallowing, she looked away, focused on the phone instead. “It's your sister.”

“That narrows the field to four. Any idea which one?”

“Oh. Yes. It's Sophie.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—with irritation?—as he swung into the chair and swiveled it toward the desk. When he reached for the phone his chambray shirt stretched taut across the breadth of his shoulders, and her attention was drawn to several tendrils of hair curling over his collar.

Oh, help! This room is definitely too small and too poorly ventilated.

“Sophie? You still there?”

He propped the phone between his chin and shoulder while he buttoned his shirt. What was it with him and dressing in her presence? She edged along the wall until she heard his weight shift in the chair and felt the dark unsettling touch of his gaze. Ignore it, she told herself. But when she started to move, more overtly this time, he simply rolled his chair into her path.

Satisfied she wasn't going anywhere but incredibly irritated by her attempt, Nick turned his attention to the phone call. “How did you get this number?” he asked at the end of Sophie's introductory small talk. Sophie held a masters in small talk.

“From your partner, natch.”

Nick swore. Sophie laughed. Tamara looked up from contemplating her toes, then away again just as quickly.

“George said you were only in the country for a day or two. Math was never my strong suit, but I can add. You've been there well over a week now. What gives, Nicky?”

“Ever heard of taking a break?”

“Didn't you just get back from a break—in Alaska, of all places?”

“Your point?”

“Hmm…wrong season for skiing, and I don't recall any decent climbs or white water nearby, so it must be a woman. Oh my God, is that why Joe's little woman is still there? You are too much, Nicky!”

“She wasn't Joe's—” He stopped himself right there. Swore silently when Sophie crowed with malicious delight. Willed Tamara to look at him, but she continued to stare fixedly at her toes.

“This is
soooo
priceless,” Sophie cooed. “I can't wait to share.”

“It's none of George's business.”

“You think he hasn't made it his business? He's been in a hellish snit about your little bequest, and he can't bear to have you in the same country. What I can't decide is why he's still paranoid. Is it still about Emily?”

Nick scrubbed a hand over his face. “Don't call him to make trouble, Soph. Tell him I don't want anything of his, especially his wife, and I'll be out of the country this time next week. Will you do that?”

“Why not?” He could hear her shrug. “No skin off my nose.”

After he recradled the receiver, Nick realized he had been gripping it with viselike intensity. Straightening his fingers was actually painful. Man, but he hated the way Sophie's troublemaking could still steam him…almost as much as George's paranoia. Was it any wonder he chose to live on the opposite side of the world? With barely
contained frustration, he shoved his chair away from the desk and found Tamara eyeing the door.

“Thinking of running away again?”

Her fitful gaze jerked back to his. “It's not quite like that.”

“Isn't it?” He slapped a hand down on the arm of his chair. “You'd have been locked behind your bedroom door ten minutes ago if I hadn't blocked your exit.”

“I'm sorry. It's just…”

“Just what? Just that you don't have the guts to talk straight to me?”

She recoiled sharply, as if the words had stung, and Nick wanted nothing more than to back down, to apologize to her, and that only made him angrier.

“Stay, for once,” he bit out. “Talk to me.”

“I don't know how to talk to a man like you.”

“A man like me?”

With a rough curse, he thrust his chair forward, startling her into knocking several books from the shelf at her back. Nick ignored their heavy tumble to the floor. He felt an insane urge to keep going, to surge out of the chair and demonstrate what sort of edgy, frustrated man he had become.