Back in Black (25 page)

He towed her into the room and shut the door behind her. With excruciating slowness, he tugged the quilt away from her one-handed grip and held it open wide. His gaze on her belly, he whispered, “I liked sleeping with you last night.”

Her heart swelled. “Me, too.”

Expression warming, he continued to look at her with the quilt at her back as if it were a barrier from escape. “Want to stay again tonight?”

She couldn’t breathe. “Yes.” Inhaling, she said again, with more conviction, “
Yes
, I’d like that.”

Brett smiled, and it was unlike any other smile she’d seen from him. Dropping the quilt to the floor, he took a step back and peeled off his sweatshirt. “This could become a habit, you know.”

Mesmerized by his casual striptease, Audrey croaked out, “What?”

“Showering together. Sleeping together.” He shucked off his jogging pants, socks, and shoes and straightened in front of her. With a load of heart-melting meaning, he whispered, “Being together.”

For long moments, Audrey just concentrated on breathing, on refraining from throwing herself at him. But she was clear on one thing: “I’d like that, too. If . . . if it became a habit, I mean.”

Seeing how she looked at his body, Brett hauled her up close for a devastating kiss. But when she let her hands wander down his torso, he caught her wrists and laughed out an apology. “Sorry. I definitely need a shower before
that
gets out of hand.”

He turned on the water and retrieved towels; Audrey stood there watching him, thinking that she loved his heated scent, the feel of his sweat-slick skin over solid muscles. When he had everything arranged, he stepped under the spray and waited for her to join him.

Showering with a man was a unique experience, one of many that she’d had with Brett. In such a short time, he’d given her so much and made her feel more like a self-assured woman and less like a protester on a mission.

Having fun, they took turns washing each other—and it became a special brand of foreplay that tortured her already heightened senses.

“I don’t have a rubber in here.” Brett kissed her throat, her shoulder. “If I don’t stop now, I might not be able to. And neither of us wants that.”

She wasn’t so sure what she wanted anymore, but Brett had too much planned for his future to take unnecessary risks. Never would she want to be a burden to him.

She stepped away with a smile. “I’ll race you to the bedroom.”

Brett laughed, and even that, the husky timbre of his humor, excited her. After rinsing, they hurriedly dried and, still damp in places, rushed down the hall like children.

Very conscious of Brett trailing her, Audrey was only a few feet away from his bedroom when he scooped her up from behind and stepped into the room with her held in his arms. She squealed and laughed—and learned that lovemaking could be amusing as well as sizzling.

She hadn’t been this lighthearted for a very long time.

Spice leaped from the bed when they came down together onto the mattress, making it bounce.

Rising on his elbows, Brett smiled down at her. “I really like you, Audrey Porter.” He stole a soft, quick kiss from her mouth. “Everything about you.”

She smiled, too, but she knew it was a lie. As good-natured and accepting as Brett seemed, he
couldn’t
like her disapproval of his chosen profession. It was like a giant roadblock in the way of any real, lasting relationship between them, and it almost made her feel ill.

And if Millie had her way and they exposed the ugliness of the sport even more, what would Brett do? Could she let her personal feelings for him get in the way of what she believed was right?

“Hey.” Brett tilted his head to study her. “I didn’t expect my declaration to make you so gloomy.”

“No.” Shaking her head and wrapping her arms around him, Audrey denied it. “Your declaration makes me want to cry with happiness, because I
really
like you, too.” She pulled him down to her, desperate to take what she could before it all fell apart.

“Yeah? Show me.” And with that, he kissed her with the intent of making them both nuts.

There were no more words, and though Audrey knew she shouldn’t linger, she couldn’t find the strength to hurry things along, either. Luckily, Brett was in a rush of his own, taking her as if his control had left him, as if he wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.

He was braced on one arm over her, thrusting inside her, pushing her hard while plying her breasts with fascination, when Audrey gave in to an all-consuming climax. Through a haze of pleasure she watched Brett’s face, saw his nostrils flare, his jaw lock, and then he, too, came.

When they’d both quieted their laboring breaths, he fell to his side next to her. Audrey stared at the ceiling and relived each incredible moment. How Brett seemed to know exactly what to do, and when, amazed her. He was so in tune to her and her needs that he made her feel very special.

With him, she felt things she hadn’t known existed—but not just during sex.

Like . . . right now.

She turned her head to look at him, and there was such a connection to him that it humbled her. “Brett?”

“Hmmm?” He scratched his chest and then turned his head toward her. His small smile was one of pleasure and contentment.

God, she hated this. Best to just get it over with. “Millie wants to do a story.”

Maybe it was the way she said it, the dread she felt, but Brett went still and the smile disappeared. “What story?”

Because that one was hard to explain, Audrey said instead, “She called last night, but I didn’t hear my phone.”

“I know. You left your purse and phone on the sofa.” Now frowning, Brett rolled up to one elbow. “What story, Audrey?”

A deep breath didn’t help at all. Audrey sat up and wondered where her clothes had gone. She found them crumpled on the floor and gathered them into her arms.

She didn’t want to remain naked while explaining this. “Let me get dressed and you can”—she nodded toward the condom—“take care of that, then we’ll talk.”

After appraising her with a long look, Brett left the bed without a word and headed for the bathroom. Audrey was dressed by the time he returned. He walked past her to the closet and got out a clean T-shirt, then boxers, socks, and jeans from his dresser.

Standing with the clothes in his arms, his feet braced apart, he studied her. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

Nervousness growing, Audrey asked, “Will you join me for a cup?”

Seconds ticked by before he said, “I don’t drink coffee, but I’ll sit with you.”

For some reason, his words felt like a dismissal, so she started edging toward the door. “Okay. I’ll . . . be in the kitchen when you finish.”

She helped herself to the coffee and was sitting at the table when Brett came in and poured himself a glass of water. “Why do you make coffee if you don’t drink it?”

He didn’t join her at the table, but instead leaned back on the counter. “Other people do.”

He waited without pressing her, but Audrey knew she had no more excuses for not telling him. Millie was waiting on her, and then she had to get to work.

“I don’t have all the details yet—Millie will explain everything when I see her. But last night, when she was at Drew Black’s house—”

Brett’s eyebrows shot up. “She was at his house? Seriously?” He left the counter and pulled out a chair.

“Yes. You see—”

Leaning on the table, he asked, “
Why
was she there? To represent WAVS in some way?”

Disapproval reeked in his tone, and Audrey felt defensive. “Someone—not from WAVS—was taking photos of Mr. Black and I guess he found out and chased the poor photographer—”

“
Poor
photographer?” He leaned back in his chair. “Unbelievable.”

Already on edge, Audrey plunked down her cup and almost spilled the hot brew. “Are you going to let me tell this or not?”

Brett ran a hand through his hair, then gestured grandly. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

The beginnings of a headache set in. “The photographer ran away from Mr. Black, and in the process, he got hit by a speeding car and died.”

Going still, Brett muttered, “Shit.”

Vindicated, Audrey repeated what Millie had told her. “In a response to reporters, Mr. Black apparently expressed a total lack of remorse for the man’s demise.”

That locked up Brett’s jaw, but he kept silent.

Audrey leaned toward him. “It’s all very complicated, but . . . my understanding is that the owners of the SBC hired a publicist for Mr. Black, a woman to sort of make him over into a less offensive person.”

“That wasn’t entirely the plan, but yeah, I already know about her. What of it?”

Audrey’s mouth fell open. “You knew?”

“It’s not a big deal, Audrey. Lots of public figures have publicists.”

“But according to sources—”

“What sources?”

She had no idea. “—This woman isn’t just publicizing him, but rather trying to change his image entirely.”

Brett shrugged. “Trust me, that’s never going to happen. Drew is who he is, and most people either love him or despise him. But I can tell you this: the fans worship him. He made this sport. Hell, some believe he
is
the sport. In my opinion, the SBC is way off in how they’re handling this. It’s largely due to Drew’s image that we’ve gotten the recognition we have now. Far as I’m concerned, other than the personal conflict you witnessed, Drew Black is fine as is.”

Audrey pulled herself together. “How can you say that?”

“I know him better than you do.”

Smug, she asked, “Well, did you know that he’s
sleeping
with the publicist? No matter how you look at it, that makes for a huge conflict of interest.”

His exasperation was made clear with a drawn-out sigh. “Come on, Audrey. Why shouldn’t two mature adults get together if that’s what they want to do? Their relationship isn’t hurting anyone, and if you ask me, it’s no one’s business.”

No one’s business
. He’d included her in that statement. But how could she ignore this? “Millie was there, and she got the whole thing on her recorder, including the fact that Mr. Black might be replaced within the organization.”

Brett straightened. “I don’t believe that.”

“She says her sources are secure. She . . . well, she interviewed the publicist, too. That’s the basis of her story, that Mr. Black corrupts everyone around him and even seduced a woman who he knew was off-limits to him.”

That brought out a guffaw. “I met Gillian Noode. Trust me, she’s not a weak woman easily seduced. If she’s sleeping with Drew, it’s because that’s what she wants to do, not because she’s a victim.” He shook his head. “And again, Audrey, how is that hurting anyone? Why does WAVS even care what a publicist does, with or without Drew Black?”

Audrey tried to drum up her earlier convictions. Just weeks ago, she’d have had her verbal ammunition loaded and ready to fire away. But now . . . now she saw both sides, and it made everything so much more complicated.

Her voice rose with the effort to make sense of it all. “The publicist is defending Mr. Black, trying to make him look better than he is. She and the SBC organization are hoping to hide his faults and cover up his brutalities. But Brett, you can’t just put a pretty face on the ugly truth.”

“What ugly truth are we talking about?”

Oh, God, the way he asked that . . . She did not want their growing relationship to come to a staggering halt, but how could she live with herself if she did nothing, and someone else suffered because of it?

Appearing almost saddened by her attitude, Brett reached for her hand. “Come on, Audrey. Tell me what you have against the SBC, and then we can talk about what really matters.”

How did he do that, cut straight to the core of her feelings? He wanted the truth, and . . .

Why not? Talking about it was so painful, but it’d be the easiest way to make him understand why she couldn’t just switch alliances. She needed resolution.

Audrey looked at his big hand holding hers with care. Brett was different; she was convinced of that. But one good example didn’t change the norm.

She met his gaze—and bared her soul. “Because of the SBC, my nineteen-year-old brother was killed. And believe me, Brett, that’s more than enough to make anyone realize what a horrible, bloodthirsty sport it is.”

 

 

DREW watched Gillian part the curtains with care. For hours now, throughout the night and into the early morning, she’d been pacing with anxiety. Every time she peeked outside, he knew it was with the hope that the nosy reporters had left so that she could escape the invasion of her privacy, the scandal . . . and him.

One by one throughout the long night, the fighters had split, and a few of the reporters had followed them. Only a few die-hard scandal-seekers had remained, but given the relief in Gillian’s shoulders, even those must have closed up their tents finally.

“They’re gone.” Face set in lines of determination, she started to hurry past him, but Drew caught her.

“Where are you going?”

For a heartbeat, she looked so lost, his guts knotted. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “Home, I guess. I need to get hold of Fran, I need to do some damage control, I need—”

His phone rang, and it so startled Gillian that she yelped.

Eyeing her too-tense posture, Drew pulled out his cell phone, glanced at the number, and shrugged at the inevitability of it.

Knowing Gillian stood there in awful suspense, he put the phone to his ear and said, “Hey, Fran. What’s shaking?”

Gillian’s eyes sank shut and a cloak of defeat masked her usual confidence.

Fran asked, “Is she there, Drew?”

He watched Gillian. “Who?”

“You know damn good and well who I mean. Gillian Noode. Is she there with you even now?”