Bayou Bad Boys (26 page)

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Authors: Nancy Warren

BOOK: Bayou Bad Boys
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“The swim was cold, the sex was . . .”
“Not?” he finished, touching her hair. “Although the swim thing worked well enough for me.” She turned to smile at him, the hazy, drugged smile of a tired, ultra-relaxed woman. Just then a breeze, cool and sharp, came off the water, and drops of rain hit his cheek and bare shoulder. Tropical rain could come suddenly in the Gulf—and heavily. “We'd better go,” he said. “Or we'll get soaked.”
He gathered up the blanket and towels, and they started toward the house, picking up their pace when the rain and wind paired up to create the beginning of a summer storm.
Back in his bedroom, Esme, still wrapped in her towel, picked up her silk shift and robe, frowned, and scanned the room's floor. “Have you seen my slippers?”
Dane came from behind and put his arms around her. “What are you doing?”
“Getting my things,” she said, stating the obvious, and leaning back into him.
“Why?”
“Because”—she turned in his arms—“I'm going back to my room.”
He hadn't expected this, didn't want it. “My bed's plenty big enough for two.”
“Your bed is big enough for a small army.” She touched his face, grinned. “And I appreciate the offer to share, but it's late, and I'm planning an early start tomorrow.”
“If you're worried about Peggy or Janzen, don't be. They mind their own business.”
That comment made her frown, then she smiled—a bit weaker, though. “And I take it you give them some ‘business to mind' from time to time?”
“I'm not a priest, Esme.”
She laughed then, but it was a cool laugh and didn't lighten her eyes much. “And I never took you for one, but we had sex, Dane, healthy, recreational sex. Great sex.” She kissed his mouth lightly, one of those feathery relative-type kisses that old friends and family exchange. Then, spotting a pair of fuzzy mules at the foot of his bed, she picked them up.
What the hell was going on here?
he wondered. “So if the sex was healthy and recreational, what the hell would sleeping together be?”
She paused. “Personal.” She walked to the door, turned back. “Will I see you at breakfast?”
Smooth Esme was back, full force, every defense manned and barricaded; add to that, her change in attitude had taken him completely by surprise. He didn't know what the hell to do with her, so he was left to answer her question. “I generally grab a coffee from the kitchen and go to work.”
“Work. Of course. Marilee said you work very hard.” A fact that apparently didn't please her, because she frowned before adding, “Later in the day, then. We can have dinner, then maybe have sex again. Would that work for you? Some bondage maybe. I'm not fond of it myself, but—” She shrugged, raised a questioning brow.
Dane couldn't find his voice, and someone had put clamps on his damn brain. “I, uh . . . I'm not into that stuff.” Jesus, he sounded like a choirboy. Obviously, as openminded as he was about sex, he was generations behind the ex-therapist. Hell, the next thing she'd be talking about would be—
“Leather, then? Spanking? A riding crop? Alligators in black lace? Something out of the ordinary?” She raised her brow even higher now, and he didn't miss the twist of her lip.
Okay, he was slow, but not that slow. “How about you dress up as Little Bo Peep,” he said, matching her brow-lift for brow-lift. “And don't forget to bring the sheep.”
She laughed, lifted the latch on his door, and robe, shift, towel, and slippers clutched to her chest, she said, “Tomorrow, then?”
Smiling now, he said, “You can count on it.”
He was still smiling when she closed the door, stopped smiling when he looked at his big—very empty—bed. She'd snookered him, and he'd damn well liked it.
He liked her.
 
Esme closed her bedroom door, leaned on it, and deflated like a punctured dirigible. Considering she was an intelligent, creative, educated, and extremely sensible woman, she'd put herself in danger of making the biggest blooper of her life—being attracted, hugely, frighteningly attracted—to Dane McCoy.
She dropped her slippers, kicked them out of the way, and plunked herself on the bed, her mind whirring, her body still humming from Dane's lovemaking.
“Get a friggin' grip!” she muttered to herself. “Like you told the man, it was sex, just sex.” She squeezed her eyes shut, added, “Okay, monumental sex, triple orgasm sex, unforgettable sex.” She stopped, before the urge to rush to the window and shout her satisfaction to the uncaring raindrops on the other side of her window overwhelmed her.
When she got herself settled down, had purged the last of Dane's sexy, ocean-scented body from her lungs by refilling them with fresh air, she managed a tenuous grip on reality. She'd got herself into this mess with her oh-so-cool-sex-professional routine, so she'd best get herself out of it, before her not-so-cool heart took a fatal body blow.
She stripped off the towel and dove naked under the covers. The first thing she had to do was remind herself that McCoy was a certified workaholic—and she'd already married one of those, and been one herself. Going back for more of the same, reliving that self-defeating craziness, wasn't an option. Maybe he was the world's greatest lover, maybe he did have a body—and smile—that would tempt an eighty-year-old nun, but he was
not
for her.
She was simply in the phase-one attraction stage; that dangerous time when emotions whacked away at common sense like a machete in tall grass. It would pass; not to worry, she advised herself, finally warming under her nest of covers. Until it did, there was nothing wrong with their enjoying each other, sexually speaking.
Because no way was she getting hooked on a man whose only goal was money, a man who dedicated endless hours of work—the time of his life—to making more of what he already had too much of.
Smart women did not make the same mistake twice.
No way.
In a few days she'd finish her project and be out of here—and Dane McCoy would be nothing but a memory.
She punched her pillow, flushed. A very sexy memory.
Six
“McCoy!” Janzen rapped sharply on Dane's door at five
A.M.
“You up?”
With only three hours sleep, and that bit a patchwork of sex dreams and roll-overs, Dane not only wasn't up, he wasn't in the mood for his insomniac partner.
He opened the door. “Don't you ever sleep?”
Janzen gave him a cool once over and walked in. “Get some pants on and come with me.”
“Are you nuts? It's barely five.” He pulled on some jeans.
“You gotta see this,” Janzen said. “You've got fifteen minutes max. Granger's already warming up the bird.”
The bird was the Cessna, and Dane, awake at last, gave Janzen his full attention. “What's the deal?”
“Tennessee. The Fairtowne project. Fire.”
“How bad?” Dane zipped his jeans, yanked a tee over his head, and grabbed a jacket. There was always a packed bag on the Cessna so it was all he needed.
“Bad. It looks like our investment was too little, too late. We've got at least fifteen, maybe twenty families burned out and on the pavement.”
“Let's go.”
“And there's another thing.”
They were striding down the hall, past Esme's room. He tried not to think what losing these days with her might mean, what he'd be missing. “Yeah?”
“There's media all over the place. I'll do what I can to head them off, but I can't guarantee it.”
For that Dane had only one answer. “Shit!”
 
Esme shaded her eyes against the brilliance of the setting sun, now a pulsing orange ball on the horizon. There'd be no more work tonight. She'd have to finish the drawing tomorrow.
She tucked her sketch pad under her arm, folded her lap easel, and headed up the dock toward the house, turning back only once to see a blaze of sun bounce off the water and ripple along the fresh white hull of the
Too Much
.
For three days, she'd worked her butt off, and she was almost finished, and she'd faxed preliminaries for approval to Veronica—who, thankfully, had faxed her okay back within twenty-four hours.
Glancing up at the house, she saw that Peggy had turned on some lights on the lower floor.
At first she'd been disappointed that Dane had disappeared, although not surprised. To give him credit, he had called to tell her some deal or another that he was working on was going to take some time and he didn't know when he'd be back. Esme guessed any woman who stayed in Dane's life would get a lot of those kinds of calls.
But, really—she told herself repeatedly in her best therapist voice—things had worked out for the best. If she'd had any lingering doubts about Dane's membership in the Workaholics-R-Us club, they'd been snugly laid to rest, and she'd made steady progress on her project, which meant she'd be able to leave sooner than she thought—probably make a clean getaway before Dane got back. Not have the . . . inconvenience of a good-bye. Then she'd take that holiday she'd promised herself.
Excellent.
She was as happy as the proverbial clam.
She frowned.
She never had understood how anyone truly knew the state of a clam's mood. For all she knew, clams were miserable, buried in cold wet sand, people always stepping on their airholes, digging them up—tossing them in boiling water. It was goddamn hell being a clam!
And it was hell trying
not
to think about Dane McCoy.
She scrunched her eyes, inhaled, then let the air out of her lungs in one long rush. Straightening her shoulders, she continued her march toward the house.
A warm bath, a good book, and bed . . . and chocolate, lots and lots of chocolate.
She'd be fine.
Absolutely fine.
 
Dane watched Esme cross the lawn and disappear into the house. The Fairtowne deal had been a disaster, and he was exhausted, but the sight of her was an instant pick-me-up. He'd bet she hadn't eaten. And as peace offerings went, nothing beat Peggy's food. He headed for the kitchen.
 
Esme turned the water off, tossed in some rose-scented bath salts, and stepped into the outsize tub, sinking into the clear, satiny water on a long sigh. She put her head back, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath, let it go . . .
“As a welcome home this sure as hell beats a hot meal.”
Esme nearly shot out of the tub. “Dane. What are you doing here?”
“I live here, remember?”
“I mean, in my bathroom.” She crossed her arms, covered her breasts—God!
As if he'd never seen them before, never done wicked things with them, never had her nipples in his mouth—along with another even more intimate part of her anatomy.
She dropped her arms. Way too late to be doing the chaste schoolgirl routine.
He watched her, his lips ticking up, as if trying not to smile. “You left the door open,” he finally said.
“That's no reason for you to—What are you doing?” She knew exactly what he was doing.
He was taking off his clothes. Her heart thumped. She should say something, like maybe
no!
—
He undid the last button on his shirt, shrugged it off his shoulders, and started on his jeans.
ZZZip . . .
Her heart stopped. She was going to see that marvelous body again. She licked her dry lips. It looked mightily as if she wouldn't make that clean getaway after all.
Thank God.
Naked, Dane turned, and walked back into her bedroom. He came back with a bottle of wine, two crystal glasses, and a magnificent, truly eye-popping erection.
“I brought food, but one look at you and I decided it can wait,” he said. “Move down.”
She followed his terse instruction. “Some men might have asked,” she said, barely managing to get the words out before his long legs slid in beside hers, and his chest hair brushed against her back. Any further complaints died in the rush of heat.
He moved her hair over her shoulder, kissed her nape, then wrapped his arms around her. “May I?” he asked softly, kissing her again. She knew any kind of answer was useless. Impossible, and a complete waste of valuable time.
Esme, encircled by strong male muscles, sighed long and deep. Although Dane held her loosely, he enveloped her completely, and the closeness of him, there, with her, dominated her senses, and banished what was left of rational thought to another galaxy. She didn't miss it. There were times when rational thought was highly overrated.
He felt so good, so warm . . . so hard against her.
“God, you feel good,” he said, repeating her thought, his voice low. “So soft.” Running his hands along her shoulders and down her arms, he trailed them with kisses, before sliding his hands around her and cupping her breasts. “Have I told you how much I like your breasts?” He placed a finger on each nipple and pressed lightly.
“No, but you've done a fine job of demonstrating it.”
He chuckled against her hair.
She rested her head back against him, drew in a languorous breath as he played and teased her nipples. “You feel like hot . . . steel.” She shifted back against his erection pressed against her buttocks and lower back, so he'd be certain of her reference point.
“Goddamn thing's been at attention for the last three days,” he grumbled. “And it's your fault.” He kissed her ear. “You're damned distracting, Esme Shane.” He didn't sound displeased about it.
Not distracting enough, she thought, thinking of the last few days without him and feeling stupidly woeful. Not that she had any right to bitch about him doing his job—whatever it was. “Was your trip successful?” She stroked his thigh, then down to twirl the sparse springy hair on his legs.
“Uh-huh.” His hand caressed her belly, moved down, covered her pubis and squeezed. His fingers probed.
“Hmm . . .” She rolled her head. She didn't have much room to open her legs, but she gave him what she could—and reveled in what he gave her, a racing heart and a glorious building anticipation.
“I've been thinking about this every second.” He spread her, ran a finger along her crease, then dipped it into her. “God, you're like... nothing I've ever felt before.” He rubbed his erect penis against her. “How about we get out of this tub, go somewhere I can do you justice.”
“As justice goes”—she arched into his hand, her blood on fire, her words rocky and low—“I think I'm getting my share.” She groaned the last words out and pushed her sex into his expert hand, breathlessly . . . deliriously, thoughtlessly, senselessly, incapable of any need other than Dane, what he could give her.
He smiled against her back, stroked her clitoris and made circles around it with his finger, until the taut tip of it stood achingly alone. “Even in the water I can feel the slickness of you. The heat.” He gently rolled her nub. “Do you want me to make you come, Esme?
Her eyes shut tight against the hurricane in her lungs. She couldn't speak, so she nodded.
It was enough for Dane, and for the next few minutes, Esme was very glad he was a man who took this
particular
kind of work seriously.
So much better than chocolate . . .
 
A diagonal of light from the open bathroom door cut across the bed, and Esme lay sprawled across Dane's chest in her bed, thoroughly loved and thoroughly loving. Dane slept deeply, and she gave herself up to the pleasure of watching his easy breathing, the curve of his lashes shadowing his cheek. For the moment, he was hers, vulnerable and available to simply admire.
She touched the stubble on his chin, kissed it softly, and smiled. He smelled like a bouquet of roses. She wondered how he'd feel about that when he woke up.
Through the fuzziness of afterglow, she caught a glimpse of the clock. Already well past midnight.
By this time tomorrow, she'd be gone—a week earlier than her rose-scented man expected. She wondered even more what he'd think about that.
You know what he'll think, because there isn't a man alive who'll happily give up the sexual pleasure you've found in each other.
Or a woman, for that matter.
She rubbed her eyes, sighed when another truth landed on her brain, loud and uninvited; one that totally unnerved the normally nerveless Esme Shane.
What was between her and Dane was more than sex. Much more. She knew it, but hoped he didn't, because this was not the time for the man to get in touch with his feelings.
She kissed his chest, breathed him in, then eased herself away from him. Slipping into her robe, she walked to the window, where she leaned her head against the cool glass and chewed the edge of a fingernail.
In the end it was all about work . . . No. Overwork. Imbalance.
Esme knew in the deepest part of her that Dane's obsession with work, with making money, was a relationship killer—and she knew the futility of trying to change someone—other than oneself. She'd tasted the loneliness of a work-driven life, had been caught up in it herself until the stress and emptiness became too much. Her husband, Drew, had always refused to slow down, been furious when she'd quit her lucrative, increasingly demanding practice to, as he put it, “mooch around with a pad and pencil” and ruin what he called their “profitable marriage.” He'd used the term again in the divorce proceedings in an effort to mitigate her share of the marital assets. For Drew, money was more than a way of keeping score, it was his reason for getting up in the morning.
Esme preferred the brilliance of a sunrise, the wind playing in oak leaves, the mystery of the ocean. For years she'd played second-string to the quest for gold. Never again.
Which is why she'd best get at least as far as New Orleans as quickly as possible. She was already halfway in love with Dane McCoy. She didn't intend to go the distance. She intended on staying in control—and not getting hurt in the process.
After all, if they were smart about things, played the game like adults, they could still see each other from time to time, enjoy each other sexually. It didn't have to be some grand and dramatic good-bye with them never seeing each other again. Dane would be fine with that, she was sure of it.
That bit of logic made her feel better, and she decided to go back to bed. Dane might be sleeping the sleep of the dead, but she'd soon rectify that! She turned to see him, awake, his back propped against the padded headboard, one knee up. She sighed. Even with bed-head he took her breath away.
He was staring at her. “What are you thinking?”
“That the rain has finally stopped and tomorrow's going to be beautiful.”

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