Better Than Safe (15 page)

I set my bag of tomatoes on the conveyer belt and stepped aside when Seth joined me a moment later.

“You play dirty,” he muttered as he set the contents in his basket with mine.

“You asked for it.”

“Maybe I did. Beware. I can play dirty too.”

I bit my cheek hard and turned toward the rack of magazines nearby, hoping to diffuse the sexual tension racing through my body. Stress, exhaustion, and hunger were suddenly nonissues. All I wanted now was sex. The one thing I couldn’t have with this man. Not without risking more than I was willing.

W
E
LOADED
my car in companionable silence. When he hopped in the passenger seat and turned to me with a wide grin, I was instantly suspicious. I turned on the engine and asked where I was going. Seth laughed gleefully.

“This car is sick! I’m talkin’ seriously swank. I bet this baby would have told you exactly where you were heading if you asked nicely.”

“Sick?” I shook my head, determined not to be drawn into a nonsensical conversation. “Where do you live?”

“On Bank Street. Off of Prospect. You kno—”

“Yes, I know where that is. I live on N Street.”

“Cool. We’re neighbors. And sick means awesome. This car is unreal!”

“Thank you. I like it.” I chuckled at his over-the-top exuberance.

“What’s not to like? A sleek black Audi R8. I’m speechless.”

“If only,” I mumbled.

“Ha. Ha. Man, advertisement must be good business,” he whistled appreciatively, running his hands along the black leather console.

“It pays the bills.”

“Hmph. Maybe someday when I’m old like you I’ll own a car this fine.”

The traffic light turned red, giving me the perfect opportunity to turn in my seat and cast an evil eye in his direction. “Perhaps one day you’ll be mature enough.”

“Perhaps….” He drew out the word, mimicking my accent before chuckling at my mock irritation. “For now I’ll have to settle on my bike.”

“No wonder you’re always late. How do manage getting around on a bicycle everywhere? This isn’t a terribly large city, but there’s still a lot of—”

“Not a bicycle, dummy. A motorcycle. I have a Suzuki V-Storm. Nothing fancy. It’s kind of a placeholder until I can afford a BMW or a tricked out Harley. It gets me where I need to be and that’s all I care about. Can I turn on your radio?”

Of course he rode a motorbike. God. Maybe one day I’d learn to ask the right questions on the first date before investing a piece of myself I shouldn’t. I didn’t go for men on bikes. At all. It was a good thing we’d come to the mutual conclusion we could only be friends. Though, the jury was still out as far as I was concerned, I thought ruefully.

“Help yourself. Why a motorbike?”

“Why not?”

I made sure he saw my eye roll before I began a list of negatives. “They’re dangerous, inconvenient—”

“Inconvenient? Motorcycles are the most economically savvy and totally convenient way to travel. You can zip through traffic—”

“Yes, I believe I pointed out they were dangerous.”

“So are cars. Hell, walking down the street or taking public transportation can be hazardous.”

“True,” I conceded. “But if it’s a rainy day, at least you’ll stay dry.”

“Good point. A dry corpse is better than a wet one.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re a snob. With an accent. I think that makes you worse than the garden variety snob.”

“Why do I do this? I couldn’t be a bigger fool if I tried. I swore I wouldn’t, but here I am.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Myself.” I turned to face him at a stop sign near M Street. “I’m wondering how on earth I got suckered into being your glorified taxi service. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“You needed a ride. And possibly a good laugh so you decided to ring me—”

“You’re wrong. And melodramatic. Um… the guy behind you is honking. You may want to put the pedal to the metal.”

“Bloody fucking hell. Where now?” I snarled. I was surprised at how agitated and upset I was. I felt an almost overwhelming urge to punch something. Hard.

“Geesh. Turn left on Prospect. Touchy, touchy.”

He leaned forward to fiddle with the navigation system and satellite radio. I had it set to jazz. My teeth were clenched in anticipation of him turning it to a rock station and then blaring it until I was forced to come completely unglued.

He didn’t. Instead he turned to me with a sweet grin and said, “Diana Washington. I love this stuff.”

And suddenly, I was all right again. Confused, but… okay.

Seth directed me to a gray two-storied house and instructed me to pull off to the side so he could unload the groceries.

“I’m in the back unit. Let me get these to the gate. You can park up the street where it’s not so narrow then meet me upstairs. Oh… wait. Come here.”

I glanced across the console at my handsome companion. He had a funny look on his face I didn’t trust.

“A little closer.”

“What are you about?”

Seth’s hair fell into his eyes as he bumped my elbow and grinned mischievously at me. He stared at me with that inscrutable smile in place until I opened my mouth to once again ask what he was doing, and then he lunged forward and sealed his lips over mine. I didn’t think about… well, anything. I simply responded. His mouth felt soft and supple. I couldn’t help wanting more. I pulled him closer, threading my fingers through his hair as he tilted his chin to deepen the kiss. His tongue slid sensuously over mine, making me groan with desire. I didn’t want to break this connection. I caressed his face as I held him still, nibbling his lips, sucking his tongue until he broke for air. He sat back slightly, studying me in the dim lighting from the overhead streetlamp. Our heavy breathing was accompanied by the sweet soulful voice of Diana Washington singing “Since I Fell For You.” The moment was fraught with lust and longing. It dared me to stop thinking and take a leap. Possibly off a cliff, but God, it might just be worth it.

He opened the door flooding the car’s interior with light… and the moment was gone. I stared after him, unable to put a string of coherent thoughts together between the erratic beating of my heart and my throbbing cock. I needed someone else to steer for a while because I really wasn’t sure where I wanted to go anymore.

“I’ll grab the groceries, you park the car. See you upstairs.” Seth’s tone was huskier than normal and commanding in a way that should have bothered me. Instead, I found it sexy as hell.

I took a deep cleansing breath and pulled the car forward after he’d taken his bags. The song’s poignant lyrics about unrequited love taunted me with perfect sentiment. This wasn’t love, it was lust. I couldn’t seem to stay away from him. I tried to remind myself we shared an ex and if nothing else, it meant we both had questionable taste. I should know better, I repeated. Perhaps I did, but I wasn’t going anywhere now.

S
ETH
’
S
APARTMENT
was the back unit of a large gray shingle house. The worn wooden staircase leading to his flat was accessible through a gate. I noted a small, tidy vegetable garden on the right as I navigated the narrow walkway with stepping stones laid on neatly trimmed grass. It was a pretty spot. I wondered absently if Seth took care of the garden as I fussed with the sleeve of my suit coat, and then cautiously made my way upstairs.

I knocked once and opened the door. Into a kitchen. Seth was standing over a tiny stove, stirring something in a large pot. He looked up at me and smiled in welcome. It was funny that the simple gesture set me at ease while at the same time butterflies danced in my stomach. The juxtaposition of comfort with a dose of heady awareness was bewildering, though not unpleasant.

“Close the door and come in. Wine?”

“Uh, yes please.”

I shut the door and stuffed my hands in my pockets as I turned to take in my surroundings. The kitchen was old-fashioned by anyone’s standards. As in nothing had been updated in a few decades. The decorative blue and white tile on the backsplash and the plain white painted cabinets reminded me of something from an old sitcom from the 1950s. The room was a perfect square with a tiny window over the sink on one wall, stovetop oven and refrigerator on another, while a small cabinet for dishes graced the wall opposite a narrow doorframe leading to another room in the miniscule flat. Smack in the middle of the kitchen was an old wooden table with two mismatched chairs. A plain white spherical pendant hanging above the table appeared to be the only source of light in the space.

If Seth told me his grandmother lived here, I would have believed him. I couldn’t picture him here, though. The room seemed too delicate, too small, and much too traditional for an international model, wannabe rock star slash artist. I was intrigued. I looked over at my host who was wrestling with the corkscrew on a bottle of cabernet. His longish hair covered his face, but I was taken with the set of his broad shoulders and his lean body. I averted my eyes and moved around the cramped quarters to peer into the pot he’d been stirring as he poured two glasses of wine.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you. Cheers.” I raised my glass to clink it gently against his. I fought the desire to squirm slightly as his shrewd gaze swept over me.

“I thought there was a chance you might bail. I’m glad you didn’t.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I kept quiet and sipped my wine. “This is good,” I commented.

Seth chuckled and set his glass aside to resume his place behind the stove. “Don’t sound so surprised. I like good wine. Living in Italy spoiled me. I can’t eat bad Italian food or drink swill knowing how amazing the real thing is. The sauce has been simmering for a while. I just need to warm the meatballs I made earlier and cook the pasta. Feel free to wander. It will take you less than two minutes to see the rest of my pad. I have a piece in the living room you might like.”

“Your art?”

“Yeah. I mean, if you’re interested. If not, pull up a chair and tell me about your day. This will be ready in about ten minutes.”

“How—did you make everything before you called me? I don’t understand how you’re so prepared.” I fussed with the top button of my shirt, grateful I’d pulled off my tie earlier. I felt overly warm and flustered. A common side effect of being around Seth, I mused.

“Yeah but I didn’t know if you’d come. I took a chance and made this before I went to my studio to work.”

“And your studio is near the market?”

“A block away,” he answered as he turned to pull the tomatoes from the bag of groceries on the table.

“I’m not sure why, but I thought you painted from your home.”

Seth guffawed, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “That’s hysterical. There are four rooms in this place. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bath. This may honestly be the biggest of them all. There is no way I could work here. Go on. Take a peek. But I’ll warn you, if you’re claustrophobic, you’re in trouble.”

I rolled my eyes, but decided to see for myself rather than ask any more questions. He wasn’t joking. It was very tiny. But unlike the kitchen, at least the other spaces gave a hint that the tenant wasn’t ninety years old. The furniture was new and contemporary, in subtle shades of blue with splashes of red. It was tasteful and hip enough to believe a twentysomething-year-old man lived here. But it was the huge canvas painting above the sofa that caught my attention. I moved closer and turned on a bell-shaped lamp next to the sofa to get a better look at what I realized was a rendering of the Key Bridge.

Seth’s style was expressionistic with a nod toward impressionism. Paul Cezanne meets Edvard Munch. He used strong colors with a heavy application counterbalanced with lighter hues and soft edges. The water under the bridge was turbulent, though the sky was painted a placid blue. It was a study in contrast with a hint of deeper meaning that kept my attention. I stared at the individual elements, the bridge, a boat, and wondered if the dark charcoal shades of gray or the brilliant reds were symbolic somehow.

“Either you got lost or you’re trying to escape out the bathroom window, but if you’re still here and you’re hungry, dinner is almost ready,” Seth called from the kitchen sarcastically.

“Very funny,” I quipped as I made my way toward the delicious scent of homemade cooking emanating from the next room. I stopped to lean against the doorjamb and observe my host as he set a plate piled with fresh tomatoes, mozzarella and basil on the table. “Caprese?”

“Yeah. I guess I should have asked if you liked it first or if you have any food allergies, but—do you? ’Cause I can always—”

“No, this is perfect,” I said softly, charmed by his uncharacteristic show of nerves after the wild goose chase he’d set into play this evening. “I love all Italian food and as far as I know I’m only allergic to dust.”

Seth grinned and motioned for me to sit. I obeyed but waited for him to join me before picking up my fork.

“
Buon appetito
,” he said lifting his wineglass with a flourish. “Caprese first followed by tagliatelle marinara with Italian meatballs.”

“Thank you. This looks lovely.”

“Simple but good. At least I think so. Caprese is hard to fuck up, but I haven’t made the marinara in a while so we’ll see.”

“You’re quite the mystery,” I commented as I leaned forward to help myself to tomato and a slice of mozzarella.

“How so?”

“You cook, you paint, you model, you play guitar.” I scoffed. “And you ride a bloody motorbike. Your methods of communication are suspect at best, larcenous at worst. One moment you seem older than your years, the next I could be convinced you’re an overgrown child. You’re a… bit of a quandary.”

Seth smiled at my description, obviously pleased to be considered difficult to know. “I know you hate this, but I really love the way you talk. Your accent is pretty light until you get cranky.”

I held eye contact as I picked up my wineglass. “Add evasive to the list.”

“I’m not evasive.”