Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (10 page)

“So, what then? Back home, hiding out all this time?”

“I started my own business,” she said, trying not to sound defiant. “I've stayed focused on that.” Before he could ask the obvious, she added, “Mail order. I'm surprised with Bea's stories about me, that everyone didn't already know all of this.”

“I'm not much for island gossip.”

“And yet . . .”

He frowned, and she had to stifle the urge to smirk.

“All right, I might have heard that your aunt talked about your talent as an artist, and how much she admired you. That she loved you was clear; she was proud, too. She was . . . sketchier . . . about the rest.”

“If you knew my Aunt Bea, then you knew that she—it seems like it was common knowledge that she also could . . .” Honey trailed off, not wanting to put words to it. There were no words to explain the curse.

“Either your aunt had a great deal more control over this . . . thing . . . you two have, or yours is out-of-this-world more intense.”

“Bea thought of it as a gift. I . . . don't.”

“There's more to it than that.” He didn't make it a question.

Honey wanted to tell him he didn't have the first clue what he thought he knew, but then he was talking again about Bea. The way he did caught at her heart and made her throat tight all over again.

“She was like the kindly old grandma who had a way of knowing things. Everyone went to her, asked her about things, trusted her if she told them they needed to take care on this matter or that . . . but it was never—”

“Threatening? Scary? Intense?”

He didn't answer that, just . . . studied her in that way she was coming to know. All focused and intent like she didn't scare him, and he knew if he looked long enough, like looking at a broken engine, he'd figure her out, too.

“Why did you expect me to get angry?” he asked.

“People aren't generally open to what they don't understand. Less so when you tell them things they don't want to hear.”

That damnable hint of a smile returned. “Why, sugar? You revealin' their dirty laundry? Tellin' secrets they wanted to keep hidden?”

Honey shook her head. “I only tell people if it's something bad, something they can prevent. Otherwise . . .”

“Otherwise, you have to live with knowin' a whole lot about folks, things you'd rather not know. Things you know they'd really rather you not know. I'm guessing you don't pick up on stuff that's minor or unimportant. Must be uncomfortable.”

“You could say that.”

“So . . . why the fire?” His expression remained open, but there was nothing casual about the way he looked at her.

Honey merely lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Because it was a recent traumatic thing? I don't know.” As the adrenaline started to seep away, she felt the fatigue settle in. She'd forgotten how much the events took out of her. Well, not so much forgotten as blocked out. This one had been far more powerful than usual, so the weariness seemed to come on more swiftly. Either that or it was still the lingering fatigue from her trip. Perhaps both. “I don't ever know why.”

“So, it's not always a warning.”

“Not always. Usually, it's something powerfully affecting the person. I'm not surprised, in this case. The fire didn't happen that long ago, and . . . you almost died. Even if you think you've dealt with that . . .” She let her words trail off.

“I'm guessin' it's not generally happy stuff that triggers your reaction, either.”

“Not generally, no.”

He did it again. He smiled. It was slow, almost lazy.

But she knew that his mind and manner were anything but slow and lazy, despite his laconic drawl. For the first time, she saw a glimmer of what she thought looked like . . . appreciation in his eyes—which couldn't be right. Maybe she was more wiped out than she'd thought.

“Well, sugar, you must have been real fun at parties.”

“A laugh riot,” she shot back, annoyed with his amusement because there was absolutely nothing funny about the curse. And yet . . . he was taking it all so calmly in stride as if it were nothing more than a cheesy parlor trick—which was annoying . . . and annoyingly reassuring. She kind of liked that he felt comfortable to not only talk calmly about it . . . but tease her about it. She might even like that a lot. Because it was Dylan, and he got it . . . so it was weirdly okay.
Dammit
.

He walked toward her then, and it was like her brain stuttered. She was still trying to process the strength and scope of what had happened, while also dealing with the immensely conflicting feelings she was having about him. The last thing she needed was him back in her personal space.

She went utterly still, debating if flight stood a better chance than fight, but he walked past her and set the two boxes he'd had in his arms the whole time into the back of his truck.

Feeling ridiculous and even more tired, she watched him scoop Lolly up and put her in the back, too. Honey really needed some quiet time alone to regroup, shake off the jumpiness, and settle her nerves. She breathed a sigh of relief, and, assuming he'd gone around to the driver's side door now that he'd satisfied his curiosity about her “gift,” she took one final moment to gather herself before she had to ride in the close confines of the cab with him.

So she wasn't at all prepared, when he turned toward her and neatly boxed her in between him and his truck. He didn't touch her, and, for some reason, she trusted that he wouldn't, but she shrank back nonetheless. Out of habit more than any real alarm. He'd demonstrated he understood how easily triggered she was.

“I don't need crazy in my life,” he said, looking into her eyes with such focused intensity she could only stare back. He wasn't frowning, he wasn't smiling. He was . . . invading. “I've had more than my share.”

He wasn't touching her, but it was as if he was reaching inside of her, down deep, by the sheer intensity of his gaze, and willing her to understand him.

“I'm not trying to be in your—”

“Shh,” he said, a mere whisper. “You might not want to be, but ever since you've gotten here, you've done nothing but. That thing you got inside you is pure crazy. And I don't need it.”

After his earlier understanding, his insouciance even, regarding her abilities, the sudden callousness stung badly, surprising her with how much power he had to hurt her and proving she'd already let him get too far into her head. She'd even begun to foolishly think of him as an ally. “Lucky for you then, you don't have it,” she snapped.

It only made him grin, annoying her further.
Why is he so damn confounding?

“See, that right there? That's what you do, sugar. You don't give a damn.”

“About what you think of me? No,” she lied, hating that it was one. “I don't.”

“Which is why I find myself wishing you didn't have the crazy. Because the rest of you . . .”

She shook her head, the hurt rapidly fading, quickly replaced by a spurt of panic. She might not have seen that particular look in his eyes before, but she understood what it meant. Desire.

“No, you're wrong. The rest of me is just boring. Beyond boring. Nobody wants that.” Even with her limited experience, that much she knew for fact. “Guys say they don't want the crazy, but they secretly find it all kinds of compelling. Maybe it's the element of danger, the mystery. It didn't take me long to figure out I'm infinitely more fascinating because of the curse. I just don't care too much to suffer through it to give someone his kicks. Especially since once you've tasted the crazy, you realize that it's not as exciting and cool as it's cracked up to be. It's just cracked. And what's left after cracked doesn't add up to much. Certainly not up to the look I see in your eyes right now. Trust me.”

There. That had shocked him.
Good.

When he could lower his eyebrows again, he laughed. Laughed! “You're not kidding, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Aw, sugar. Dammit.”

She raised her own brows in question, and his smile faded slowly, though a residual twinkle remained in his eyes, even as he went back into intent study mode. His gaze left her eyes and drifted down toward her mouth.

Her body reacted so swiftly, she had to shut her eyes—as if that would block out the memory. What it did, instead, was forever imprint it in her mind's eye.

“You can close those intriguing, spooky eyes of yours, but you can't hide. Your pupils just went big as dark moons. Makes it even more of a damn shame. About the crazy, I mean. I sure as hell don't have a thing for danger or mystery. I'd much rather do without than take any woman who comes with a side of drama. But you make it really damn hard to walk away, Honey Pie. Damn hard. The crazy I could do without, but the rest . . . just reaches out and grabs me by the throat. And maybe a few other places. It's a hell of a thing.”

Honey trembled again, only it had absolutely nothing to do with her gift or his aura, and had everything to do with her hormones and how he'd just triggered every last damn one of them and a whole bunch more she hadn't even known she'd had. Holy . . . shit.

“As much as I'd really like for that fascination to let go, it doesn't. Won't.” He moved closer.

She could feel the heat emanating from his body, his skin, and her eyes flew open. “Dylan, whatever you're thinking, stop. Don't. You—I can't go through—I . . . I can't.”

He didn't even pause. “When you decided you didn't want to be a virgin anymore, you didn't have feelings for the guy, did you?”

“No, but, I—”

“Did you want him? Did he make your pupils shoot wide like that?” Dylan's gaze drifted to her mouth. “Did he make your lips part, make you sigh like that?”

He tilted his head, let his gaze drift along the slim column of her neck. “Did he make your pulse leap?”

Then, before she could even swallow, his eyes leaped back to hers. “Did you want him, sugar? So badly your teeth ached?”

Her throat had gone so dry she couldn't form a single word. She also couldn't look away from those eyes of his . . . so all-seeing, so all-knowing.

“Did you try more than one? Just to make sure?”

Her throat might be dry but her cheeks bloomed with heat.

His grin was a slow, sexy slide, and it shivered straight down her spine, then pooled, all hot and heavy right where he made her ache.

“You said when the emotions matter, it clouds your ability to . . . go there. Is wanting the same as mattering?” He moved in so close that a single deep breath would have caused his chest to brush against hers. He put his hands on either side of the truck. “Wanting so badly . . .” he murmured, slowly lowering his head. “Just to taste. To know. To find out.”

She made a sound half gasp, and half... moan. But she didn't move. And she didn't try to stop him.

“You're thinking about tasting, too, aren't you? Knowing? Finding out?” His breath was a warm caress across her lips. “Let's find out if we can keep all your thoughts on what I make you feel . . . and not what I make that crazy mind of yours want to know.” He brushed his lips across hers in a tease of a kiss. “If putting my mouth on you goes well, then we'll worry about my hands.”

She should be in full panic mode, shoving him away, kneeing him if necessary. She had no idea what in the world had come over him. She wasn't the type of woman to inspire a man like him to want . . . well, to simply want.

He brushed his lips along the side of her jaw, then her temple, and what she
should
do got all tangled up with what she
wanted
to do. And what she wanted
him
to do. All thought fled entirely when he leaned in and kissed the throbbing pulse on the side of her neck. She sighed, and her eyes started to flutter shut again.

“Oh no, sugar. You keep those eyes on me.”

She blinked them open and looked into his gray eyes, so steady, so true. He wanted her, desired her, she had no doubt of that and no longer questioned why. The way he captured her gaze with such certainty held her every bit as tightly as if he'd pulled her into his arms.

That smile was back, and her gaze drifted, just for a moment, to his mouth. She did wonder. She did want to know . . . how he tasted . . . and what it would feel like to have him, with all his controlled certainty, take her. Any part of her. All parts of her. She wanted to know so much she ached with it.

His lips teased the sensitive skin just below her ear. “It goes without saying”—he whispered intimately—“if at any time, you want to put more than your mouth on me, sugar . . . well then, please do.”

Then his mouth was on hers.

And any chance she had to flee or fight was gone.

H
e'd gone and lost his mind. There was no other explanation. Even without the crazy, she was hardly his type. And yet he'd never felt so compelled to kiss anyone in his life. Maybe she'd done some kind of mind trick on him while she'd been inside his head, inside his past . . . except he was fairly certain she didn't want to want this any more than he did.

But want it she did. Her eyes were a veritable green sea of want. Her soft sigh when he brushed his lips over hers, and that little moan deep in her throat when he finally took her mouth confirmed it. As did the hammering of his heart . . . and every rigid inch of his body.

He'd planned to take her, hard, fast, and deep with an onslaught of new, current information, obliterating any chance of her going back inside his head or his past and making certain to overwhelm any chance for her mind to trip away to something—or someone—else. He'd wanted to prove to himself that this reaction he was having to her was a bizarre fluke, that it came out of the moment back in the garage. And especially that there was nothing to what he was feeling. This would confirm it, decisively, so there would be no more questions.

Yet, the instant he took her mouth, tasted those lips, felt the warmth and softness of them, and the utter sweetness of them . . . he also felt the fine trembling in them. And he gentled the kiss immediately.

He'd wanted her to feel helpless against the sudden onset of insanity as he did . . . but her raw edge of vulnerability had him pulling back, urging her to respond, rather than simply demanding it. He wanted her to open her mouth under his willingly and willfully.

“Feeling cloudy yet?” he asked between slow, coaxing kisses.

“Dylan, we need—”

“Not yet, then,” he said, smiling against her lips, and took the next kiss even more slowly, inviting her along. His grip on the side of the truck tightened against the urge to put his hands on her, to pull her against him. But . . . one step at a time.

“Honey,” he murmured. “Open up, sugar. Let me in.”

He felt another longer, lower moan vibrate deep in her throat, followed by the sigh as her lips parted under his. He hadn't believed his body could be any harder, ache more deeply, or want to take anything as badly as he wanted to take her, but at the first tentative touch of her tongue to his, he thought his knees might buckle from the sheer force of want that shot straight through him.

He danced along with her, a teasing, feather-light duel, then finally, slowly, took her fully into his mouth, reveling in the deep groan it earned him. When he withdrew, she stunned him by sliding in and taking his mouth. His groan became a low growl, partly of want, partly of frustration. He was surprised he didn't leave permanent dents in the side of his truck, he was gripping the metal so tightly.

She had a fragile, raw air about her that had worked its way under his skin from the first time he'd laid eyes on her. But in every other way, she'd had no problem challenging him, facing him head on. She didn't crumple, she didn't back down. Not from him. But she'd allowed her own . . . issues to all but cripple her.

Kissing her, he discovered, brought out the exact same confounding, compelling combination. She trembled at the idea of his seducing her, but when presented with the challenge, she rose to it, giving as good as she got. And yet . . . her hands remained at her sides. Even though she wanted this—him—with the same apparent desperation he wanted her, she allowed her gift-curse-whatever to ultimately control the situation.

If he wasn't as unwilling to have her dive into his head as she was unwilling to go there, he'd push that boundary, just to see what it would take to keep her from spinning away into whatever other place she went.

He left her mouth, trailing kisses along her jaw, thinking he could wean himself away from the want and swamping lust, the underlying concern and care . . . none of which he wanted to be feeling. Then she tipped her head back, allowing him access to the soft sweetness of the side of her neck and the pulse he found there and traced . . . with his tongue. His grip on the truck relaxed, along with his resolve. His hands slid along the rim of the truck bed, closer to her. He found the soft lobe of her ear . . . with his teeth. “Sugar, you've got about five seconds to tell me to keep my hands—”

Lolly erupted from the bed of the truck with a loud volley of barks, which had the same effect as a cold bucket of water on Dylan. He jerked his head up to see what had caused the commotion, even as Honey's eyes flew open and she, too, swiveled around to look.

Instinctively, he kept his arms braced on either side of her, so she essentially turned into the circle of his arms, with the back of her body brushing up against the front of his.

So much for the douse of cold water.

He flexed his renewed grip on the rim of the truck. Intrusion or not, what he wanted to do was wrap her up against him, push her hair to the side, and find out if the nape of her neck tasted as sweet as the rest.

He turned to look at the dog. “Lolly, hush girl. It's okay.”

The sun had fully set at some point, but he'd been completely unaware of it. Security lights by the rear exits of the shops on either side of the alley put out only a small, focused glow. Clouds had come in and obscured any moonlight, so where they stood had become quite dark.

Dylan squinted into the dusk as he heard footsteps approaching. “Something I can do for you?”

Lolly let out a low whine and came to sit closer to Honey and Dylan. Honey moved forward just enough to reach out and give the dog a reassuring rub between the ears. Dylan noted that she didn't try to move out of the protective circle of his braced arms. He'd figure out later why the need to protect her was so instant and so strong. From what he'd pieced together so far, she'd been doing a pretty good job of protecting herself for some time, and had no trouble whatsoever telling him where to step off.

Morgan Westlake stepped into the dim yellow glow emanating from the security light behind Dylan. “Sorry, didn't mean to cause such a ruckus.” If he was at all surprised to find the two of them in what had to look like . . . well, pretty much exactly what it was, his expression didn't so much as flicker.

Morgan was a new transplant to Sugarberry, only on the island for about seven or eight months. He'd moved so his niece Lilly, who was in his sole custody following the death of her parents, would be closer to her maternal grandmother, who also lived on the island. He was also a lawyer, environmental stuff, as far as Dylan knew, and had hooked up with another new Sugarberry resident, Kit Bellamy, who was set to run the new bakery adjunct.

“What can I do for you?” Dylan asked.

“I was over at Babycakes, talking to Kit. When I left, I saw your truck was still in the alley, so thought I'd—oh.” He'd walked closer, and could clearly see the woman standing in front of Dylan. “Are you—”

“Honey D'Amourvell,” she said, then cleared a little lingering roughness from her throat. “Bea Chantrell's niece. Yes.”

Dylan didn't smile at the sound of that telltale roughness . . . but his body did the physical equivalent of one.

“Lani forgot to get your contact information when you spoke to her earlier today, so I was going to ask Mr. Ross here if he wouldn't mind giving me your number. But as you're here . . . I—”

“You're the lawyer,” Honey said. “Kit's . . .”

“Significant other,” Morgan finished easily, his smile more relaxed. He was a tall man, with dark hair and the kind of polished good looks that spoke of the wealthy family he came from. He was the kind of man women showed off to their girlfriends and took home to their mamas.

Whereas Dylan knew he was the one women came to after dark, when they wanted that walk on the wild side their mamas would never know about.

“I don't really practice business law, but I'm trying to help them get their
i
's dotted and
t
's crossed before the opening. Lani tells me you inherited the building she's leased for Babycakes?”

“Yes,” Honey said, pushing her glasses up. “I'm going over to the county courthouse in the morning to get the rest of the legal paperwork and . . . figure things out.”

Morgan walked around the back of the truck and fished his wallet from the back of his pants. He pulled out a business card, which Dylan reached out to take, so Honey wouldn't have to come into direct contact.

Morgan's gaze did take a split second pause between the two, but his smile remained even, smooth. “Why don't you call me when you get back and we'll figure out a time to sit down and go over everything. I'm sure we can get it all sorted out.”

Dylan felt Honey stiffen.

“Thank you,” she said. “Lani also said as much. I appreciate that. I'll—call you tomorrow then.”

“Good, great. You folks have a good night.” Morgan turned and walked back toward Babycakes. He was quickly swallowed up in the dense gloom, but there was the sound of a car door being opened and closed a few moments later, followed by the engine starting. The brake lights sent red strobes across the alley as he backed out, then drove away.

Honey hadn't moved. Neither had Dylan, but he knew she'd fully retreated, mentally, if not physically. No doubt the result of a douse of real world problems and dealing with yet another new person.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, but steadily.

“For?”

“Sticking by me. You didn't need to take his card for me. But I appreciate that you thought to. Thank you.”

He dropped his other hand away from the truck, reached past her to ruffle Lolly's ears, then stepped away, giving Honey back her space.

He'd be certain to play the entire day's events through his mind a dozen or a hundred times later, trying to figure out how and why he'd gotten himself tangled up in the first place, but, fact of the matter was . . . he was tangled.

“We should get you over to the B&B,” he said, stepping over to open the passenger side door to the truck.

“Yes. I appreciate the help. Sorry I cost you the evening of work on your boat.”

Dylan didn't respond to that. He was pissed off that they'd somehow gone from sharing kisses that burned a man alive to this quasi-polite, let's-be-friends bullshit. Admittedly, he'd shifted them to it with his nonresponse to her comments and his let's-hurry-up-and-go reaction. If he had a rational thought in his head,
friends
are exactly what they should be. What he wanted them to be, anyway. The rest of it, he wanted to chalk up to momentary insanity, and only because he couldn't quite get away with blaming her for instigating the whole thing with her voodoo crazy mind meld crap. One thing he knew for certain was that she didn't want what had happened to have happened, either.

Since she looked relieved and not at all pissed off, he'd evidently made the right move in stepping back. Done the right thing, for once. So why was he so damn angry about it? Because she was being all rational and he felt anything but?

He rolled down the bay door with a jerk and went about locking up, trying to quash his unreasonable temper and get them out of there. A good night's sleep, another hot day's work, and he'd put the whole episode behind him. She was officially Lani, Morgan, and Kit's problem.

He jangled the shop keys from his pocket and locked the back door.
“Thank you for sticking by me.”
He swore under his breath as her words replayed through his mind. He didn't want to stick by her. Or anyone else. He was done sticking to people. These days, he stuck to tangible things, dependable things, things he could replace; his business, his home, his boat, and, okay, a damn dog . . . but that was it.

He paused, just for a moment, took a short breath and gathered himself. He was going to climb in the truck, get her to the B&B, go home. Then he was going to fix her car, hand it off . . . and they were done. She was leaving, anyway. Going back, he supposed, to Oregon. Couldn't say as he blamed her. It's what he'd have done.

You mean hide?
his little voice prodded him.

Tired of his own thoughts, he checked the bay door, then turned to his truck. Only to discover she was still standing beside it.

He was tempted to walk past her, bark an order for her to get in, and get the night the hell over with.

But then she went and said, “Why did you kiss me?”

He stopped dead in his tracks—mostly because the parts of his body that had finally calmed down surged right back to life again, hearing her say the word.

“Was it some kind of test?” she asked, her tone sincere rather than defensive, as if she was honestly trying to figure it out.

He walked over to the truck, stopped just beside the open passenger door. “I kissed you for all the reasons a man wants to kiss a woman.”

“You're not attracted to me,” she said simply, matter-of-factly.

He surprised himself by smiling at that. “Tell that to my body.” He couldn't quite believe he'd said that out loud. He might not come from a spiffy family tree like Westlake, but he generally was capable of not being crude.

Thankfully, she was lady enough to keep her gaze pinned on his face, though, even in the dull glow of the yellow security bulb, he could see her face flush.

“That's a physiological response. What I meant was, you're not attracted to me as a person. You don't just
think
I'm crazy, you
know
I am. At least it's got to seem that way to you. You strike me as the kind of guy who keeps to himself, and I imagine you like your partners to be colorful, but not . . . you know.”