Freefall (The Indigo Lounge Series, #5) (2 page)

“Or maybe I’m addicted to the Discovery Channel?” I don’t bother to hide the snark in my voice. “I’m disappointed it takes so little to impress you.” I gulp some more champagne and am heartened to see that half of it is gone. Great, maybe I’ll freeze to death quicker with three thousand dollars worth of champagne swishing around inside me.

“I didn’t say I was impressed,” the cadence of his voice tells me he’s smiling.

Fucker.

“I don’t care what you are, Rusty. All I care about right now is being left in peace.”

“Rusty?”

I remain silent. I drink. Finally, I begin to feel a buzz. It’s not strong enough to drown out my thoughts, or the unsettling presence of my unwelcome beach companion. But it’s a definitely a buzz.

Raising my head, I stare at the stars again, a little pleased to see them weave in and out. I make out Ursa Minor, but just barely. Yes, definitely a buzz.

“You know there are over—”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Making conversation?”

I surge to my feet and face him, anger bubbling through my veins. That’s when I see him, really see him for the first time. Back in the kitchen I’d been too embarrassed and rage-y to really take him in. Now, for the first few seconds, while losing a few billion brain cells, I’m taken aback by his intense, attractive looks. Even with the full beard and unruly hair, he’s breathtaking in only a way few men can pull off. My eyes drift over his thick folded arms and the cross-legged stance he’s adopting as he perches on his own rock.

There isn’t enough light out here to determine the color of his eyes, but he stares back at me with a directness that unsettles me, despite the layer of sadness in the dark depths. Then his gaze drifts over the blanket, as if he can see my body through the thick wool. My bare feet seem to intrigue him the most, and I can almost feel him touching each digit. My feet curl into the cold sand, prompting a quirked brow from him that finally frees me from my stupid tongue-tied-ness.

“You’re not making conversation. You’re making specific conversation. About stars.”

“That’s probably because I know a little about them. No actually, that’s not true. I know a lot about stars. And a whole range of other things too. Pick a subject.”

“I see you’re not the humble bragging type.”

“Is that the type that interests you?” he fires back, raising a hand to drag his fingers through his thick facial hair.

I find that oddly distracting. Enough to fire up my anger another few notches. “God, if all of Savage’s friends are like you, then I’m glad I never let him set me up with one of them like he wanted to?”

Something gleams in his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for me to hammer down what it is. But I get the feeling he didn’t like my reference to Zach’s friends.

I toss my hair and settle back on my rock, but I continue to look at him. “How are you on the subject of silence? And practicing it?”

He doesn’t respond. He merely smiles, showing perfect white teeth, which for some reason makes me imagine them biting my clit. I suppress a shudder and after a few minutes, I turn around and face the churning waves again.

The silence holds. But whatever peace I hoped to find is gone forever. His presence is too distracting. Too overpowering. Now I want to engage him. That realization alone makes me drink some more, thus increasing my buzz.

My bottle is getting lighter. Soon it’ll be empty. The thought makes me incredibly sad. Maybe when I’m done, I’ll shed the blanket and walk to the sea, try again to do what I’d failed in my bath last night.

“Keely?”

God, he’s relentless. “What?” Was that my voice? That bleak but eager response, desperate for some sort of tether to a world I no longer want to be in?

“You know when I said I wasn’t in the least bit interested in your vagina?” he enquires in that low, dark, increasingly alluring voice.

Suddenly, I’m not feeling so cold anymore. I’m alert. And I’m holding my breath. “Yeah?”

“I lied.”

Keely

I
get up from my rock, drop the blanket and bottle. My feet crunch through cold, packed sand as I run into the icy, white waves.

“
Jesus!
”

Icy water closes over my calves and rushes up my thighs. My silk skirt is soaked in seconds, but I keep going. Before I can throw myself headlong into the Atlantic, strong, implacable arms seize my waist.

“Let me go!” I grab his wrists, desperately trying to dislodge his hold.

“Fuck no. What the hell is wrong with you?” He raises me clear of the water as another strong wave hurls into us. He curses and struggles to keep his footing and me from landing in the water.

Still clutched in his arms, he walks us backward toward dry land.

Tears prickle my eyes, fill them and begin to spill down my cheeks. I keep my head bent. I don’t want him to see my despair and shame. He doesn’t. He’s too busy cursing and striding to the outdoor shower near the steps leading up to Zach and Beth’s house.

I’m not exactly lightweight, but he carries me as if I weigh nothing, his steps sure and confident in the sand. He reaches the shower and places me on my feet, one hand clamped around my waist to keep me there while he switches on the jets and waits for the water to warm up.

I can feel him looking at me, but I keep my head down, for the first time in my life almost afraid to look another human being in the eye.

God, what’s wrong with me? That’s what he’d asked me, and what I’ve asked myself most of my life.

Foolish question, really. I know exactly what’s wrong with me.

I did the unforgivable six years ago. And unlike the fairy tales expound, time doesn’t heal all wounds. It makes it worse. Time bloats the pain, feeds it until you’re one huge walking piece of agony.

“You react like this every time a guy tells you he’s interested in you?” Rusty queries. Gone is the amused tone. Instead his voice is hard, almost sinister. I feel the bite in it slash over my skin, as if his voice is a living abrasive brush.

“I told you to leave me alone.”

“So what, you could drown yourself? A little selfish on your part, don’t you think?” he snarls.

My head snaps up, tears forgotten. “Excuse me?”

“You pick today of all days, at your supposed best friend’s engagement party, to drown yourself?”

I breathe in slowly, not sure whether the emotion moving through me is anger or humiliation or a combination of both. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are but—”

“It doesn’t really matter who I am. What matters is that you understand that if you want to a pull a shitty stunt like this, you can fucking wait until tomorrow to do it. There are two people up there who’ve been through hell and back—one of whom is supposed to be your goddamn friend—who deserve not to have their night fucked up because you’re drunk and a little sad that your poor, sex life is in the toilet.”

Anger. Definitely anger. “Who the fuck do you think—?”

“Get in,” he cuts across me, dropping his right hand after testing the water temperature.

“No,” I return coldly, reminded all over again why I detest dominating men.

He doesn’t say a word. In the next second, I’m lifted off my feet and placed beneath the hot spray. Welcoming warmth cascades over me and I realize how cold I’d been. But I’m too angry to appreciate the heat.

Hell, I’m incandescent.

Before I can say a word, he steps in with me, crowds me against the marble tiles. I gasp and raise my head to find his eyes—a deep hazel that appears almost dark gold in the soft lights placed around the shower—narrowed, his gaze daring me to do anything other than what he wanted.

I push his chest. Hard.

He doesn’t budge. Just stares at me like I’m a puny fly and he’s a fucking mountain. Which, I guess he is. It dawns on me right then how big he is. Well over six foot three to my five six. Normally, my heels lend me a good four inches of confidence. But I came out here barefoot. And I have a giant in front of me.

A giant with a chest built to stop tornados in their tracks. Or stupid women intent on ruining his friend’s engagement party. That’s what his gaze tells me.

I push harder.

His hands capture mine, holding them prisoner against his chest. I blink at him through the water cascading down my face and glare harder.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

“Anyone tell you that you have a very dirty mouth?”

“Do I look like I care what anyone has to say about my mouth?”

His gaze drops to my lips. The water running over them intensifies the sudden tingle of awareness at this stare. I have to fight the impulse to lick them. Just as I fight the urge to stare at his mouth.

“No, you don’t. It’s still no excuse to talk like a goddamn sailor,” he says.

“I believe in getting to the point as quickly as possible. Equivocating isn’t really my thing.”

“I hear you fine without the extra filth.”

“I don’t think you do. Because here you are, still in my fucking way.”

Something dark and dangerous gleams in his eyes and a residual shiver crawls up my spine. His chest expands beneath my palms and he slowly exhales.

“If you were mine, I’d spank that dirty mouth right out of you,” he murmurs, his tone once again that deep and mesmerizing quality, which makes me want to stand on tiptoe and strain closer so I can hear more of his voice.

“Well, I’m not
yours
, Rusty. And FYI, I hate being spanked.”

“Probably because it hasn’t been done in the right way. But I could teach you to love it,” he replies, those eyes raking my face with an intense intimacy that fires up a spark in my belly. “I can teach you to love a whole lot of things, Keely.”

That spark turns into a flame. For a moment, I can’t define what the feeling is. Then I realize it’s arousal. I’m at once sad and elated. Sad because it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten what arousal feels like. Elated because...well, I’m not dead below the waist after all.

But this arousal isn’t the kind I normally feel for a guy I want to sleep with. This feeling is different. It’s sharper, more intense, as if it could actually cause damage if ignored.

Which is ridiculous. I pull my hands away and he lets me go. But he doesn’t move from his guardian position. I turn around, let the water cascade down my back. My silk Donna Karan dress is ruined, but what the hell, it feels good to be warm. Despite the guilt and pain clawing through me, it feels good to be alive.

“You can go now. I promise I won’t try to drown myself,” I mutter loud enough for him to hear.

He doesn’t move.

I sigh. “I wasn’t really going to drown myself. I was just trying to clear my head a little.”

“With a bottle of champagne inside you? You have to do better than that.”

“Look, Rusty—”

“My name is Mason. Mason Sinclair. You can call me Mason or Sinclair. Rusty doesn’t work for me.” There’s a hard command in his voice that impresses the seriousness of his dislike for the nickname.

“Okay, Mason. If you knew me better, you’d know I’d never do that to Beth, and especially not by drowning myself. She...she has a history with water...” I stop, knowing I was verging on being indiscreet about my best friend’s past.

“I know,” Mason says.

I turn my head, meet his eyes. “You know?”

He nods. “Zach asked for my help last year in how to assist Bethany to tackle her fear of water.”

My eyes widen. “Are you some sort of doctor?”

His eyes gleam again, and he sluices the water from his face and beard. “I’m a lot of things. Are you warm enough?” he asks.

I nod absently, and he reaches out to shut off the water. There are stacks of towels on a shelf next to the shower. He grabs two and hands me one. I quickly mop up the water in my hair and slide the towel over my wet clothes. But it’s no use. I’m still dripping and getting chillier by the second.

He grabs two more and tugs one around my shoulders. “Let’s get you changed before you catch pneumonia.”

He steps back and indicates the house.

Still reeling from the fact that he knows about Bethany’s near drowning and the fear she’s had of water since then, I start walking before I realize that he’s still commanding and I’m obeying.

We reach the steps leading to the house, and I stop.

“What?”

“My room is upstairs.” There are only two ways to get to my room—the kitchen and the front entrance. Both will be filled with guests, and I don’t want anyone to see me like this. Like Mason, I don’t want anything to ruin Bethany and Zach’s night.

“Come on, I’m staying in the pool house. You can use my bathroom,” Mason says.

I hesitate. Because,
hello
, I’m from Brooklyn. Only stupid-ass women in B movies accept invitations like these. “No, thanks.”

He inhales. “If I wanted to harm you, I’d have done it on the beach, where I was less likely to be discovered.”

“Maybe you like toying with your victims first,” I challenge.

“You see yourself as a victim?” he asks with a touch of amusement.

“Only one way to find out. Try something,” I dare him.

He tunnels his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “This is why I hate these things,” he mutters beneath his breath. There’s a genuine bitterness in his tone that fans my interest higher.

“What things?” I ask, in spite of myself.

He shakes his head and starts to walk up the steps. “I’m sure you know where the pool house is. If you’re interested in getting out of those wet clothes, feel free to come inside. If not, it’s been...interesting meeting you.” He walks off and leaves me standing in the sand.

I swear I’m not going to follow him. That I’ll find a way to sneak inside the house and go up to my room without alerting anyone to my wet, disheveled state, or the frightening turmoil in my soul.

But then I look up and see Bethany and Zach standing at the kitchen window, their eyes devouring each other, the sheer depth of their love a living thing I can almost reach out and touch. And I know I can’t wreck their night with even a hint of my own personal drama.

For one thing, I suspect Bethany already knows there’s something up with me. She just hasn’t had the time to tackle me about it because she’s been busy getting things ready for the party. If I show even the smallest hint of distress, she’ll be on me in a flash. I can’t let that happen. My emotions are too close to the surface for me to hide them adequately enough to fool her.