The Red Diary (15 page)

She recalled a company picnic where she'd been playing on an old merry-go-round by herself and had clumsily fallen off into the dirt. John's oldest son had walked over with a faded basketball under one arm to see if she was all right, if she needed him to go get her mom. She'd been fine, but mortally embarrassed, especially when he'd brushed the dirt off the butt of her red shorts. "You better be more careful," he'd told her, then sauntered over to an empty basketball court and started shooting.

"Can I watch?" she'd asked, approaching timidly behind him.

He'd shrugged and said, "Sure."

She'd sat cross-legged in the grass at the concrete's edge and quietly taken in his every move, his lanky boy's body displaying the first hints of muscle beneath smooth tan skin each time he released a jump shot or ran in for a layup. She'd thought him godlike.

She'd followed him at a distance throughout the rest of the day, and when the picnic had concluded with a big softball game for the adults, Nick had played, too. Each time he'd stepped up to bat, she'd watched with a child's adoration. She let out a heavy breath, not quite able to believe she'd very recently had sex with that same guy. Meaningless sex. The sex of strangers. Even though they weren't strangers exactly, as she'd thought. And she'd wanted not to be strangers anymore when it was over. Despite herself, she wanted so much more from him now-sexually, emotionally. She had the odd urge to go outside and tell him she was sorry for whatever had happened between their fathers, and she actually went halfway to the door before she stopped. She didn't do it, after all, and she didn't even really know if there was anything to be sorry for. Besides, he was a jerk. A jerk who still twisted her heart every time he came to mind, but a jerk just the same. Even as he'd stood there sniping about her trees, she'd wanted him, wanted to know that same fullness of having him inside her. Wanted to know that same passion, that same heat he loosed in her without even trying. What kind of a fool was she?

Monet.

She was obviously the kind of fool who put way too much stock in one mention of impressionist painters. I like the way they can take anything and make it more beautiful than it really is.

Despite herself, the memory of his words restored a little of her faith in his inherent goodness. It had to be there, didn't it? Didn't it?

Moving to the phone above the kitchen counter, Lauren dialed her father's office number, then turned to lean against the sink. the receiver tucked beneath her ear.

"Henry Ash," he answered. "Hi, Dad."

"Lauren, my dear. To what do l owe the pleasure?

Looking for a lunch partner again today?"

A glance at the clock revealed it was nearly noon.

"Urn, no. Actually, I was just wondering about something from a long time ago, and I was hoping you could clear it up for me."

"What's that?"

"Remember when you bought out John Armstrong?" "Of course. It was the day Ash Builders came into being." "How did that come about? I mean, why did you buy John out?"

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason, really," she fudged, then attributed an event from years ago to only last week. "I just came across the papers from the buyout the other day in some old files, and it made me curious."

"Well," Henry began with a sigh, "it was actually a very sad and complicated situation. John's wife had just been killed. Do you remember that?"

"Yes." It had been her first funeral.

"After that, John kind of ... fell apart. He just couldn't cope. And he quit working altogether. I had to pick up all his dropped balls and keep mine in the air at the same time. I talked to him about it repeatedly, but he was drinking heavily and didn't care about the business anymore. I gave it several months, waiting for him to pull himself together, but nothing changed. I went to his house every week to talk business, get his input, try to get him involved in the company again, but it made no difference.

"Meanwhile, he was raking in half the profits, and I was running myself into the ground. It didn't seem fair, and I didn't see any end to it in sight. I wasn't getting home until ten or eleven o'clock each night. I barely even saw you, and my schedule was making your poor mother crazy."

"So you offered to buy him out," Lauren supplied. "Yes," Henry said. "More than once, in fact. But he seemed not to hear me, or he'd repeatedly promise me things would change, with no results. Finally, I felt I had no choice but to do something drastic."

"What did you do?"

"Well, I'm not proud of it, honey, but the truth is, I coerced him into signing his half of the company over to me. It wasn't difficult; he was always drunk. And I took out a loan and got him fair market value, so he wouldn't feel I'd cheated him. It was the best I could do at the time, and I couldn't keep going on like I was."

Lauren stayed silent when he'd finished speaking.

She could see his side of things and was glad he'd been honest with her, but she could also understand why Nick felt bitter. "Are you still there?" "Yeah, Dad, I'm here."

"You understand why I had to make that decision, don't you?"

"Yeah, I suppose." "Then why so quiet?"

Because it hurt John s children so bad they still feel it after twenty years. Yet she was sure her father hadn't thought about that. He was a consummate businessman, and she didn't fault him for it. And she wasn't about to tell him she'd come into contact with Nick Armstrong; it was too complicated and she saw no point in it. "No reason," she finally said. "I'm just a little surprised. I never knew what had happened."

"I didn't want it to happen that way. It nearly killed me to have things play out like that. John and I were friends, after all." "Whatever happened to John?" she asked. "Or his kids? Do you know?"

"No," he said, sounding a little regretful. "We lost touch."

"What can I get you guys?" The dark-haired waitress gave Davy and Nick a flirty smile. She wore a loose T-shirt tucked into shorts, but Davy could sense her curves. She had big, bright eyes, and her puffy lips, painted some color between pink. and red, gave him the urge to touch them. He smiled back, but made sure not to say anything.

"A large pizza with pepperoni and extra cheese," Nick ordered, "and a pitcher of Coke."

After she walked away, Nick said, "That was a hell of a barracuda, huh, Dave?" They'd just come from the marina, and all the catches had been good today, but then Misty had brought in a barracuda as tall as the man who'd caught it. "A big one." Davy nodded, but let his gaze drop to the checkered tablecloth.

Across from him, Nick sighed. "Still feelin' down, buddy?"

"I guess so." The fish and even the waitress had taken his mind off their trip to the hospital this morning, but only for little blips of time. Each time he thought he'd gotten rid of it, it showed back up. He kept remembering the frantic drive to Dad's apartment in the dark, and the even more frantic drive to the hospital, horrible wheezing noises coming from the backseat while Elaine kept saying, "Hang on, Dad, we'll be there soon. Hang on." Davy hated hospitals, always had, ever since he'd gotten hurt when he was little.

"Listen to me, Davy," Nick said firmly, so he lifted his gaze. Nick had the strongest eyes of anyone he knew, and looking in them always made him feel safe--they wrapped around him like a hug. "I know this morning was scary, but things are all right now. Dad'll take some medicine, and he'll be fine. I don't want you thinking about this, okay? Think about better things. I depend on you for that, you know."

No, he didn't know. "What do you mean?"

Nick tilted his head. "I just sort or count on you to be happy. If you're not happy, I'm not happy."

You're not happy anyway, Nick, he thought, but didn't say it since Nick thought it was a secret. His brother's words made him feel important, though, because if he could make him happy at all, he wanted to. He tried to push thoughts of the morning aside and think of better things, like Nick said. The dark-haired waitress and her lips like bright clouds. Daisy Maria Ramirez and her dainty fingers.

The waitress arrived with two glasses and a pitcher of soda. She bent over the table to stick the menus behind the napkin dispenser, and he noticed her curviness again, sort of like living landscape before his eyes.

When she'd gone, he spoke in a low voice. "Ooo you think she's pretty?" Maybe he could ease into a conversation that would somehow help him with Daisy.

Nick glanced after her. "She's nice to look at. Why?" He shook his head. "Just wondered."

Every now and then, Nick brought up the subject of girls, told him if he ever had any questions or wanted to ask him anything, he could-but before now, he never had, and suddenly he was too embarrassed to do it.

"Ya sure?" Nick asked.

That was the opening-but he just couldn't bring himself to take it. "Yeah," he said, then he poured Coke into both their glasses.

"Listen, after we eat, we'll head down to the Sand Key Bridge if you want." Dolphins hung around the bridge, especially in the early evening.

"Cool," Davy said, smiling. He was finally starting to get his mind off the hospital for real, and talking about dolphins was easier than talking about girls, anyway.

Lauren lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, and her mind spun an elaborate fantasy. She tried to pretend the man in the fantasy possessed that same handsome yet vague face as in all her other fantasies, but it was a lie. He had Nick s face. And if she was honest with herself, this particular fantasy was likely born of their little tryst at the beach.

Sighing, she pushed the sheets back and moved through the darkness down the hall and into her office, where she flipped on the desk lamp. Pulling the red book down from the shelf, she grabbed up a blue pen and settled in the chair where she always curled up each time she made an entry.

One part of her hated that she was going to write this down, because it wasn't just about sex and fantasy; it was also about him and it meant she was making a permanent record of him someplace that, until now, she'd considered an indulgence dependent on nothing but her mind, her imagination. But maybe this would help get Nick Armstrong out of her system. Spill the fantasy onto the page, then be done with it.

I lie on a private beach with pristine white sand and towering palm trees, where hundreds of seashells wash ashore untouched. Sea grass blows in the breeze, protecting the dunes. I lounge on the sand, a colorful sarong draped about my hips, a bright island flower adorning my hair-nothing more. The sun warms my breasts, legs, face.

The sun is so brilliant that at first I see only a silhouette of a man emerging wet and naked from the ocean, walking toward me. As he grows near, I make out olive skin, full sensual lips, and mysteriously dark eyes that look as though he intends to devour me. Water drips from his long dark hair and leaves his skin slick.

His eyes never leave mine as he comes to hover over me, then gently drops to his knees, straddling my legs. He leans down to cover my breasts with large, tanned hands and fire arcs through me as he caresses them, his movements slow, fluid, skilled. The gentle rhythm echoes through my body.

Rising back up, he boldly shoves my sarong aside and slides two fingers in me, where I am already wet for him. I am jolted by the sensation of having just that part of him inside me, although his dazzling erection stands prominently above. He thrusts his fingers forward once, twice, thrice-then dabs the wetness from them onto one of my nipples, leaving me to tremble at the utter eroticism of watching him lick it off.

"Get on your hands and knees," he says in a dark, commanding voice.

I do as he tells me, realizing the tide is slowly beginning to rise around us. A small plane of water washes up around my fingers where they are planted in the sand, then drifts back.

Pushing my sarong up, he places his hands at my hips, then enters me, swift and hard and smooth. I cry out at the intense pleasure, and he begins to move in and out as the water rushes up again, around my hands, my knees.

His thrusts steadily become more powerful, more weakening. I cry out at each, feeling them in the tips of my fingers and toes as the rush of the sea grows higher, higher, flowing up to my wrists, crashing over the backs of my legs as he pounds against me.

"Ride me," he says.

Then we're sitting in the surf, his marvelous arousal still inside me, and I move on him as the waves crash about us, water rushing between our bodies. My sarong hangs soaked from my hips, being thrashed about in the rushing current, and his wet hands glide over my breasts and bottom, pushing me nearer and nearer to ecstasy. We both come together as a wave crashes over us hard and furious, and I cry out as the waves inside me break and crash just as violently. We roll in the rough surf then, kissing frantically, limbs entwined, hair dripping, bodies drenched.

And then all turns miraculously still, as in the eye of a hurricane, and he holds me close as we lie on the soft white sand. I look around to see that the tide is nowhere near, still yards and hours away from us.

Closing the red journal with a sigh and sliding it back onto the shelf, Lauren bit her lip. She still wished she'd written something more original-a different type of man, a different place-instead of just one more version of her ocean god, a man who had literally walked off the page and into her life. In fact, hadn't it been his voice she'd heard as she'd been penning the fantasy just now? Ride me. It sounded like something he would say, and although she didn't normally like the idea of such a command, she knew if he said it, it would probably tum her on.

Her body pulsed with more desire than when she'd gotten up out of bed and she had a feeling this had done nothing to get Nick out of her system. If anything, she probably wanted him even worse.

Chapter Nine

Lauren slept in on Tuesday morning, exhausted from a night of little slumber. When finally she got up and moving, she called Phil to give him some year-to-date profit figures, then toiled over her monthly payables report until lunchtime. Normally, she loved her job, but she couldn't focus on her work today. She was focused on Nick, of course. She'd pretty much been focused on Nick in one way or another since she'd met him last Wednesday. Less than a week ago. It didn't seem possible.