The Red Diary (18 page)

We stay that way. embracing in the water, and when I open my eyes, expecting to find the shocking brightness of the sun overhead, I see that-no, we remain bathed in shade from the thick foliage, the sun nowhere in sight.

Of course, even before she' d finished writing, she'd known her lover wasn't really a darkly tanned island boy-be was a darkly tanned Florida man who didn't really cling to her when it was over, who only left her lonely and wanting afterward. God, she'd thought she could escape him with a fantasy, but just like the last one she'd penned. it was all about Nick. She sighed, permeated with the same sense of disappointment she'd felt upon ending the entry and realizing she'd only perpetuated that which she'd hoped to squelch. It was useless.

At that moment, she heard the familiar sound of a shifting ladder outside. Go home, Nick. It was past six, well beyond quitting time, yet he was still out there painting. They'd avoided each other all day, which was just fine with her, but the longer he stayed, the fewer ways she found to busy herself and the more she almost wanted to ... go outside, say something to him, find some way to start a conversation.

Desperate, she thought, rolling her eyes. You are behaving like a desperate schoolgirl trying to snag a date to the prom. But in reality, it was worse than that. You're a desperate woman trying to squeeze even an ounce of affection from a man you've had sex with twice now, with zero emotion on his part. You're looking frantically for a side of him that probably just isn't there. Sad, but true. How had this happened to her? And when would she get the message? He'd told her very bluntly that it was meaningless-why couldn't she just accept that, hang her head in shame, and move on?

Because he was out there, so very close to her.

And because she still wanted him, still believed there was more to him.

Lauren let out a heavy sigh at the admission, but it was true. Her body tingled with nervous anticipation, and she realized that after everything, after yesterday, she was seriously thinking of going out to talk to him.

* * *

Nick watched from a stepladder as Lauren sashayed across the patio toward the pool wearing a little white skirt and a stretchy flowered top that clung to her curves. Her feet were bare. Damn, the girl was sexy without even trying. But he hadn't seen her all day, and he'd thought about her as little as possible, and he'd even resisted sneaking inside for another dose of her fantasies when he'd heard the garage door go up this morning. So it seemed a bad time to start letting her invade his mind now that he'd lasted nearly the whole day.

Of course, it'd been a long day. And he planned on getting in at least another hour or two before calling it quits. He'd missed a couple of hours on Monday when he'd taken Davy to the marina, and he'd lost a couple more yesterday afternoon by flying out of there like a bat out of hell after they'd done it on the sink. The burst of memory kept his eyes on her. She crouched next to the pool, then reached in the water, checking the thermometer and nearly showing him her ass in the process, although he didn't think she knew it He resumed working, but saw from the corner of his eye when she sauntered to the back of the yard to check her bird feeders, which he knew she'd filled only the day before. The girl had a serious thing for birds.

A minute later, she walked back toward the house. He made a point of not looking at her, even when she said, from a distance, "Working late?"

"Running behind." He supposed they both knew why. "Ah," she replied, then headed toward the door. "How's your thumb?" Damn, had he just said that? She paused to peer up at him. "Better." Then she turned to go, and she'd almost reached the French doors when she stopped again, looking over her shoulder. "Just how late are you planning to work, anyway?" He shrugged from atop the ladder. "Another hour. Maybe two."

"Are you going to eat dinner?"

He shook his head. "No time. Gotta work."

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hesitating. "I've got a pan of lasagna in the oven. If you'd like some." The words jolted him. He couldn't quite believe she'd invite him to eat with her after yesterday, and he didn't know what to make of it. His chest tightened as he waffled on an answer, until finally he heard himself say, "Okay."

She gave a slight nod, her expression surprisingly void of emotion. "It'll be ready in fifteen minutes. I'll leave the back door open."

He watched her go inside, then swallowed hard. Just what the hell did he think he was doing?

You're eating with her, Nick. That's it.

Still, the minute he'd seen her, he'd thought of skimming his hands up her thighs, pushing up that cute little skirt. He could see this all too easily turning into another hot, fast sexual encounter-just a look or two was all it would take, and then there he'd be, seducing her again, leaving her again, feeling like crap again.

Taking a deep breath, he decided it would be best for both of them-if he just passed on dinner, told her he'd changed his mind. And it would also be best to go ahead and get the hell out of here. Obviously, he'd been working too long in the heat and wasn't thinking clearly; it was the only explanation for why he'd accepted her offer.

So he ran the roller over the stucco a few more times, finding a good stopping point, then backed down the ladder, his nearly empty paint tray in hand. He'd clean up his stuff, then tell her he was just gonna pick up a bite on the way home, but thanks anyway. It was the smart thing to do.

A few minutes later, he'd made the last trip to his van, then walked back around the house to tell Lauren he was leaving. He approached the French doors, ready to knock, then remembered she said she'd leave it open. A nervous tension gripped his chest as he eased the door open and peeked inside.

"Come on in." Lauren stood at the glass table, now set casually for two with bright turquoise plates. She held an elegant-looking bottle in her hand. "Do you drink wine?"

"Um, yeah," he said, still hesitating at the door.

And quick as that, she filled the two stemmed glasses next to the plates.

Damn, he thought, staring at the glasses. Now he'd feel rude to leave. Not that he'd never behaved rudely with this woman-it was pretty much his trademark with her-but after the way he'd treated her yesterday, and the time before, he didn't want to be rude again right now. She didn't deserve it, and he'd tired of playing the bad guy.

So, taking a deep breath, he told himself that maybe this dinner would be a good way to kind of ... even things out between them, make things seem a little more normal. If he could sit through a meal with her without reaching for her beneath the table, maybe it would serve as an apology of sorts. Maybe it would make the rest of the job at her house a little easier for both of them to endure.

"Well, are you corning in?" She'd gone to the stove, and now turned from it, carrying a pan of lasagna between two turquoise pot holders.

"Sure," he said, then stepped inside and closed the door.

"Have a seat and dig in," she told him, and he was starting to think she was sort of amazing. You'd never know from her matter-of-fact attitude that he'd had sex with her on her bathroom sink just twenty-four hours ago, then left her looking like she was going to crumble. She was starting to act like him now and he found it unnerving.

Pulling back a wrought-iron chair, he sat down and took a generous helping of lasagna. "You, uh, make this yourself?" She nodded, then took a sip from her glass, and he thought-Duh, who else would've made it?

After eating a bite, he said, "It's good," and she nodded again, and he felt tempted to guzzle his wine. He recognized Chris Isaak's voice crooning something slow and mournful about heartache in the background and realized he felt surprisingly uncomfortable with her. Maybe playing the bad guy had been easier, given him more control.

When something brushed against him, he glanced under the table-the fluffy cat again. He pulled his boots back under his chair after catching sight of Lauren's long, slender . legs, crossed at the ankles. The cat followed his feet. still rubbing against him, but he resisted being mean to it. Although he wished like hell he'd gotten out of this and headed home when he'd had the chance.

Lauren looked down beneath the chair. "Isadora Ash," she scolded, "leave Nick alone and let him eat."

Despite himself, he felt the corners of his mouth quirk into a small smile.

"What?" she asked innocently.

"Nothing." He reached for his wine. "I just never heard anyone call their pet by their last name before."

"We've always done that with our pets. My mother's idea, I suppose. They did it in To Kill a Mockingbird." "Good movie," he said, then instantly wished he'd somehow let her know he knew it'd been a book first.

Yet she only smiled. ''My mom loved it, too. She had a thing for Gregory Peck."

"Your mom," he said, not quite sure where he was going with this, but wondering ..• "How long ago did she, uh ... " Lauren glanced at her wineglass and fiddled with the stem. making him sorry he'd brought it up. "Eight years ago this fall.

She had leukemia."

"Sorry," he murmured, reaching for a breadstick to occupy himself.

"I had her until I was almost twenty, though. I should be thankful for that. I know you were a lot younger when your mom died."

He nodded. "Twelve."

Lauren raised her gaze to his. "You know, when I was little, I thought your mother was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen."

He hadn't thought about it in a while, but his mother had been extraordinarily pretty.

"I loved her long, dark hair," Lauren went on, "and her skin looked like silk to me. She seemed exotic and ... full of mysteries."

Funny, he'd thought all girls wanted to be blond. As a teenager, Elaine had cried over her dark hair and cried even harder when their father forbade her to lighten it. But maybe he was wrong; maybe blond girls wanted to be brunettes. Maybe the grass always was greener on the other side. "Did you know she was Italian?" he asked about his mother. Lauren tilted her head. "No."

"I mean, she never lived there, but her parents came from the Old Country. They really called it that, too--the Old Country." She smiled, and he let himself smile back because it suddenly seemed easy to talk with her, easy to share something. "More wine?" she asked, and he realized he'd drained his glass.

"Yeah, sure."

As she reached for the bottle and poured, though, conversation nearly went dry, until Lauren took up a new thread. "I'm ... sorry you have to work so late, sorry about the stuff that's slowing you down. I mean," she added quickly, "the trees and the roses."

He shook his head. "That's not really why I'm running behind." I'm running behind because I couldn't keep my hands off you yesterday. And because ... this part he could talk about-kind of. "I was late getting here Monday because of a family thing. and I left early that day, too, to take my little brother to the marina." He glanced from his food to Lauren. "He likes to see them bring in the fish."

When she smiled at him again, he realized how little he'd seen of that before tonight-her smile. "I didn't realize you had a brother that young."

"Davy's twenty-nine."

She didn't reply, yet looked understandably confused. "He ... got hurt when he was a kid," Nick explained. "He's kind of like a little boy inside."

Concern filled her eyes, and something in his chest turned warm.

"It's okay," he lied to reassure her. Then he said something that wasn't a lie, the thing Elaine always reminded him. "Davy's happy. He sees the world through rose-colored glasses."

"Maybe that's not so bad. staying a child. Things were simple then."

As they shared another tentative smile, he thought back to those better times before his mom had died, when the world had seemed bright and flawless, when all that mattered were Saturday morning cartoons, Christmas Eve, and Little League games. "Yeah," he finally said. "I guess Davy has that."

"How did he get hurt?"

Nick shook his head lightly. "Long story. Another time maybe."

"Okay," she softly replied.

And then their knees bumped under the table, and fire raced up his inner thigh as they looked at each other with that look, the unmistakable one that meant I want you.

Ah, damn, he thought, his groin tightening.

Yet then Lauren shifted her knees away-both a relief and a disappointment-and she stared nervously back at her wineglass before snatching it up to take a long drink.

He didn't like that anymore-making her nervous. On impulse, he reached out to close his hand gently around her wrist, and their eyes met. He suddenly didn't want to pretend anymore that nothing unusual had ever occurred between them. that everything was normal here; he wanted to be honest. "Don't be afraid of me, okay?"

She pulled in her breath, then let it back out, never drawing her eyes away. "Nick, I know I act nervous with you a lot, but it's because the things I've done with you aren't things I normally do. I'm usually much more in control" Only then did she slowly pull her arm from his touch to pick. up her knife and fork, refocusing on her plate. "If I was afraid of you, though, I wouldn't have invited you to eat with me."

"Guess not," he said, losing interest in his food altogether, wanting to know more, wanting to ease the truth from her, even if it seemed like a dangerous sort of prying. "But if you're usually in control ... what happened?"

When she lifted her gaze, he saw the honesty dripping from her eyes. "You happened," she softly confessed. a slight blush staining her cheeks. "I'm not crazy about admitting how you affect me, but I suppose it's better than letting you think I was lying that night on the beach, better than letting you think I am like Carolyn."

"I know you're not. I've seen it in your eyes. Heard it in your voice."

She seemed to forget the food then, too. "What have you seen?"

He sighed and shook his head. "I can't explain it exactly. But I know you're different." He'd always gone for the easy lay, the no-nonsense girl who just wanted to fool around and have fun; it made a complicated life a little less so. Yet he'd known since that night on the beach that Lauren was unique, unlike any woman he'd ever encountered.