Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3) (10 page)

Trey was hot, tired, and something beyond damp when he reached the Watering Hole. He and the guys had transferred from their practice field to the rodeo arena this afternoon. Once there, they’d had to rethink their approach to this ring tournament on Harleys.

The arena at the edge of the fairgrounds had worked out well in the past, when the tournament was held on horseback, and it was probably logical from a filming standpoint. However, it wasn’t designed for the feat they were expected to pull off. The run toward the big arch from which the rings would be suspended was too short. A certain amount of speed was required to hold both the bike and the lance steady on the approach to the rings, and there just wasn’t enough track to reach it. Once a ring was speared, there was a high danger of hitting the arena wall due to the excess speed.

A couple of options had been proposed. They could circle the arena to pick up speed before turning onto the straightaway toward the rings, something that seemed workable. After trying for a ring, they could reduce speed and swerve in a spray of dirt to avoid the wall, or else rigged their brakes so they could be controlled by the left hand for a fast stop.

The riders had been split down the middle on the question, and the discussion had been about as cordial as the one on whether they’d all paint their bikes the same shiny black as Trey’s. They’d tried the stunt both ways, more or less, and Trey had hit the wall twice, the last time hard enough to leave its mark on him and the bike. Before they could come to a final agreement, a cloud boiled up from the southwest and it started to rain.

The blessed movie was the last thing on Trey’s mind just now. He was starving, since he’d missed lunch and couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast. He was also chilled to the bone after riding from the arena in the rain while wearing jeans and a black tank top instead of his leathers. All he wanted was a cup of hot coffee, a bowl of the chili that Zeni had been making when he saw her at daybreak, then a shower and at least three solid hours in his lounge chair while he watched a ball game. A beer with the last was optional.

Zeni hit him with her proposition the minute he walked in the door.

“Hey, you think you’ll have time to go over this Zenobia scene with me, maybe help me memorize my lines?”

“Do what?” He couldn’t believe she expected him to agree to such a thing knowing how he felt about it. The look he gave her as he slid onto his favorite stool at the counter should have been answer enough.

“I don’t mean right this minute,” she said, easily matching him in exasperation. “Later, after I close down for the night. Derek handed me a copy of the script this afternoon, and I need to work on the lines and other business.”

“Business?”

“Where I’m supposed to stand, how I’m to move, sit, and other bits of action.”

Her use of the jargon, and how fast she’d picked it up, made him uneasy. He’d prefer she didn’t get too comfortable with it. “You can’t do that by yourself?”

She dished up a bowl of chili without being asked, as if she could read his mind. Maybe she could; he wouldn’t be surprised. However, she didn’t look at him while she was doing it.

“Not really,” she said. “It’s the stuff that’s going on while I say my lines that I’m not sure about. I could call Derek, since he offered to go over it with me, but I’d really rather not.”

“You don’t want to practice with Peabody.” He refused to call the guy by the name used in all the media he’d found online, the one on everybody’s lips all over town. He didn’t care to be that friendly.

“Rehearse,” she corrected. “And no, I don’t.”

“How come? I mean you’ll have to do the scene with him in front of the cameras sometime.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be now. Besides, he’s a busy man.”

She was suddenly busy herself, bringing him crackers to go with his chili and pouring him a cup of coffee. It was easy to see something about rehearsing with Peabody bothered her. If she didn’t want to be around the guy, that was probably a good thing. He didn’t want the actor/director near her, either.

Why he’d pushed her about it, he didn’t know. He could be an idiot like that when he was so tired he couldn’t see straight.

“And I’m not a busy man?” he asked while tearing into a packet of crackers and crumbling them over his chili.

“You are, yes.” She poured a glass of cold milk and shoved it down the counter, timing it so perfectly that it stopped beside his hand. “But you’re also the man who lost a bet and is supposed to be helping me with this part.”

“Getting it was the deal, not playing it,” he answered, just to be ornery since he knew very well he was going to do what she wanted. “I thought I was done.”

Putting her palms against the edge of the counter, she leaned in toward him. “I don’t believe we set a time limit on the payment. Are you reneging?”

He met her hot chocolate gaze, his spoon suspended in the air and his own eyes steady. “Never.”

“Good.” She pushed away from the counter. “I’ll see you at closing time.”

Trey left soon afterward. At home, he showered, shampooed and shaved. He watched the news, found out he didn’t care what was on ESPN, and took a cat nap. In spite of it all, he was in his truck and back at the Watering Hole a good half hour before he was due.

The early arrival didn’t matter at all. Rain still fell, coming down heavy enough to keep most folks at home. The diehard supper group was just about finished, those who would rather get soaking wet than cook for themselves. A few stragglers were still having dessert when he walked in, but cleared out soon after.

He helped Zeni load the dishwasher, then he wiped down tables while she swept. Locking the door and turning off the open sign, he followed her up to her apartment.

Midnight came to greet them as they came through the door, weaving in and out between their legs and complaining mightily about being shut up without company. Zeni soothed the kitten a minute or two, and then fed him. Handing over a longneck beer from the refrigerator, she went to change into something that, so she said, didn’t smell like coffee and grilled onions.

Trey hadn’t noticed and wouldn’t have cared if he had; the only fragrance he’d caught as he climbed the stairs behind her had been sweet peas and patchouli with a delectable side note of Zeni.

He made himself at home on the sofa. As he sipped his beer, he noticed the bound movie script that lay on the camphor wood coffee table. Reaching for it, he leaned back, stretched out his long legs, and opened it to the page that was marked by a sticky note.

He read through the scene, beginning slow but picking up speed with every line. He turned the page and finished the fairly short sequence, then sat without moving for long seconds. Turning back to the beginning, he read the thing through again. He chugged the rest of his beer, set the bottle aside, and read it a third time while heat radiated from the top of his head.

Trey slapped the pages shut and sat up straight. He shook his head with a low whistle. Moving with care, he dropped the script back on the table and left it there while he got to his feet.

Go or stay, that was the question. Walk out now, this very minute, while he still could—or stay and see what was going to happen?

Outside, the rain was still coming down. He could hear its splatter and splash clearly because the window above the kitchen sink was open a few inches for air circulation. The fresh scent of it permeated the apartment, bringing a hint of fragrance from the wet black-eyed Susans that grew along the building’s back wall. The humid coolness of it drifted in as well, a welcome addition.

Trey moved to the kitchen window and pushed it higher so the air flow and sound of the rain increased. He stood there with his hands on the sill, breathing in the cool dampness, letting it take the heat from his thoughts and the fire from the lower part of his body.

As he stared out into the darkness, he asked himself if Zeni had any idea at all of what she was doing to him.

Zeni took a quick shower. She’d been up since daybreak, standing over a hot oven and grill and scalding dish water, but the main reason was because Trey seemed so fresh and squeaky clean he made her feel grungy by comparison. A dusting of bath powder afterward not only banished the
eau de coffee shop
smell for good, but made it easier to skim into lacy underwear and her caftan lounge robe.

The cover-up was the only thing of that variety she owned, but, most conveniently, mimicked the long tunics worn by Roman matrons, so was similar to what might have been worn by Zenobia. Nothing like getting into character for the reading, or so she’d heard somewhere, probably a TV show.

Trey had his back to her, standing at the kitchen cabinet, when she emerged from the bedroom. She was struck by the sheer male power of him, more aware than she wanted to be of how large he loomed in her apartment, the strength of his personality making it seem smaller.

It felt odd, almost illicit, to have him there so late in the evening. She wondered what the good folks of Chamelot would say if they saw his truck still parked at the Watering Hole. Maybe they wouldn’t notice, since it was at the back of the building.

Then again, why should it be a problem? She and Trey were supposed to be engaged, after all. Late night visits should be expected. Wasn’t it fairly well accepted these days that couples bound for the altar were intimate?

Yes, well, except whatever Trey, the bad boy Benedict, got up to was bound to be fodder for public comment, no matter what else was happening in town.

“Have you had a chance to look at the script?” he asked with a brief glance over his shoulder.

She’d thought he was oblivious, hadn’t realized she was there. She’d learn not to underestimate him one day. “Why? Something wrong with it?”

“Just curious.”

“No time. As I said before, it was given to me after the costume fitting today. Gloria needed to study for a test, so I took over downstairs as soon as I got back.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “She’s doing okay with the extra hours she’s working?”

“Great, I think.”

Zeni gave him a quick frown as she answered. It wasn’t like Trey to ask about what was happening at the coffee shop. He’d been so busy lately with the stunt for the movie along with his other responsibilities that he must be feeling a little left out of things.

It was also possible he felt out of place in the apartment. This was his second time here in the past week, which was more often than in the past year. In fact, the only other time he’d been was just after she moved in, to fix a leak under the sink. He was scrupulous about not intruding, also about shielding her from gossip.

That seemed a shame, now. It felt right to have him there, and she liked that no else was around. Wasn’t that a peculiar state of affairs?

She didn’t exactly mind looking at the broad expanse of his shoulders where his shirt pulled across them, either, or the lean line of his back and the tight shape of his backside as he leaned forward a bit toward the open window. Maybe she liked it too much, considering the tingling contraction of her nipples and the uncomfortable pressure between her legs.

“Look,” she said, driven by a vague instinct for self-preservation, “if you’d rather not do this right now—”

He turned with deliberation, shoving his hands into his pockets as he braced his lower back against the cabinet. “No, I would rather.” He grimaced. “What I mean to say is, I’m ready when you are.”

Something in his voice affected her nerves like a shot of warm and sweet liqueur. It slid along her veins, lodging in her chest for a breathless instant. She met his gaze, noting a glow in their dark gray depths like the flash of lightning in a night sky, a fierceness that made her skittish, and aware once more that the two of them were supposed to be an engaged couple.

Midnight chose that moment to glide from the bedroom where he had been watching her dress from his favorite vantage point on the bed. It was a welcome distraction. As he wound around her ankles, half under the hem of her caftan, she bent to pick him up. Holding the small creature against her like a shield, she turned toward the living area.

“Fine,” she said over her shoulder. “Ready to get started?”

He followed her; she could sense him behind her, as if every atom of her body was attuned to the minute particles of his. She was also super aware that she was half naked under her robe; that it would take very little to whip that covering away from her for access.

It was a disconcerting idea—not that she hadn’t had such thoughts before. She had, but Trey usually wasn’t around when they cropped up. If he was, she banished them with strict control.

Where that control was now, she didn’t know; it seemed to have deserted her.

“Do you want to read through the scene first?” She glanced at the script on the chest that served as a coffee table.

“I did that, while I was waiting.”

“What did you think?” It was just something to say; she couldn’t imagine that he cared much one way or the other.

“It was—interesting.”

She put Midnight on the sofa, then sat down beside the cat and reached for the bound pages. “What do you mean?”

“I have a hard time seeing why Peabody thought you were so perfect for the role.”

“Really?”

“Read it,” he said.

He’d stopped in the middle of the living area as if taking his place on the stage. The light from the fixture overhead caught in the waves of his hair with a blue-black sheen and gleamed along his nose, but left his eye sockets in shadow. His stance, the low sound of his voice and lack of eye contact were disturbing, though she would never admit it, not even to herself.

Midnight leapt to the cushions on the back of the sofa and then strolled noiselessly to the one directly behind her head, stretching out there as if to be close at hand in case of need. The move was oddly comforting. Turning to the script page marking her scene, Zeni began to read.

It didn’t take long; it was a bit part after all. There were only six or seven lines for her and the same for the lead actor, who would be Derek, of course. She could feel the increasing throb of the pulse in her throat, sense the prickly reddening of her skin like the eruption of a rash.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“You said it. So—you ready to run through it?”

Zeni lifted her eyes to Trey’s dark gaze while the first shock of discovery faded from her system. That process was aided by the irony mixed with challenge in his voice. He didn’t think she’d do it.

A second before, she might not have. Now, she wavered. “I—can see why this scene is pivotal to the story.”

“Being such a turn on?”

“No, not so much that.” Her answer was for what he’d said rather than the condemnation in his voice. “It’s the moment when the protagonist realizes he prefers an aggressive woman.”

Trey grunted. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“I’m just saying I see the point,” she insisted.

“You don’t mind giving it a try then?”

The quiet note of a dare was in his voice. How could she not answer it?

She glanced at the script page again, as if trying to decide, but actually to commit the lines to memory. Tossing it aside, she rose to her feet in abrupt readiness. Anger was one way to root out embarrassment and gain an edge.

“Sir infidel,” she said clearly, as she paced toward him in assumed grandeur. “What brings you to me?”

“Curiosity,” he answered in his turn. “I wanted to see what a warrior queen looks like.”

“You dare much. Do you not know you could lose your head if found here?” She circled him, putting out a hand to run it across his shoulder and down the flinching muscles of his back. Keeping her fingertips upon him as she continued around in front of him again, she let them rest above his heart.

He had definitely read the scene; his heartbeat drummed against her palm and something that might almost be anticipation leapt in his eyes. “I did not know,” he said, “but it might be worth the risk.”

“From where do you come?” She eased closer, rising on tiptoe as if about to collect a kiss.

His head dipped toward her in a way that didn’t seem entirely an act. “Another time, another place.”

With a slow, lingering movement she smoothed her hand downward; over the flat surface of his abdomen to his lower belly. Quite gently, she tested the heat and rock hardness of him. “As you are a stranger who may not see the dawn, I would have you.”

He swallowed, and she felt a definite springing lift under her hand. It was thrilling to know she could affect him that way. The exhilaration was so great she almost forgot this was an act, almost curled her fingers around him. Or perhaps she did, for his voice was hoarse as he made the scripted answer.

“And I you.”

“Prepare for it then,” she said in tones of command, and used both hands to push him toward the sofa.

He didn’t resist at all, though he pretended to stumble as the script instructed before falling backward upon the cushions. She was upon him at once, straddling him, dragging his shirt open with the popping of buttons. He rose against the hot core of her in a way that made her gasp low in her throat. A moment later, she felt his hands slide under the raised hem of her caftan, pressing with urgent fingertips, testing the smooth surface of her skin and the muscles underneath.

She bent lower to take his face in her hands and match her open mouth to his as if it was her right and privilege as the queen whom none could or would deny. She plumbed the moist depths, swirling her tongue to receive his very essence, licking the slick underside of his tongue. She wanted to take him into her body and make him hers.

Hers alone. Hers always.

He gripped the curves of her hips, grinding against her. She was melting inside and burning up outside, while the scent of their arousal surrounded them, a blending of sweet peas and patchouli and the spice of his aftershave.

She reached for his belt buckle, pulling it open. Releasing its pin, she flipped the ends aside and made short work of the button of his jeans. As the zipper gaped she felt silky cotton briefs and hot male.

It was then that Midnight yowled and leaped from the cushion above them. His small feet thumped into Zeni’s back before the kitten launched himself onto the chest that sat before the sofa and then down to the floor.

Trey stilled in place for endless seconds. With an abrupt bunching of muscles, then, he heaved over, taking Zeni with him over the edge of the sofa cushions. He thrust out his forearm in time to break their fall, cradling her with his other arm as they settled to the sisal rug, trapped between coffee table and sofa. She moaned in protest as she lost direct contact with his mouth, his heat and power.

“Cut?” His breathing was fast, deep and difficult as he made that husky, movie filming suggestion.

She gazed up at him, half-stunned and bereft at the withdrawal of something that had seemed right and inevitable, something that had nothing whatever to do with a movie, a pretend engagement, or lines written for other people and for other reasons.

What did it matter who he was or what she was not. She didn’t expect promises, didn’t need them. All she wanted was this moment, with its upheaval of emotions and closeness of skin to skin and mouth to mouth in a physical welding that was as nature meant it to be, the way nature demanded.

“No,” she said, and wound her legs around his as she slid an arm to the back of his neck, holding him to her. “The scene doesn’t end here. I want you, just you.”

“Ah, Zeni,” he said against her hair. “I thought you said you were bashful.”

“Sometimes. Not now.” The words were choked, barely a whisper.

“Thank God for it.”

Within seconds, the robe-like caftan was stripped away over her head and her bikini panties, his jeans and shorts were gone. He paused to retrieve a condom from his wallet, but for nothing else. Pulling down the front of her bra, he allowed the stretchy fabric to frame and lift her breasts for his attention, but the rest of her was gloriously naked to his probing touch, his licking, suckling invasion.

He was thorough, unhurried, though alive to her soft inhalations, her clutching hands, her flexing knees and soft pleas. And when she was hot, wet, and trembling on the edge of desperation, he gave her surcease, tumultuous and slow, powerful and fine. He gave her exactly what she asked for; he gave her himself.