The Obsession (20 page)

She stopped. “You can’t go. You have to stay here.”

Until that moment she hadn’t known a dog could actually look shocked.

“I’m sorry, but you’d just have to sit in the car the whole time, and that’s not fair, right? Besides, you’re my excuse for coming back in case he suggests, I don’t know, a movie, or going to his place. You’re my ace in the hole. I’m only going to be an hour or two. Tops two hours, then I’ll be back. You have to stay.”

He trudged back upstairs—actually trudged, she thought, while sending her forlorn looks over his shoulder.

“You’d think I was locking him in a closet and going out dancing,” she muttered. And felt guilty all the way into town.

—

A
s he pulled on a fresh shirt, Xander figured he was running right on time. Hitting her up for the pizza had been inspired—especially since she’d been hot and wet and limp in the shower when he’d come up with it.

He also figured it was past time they had an actual date. Pizza always served up a good starter. He’d be on call, but those calls—if any—would go to his cell phone. If luck stuck, he’d get her back to her place and into bed without being called back to tow anything or anyone.

He opened the door, pulled up short. Chip stood, his big, raw-knuckled hand poised to knock. Or punch.

“Hey, Chip.”

“Hey, Xander. You’re heading out?”

“Yeah, but I got a minute. Do you want to come in?”

“That’s okay, I’ll walk down with you.”

Chip started down the steps on his slightly bowed legs. A big guy—football star in high school—he tended to lumber unless he stood on the deck of a boat, as he did daily for his family business. There, Xander knew, the man had the grace of a Baryshnikov, and his shy, self-effacing nature worked well for the tourists who wanted to do some fishing or sailing.

He’d mooned over Marla as long as Xander had known him, and had finally won her when she’d come back to the Cove after two years of college.

He’d won her by punching the guy she’d taken up with who liked punching her.

It wasn’t the first or the last guy Chip had punched over Marla. Xander really didn’t want to be the next guy.

But he didn’t sense anger, didn’t see that hard light in Chip’s eyes as they reached the base of the stairs.

“I wanted to, you know, say I was sorry about how Marla acted last night. I heard about it.”

“It’s no big.”

“She’s still got that thing for you.”

Xander kept a close watch, in case that hard light came calling. “Chip, you know there’s nothing there, and hasn’t been since high school.”

“I know it. I wanted to say how I know it, so you know. Patti, she’s making noises like there was something, but I know better. Plenty of other people know better, too.”

“Okay then. We’re cool?”

“Sure. I want to apologize to the lady—the new lady? It’s Naomi, right? But she doesn’t know me, so I didn’t want to go up there and scare her or anything.”

“You don’t have to worry about it, Chip. You don’t have to apologize to anybody.”

“I feel bad about it, all of it. Anyway.” He put those ham-hock hands in his pockets, gazed out at nothing special. “You don’t know where she is, do you?”

“Naomi?”

“No, not her, not Naomi. Marla.”

“Sorry, no.”

“She’s not at her place, the place she has now, and doesn’t answer the phone. Patti said she got mad at her last night, because Patti said she was embarrassed and all. She just took off—and she’d been drinking.”

“Was she driving?”

“Seems Patti was, but it’s not a far walk back to the place she has now. She didn’t go to work today at the market either. They’re that pissed at her now.”

Hungover, mortified, mad, probably in bed with the covers over her head.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“If you see her, maybe you can give me a call, so I know she’s okay and just in one of her moods.”

“I can do that.”

“I’ll let you go. Maybe if you see the lady—Naomi . . . If you see her, you could tell her I’m sorry about the trouble.”

“I’ll do that. You take it easy.”

“It’s the best way to take it.” Chip smiled a little, then climbed into his truck.

Since it was close, and he was running a bit late now, Xander got into his own truck and drove to Rinaldo’s.

She was already there, sitting in a booth, looking over the menu. He slid in across from her. “Sorry. I got into a thing just as I was leaving.”

“That’s all right. I was just trying to decide if I’d have room for this calamari starter.”

“I’ll split it with you, then you would.”

“Then I would.” She set the menu aside. “Busy place on Saturday night.”

“Always has been. You look good.”

“Better than I did a few hours ago?”

“You always look good. Hi, Maxie.”

The waitress, young and fresh with doe eyes and sunny blonde hair streaked with a pretty shade of lavender, pulled out a pad. “Hi, Xander. Hi,” she said to Naomi. “Can I get you some drinks?”

“A glass of chianti, thanks, and some ice water on the side.”

“You got it. Xan?”

“Yuengling. How’s that hatchback running?”

“It gets me where I’m going and back, thanks to you. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

“I guess you get a lot of people where they’re going and back.”

“It’s what I do. Listen, if a big, lumbering sort of guy comes up to your place—”

“What? What guy?”

Xander waved a hand. “Harmless guy. Chip. He’s Marla’s ex. He came by just as I was leaving.”

As she straightened, Naomi’s shoulder blades went to iron. “If he’s mad about last night, he should be mad at who started it.”

“It’s not that. He’s a nice guy—too nice most of the time. He wanted to apologize for her. He said he wanted to apologize to you, too, but he was afraid he’d scare you if he just showed up.”

“Oh. It’s not his fault. What’s a nice guy who’d apologize for something that’s not his fault doing with someone like her?”

“It’s impossible to love and be wise.”

“Who said that?”

“Francis Bacon. Anyway, I told him I’d tell you he was sorry.”

Maxie brought their drinks and took their order.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad, coming out, Naomi thought. The place was noisy, but in a good, happy way. And the calamari would’ve met with Harry’s approval.

“I hear you met Loo.”

“I did?”

“At the bar last night. The bartender.”

“Is that Loo?” Sharp-looking brunette with sexy magenta streaks. “I expected her to be older, sort of businesslike, sitting in some back office with ledgers.”

“Loo likes to keep her hand in. She liked you.”

She caught a bright peal of laughter, noted that the comfortably built brunette behind the counter let out another as she rang up an order.

“That’s flattering, since we talked over the bar for about two minutes.”

“She knows what she knows, as she likes to say.”

“She mentioned her ex-husband used to be the groundskeeper when my house was a B-and-B.”

“Right, the stoner. He’s long gone. But it reminds me I could give you a hand with some of the heavy yard work. Kevin said you didn’t want to hire a landscaper, at least not yet, but if you decide otherwise, you might talk to Lelo.”

“From the band?”

“His family runs the local nursery. He’s actually pretty good at the whole lawn-and-garden thing.”

“And having a stoner is tradition up there?”

After a gesture with his beer, he took a drink. “A former stoner in Lelo’s case. You can size him up tomorrow for yourself.”

“Maybe I will.” More, maybe she’d just have to. “I wanted to deal with it myself, but so far I’ve managed to hack away the worst, plant a couple of pots and some kitchen herbs.”

“No landscaping in New York?”

“Not like this. We’ve got a pretty back courtyard garden, simple and
easy to maintain. And that’s mostly Seth anyway. So maybe I’ll think about getting some help with it.”

“We could barter some labor for the photo shoot.”

“Hmm. Let’s see how the shoot goes. That could work all around.”

“Why don’t you come by, take a look at the garage?”

“I’ve got to get back for the dog.” Ace in the hole, she reminded herself.

“Ten minutes won’t matter. It’s basically on the way. You take a look tonight, get that sense you wanted.”

It would help, she thought. And she still had the dog for her ace in the hole. No matter how tempting, she couldn’t end up in Xander’s bed—not with a dog pining away at home.

“All right. Let’s do that.”

Of course, night had fallen so she couldn’t judge the light, but she could get a sense of the space, a feel for what she’d have to work with if she shot in their practice area.

Floodlights popped on as she pulled around back behind Xander.

She saw now he had the bays locked and secured with some sort of keypad alarm as well as the motion lights.

“I hadn’t thought about the security you’d need.”

“A lot of tools, cars, car parts, and sometimes the band equipment.”

He opened the bay door and hit the lights.

A good-sized space, she mused, stepping in. The place smelled of oil, and the concrete floor was stained with it. It held a lift, bright orange. She scanned tools: compressors, grease guns, hydraulic jacks, rolly boards, a couple of enormous tool chests—one black, one red.

Yes, she could make this work.

“Where do you set up?”

“Pretty much like we do onstage. If the weather’s good, and we start early enough, we set up outside on the pad. It’s nice.”

Maybe, but she wanted them inside, with those clashing colors, those big, bulky tools.

“I’m going to want your motorcycle in here.”

“For the shoot?”

“Yeah, maybe. I want to try that.”

And parts, she thought. An old engine would be great, maybe a broken windshield—all those spiderwebs. A steering wheel. Tires.

Yes, she could make this work.

She stepped back out, looked at the space, walked back in, studied it.

“Okay, I want some wardrobe choices—things you’re all comfortable in, but like I said, not just black. Get some ball caps, bandannas. Cowboy hat, maybe a duster. Leather. Definitely leather.”

“Okay.”

She heard the doubt in his voice and smiled. “Trust me. You’re going to like what I do here.”

But it was a big garage, and maybe there were other possibilities.

“What’s in the next bay?”

“The love of my life.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. Do you want to see her?”

“Absolutely.”

He went out, left the first bay open in case she wasn’t done, opened the next. Hit the light.

He’d heard her gasp like that before, he realized. When he’d been inside her.

“This is yours?”

“It is now.”

“You have a sixty-seven GTO convertible, in factory red.”

He stood in reverent silence for ten full seconds. “I think you have to marry me now. You’re the first woman besides Loo who’s seen her and known what she is. I’m pretty sure we’re engaged.”

“It’s beautiful.” She moved closer, skimmed her fingertips lightly over the hood. “Absolutely pristine. Did you restore it?”

“
Maintain
’s more like it. My grandfather bought her right off the showroom floor, treated her like a baby. The mechanic gene skipped my
father, so Grandpa showed me the ropes, and when I turned twenty-one, he gave her to me.”

She reached for the door, glanced at him. “Can I?”

“Sure.”

She opened it, brushed her hand over the seat. “It still smells new. That’s some detailing. Oh, it has the push-button radio.”

“My dad talked about getting an eight-track put in, in his day. My grandfather nearly disinherited him.”

“Well, it’s blasphemy, isn’t it? Your grandfather would be pleased at how well you’ve kept it.”

“He is.”

“Oh, he’s alive?”

“And well, and living with my grandmother—well, stepgrandmother technically, but they’ve been married close to forty years—in Florida. Sanibel Island.”

“Gorgeous place.”

“How do you know about classic cars?”

“I only know some. I did a shoot—one of my first on my own. A friend of a friend of Harry’s and Seth’s.”

She circled the car as she spoke. It really was absolutely perfect. And if Xander maintained it, she imagined it ran just as beautifully.

“He had classic cars and wanted photos of them,” she continued, “inside and out. I was so nervous about the shoot, especially since I didn’t know anything about cars, especially classic cars. I got a list of the cars he had, studied them—actually had Mason quiz me. And one of them was a sixty-seven GTO—not the convertible—but factory red, like this. A beauty.”

“Want to take a ride?”

“Oh. I would.” She sighed it. “I really would, but I have to get back for the dog.”

He recognized lust, and knew how to use it.

“How about this? We take a ride in it to your place. You leave your car here, I stay there. Tomorrow, we load your equipment in her, come back so you can do what you do.”

She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. Shouldn’t sleep with him two nights in a row. It was the next thing to a commitment.

And the car shined under the garage lights, luring her.

Xander stood, hipshot and sexy, finishing her off.

“I can agree to that, but only if you put the top down.”

“Deal.”

T
here had been a time in his life when Xander had been more apt to fall into bed at five in the morning than stumble out of it. He really hoped that time wasn’t completely at an end.

But when part of the reward for early rising equaled pancakes—and not from a box mix like his mother made—he could see the benefit.

The bigger benefit sat beside him on the old glider smelling of summer while the stars went out.

“So those are the chairs and the table for out here.”

“They will be.”

Xander studied the old spring chairs. Even in the dark he could see the rust. “Why?”

“I’m going for a theme here, and they were a bargain. And because I have vision. I also dropped off a chest of drawers and a coffee table at Jenny’s. Cecil’s holding a couple more pieces I want her to look at.”

“He must love you, Slim.”

“I’m going to pay for this patio furniture, and more, with the pictures I took over there yesterday. I got one of his barn. God, the light was
perfect, and the clouds—just a roll of gray. And I talked him into standing in the open barn doors, in those bib overalls he wears. He’s leaning on a pitchfork. He grumbled about it, but he liked doing it—and he signed the release in exchange for a print. Good deal all around. Then I— Wait!”

She jumped up, ran inside. Xander exchanged a look with the dog, shrugged, and went back to his pancakes as the first light bloomed at the edge of the world.

She ran back, with her camera and a bag.

“Stand over by the rail,” she ordered.

“What? No. I’m eating. It’s too dark for pictures anyway.”

“Do I tell you how to overhaul an engine? Come on, be a pal. Stand by the rail—with your coffee mug. Come on, come on, I don’t want to miss the light.”

“Isn’t any light,” he muttered, but rose and went to the rail.

“Call the dog over.”

Since otherwise Tag might take too personal an interest in the plate he’d left on the glider, Xander called the dog.

“Just drink your coffee, watch the sunrise. Pay no attention to me. Just look out—no, turn a little more to your right—and lose the scowl. It’s morning, you’ve got coffee and a dog. You just rolled out of bed after spending the night with a beautiful woman.”

“Well, that’s all true.”

“Feel it a little, that’s all. And watch the sun come up.”

He could do that, he supposed. It was a little strange doing it while she moved around him with the camera. But the dog, apparently used to it, leaned against his leg and looked out over the water with him.

It was a hell of a show, those first trickles of light, the promise of them, the slow blur of rose hitting the water. Then the shimmer of gold rising up, edging the clouds.

Plus she made damn good coffee in that fancy machine of hers.

He’d just enjoy it, ignore the way she muttered to herself, pawed through her bag for something.

—

O
h, it was perfect. He was perfect. Hardly more than a silhouette, the tall, sleep-rumpled, barefoot, sexy man with the loyal dog at his side, watching the new day whisper over the water.

Long legs, long arms, big hands, white coffee mug, dark stubble on a sharp profile at the break of dawn.

“Great. Great. Thanks. Done.”

He glanced back—and she couldn’t resist one more.

“Now done.”

“Okay.” He went back to the glider and his pancakes, and when she joined him, ignoring her own plate to view the shots, he held out a hand. “Let’s see.”

She didn’t give him the camera, but scooted closer, angled the screen, scrolled through.

He didn’t know how she got so much out of the light—or the lack of it—how she’d tossed him into relief, managed to make him look moody and content at the same time. Or how she’d managed to capture every shade of sunrise.

“You’re good.”

“Yes, I am. I’ll print out a release.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

Still scrolling, she stopped on one, did something that zoomed in on his profile. “I need to take a closer look at them on my computer, pick the one I think is best for the sexy, moody gallery print I have in mind, then work on it some. Pick another—probably the one where you started to turn, look back at me with the sunrise behind you—for a stock print. You’re going to end up on a book cover.”

“What?”

“I know what sells there,” she said. “One of these days, you can add yourself to your collection. That’s a good, and unexpected, morning’s work.”

She leaned over, kissed him—something she’d never done before. And stifled his instinct to object.

“Are you going to start on that this morning?”

Now she zoomed in on the dog’s profile. “That and some other work.”

“Okay, I’ll get going on the yard.”

“The yard?” Distracted, she looked over at him. “My yard?”

“No, I thought I’d just drive around until I found one that appealed to me, and dig in. Yeah, your yard.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m up, and I like yard work.”

“Says the man without a yard.”

“Yeah, that’s a downside.” To Tag’s bitter disappointment, Xander polished off the pancakes. “But I give Kevin and Jenny a hand now and then. And Loo. Where are your tools?”

“I have a shovel, a fan rake, and this set of garden tools—you know, little spade, clippers, the fork thing.”

He sat for a moment. “And you expect to deal with that yard with a shovel, a rake?”

“So far. What else?”

“You need loppers, a wheelbarrow, you can use some of the empty drywall buckets around here, a pickax. You need both a fan rake and a garden rake, shears—”

“I need to make a list.”

“I’ll see what I can do with what you’ve got, and we’ll go from there.”

—

S
ince she’d planned on a full morning’s work, she settled down at her temporary station. He could play in the yard, she thought, though she imagined he’d get tired and bored with the sheer grunt work of it and come back in, nudge at her to knock off.

Have sex, take a ride, do something she didn’t have on her morning agenda.

That was the problem with having someone around. They so often wanted to do something you didn’t have time for.

She took care of some basics first, some bread-and-butter shots. Pleased
with the barn studies, she uploaded them before spending time on the one she’d chosen of Cecil.

But since the pictures she’d just taken tugged at her, she shuffled back the other work she’d intended to finish and studied them—frame by frame—on the big screen.

She started on the last shot—the lucky, impulse shot where he’d been half turned toward her, with a half smile, good and cocky, on his face.

God, he was gorgeous. Not slick and polished—nothing slick or polished about him. It was all raw and rough, and only more so with that morning stubble, the ungroomed hair.

She went to work on the background first, burning in the clouds for a little more drama. Yeah, big drama for the backdrop—hot, sexy guy, half turned, looking over his shoulder at a lover.

No mistaking the half-cocked smile and smoky look aimed at anyone but a lover.

As a stock photo it would sell, and for years. In the short term, she calculated she’d sell dozens in under a week. For fun, and the mystery, she titled it
Mister X
.

Yes, an excellent morning’s work.

She fussed with it more, zooming in, refining small details, and then, satisfied, uploaded it to her site. Once that was done, she reviewed the two shots she’d come down to for the gallery.

She lost track of time. This work was more exacting, more detailed. She wanted to stress the moment where everything stilled between night and day, just the first hints of light, the drama still below the surface.

And the man, hardly more than a shadow, with the dog lightly leaning against him.

Bring out his eyes more, she decided, so the blue played hot.

She might do a second, she considered, black-and-white—with color pops. Yes, with his eyes boldly blue, and the growing light just as boldly red. The white mug.

She made a note of the number she wanted for that, went back to the first.

She toggled between the two, each time studying the previous work with a critical and fresher eye.

“They’re good. They’re really good,” she murmured, and sent both to the manager of the gallery for preview.

Then she sat back to study them both again.

“Really good.”

She rose, rolled her stiff shoulders, circled her head on her stiff neck—and reminded herself she’d vowed to do at least thirty minutes of yoga daily to keep loose.

“Starting tomorrow.”

The least she could do was go check on Xander, offer him something cold to drink. Make sure the dog had something, too, as Tag had opted to hang with Xander instead of sprawling beside her while she worked.

She went down, opened the front door.

She saw him, stripped to the waist, torso gleaming with sweat, throwing a stick—more like an entire branch—for the wild-eyed dog.

More sticks, more debris, filled a wheelbarrow. A large swatch of lawn sat patchy, bumpy, and clear of weeds, tangling brush, and the thorny vines that seemed to grow a foot every night.

She spotted a pile of rocks, a chain saw, an ax, a pickax, those drywall buckets, plastic tarps with piles of leaves and pine needles centered on them.

She said, “Holy crap,” and got Xander’s attention.

“Hey. We got a good start here.”

“A start? Where did all this come from?”

“The yard trash from the trashy yard. The tools? Tag and I rode into town, got the truck, stopped by the garden center and the hardware. I left the bills on the kitchen counter. There’s half a cold-cut sub in the fridge if you want it. We got hungry.”

Slowly she walked down, stepped on grass—pathetic grass, but still. “I never expected you to do all this.”

“We had some fun with it. If I were you, I’d get rid of those foundation
bushes.” He pulled a bandanna out of his back pocket and swiped the sweat off his face with it. “Lelo’d rip them out for you—or tell you if they’re worth saving.”

“Did I buy a chain saw?”

“No, that’s mine. You shouldn’t need one now that things are more under control. Once that Dumpster’s gone, you can figure out what you want to do over there.”

As he spoke, he threw the stick for Tag again. “I’d sure as hell plant myself a good tree.”

“I . . . I thought maybe I’d plant one of those weepers. A cherry or . . . whatever.”

“That’d be good.” He pulled off thick work gloves.

“Xander, how long— What time is it?” She dug for her phone to check, realized she didn’t have it.

He pulled out his own. “It’s about one.”

“In the afternoon?”

“It ain’t morning, baby.” Laughing, he kissed her. “Where do you go when you work?”

“I just never expected you to . . . You worked
hours
. Thank you, so much.”

“It’s just yard work, but you’re welcome. I need to get cleaned up so we can get going. If you still want those book pictures.”

“Yes, I do—and yes, you do. You’re all sweaty.” Stepping closer, she trained a finger down his chest. “And pretty dirty. You look . . . hot and thirsty.”

Since the look in her eyes invited it, he hauled her against him. “Now you’re sweaty and dirty, too.”

“Then I guess we both need a shower.”

—

H
e took her under cool water, running hard, soap-slick hands over her. Eager, avid, her mouth met his so he swallowed those gasps and moans as he took her higher.

When he pinned her against the wall, drove into her, her fingers dived
into his hair, clutched there. Her eyes clung to his as, with lips close, their breath tangled.

The green of her eyes went opaque as she peaked, as she said his name as he’d wanted her to say it.

But he held back, denied himself that quick release, slowed the rhythm until her head lolled back.

She could feel nothing but pleasure, all so ripe, so full it should burst. But it only spread, engulfed her like warm, wet velvet.

The tiles, cool on her back, his body hot, pressed to her, in her. The air so thick that breathing it in, letting it go, was a moan. She tried to hold on, to give back, but felt as soft and pliable as wax in sunlight. His lips toyed with hers, conquering by torment rather than force.

She said his name again as her eyes closed.

“No, no, look at me. Open your eyes and see me, Naomi.”

“I see you. Yes. God.”

“A little more. A little more until there’s nothing left. I’m going to take more.”

“Yes.”

He took more, kept them both swaying on that high wire between need and release, until it built beyond the bearing, until he let the wire snap beneath the weight.

—

B
ecause she felt a little drunk, Naomi took great care packing her equipment. He’d taken her beyond her own boundaries of control, and somehow she’d allowed it. She’d need time and space to decide, to understand, what that meant.

And now wasn’t the time, not when everything in her felt so soft and vulnerable. When she could still feel his hands on her.

She packed her tripod, a camera bag, a case, a light stand, diffuser.

He walked in, smelling of her soap. “All that?”

“Better to have everything than leave behind the one thing you realize you need.”

She started to swing on a backpack.

“I’ve got it. Christ, does everything include bricks?” He picked up her tripod case, the light stand, started out.

As she picked up the rest, Tag barked as if dragons burned down the gates.

“Car’s coming,” Xander called back. “I’ve got it.”

“He’s got it,” she murmured. “That’s the problem. Why am I mostly okay that he’s got it?”

“Easy, killer,” Xander told the dog, and opened the front door. He recognized the official vehicle just pulling up beside his truck, and the chief of police behind the wheel.

“Relax, he’s one of the good guys.” Xander stepped off the porch, carted the equipment to his truck. “Hey, Chief.”

“Xander. Is that the stray I heard about?”

“Yeah. That’s Tag.”