The Red Diary (4 page)

Sitting up just enough to yank his shirt off over his head, he dropped back to the pillow and let his eyes fall shut. He didn't want to think about his father anymore, or Davy, or Henry-and as sleep began to descend, a much more inviting image re invaded his mind unbidden: Lauren Ash.

His thoughts grabbed hold, focused warm and tight, and a fantasy quickly took shape. In it, he was pushing aside all that smooth satin, running his hands over inviting curves and valleys, molding her breasts in his hands, soon kissing their puckered tips. He licked and suckled her and let her soft sounds of pleasure drive him forward.

He envisioned himself lying in bed, just as he was now, except that Lauren Ash hovered over him, her body skimming his, her golden hair cascading over his skin. She kissed his mouth with full, sensual lips, then grazed a kiss over his jaw, down onto his neck. She kissed her way down his chest, stomach, .. until she finally opened his jeans and took him into her soft

mouth. Yes.

Nick still couldn't believe what a beautiful woman she'd grown up to be, or that he was falling asleep to imagined sex with Lauren Ash-he'd hardly gone to her house thinking of anything sexual. But it was too late to go back now, and the images in his mind led to hot dreams .

Chapter Three

As Lauren stepped into the warm spray the next morning, she still couldn't believe the words she'd uttered to her painter. If you want me, I'II be in the shower. She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. Had it been a Freudian slip? She hoped not. But then, why was he still on her mind?

Well, she rationalized, because he was there, And other than the pool guy and the lawn guy and the landscape guy-people who usually came and went within an hour or two-she wasn't used to having anyone there. Before getting in the shower, she'd been aware of the sounds of him working outside, just as she had all day yesterday-ladders being leaned against the house, heavy cans of paint plunked on the brick walk. Each time she almost forgot about him, she'd hear him again, As she ran a soft sponge filled with raspberry-scented body wash over her arms, she thought of her ocean fantasy and decided maybe she should add a new entry to the journal. That's what she did to ease her sexual frustrations-and she was obviously frustrated, considering the reaction she'd had to the guy. Surprisingly, writing down her fantasies actually seemed to help, at least to a degree, Writing it wasn't doing it-but it was something, some vague way of acting it out. If you want me, I'll be in the shower ...

What if he had followed her yesterday morning? She knew she'd locked the door behind her, but what if she hadn't? What if he'd followed her inside and up the stairs, and into her bedroom, then her bathroom?

What if they'd both silently taken off their clothes and climbed into the shower together? She couldn't help penning another fantasy-even if only in her mind-as she washed.

We stand naked-water sluicing over our bodies. never touching until he reaches for the soap mitt hanging beneath the shower head. He watches my eyes as he rubs a bar of soap on the mitt, lathering until it makes a thick foam, Only then does his gaze drop to my breasts, as potent as any touch, making their crests harden into pink beads.

He swipes the mitt slowly across the tops of my breasts, leaving behind a trail of white suds that glistens with iridescence as globules of soap begining to slide down my skin. Another skim of the mitt, this one across the lower swells, makes me sigh with pleasure before he grazes a soapy, winding path down my stomach, stopping just short of the juncture between my thighs.

Letting the mitt fall to the shower floor, he takes my soap-covered breasts into his big, warm hands, caressing, kneading, all as I try not to cry out, not to let him know how profoundly his touch is affecting me-yet his hands feel like velvet through the thick suds, and I tingle madly below, wishing desperately he hadn't stopped the stroke of his foamy mitt,

Then he turns my body away from him, gliding his soapy hands up my wet arms, showing me to brace myself against the tile wall. His grip moves to my hips, and he eases inside, huge and filling and wonderful, and now

I have no choice but to cry out for him, sobs of pleasure leaving me at each intense stroke,

His hands continue to caress, fondle, each touch feeling more and more like the softest velvet. Even where no soap covers my skin, his fingers are like feathery sweeps of luxurious fabric-especially when they sink between my thighs. I move against his lush touch, arching, arching, until it seems as if his velvety fingers are all I know, all I am, and when I topple off the edge of sanity, moaning my climax, a wide, sumptuous swath of velvet seems to catch ... me.

My pleasure drives him to the point of release as well, his thrusts turning harder; his groans thick in my ear as the water crashes down over our skin--and it is only , then that I remember we're in the shower; not in the plush world to which he took me with just a few hot, tender touches.

Oh, stop it already!

Was she crazy? Fantasizing about him, her surly painter?

If you want to fantasize about somebody, surely you can find a better guy than that.

He was a shrine to all that was male, true, but his personality sucked. And wasn't she always telling herself sex wasn't about the physical act, but everything else surrounding it-the emotions, the intimate connection, the bond that went deeper than two bodies intersecting for a few minutes?

With those thoughts firmly in mind, she rinsed off, ready to get him out of her head and move on with her life. It wasn't like her to be an idiot over some guy just because she found him attractive or at least not like the "her" she aspired to be.

Nick Armstrong might be beautiful to look at, but one thing was certain-she wouldn't let him buy her a Coke, let alone take a shower with her.

Lauren carried the cordless phone from room to room, putting on makeup and getting ready to leave as she squabbled with Phil over the latest batch of invoices. "Our subcontracting costs have skyrocketed lately," she said, running a brush through her hair.

Lowering it to the ivory tabletop, she glanced in the mirror above her dressing table at the windows across the room, the blinds still drawn from yesterday morning. It meant Nick Armstrong couldn't see her, which was good, but it also meant she couldn't see him. He was outside somewhere, painting, and despite her admonitions in the shower to forget about him, it unnerved her to wonder about his exact proximity.

"That's completely beyond my control," Phil pointed out as she shifted the phone away from her mouth and used her free hand to apply crimson lipstick just a shade lighter than the skirt she wore. "Construction costs are up allover the state. Supply and demand. We hire the best, and we have to be willing to pay for it."

She stepped into a pair of strappy slip-ons. "Well, it's gouging a serious dent in the profit margin. And when second quarter numbers come out, you'll be the one answering to Henry and the partners."

"You forget, Pet," he said teasingly. "I am a partner." She smiled even as she rolled her eyes at the endearment she wouldn't let anyone else in the world-except maybe her father-get away with. "No, I don't forget. I just hope you have them wrapped as tightly around your little finger as you think."

"They'll have to take my word for it. I know this business inside out, and I'm losing money here, too." Phil was the second biggest shareholder in the company next to Henry,

"Must be nice to wield such power," she quipped. Making her way down the staircase, she kept her eyes on the foyer windows, wide open to the midday sunlight. No sign of her painter, but his van remained parked in her driveway, so he knew he hadn't left for lunch yet.

"Watch it, babe," Phil replied, "or I'll uninvite you to my party."

Oh damn, Phil's party. How had she actually managed to forget about that? Selective memory, she supposed. She should only be so lucky as to get knocked off the invitation list.

"You're gonna be there tomorrow night, aren't you?" She hesitated. Could she lie? She'd never been a great liar, but maybe now was the time to learn how else would she ever get out of all these ridiculous parties that pockmarked her life? Just then, she caught sight of a paint-splotched ladder leaning against the house outside the dining room window, but no painter accompanied it.

"Jeanne would be crushed if you didn't come," Phil said in his usual jocular manner. "You know how she likes to talk to you about clothes and all that chick stuff."

Phil and his wife were both in their late thirties, and though Jeanne was a bit older than Lauren, she enjoyed the woman's company. Some of Phil's parties had been known to get wild-she'd encountered more than one stripper at past bashes (it seemed mandatory if one of his male friends had a birthday), and she'd also found the occasional used condom floating in a toilet. But Jeanne always seemed a sane face in the crowd, almost as out of place at such events as she herself felt. "Besides," Phil added, "Jeanne saw Carolyn at the health club the other day and invited her, too. I think your whole crowd is coming-Carolyn, Holly, Mike, and that Jimmy guy,"

Lauren sighed as she plopped onto the antique goldenrod sofa in the sitting room. Unfortunately, it wasn't really her crowd; they were Carolyn's ... groupies that was the only word that fit them. They worshiped Carolyn, and Lauren wasn't sure who was sleeping with who, but she definitely felt the heavy sexual vibes pass between them whenever she was around.

Still, knowing they'd been invited on her behalf made her feel obligated to attend. And besides, as she'd told herself the other night, good business dictated it. "Sure, Phil," she finally said, ''I'll be there with bells on."

"More than that, I hope." She could almost feel his wink.

"Well, I wouldn't want to make a scene," she teased in an attempt to be easygoing, "so I'll see if I can find some clothes to wear, too, on the other hand, would love for you to make a scene; I'm just not sure how Henry would feel about it."

She laughed along-since it was easier than fighting it-until they got off the phone. Although she pondered how weird it was that she went to the same wild parties as her father, and that if she were to open a door at such a gathering to find a man getting it on with some ravishing model type, it was just as likely to be Henry Ash as anyone else. She loved him, but he'd changed a lot since her mother had passed away eight years ago.

It had been more than just a yearning for independence that'd led to Lauren wanting her own place; she'd grown tired of finding strange young women at the breakfast table. She wondered if it really worked, if her father really felt as young as he liked to act.

During the years of his transformation from normal businessman and father into the Hugh Heffner of Tampa Bay, Lauren had been busy building her life, After college, she'd taken an accounting position with the company and soon advanced to chief executive accountant, second-in-command only to Phil when it came to handling the firm's money. Phil had gone into business with her dad ten years ago, and he owned 25 percent of the partnership. Her father held a very calculated 51 percent; he'd had a disagreement with an earlier business partner when she was a child. and since then had vowed always to keep control over his company. The remaining 24 percent was divided among local investors and a few longtime employees. She herself didn't own any of the company. Her father's interest in Ash Builders would pass to her upon his death, and she saw no reason to invest further; she felt more than rich enough already.

"What if he marries some Penthouse Pet type and changes his will?" Carolyn had once asked.

"He's promised that if he were to marry again, he'll leave other holdings to his wife, but the company will always be mine." Carolyn had rolled her eyes, cynical. "Easy for him to say, but if she wants the company, and she s keeping the one-eyed heat-seeking missile happy "

"Carolyn, do not talk about my father that way." "Sorry," her friend had replied with an easy laugh, But the fact was, despite the changes in her dad, they were still close, and she knew he would never forsake her-it was beyond doubt. That part of her life was secure, Yet when she thought of the rest of this life she'd supposedly been so busy building, she wondered where it was

While the party she'd left the other night was not unusual, her feelings surrounding it-the desperate need to escape-had stuck with her and had her reexamining things. She owned the house, which she loved, her only regret being that she wished she'd done more to earn it. And she had her job, where she made good money and did smart things with it-she saved, she invested, and she gave a substantial amount to children's charities and the local arts. So it was really only her social life that was lacking.

She almost laughed as she finally rose from the sofa and went to the kitchen to feed Isadora. Who'd have dreamed her father would be the one with the busy, lively social calendar and that she, at twenty-seven, would have no boyfriends, only one close friend, and very little to look forward to in that arena?

But no, you keep forgetting. You can have all the friends and guys you want-you just don't happen 10 like the offerings,

Just then, Isadora came trotting merrily into the kitchen at the sound of the can opener. "Hey, Izzy. At least I have you, don't I' She bent down to give a quick scratch behind the cat's ear. "As long as I keep feeding you, and if you're in the mood for company, I'm your best friend in the world, huh?"

Izzy let out a hearty meow, and for a moment Lauren actually thought the cat was responding-until she realized she held an open can of Fancy Feast and wasn't getting it into Izzy's bowl fast enough.

Snatching the small glass dish from the place mat that served as Izzy's dining area, she spooned in the cat food and lowered it to the floor to watch Izzy practically pounce on it. Then she glanced at the clock on her microwave; she'd better get a move on or she'd be late.

She was meeting Carolyn for lunch, then she needed to stop by the office to drop some things off and pick ., some things up, and ... oh yes, she also planned to scold her beloved Sadie for sending Nick Armstrong to her ... house.

It was at that exact moment she glanced out her wide breakfast nook window to see a pair of work boots on a ladder, She froze in place. She hadn't run into him since their unpleasant introduction yesterday, yet she nearly shuddered at the sight. Maybe because she knew what the rest of him looked like.

Maybe because she knew exactly where he was now-he was right here, not ten feet away from her if you ignored the glass separating them.

And maybe because he was her ocean god and she'd fantasized about him in the shower only a few hours ago.

The ocean god thing bothered her most of all. The man in her sea fantasy hadn't really possessed a precise face, precise features, More like an idea of a face-and the moment she'd seen Nick Armstrong at her front door, he'd filled in the missing pieces to an unnerving degree of perfection.

When he started backing down the ladder, she flinched, She did not want to meet that face again through the window. She grabbed her purse from the counter, scooped up her briefcase, and said, "See ya, Iz." Then she headed through the door to the garage without looking back.

After punching a button on the wall and watching her garage door rise, though, her heart sank allover again; his van blocked her in. He'd parked to one side of the driveway, but her car happened to be on that side, and the rest of the garage was filled with gardening stuff, water skis, a bicycle, and Carolyn's Jet Ski, so she couldn't swerve her way out. Swell. She didn't want to see her ocean god's face, but it appeared to be inevitable.

Tossing her purse and briefcase in the passenger seat, she took a deep breath, then set out around the house, keys in hand. This is no big deal. He's just a man doing a job, and you're just a woman having her house painted.

He glanced up as soon as she rounded the corner. A ladder, drop cloth, and assorted cans of paint lay scattered about the area, but all she saw was him. Just like yesterday morning, the sight nearly made her dizzy-he exuded sheer masculinity from head to toe.

A white tank top molded to his muscled body and also revealed a tattoo: two strands of intertwined barbed wire circled his right forearm. Again, she wasn't sure if she was frightened of him or turned on, or both. She couldn't dispute at least being intimidated. and the closer she came, the less she could dispute being turned on. To her dismay, a feral attraction unlike anything she'd known coursed through her veins, replacing her blood with bot, oozing lava.

"You have climbing roses here." He pointed to the trellis draped with vibrant fuchsia-colored blooms and sounded annoyed. Not much on small talk, this guy.

"Yes," she replied, thinking, Oh brother; here we go. "Any idea how I'm supposed to paint around climbing roses?" Admittedly, she'd not thought about it, but said, "You've never painted a house with anything climbing up the side of it before?"

"As a matter of fact, I haven't. I usually paint new construction, remember?"

She sighed in irritation and studied the trellis. She'd worked at growing the roses for four years and didn't want to kill them just to get her house painted. "Maybe you could somehow pull the trellis out of the ground without uprooting the roses and lay it gently in the grass until you paint behind it."

"I'm not a gardener," he said dryly. No, you're a jerk.

She was contemplating telling him that when he said, "But I'll do it, so long as I'm not held responsible for any damage to the roses."

''Thank you," she replied automatically, although she hardly thought he'd earned her gratitude. She detested the feeling that this man had gotten the better of her both times they'd spoken. "By the way, I need you to move your van. It's blocking me in."

He turned to look at her then, and she knew instinctively it was the first time he'd really seen her since they'd started talking. His dark gaze penetrated hers, then moved appreciatively over her body. An uncomfortable warmth flushed through her. He wasn't subtle, and she wanted to be offended, but the lava in her veins only burned hotter. She felt trapped beneath his scrutiny as noticeable silence weighed down the already hot air.

"Sure," he said shortly, those piercing eyes brimming with an undeniable sexuality that suddenly felt ... personal to Lauren. Having some guy ogling her with the intent to seduce usually sent her running madly in the other direction, but for some reason, with Nick Armstrong, her ocean god, she hesitated.

Oh, damn it. damn it. damn it. She didn't want to want this man. He was rude and unpleasant in every way. Except to look at, that was.

"Are we waiting for something' he asked, and she realized he'd been expecting her to turn and go so he could follow, and instead she'd stood as rooted in place as her roses, staring at him, caught up in lust.

"No," she said, giving her head a quick shake as she came back to herself. "I was just distracted." Although she knew instantly it was the wrong answer; he was far too aware of everything silently taking place between them.

"Distracted?" he asked, giving her the same arrogant hint of a smile from yesterday. The same knowing gaze, almost daring her to be honest and tell him exactly what she'd been distracted by.

Instead, she only looked him in the eye a second longer, then pivoted to walk back around the house, not sparing him another glance as she reached the driveway, entered the garage, and got in her car.

Starting the engine, she gripped the wheel tight and wailed impatiently as he pulled his van onto the street. Her movements felt shaky and mechanical as she backed out, clicked the button that made the garage door descend, then pressed the gas to send the Z4 racing too fast up Bayview Drive.

It felt like escape, the same freedom as when she left one of those horrible parties, Yet different, worse. Because he knew-she knew he knew-she wanted him. Her heart pounded madly.

But this ridiculous wanting, this ridiculous fantasizing about her painter, was over, as of now! The guy was a jerk!

Now if she could only get her body to stop tingling. You are such a liar. Lauren. Nothing is over. It's not a decision you can make; it's a reaction, a reaction you can't stop no matter how badly you want to. He might be the biggest, most arrogant jackass alive-but he was also the sort of man who could turn her wanton if she wasn't careful, the kind of man who could make her forget about what she really needed just long enough to give her what she might think she wanted for a night. If she hadn't just made a vow to herself, and she had.

No more men like him. She planned to stick to it, come hell or high water-or Nick Armstrong. She only hoped he was a fast painter and that he would get the hell out of her life before she did something stupid.

Nick watched the princess's expensive convertible tear down the street, then pulled his van back in the driveway, this time parking it on the other side,

He'd been so annoyed by the roses that he'd actually forgotten about his unwitting attraction to her ... until he'd taken the time to give her a good looking over.

She'd worn a sleeveless white blouse cut to show her shape. A vague shadow of cleavage had peeked from behind the button that closed over her chest. Below, he'd found a tantalizing red miniskirt and great legs, slim and tan and silky and almost begging to be touched. Her fair hair hadn't hung in the curls he'd seen yesterday, but instead fell over her shoulders and down her back in longer, softer waves.

Approaching the trellis, he dropped to his knees and began working its spikes from the soil, recalling the moment he'd realized she was looking at him exactly the same way he was looking at her. For Nick, no better feeling existed than mutual desire, and it had snaked through him like a trail of flame. Even if she had acted irritated afterward, it didn't erase that heated stare.

He lowered the trellis flat to the grass, the roses pressed between, still aggravated at having to work around it. Although at the same time, he found himself wondering if she tended the roses herself, if a girl like her ever took the time or care for such things. Draping a drop cloth over the trellis, he picked up his roller and returned to work. covering the pink stucco with ivory.

In one sense, he supposed she had the right to be pissed at him. He didn't know why he kept being so gruff with her. . , except that each time they met, his mind flew back to the past, to the resentment he'd always felt toward her family. Then the lust set in, and the beast inside him took over.