Текст книги "The Girl On The Half Shell"

Автор книги: Susan Ward

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Don’t start anything,” he castigates me.

My face burns. I am kissing him on the neck. I stop and his features are very tense. We are in the apartment foyer. “Are you staying the night?”

“Of course.” He says it stiffly. “I don’t want you vomiting in your sleep. You can die that way.”

I squirm in his arms, wanting now to be put down, but he ignores me and goes into the hallway.

“Where is your bedroom?”

“I’m not letting you to take me to bed.”

“I thought we covered this. I’m not taking you to bed. I’m putting you in it.”

“Oh.” I shrug. I point at a door at the end of the hallway.

His arms fall away and I’m sitting on my bed. I am as close to going to bed with a guy as I have ever been. And I want to. I really, really want to. Being near him is like some voodoo aphrodisiac. My blood is on fire. There is a wild pulse in me. I never feel this way, not ever. It is such a delicious feeling. The agitation in my flesh, the pulsing, the want, the anticipation.

“Where are your t-shirts?” he murmurs as he carefully unties my halter top.

Oh my…Alan Manzone is undressing me. Fantasies do come true. Cold air touches my skin and I am quaking like a leaf. I am topless. The first guy ever to see my unclothed breasts is Alan Manzone. How freaking unbelievable is that? He is so beautiful.

“Where are your shirts,” he repeats quickly.

This is it. I’m finally going to do it. I can’t find my words. I can’t take my eyes off him. My body is raging and he’s unbuttoning my jeans.

He slips them off. He goes to a chest of drawers and removes a white tank top. He pulls it over my head. No, no, no. This is wrong.

He jerks back the blankets and points at the pillow. He eases me into the bed until I feel the coolness of the sheets behind me. I want him to cover me with his body. He moves back from me, pulling the blankets up around me.

He grabs my hip and turns me onto my side. “Don’t sleep on your back,” he says softly and he switches off the light.

Fully dressed, he lies on the bed behind me, curled into my back. His arm casually snakes over my body. His long fingers rest carelessly against my stomach. I can hear him breathing. I can feel the warmth of him. How am I supposed to sleep with him behind me?

I roll over until I’m on my other side, my face a breath from his on the pillow. The tease of my shirt and the blankets make my breasts ache for his touch. I’m claimed by raging desire, and sleep just isn’t going to happen.

“I can’t sleep. I’m too restless,” I whisper. “Don’t you want to…?” I can’t finish the thought.

He gently strokes my hair, and those worldly black eyes harshly fix on my face. “It’s being fucked up and the aftereffects of being on stage. The combination makes it an adrenaline rush. You get off stage and the first thing you want to do is fuck someone. It’s just the adrenaline rush. It goes away. Go to sleep.”

“I’m too wired. I feel like I could crawl out of my skin.”

His features look strained. “Chrissie, go to sleep.”

I stare up at him. “But I want to. I really, really want to with you.”

I move into him, my lips on his neck and my hands clumsily fumble for the fastening of his pants. His breathing grows deep and ragged. He stops my hands.

“Behave, Chrissie.”

He is gently stroking my flesh. My breathing won’t calm. My body is ruthlessly demanding more and he thinks I’m going to sleep. My fingers search for the buttons on his shirt. My lips find the warm flesh of his jaw. My pelvis lifts upward into him. The taste of him runs wildly through my veins. I want him and there is no power on earth that could make me stop this…I want him…I want him…

Chapter Seven

I come awake slowly and open my eyes to streams of parallel ribbons of sunshine peeking through the half-open slats of the shutters. I am comfortable and warm in bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets.

I shift my head and my hair falls across my face. Unfocused moments slip by. It is my room, I know that. It is bright and airy and the walls are covered with that hideous pink and white striped wallpaper with the flowered border that I picked out when I was seven.

There is an arm carelessly flung over my hip, gentle yet holding. There is a dark tattoo on the forearm. The fingers are long.

All at once, like a door flying open, my sluggish brain jerks into overdrive and I know two things: I am nude beneath the covers, and that arm and warm body behind me belongs to Alan Manzone.

Oh god, what the hell did I do last night? There are memories, but they are foggy. Was I drunk? I must have been, but I don’t feel hung over. I don’t feel wretched like I did after clubbing with Rene. How much of what I remember is real? Did I really go to CBGB’s? Did I really run into Vince Carroll? Did I sing on stage? Did Alan really dump Nia and beat up Vince Carroll?

Snippets of the night come to me in greater clarity. I couldn’t possibly have said the things I remember saying to him last night! I couldn’t possibly have all but attacked him sexually!

I cautiously lift the blanket just to confirm that I’m really nude. No, no, no. I don’t know what’s wrong with my memory. But that could not have possibly happened. It was a dream. A drunken dream. Only I don’t feel like I’ve been drunk. I feel funny. Spacey.

I cringe. More disjointed minutes come to me. There is a flash in my memory of Alan’s face as he undressed me: angry and worried. Why was he angry? Why was he worried? The last thing I remember is being naked in bed and then nothing. I blush. Did we make love? I don’t think we did. I don’t feel like we did. Wouldn’t I feel it? I frantically look at him. He’s still dressed. My memory stirs. He didn’t want to make love to me. He said no. I offered and he said no.

I want to die! I would climb from the bed, but I can’t. Even if I could slip free of his arm, I’m naked and there doesn’t look to be any clothes handy. In slow, careful movements so as not to disturb him, I gently turn beneath his bicep so I can see him. I’m surprised he’s still in bed with me, though technically not, just lying atop it.

Why is he still here? Shouldn’t he have slipped out the door long before this? Isn’t that what most guys do? Sneak out before morning? At least that’s what Rene says, and she would know. It would have been better for me if he’d made an escape, because I really don’t know how I’m going to keep from making a fool of myself when he wakes up. How do you face a guy in the morning after he didn’t want to have sex with you?

I need to talk to Rene. I wish I could get out of the bed. I wish he’d just screwed me last night while I was crazy, so I could just be done with my virginity. It wouldn’t make this morning any more nerve-rackingly awful.

The phone rings and I tense. I peek back over my shoulder to find Alan awake. He looks at me, and it’s almost as though he’s studying my face, looking for something, and then feels relieved he doesn’t find it. His eyes become soft, his expression gentle.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“It could be Jack.” He says it nonchalantly.

Does he really expect me to take a call from my father while lying nude in bed with him? OK, technically not in bed with him, but my frazzled nerves don’t seem to draw a distinction.

The phone stops ringing. Thank god.

“How do you feel? Any dizziness? Are you sick?”

What kind of questions are those? Say something, Chrissie. You can’t just stare at him. “I’m OK.”

He looks relieved and smiles. Why does he look relieved?

He brushes back his tousled waves. “Are you hungry?”

What are we playing? Twenty questions? Why do I feel like the questions are more than just questions? Like I’m at the doctor’s office or something…how are you feeling, Chrissie? Any shortness of breath? Or just a fever today…Jeez, enough with the third degree. Am I hungry? I’m starving, which is strange since the last time I spent a night getting myself trashed on booze the thought of food made me want to wretch. But, I’m hungry this morning.

I nod.

He pulls away and sits on the edge of the bed. “Would you like me to cook you something or would you rather go out?”

I try desperately not to look flustered. “You don’t need to cook me anything. I usually just have cereal in the morning.”

“Cereal. Sounds charming. No, Chrissie. I’m going to cook you something. You need something substantial in your stomach today.”

My eyes round. There is something strange in all this, but I don’t have a clue what it is. Twenty questions and now meal planning. What difference does it make what I eat?

In a moment, he is rising from the bed and pulling off his shirt. “I expect you to decide what you want by the time I’m done showering.”

With a casual smile, he tosses his shirt onto my chair. I can hardly take in air. Every inch of him has been kissed with perfection. His back and chest are sensual planes of firm, defined, and tanned muscles. Regrettably, there is also quite a bit of ink there, though on him the ink is a turn-on. His tattoos playfully move with his muscles.

My eyes follow him as he moves into the adjacent bathroom. I hear the shower turn on and then the sound of him peeing. He hasn’t closed the door. Clearly, waking up with a strange girl in bed isn’t something uncomfortable for Alan.

The shower door opens and closes. I dart from the bed, pull on the white t-shirt I find on the floor, and frantically grab from the back of the chair my pair of flannel PJ bottoms. Now what do I do? Do I stay in the bedroom or do I make a run for the kitchen?

I curl in the chair where he tossed his shirt and stare at the open bathroom door. There is nothing to panic over. He is being very nice today and definitely as if none of this is any big deal. Deep down I know it isn’t a big deal. It’s perfectly normal, millions of girls are probably just like me, waking up somewhere with a guy they don’t know.

My inner voice taunts me—But Alan Manzone didn’t want to have sex with you. You are the only girl in America waking up in this circumstance still a virgin.

I shake my head, trying to ignore that thought.

Hugging my legs, I curl into a ball, laying my cheek on my knees. He must like me a little. He’s still here. I pull his shirt from beneath me and toss it away. I don’t know what’s going on, but face it, Chrissie, the guy isn’t interested in you.

I look up and Alan is standing in the open bathroom doorway, hair wet, and a towel hanging loosely from his hips. My heartbeat picks up and I am suddenly very hot everywhere. He frowns.

“Are you sure you feel OK, Chrissie? You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

He’s giving me that look, that one I really have grown to hate, the one guys give a girl when they are unsure if something is wrong with them. God, I’m behaving stupidly.

“Of course. I don’t know you well enough to lie,” I say in what I hope is a nonchalant tone.

Alan laughs. I feel each muscle in my body relax in slow increments.

“Do you think Jack would mind if I borrowed something from his wardrobe? I’m not going to have time this morning to swing by my place to change.”

I shake my head, though the thought of seeing Alan dressed in Jack’s clothes is just a touch creepy for me. He leaves my bedroom and I stay curled in my chair.

Minutes pass.

“Where is Rene?”

Alan’s rich timbre fills the apartment effortlessly. I rise from the chair and go into the hallway outside my parents’ bedroom.

“In DC with her dad.”

“For how long?”

“Until a week from Sunday. Her dad is getting married.”

“That can’t be fun for you. Are you going to DC or are you flying home early?”

Alan reappears in the hall, tucking his shirttail into his pants. He’s wearing a pink button down cotton shirt, a pair of worn jeans, and loafers. Somehow he makes Jack’s clothes look casually chic.

He lifts a brow. “Are you flying back to Santa Barbara early?”

I shrug. “I haven’t decided. Everything just changed yesterday.”

He smiles. “Have you decided what you want for breakfast?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s moving down the hallway to the kitchen. It’s almost as if he’s hurrying. Is this Alan’s version of the guy escape? Cook a girl breakfast, feed her, and run.

In the kitchen I find him going through the refrigerator, removing things and stacking them on the counter. It’s fully stocked. I hadn’t noticed. Jack must have seen to that before we left Santa Barbara. I never once thought about where the food came from. But the kitchen is fully stocked, and has been since we arrived.

“Would you like an omelet? Vegetable or meat? You have broccoli, you have peppers, and you have sausage, ham, bacon, a variety of cheese. Basically, everything for any kind of omelet you want.”

How does he know this? I don’t even know what goes in or how to make an omelet. Maria does our cooking. I don’t even know how to boil an egg. Alan looks right at home.

“I don’t care. Whatever is easier or whatever you’d prefer.”

“I like everything.”

“Then everything.”

I settle at the breakfast bar and watch him. I’ve never had a guy cook me breakfast before, and I feel a touch useless just sitting here. I watch him fill one skillet with bacon, and then bend to watch as he precisely turns up the heat. He moves to the coffeemaker and sets a pot to brew. He pours me a glass of orange juice and sets it on the mat in front of me.

“Don’t wait for me. Drink,” he orders. I lift the glass. I take a sip. I start to put it down. “All of it.”

He goes back to the stove. He turns the bacon. “Who brought you drinks other than the waitress last night?”

What an odd question. Why would he want to know that?

“Vince.”

“Just Vince? Or did Jimmy bring you drinks too?”

I don’t like the way he’s asking me that.

“I’m not sure. I don’t remember. Why do you want to know?”

He looks over at me. He smiles. It’s totally disarming. It bothers me for some reason and it shouldn’t because it’s just a friendly, no big deal kind of expression. I frown.

I watch him whisk eggs in a bowl before he pours the mixture into the heated skillet of melted butter. Damn, if he isn’t good at this. Where did he learn to cook?

“I have a thing in about a half an hour,” he says, carefully swirling the omelet in the pan. “A pretty full day.” He folds the omelet and slides it onto a plate. “I’ll swing by later to look in on you.”

Look in? What does that mean? What an odd thing to say.

He sets the plate in front of me. “Now, eat.”

I stare as he starts cleaning up his mess. “This looks good. Aren’t you going to make yourself one? Aren’t you going to eat?”

“My first thing is a breakfast thing.”

What is it about “thing”? Why does every male in my life take off for thing? I stab the eggs with my fork. Hmm… it is good, very good. He sets a cup of coffee in front of me.

I look up to find him smiling. “I’ve got to go, Chrissie. You should probably just stay in today. Take it easy.”

He doesn’t even wait for my answer. He disappears down the hall and I hear the elevator doors close.

* * *

My mood shifts immediately once Alan is gone. The rooms feel empty again. I set the candles in the living room ablaze and sit there and stare at them. I wish Rene were here. I can fight the mess inside me when Rene is near, since her mess is so much more naked and real and absorbing. What am I going to do for two weeks without her?

By two in the afternoon, that spacey feeling has left me and I’m sick of reliving minute by minute my latest encounter with Alan. I am crawling the walls of the apartment. For some reason, Rene hasn’t called today. I hope everything is all right in DC. Jack hasn’t called. A good thing, because after all that’s gone on the past few days, behaving normally in our completely abnormal father-daughter fashion just isn’t in me today. And as I suspected, hoping Alan would come back was a very foolish thing.

A familiar anxiety, impulse and sadness whispers through me. I stare out through the terrace doors at the April day. Get out of the apartment, Chrissie. I pull on a sundress and a pair of white Keds, grab my book of Chekhov and shove it into my woven rope tote with the small snack I packed in the kitchen. From the back of a chair, I grab the throw. It’s a beautiful day. I’m only a few steps away from Central Park. Get out of the apartment now!

Outdoors is not a good ally to Chekhov. I discover this after twenty minutes sitting in the sun and finding myself still on the page I started. The good weather seems to have brought out all New Yorkers. The park is busy and crowded, with couples, children, dogs, bikes, and a group of young college age guys playing hacky sack. There are other people here alone, and yet New Yorkers seem to do the alone thing so much better than I do. They don’t look alone when they are alone.

Chomping on an apple, I watch the playful dance of hacky sack. It’s better than watching the couples when you are a single. As I set down my book, I catch from the corner of my eye one of the guys giving me a fast once-over. He’s cute, with dark wavy hair. Sort of looks like Alan, though no one looks like Alan. I lean back on one arm and watch him. I tilt my face toward the sun, closing my eyes. I look back at him.

He smiles. I smile. His friend punts the sack farther over, nearer to me, and then he begins to bounce it from ankle to ankle, inching closer to me. After thirty minutes of watching them, one of them has finally noticed me with interest. Rene would have had all ten of them sitting on the blanket with us in half a minute. But Rene is not here, so I have to make do with my less than stellar skills if I don’t want to spend the next two weeks in total silence.

The sudden enthusiasm of his movements tells me he’s trying to impress me. He loses the hacky sack and tumbles onto my blanket at my feet. He pushes up on an elbow and smiles. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

OK, so he’s not much of conversationalist. The way he says “hi” tells me he’s probably not the sharpest guy in the world, but this is weird. I’ve never lost the interest of a guy so quickly. One minute all smiles and stare, dropping at my feet, and now no smile..and his staring eyes shift ever so slightly.

My less-than-interested new friend looks up. “Aren’t you…”

“No, he died last year.”

I suddenly realize the shadow now covering my body is Alan standing over me. He came back like he said he would. I ignore the riot of my blood and my rapidly increasing heartbeat.

I make a face at Alan to cover my ridiculous pleasure at seeing him. “That’s not funny at all. You shouldn’t say things like that. Not even if you’re joking.”

Alan settles on the blanket beside me. Mr. Hacky Sack is still with us. My afternoon doldrums have instantly vanished, because I’m really glad Alan did look in on me and that he’s saving me from Mr. Hacky Sack who was a disappointment from word one.

I frown at him. “I thought you said you never do bullshit. That fib is a yellow card.”

Something in how he looks at me makes me shiver. “So you do remember parts of last night. This morning I wasn’t sure if you did.”

My face burns and my mind whirls. Why would Alan think I didn’t remember what happened last night? I wasn’t passed out drunk. Just sort of spacey and weird and not myself.

I bite my lip hard to stop my thoughts. I look at Alan. “Should we invite my new friend to stay for lunch?”

“Only if you think you have enough to go around.”

The heat rises in my cheeks like a burn. I wasn’t expecting that naughty comment.

Mr. Hacky Sack looks uncomfortable. He springs to his feet and makes a fast excuse.

Once we’re alone, Alan gives me a harsh, rebuking stare. “I thought I told you not to leave the apartment, and after Jimmy Stallworth I would have thought you’d figure out that you just don’t pick up any guy you meet in New York.”

I give him a frustrated glare. “What? Girls don’t date in New York? Where am I supposed to meet someone? Barney’s or Saks Fifth Avenue?”

He rolls his eyes and reclines back on his elbows next to me. “I think it’s safer for you to wait until you’re back in Santa Barbara to try to hook up with someone. You just don’t have that New York girl savvy and instinct.”

“How would you know? You don’t know anything about me.”

Smug, burning black eyes. “Jimmy Stallworth and Vince Carroll. A savvy girl would have run from both of them.”

I drop my gaze first because he made that point insultingly well. I still get nauseated when I think of Vince touching and kissing me. And I still haven’t processed that I was actually stupid enough to meet a New York drug dealer and help him crash a club to close a drug deal.

“I really hated leaving you today,” Alan says heavily.

I look up and my heart accelerates.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day.” Those penetrating black eyes lock on me. “I couldn’t stop worrying. How do you feel?”

I frown, more than a little irritated. “Why do you keep asking me that? It’s really getting on my nerves.”

He ignores the question.

I bite my lower lip and brace myself. “Why did you beat up Vince Carroll last night?”

If Alan has any reaction to that question I can’t see it. “Because he was stupid enough to let the tabloids get hold of you. He was supposed to quietly get you into the car.”

I frown. “That’s a severe response to a mistake, don’t you think?”

He starts to rummage in my bag. “Do you have aspirin in here? I have a terrible headache. I could really use two aspirin and about an hour’s sleep …Cheez-Its, Oreo cookies, Diet Coke...”

“Here, give me that!”

I grab my bag from him.

“Oreo cookies and Diet Coke. Really? I’ll never understand the logic of a girl.”

I hold out the bottle of aspirin and a Diet Coke. “I’ll have you know that Oreo cookies and Diet Coke are one of my favorite things.”

He downs about four tablets. “Why? It sounds repulsive.”

“I’ll have to show you. This is something you can only get by doing it.”

I take a cookie and hold it up to his mouth. He looks suspicious.

“The whole cookie. It only works if you do the whole cookie, and don’t break it and don’t swallow.”

That prompts a look that makes every cell in my body burn while I put the cookie in his mouth. My fingers touch his lips and that draws my eyes to his. This is so childish. Why am I doing this lame stunt with him?

“Now fill your mouth with Diet Coke.”

In a half second, it’s fizzing and I can hear it. I start to laugh.

He swallows, makes a face and I laugh harder. “God, you are amused by the strangest things.”

I ignore the jab. “Rene taught me that at ten.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Rene would definitely be amused by things that swell and fizz in your mouth.”

“Be nice.” I give him a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Why don’t you like Rene?”

“I’ve known lots of girls like Rene. The world is full of girls like Rene. You get sick of them after a while. I can’t figure out why you like her.”

He settles back down on the blanket and puts his head in my lap. The unexpected closeness hits me like a freight train. Such an intimate thing to do, violating personal space, and he does it so naturally.

“So what have you been doing all day?” I ask, trying not to sound completely flustered.

He closes his eyes. “An appointment with my lawyers. Lunch with Lillian, misery in every way. Seven interviews.”

Lillian? There is something in the way he says that name that tells me this person is important to him. “Who is Lillian?”

“My mother. Terrible mother. Marvelous agent.”

I feel absurd relief over learning that Lillian is just his mother.

Those black eyes focus on me. “Why are you laughing?”

I blush. “You sound more British than when you left this morning and I was wondering if that’s the aftereffect of having lunch with your mother.”

He rolls his eyes. “Have you decided what you are going to do, love? Are you staying in New York?”

“I think I’m staying. I want to be close if Rene needs me.”

“That’s a stupid reason for spending your vacation alone. Personally, I don’t think she’s worth it.”

A dozen sharp, defensive retorts about Rene fill my head, but for some reason I don’t say any of them. Perhaps, it’s because he sounds tired, halfway to sleep. I watch the slow softening of his features and stare at his lustrous, dark hair. I really want to touch that hair. I grab my book instead.

Ten minutes pass with me pretending to read before I realize that it’s just not going to happen. Chekhov in the sun was difficult enough. With Alan it’s impossible. Instead, I peek over my book and just watch him. Is he asleep? I can’t tell. He’s still. His breathing is quiet.

My hand refuses to obey my command. My fingers find his hair. The black strands are soft and they flutter through my fingers. I like the way his hair feels. What is it about a guy’s hair? It’s always softer. Probably because they don’t do so much to it.

A woman walking on the sidewalk smiles at us. A random smile from a New Yorker. Miracles never cease. I look at Alan. Two miracles in a single day. He did look in on me. I never expected that. And a woman smiling at me as though I were part of a couple instead of the dreaded single that I always seem to be. I wonder how we look together?

“If you don’t turn a page eventually, you will never finish that book.”

I still. His eyes are closed. How did he know I was reading? How did he know I haven’t turned the page?

“I can’t focus on this book. I hate it.”

His eyes shoot open. “Is that a recent problem?”

I frown. Jeez, another of those questions that seem like more than a question-question. I roll my eyes in frustration.

“I’ve been trying to read this book for three months. I will never finish it, only I have to before I return to Santa Barbara.”

“Why do you hate the book?”

I crinkle my nose. “It’s Chekhov. Everyone hates Chekhov. I picked it because it was short, which is completely stupid logic because long and enjoyable is better than short and yuck.”

Did I really just say that? Yep, I can tell by the shimmers in Alan’s eyes that I did. My cheeks burn.

Alan laughs in a lazy, loose way. “Yes, I can see how long and enjoyable would be preferable to a girl.”

I have no choice. I hit him with the book. “You are so obnoxious. Do you know that?”

He makes a contrite face and turns to look at the book cover. Those black eyes lock on me intensely. “Do you want me to help you with your short and yuck?”

Now the color has moved down my cheeks, across my neck to the swell of my breasts. Exactly what is he suggesting here?

“Can’t you ever just be nice?”

“I am being nice.”

His fingers snake through my hair. In the blink of an eye, everything about him, the way he looks at me, the way he touches can switch into a total turn-on.

“Do you want me to help you, Chrissie?”

I nod.

He looks at the page I’m on. He leans into me. “I suppose I am dreadfully guilty, but my thoughts are muddled, my soul is in the grip of a kind of apathy, and I am no longer able to understand myself. I don’t understand myself or other people...I should like to tell you everything from the beginning, but it’s a long story, and such a complicated one that if I talked till morning I couldn’t finish it...”

I let out a ragged breath. All that just to quote to me Chekhov. His theatrics are really starting to wear on me and I can tell he knows how effective they are. I’m certain it’s just a game he plays with girls, though I don’t know why he’s playing it with me. He could have had me last night, no effort, if he had wanted another notch for his bed.

I push him out of my lap. “Ha, ha, ha. And you got it wrong. You skipped a bunch.”

He sits up, with an adorable half-smile on his face. “I can quote it line by line. And I skipped for theatrical affect.”

“I’m yellow carding you. You can’t quote Chekhov line by line.”

“Pick another page.”

I do. And he begins to quote that damn book line by line, word for word, in that exquisite voice that could draw me into bed with him if he ever used it to do so.

I make a face when he’s done. “No, that was wrong. You missed a whole bunch of words.”

He holds out a hand. “I did not. I can quote line by line an eclectic collection of classic literature. It is what we did as a family instead of having conversation.”

For a moment, I stop to wonder if that’s true. I know nothing about his upbringing, where he is from beyond what his accent tells me. Strange, but there is never anything in print about Alan from before he was famous, his family or his history.

I shake my head. “You did it wrong.”

In a second, he’s wrestling me for the book and I’m doing a darn good job of keeping it away. What is this? A point of pride for him? And then, very quickly, without the slightest idea how it has happened, I’m lying beneath him on the blanket, and we are laughing.

It all happens so fast—one minute we’re laughing, and the next he is kissing me, from only mildly aware of me into completely into me. His lips are knowing and slow, the sweet gentleness so potent that it’s painful, and I feel my muscles inside clench violently. I moan into his mouth and he takes full advantage of the slight parting of my lips. The tongue that touches mine is dancing and erotic, all about sensation and drawing me into him.

Without breaking the kiss, he turns until he’s lying back on the blanket with me on top of him. His fingers move in a feather-like touch, up my neck, my jaw, my chin. I don’t care that we are in Central Park. I don’t care if people are watching. He’s pulling me into him and I am desperate to go there.

It all stops. He pushes away from me in the blink of an eye, leaving me hanging with my heart rate through the roof. Other than the aggravated hand he jerks through his black shoulder length hair, he looks calm, disinterested, and suddenly focused on something other than me.

He stands up and holds out his hand for me. “I’m tired of the park, Chrissie. We’re leaving.”

We are, are we? I sit up and hug my legs with my arms. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say, shaking my head in absolute frustration. I pick up my book and I struggle to keep my eyes from him.

“We’re not staying here,” he says and oddly his voice sounds mildly urgent. I glance up at him. Those burning back eyes lock on me and he lowers until we’re at eye level. “Let’s go to bed and be good to each other.”