A Dangerously Sexy Secret

He’d gone way too long without sex and now all the carnal thoughts had piled up like traffic on a highway. But a knocking sound snapped him out of the fog of arousal. He rinsed off the last of the soap suds and shut off the water. Another sharp knock rang through the apartment.

“Hang on!” he called out as he wrapped a soft gray towel around his waist, knotting it to conceal the still-raging erection he was sporting.

His wet feet skidded on the floorboards as he hurried to the door. Who on earth would be dropping by without calling first?

Grasping the knob, he pulled the door open and was greeted with the very object of his fantasies. Blondie.

There she was in all her golden glory, long hair tangling around her shoulders and spilling down her body. Eyes wide and blue and bright. It wasn’t until he saw the wad of blood-soaked tissue in her hands that he realized something was wrong.

2

“UH...HI,” HE SAID, his eyes darting down to her hands and widening.

Crap. This was really not how Wren had imagined their first conversation would go. Especially not after Debbie had gotten the idea of having sex into her head. But he was topless, and boy, oh boy, had her dreams failed to do his body justice. His muscles had muscles of their own, and the gray towel he’d knotted at his waist hid very little. A spark of arousal flared low in her belly.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, his eyebrows crinkled.

“Oh yes. I, uh...cut myself.” A nervous laugh bubbled up in her throat but she pushed it down. No need to do anything else to convince him that she had a screw loose. “I don’t have any bandages in my house and I was wondering—”

“Of course. Come in.” He held the door and let it swing shut behind her. “Let me grab my first-aid kit.”

“Thank you.” Only then did the throbbing pain start to push through her giddy state. “I’m sorry I interrupted your shower. I should have thought to buy some bandages at the grocery store today.”

But, as usual, she’d gone without a list. Or without any idea of what she needed or wanted to buy. Wren usually let the ingredients inspire her as she shopped—allowing her to make up her dinner menu on the fly—and that meant that important purchases like bandages and antiseptic lotions were often forgotten.

He pulled a small white tin down from the top of his refrigerator and opened it up. The inside was neat and tidy, like a perfect Tetris arrangement of adulthood. Band-Aids, antiseptic wipes, burn lotion, cotton balls and gauze bandages all neatly packed in a way that made her feel slightly inadequate.

“Show me.” He held out his hand and she gingerly removed the wadded-up kitchen towel.

Blood immediately pooled in the slice along her palm, trailing along the crease in her skin and rushing toward the edge of her hand. She dabbed at it, but the paper was soaked through.

“Let’s get that hand under some running water.” He led her to the bathroom sink, her skin sparking at the comforting way he touched her arm. “You’ve done a number on yourself. Thankfully, it doesn’t look too deep. You shouldn’t need stitches.”

He held her hand under the running tap, the blood washing over her fingers and staining the water pink before it swirled down the drain. In the confines of the small room—which mirrored her own except for the simple gray shower curtain that hung in place of her own chaotic rainbow version—he was incredibly close. The scent of soap on his skin filled her nostrils and made her giddy.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he pulled her hand out from under the water to inspect the cut. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

“No.” She shook her head. Thankfully, she could blame the wooziness on the blood—although the truth was it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She’d never been the squeamish sort. “I’m fine.”

Mr. 401 disappeared for a moment and returned with the necessary first-aid items. Within moments, she was patched up and almost as good as new.

“Thank you so much, uh...”

“Rhys.” He stuck out his hand and she shook it as best she could with her injury.

“Rhys,” she repeated, weighing the name in her mouth. It suited him—strong, masculine. Direct. “I’m Wren.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Wren.”

She inspected the expertly applied bandage. “You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

“I do a little downhill mountain biking. Cuts and scrapes come with the territory.” When he smiled Wren felt like she was staring directly into the sun.

“Well. I’m very grateful you’re so prepared.”

“You make me sound like a Boy Scout.” His honey-brown eyes twinkled.

Judging by the way her mouth had run dry and her heart galloped in her chest, Boy Scout was the last thing she would compare him to. Man Scout wasn’t a thing...was it?

“That doesn’t seem to fit you,” she said, shocking herself with the flirty tone that came out of her mouth. God, if she didn’t watch herself she’d be twirling her hair around her finger and batting her eyelashes like some giddy schoolgirl.

Get a grip, Livingston. He’s just a man...a hunky, incredibly well-defined, thrilling man.

He chuckled, the low sound rumbling deep as thunder. It made her skin tingle. “What gives you that impression?”

“Boy Scouts don’t usually have six-packs, do they?” Her tongue darted out involuntarily to moisten her lips.

What alien had taken over her body?

He didn’t seem in the least bit self-conscious of his near-naked state. Wren, on the other hand, might as well have been in her birthday suit for how exposed she felt. Funny, since the naked form appeared often in her artwork...but this didn’t compare with brushstrokes on a canvas. He was far too real, far too alight with sexual energy.

His eyes swept over her with a languid slowness, smoothing over her hips and breasts and hair. “No, I guess they don’t.”

“Can I offer you some dinner?” she blurted out. “I was making pizza when I cut myself and I’d like to thank you for coming to the rescue.”

“There’s no need to thank me. That’s what neighbors are for, right?”

At that moment she kind of hoped neighbors were for wild, hot, no-strings sex. “Please. I’m new and I’d love to have a friend in the building.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” He grinned and Wren was quite sure her panties were about to melt into a puddle at her feet. “I’d love to. Give me a few minutes to change and I’ll come over.”

“I’ll see you when you’re ready.” She returned his smile and headed back toward the front door, forcing herself not to bounce up and down with pent-up excitement.

It’s just a dinner, you goof. A friendly, neighborly meal between two adults. It doesn’t have to lead to orgasms.

But the throbbing between her legs would mark her a liar if she said she wasn’t already fantasizing about it. Rhys showed her out, his broad shoulders blocking the door frame as he waited for her to make it back inside her apartment. She risked a glance behind her as she stepped inside and he was still there, the heat in his gaze unmistakable.

A tremor ran through her, excitement and fear mixing in a strange, delicious medley of emotion. The fact that her body was reacting so strongly was a good sign. After what had happened in her hometown, the very thought of sex or nakedness had filled her with guilt and shame.

But now her blood was pumping through her veins hard and fast, her heart fluttering with anticipation. Tonight, she was going to shake off the past and have a little fun.

* * *

RHYS CONSIDERED HIMSELF a logical guy. Computers were his world and binary made him feel comfortable. Even the one-two pound of running appealed to his logical side. But right now a little part of him was enjoying the thrill of a situation outside his control.

And things could go wrong if he slept with Wren and it didn’t work out. They’d have to face each other in the hallway each day, making politely awkward small talk. There’d be guaranteed cringe-worthy moments if either one of them ever brought a date home and the other happened to see. The old Italian lady in 403 was also a huge gossip. Plus, there was a possibility that they wouldn’t be compatible in the bedroom.

“Who are you kidding, man?” he muttered to himself as he whipped off his towel and proceeded to get dressed. “There’s no way you have chemistry like that without it transferring to the bedroom.”

And, if his still-aching erection was anything to go on, his body wholeheartedly agreed. Besides, the only way he’d ever have the chance of finding the right woman was if he actually went on dates. And dinner counted as a date...didn’t it?

He pulled a fresh T-shirt over his head and fished out a pair of black boxer briefs from his bedside drawer. By the time he’d added jeans and sneakers to the mix, he’d also decided to take a bottle of wine with him.

When he knocked on her door, a thrill ran through him at the thought of seeing her again. Reality didn’t disappoint. She opened the door with a flourish and a tinkling laugh. Long blond waves tumbled over one shoulder, and she’d thrown an apron over her white tank and floor-length flowy skirt.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said, gesturing with a pair of tongs like a grand magician. “It’s a little sparse at the moment. But I can assure you my pizza will make up for it.”

“I have no doubt.” He stepped in and took in the surroundings, placing the wine down on the kitchen counter as she grabbed two glasses.

She hadn’t been kidding about it being sparse. Other than a small table with two chairs, a battered couch and an overturned cardboard box acting as a coffee table, the room was empty. He’d expected to at least see boxes with her belongings dotted around, but there wasn’t a single one in sight.

“It’s very...minimalist,” Wren said. She poured the wine and handed him a glass, holding her own out so they could clink them together.

The wine was good, not too sweet and not too dry. The flavor danced on his tongue, and he wondered what it would taste like on her lips. Her tongue. The fantasy rushed up, tracking along his muscles until his whole body felt coiled and tight.

This is what happens when you leave it too long between drinks.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying,” she said. “So I didn’t want to waste money on getting lots of furniture.”

Disappointment stabbed at him, but he brushed the feeling aside. There was no sense worrying about the future of their relationship when they hadn’t even had one meal together. “Not sure if you’re a fan of New York yet?”

“It’s more that I’m not a fan of long-term decisions.”

He cleared his throat. “Where did you move from?”

“Somewhere you’ve probably never heard of.” She stuck the tongs in a large silver bowl filled with a colorful salad. “I’m a small-town girl.”

“Living in a lonely world?” he quipped.

She grinned. “I appreciate a man who knows his Journey lyrics. Sadly, my life is far less fabulous than the song would have you believe.”

“Is that why you moved to New York?” He leaned against the counter and inhaled the aromas of their dinner. Fresh basil, melting cheese, a hint of something spicy.

“I’m here for work.” Her answer was carefully worded. Guarded. “But it’s not a permanent position, which suits me fine.”

Message received, loud and clear.

But he still wanted to get to know her better, even with her line in the sand. Perhaps “not permanent” was exactly what he needed right now. No pressure, no expectations. Like a dry run for reentering the dating world.

He could always come back to his life plan later.

“Are you a New York native?” she asked.

“I moved from Connecticut a few years ago. I’ve always wanted to live here, enjoy the bright lights and all that.”

“Do you like it?” She whisked the salad dressing in a bowl, then plucked a teaspoon from a drawer to do a taste test.

“I do. Especially when I have such interesting neighbors.”

She smiled, her cheeks flushing a vibrant shade of rose pink. “You mean clumsy neighbors who can’t figure out how to slice an avocado without hurting themselves?”

“Same, same.”

She moved about the kitchen with ease, her long skirt swirling around her feet with each dance-like step. There was an airiness to her, a whimsy that was so different from the serious women he was usually attracted to. She bent to open the oven and heat wafted up into the air, carrying with it the scent of her cooking.

“That smells incredible.” His mouth was already watering, and he’d had some of the best pizza in all of New York. “Don’t tell me you’re a professional chef.”

“No, just an amateur one. But I did make the base from scratch.” She slid on an oven mitt and pulled out the tray containing their dinner. “I really enjoy cooking. It relaxes me...well, when I’m not cutting myself.”

“Tell me that doesn’t happen too often.”

“Thankfully it is a rare occurrence.” She placed the tray down on the stove and Rhys could see she was relying on her uninjured hand to hold the weight.

“Do you need a hand slicing it up?”

“No, I’ll be fine. If you could take the wine to the table, that would be great.”

Moments later they were seated, steaming slices of pizza resting on large white plates in front of them. But the way Wren looked at him made him hungry for something else. A sensual smile curved on her lips.

“Eat up,” she said, gesturing with her hands. “It’s best when it’s hot.”

“I like it hot,” he said, picking up the slice and blowing at the steam shimmering off the pizza’s surface.

“I can see that.”

“Are you flirting with me?” He bit into the pizza and moaned as the hot, cheesy goodness hit his tongue.

“What if I was?” She took a bite of her slice and flicked her tongue out to catch a stray droplet of sauce. “Are you open to a little neighborly flirting?”

She folded both of her feet under her so that she sat cross-legged on top of the chair, tangling the frothy layers of her skirt around her legs. Realizing that she was still wearing her apron, she reached behind herself and untied it. As she pulled the apron over her head, her tank top rode up, revealing a slice of lightly tanned skin and smooth, flat belly.

She scrambled to tug the fabric back down, her cheeks flushing, but Rhys carried on the conversation, pretending he hadn’t almost choked on his pizza. “Flirting is fine by me. In fact, I’ve been looking for someone to practice my flirting skills on.”

“Is that so?” She reached for her wine. “Are you a little rusty?”

“That’s for you to judge.”

“Go on, hit me with your best pickup line.” Her eyes sparkled and a smile twitched on her lips.

This was about to go downhill. Fast. Pickup lines weren’t really his style. In fact, he excelled at meeting women in unconventional ways...like having them turn up at his apartment, bleeding.

He shook his head, laughing, as he took another bite out of his pizza. “I prefer a more casual approach.”

She planted her fists on her waist and flapped her elbows up and down. “Buck, buck, buck.”

“You did not just call me chicken.” Damn, the girl had sass.

“Let me hear your line, then.” She grinned.

“Oh, you’re on.” He reached his arms above his head, making a show of stretching his neck from side to side. Her eyes skated over him, wide and stormy. “I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”

“No!” She roared, throwing her head back and letting out a burst of laughter that was belly deep and totally disarming. Totally and richly at odds with the rest of her dainty, fairylike appearance. “That’s terrible.”

“Are you a fruit, because honeydew you know how fine you look right now?”

She gasped. “I didn’t think it could get worse—”

“Are you a parking ticket? ’Cause you’ve got fine written all over you.”

“Please.” She held up a hand, her shoulders heaving as laughter spilled out of her. The sound warmed him from the inside out. “Stop.”

“Your body is sixty-five percent water and I’m thirsty.” He pretended to brush the dirt off his shoulders. “I could go all night.”

“Okay, okay. You win.” She clapped her hands together and bowed. “You are the king of the worst pickup lines I have ever had the misfortune of hearing.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Fair. I promise to listen to you next time.” She drained the rest of her wine and immediately topped them both up. “I’m curious now. How do you usually pick up women?”

“I’m a bit out of practice.” He figured honesty was the best policy. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about the sad state of his love life right now.

“Me, too.” She nodded to herself. “Looks like we’re in the same boat.”

Over the course of the next hour they finished the whole pizza and made a start on another bottle of wine. A delicious and languid feeling spread through him, loosening his limbs and his tongue. Maybe it was her incredible cooking, the good drink or some combination, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as connected to another person as he did with Wren.

She unwound her legs and untangled her skirt, stretching her arms back and thrusting her breasts forward. His mouth watered as the fabric stretched, making it sheer enough that he could see the shadow of her nipples through the fabric.

Nope, that woman did not need to wear a bra at all.

* * *

“THANKS FOR SHARING the pizza with me,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I get a little excited when I cook and I always end up with way too much.”

“I’m open to helping you deal with any leftovers that might come up.” Rhys flashed another pearly white smile and Wren wondered how many times that smile had drawn women to him. “But let me at least do the dishes.”

“No way. You saved me from bleeding all over the building, trying to find bandages.” She held up a hand. “Dinner was my treat. The dishes can wait.”

“Well, thank you. It was delicious. You sure you’re really not a chef?”

“No, I’m an artist.” The words slipped out and brought with them an immediate sense of guilt. “Well, what I mean to say is that I work in a gallery.”

“That’s not what you said.” His dark eyes scanned her face, curiosity obviously piqued. “You called yourself an artist.”

Shit. She’d been so desperate to have that title for so many years that clearly the idea still floated around in her brain like a piece of flotsam waiting to trip her up. Being an artist was no longer her dream. And after she finished using her art as a cover to find out what happened to Kylie, it would be out of her life for good.

“I dabble,” she said eventually, waving a hand as if to dismiss the idea.

“What sort of art?”

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Painting.”

“I’m always fascinated by artists. I look at a painting and have no clue how the inspiration would have come to them, or how they would even know where to start.” He shook his head in wonderment and it was like a knife twisting in her chest.

Years of her life had been devoted to the inspiration that had clogged her head. More years had been spent perfecting her technique, channeling her passion. Years that were now a total waste.

“What do you do?” she asked, desperate to steer the conversation away from the part of her life she wanted to leave behind.

“I’m in IT for a security company. It’s like getting to solve a giant puzzle every day.” He laughed. “Nerdy but true.”

“People keep telling me that nerds will rule the world one day, if they don’t already.”

“I guess you could say that.” Darkness flickered across his face before the smile returned, bringing a cheeky glint to his eye. “I don’t suppose you want to show me any of your paintings? If they’re half as good as your pizza, I’m betting you’ll be the next Picasso.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, knotting her hands in her lap.

“About being Picasso or about showing me your work?”

Part of her balked at the idea of showing him her art—of showing anyone her art—but his face was totally earnest. His interest in her work appeared genuine, and besides, what harm could it do?

This is New York, not some tiny hick town that thinks a woman’s body is a product of the devil.

“I’m no Picasso, let’s be clear about that.” She pushed up from her chair and motioned for him to follow. “Come on, my work space is through here.”

Rhys’s presence filled the air around her as they walked, his steps mirroring her own. He said nothing as she pushed open the door to her bedroom. Her mattress rested on the floor since she hadn’t bought a bed frame yet. The quilt she’d been using as her duvet was draped over it, creating a white puddle of fabric around the edges of the mattress.

Early evening light filtered into the room, highlighting the stack of canvases that she’d leaned against the wall. She’d brought ten in total. Eight complete and two works in progress—though she hadn’t touched a brush to them in over six months.

The canvases had been a requirement for the portfolio portion of her interview at Ainslie Ave, the gallery where she now worked as an assistant and acted as a mentee slash intern to Sean Ainslie himself.

“These are just experiments,” she said, reaching for the first two in the stack. One was a vivid fall landscape and the other depicted a young student hunched over a writing desk. She’d modelled the girl on her sister, painting her long blond locks in wild swirling strokes, mimicking the fury of the student’s pen scratching across paper. “They’re nothing special.”

“Do you really think that?” His eyes never left the paintings. They darted and scanned as though he was committing the images to memory. She watched for some sign of judgment, but he simply stared at the paintings in a way that felt fiercely intimate.

And terrifying.

“This one was from my abstract phase,” she said, brushing off his question. The third canvas was a garden, but to the untrained eye the angular swipes of green paint could be anything at all.

A swamp monster, perhaps.

“And this one was a gift for my mom.”

Her mother had a thing for roses and her garden back home was filled with them. Wren had painted her a small canvas for their guest room. It showed a single American Beauty bloom, just like the flower that had won her mother first place in the county fair a few years back. It’d hung on the wall until Wren had sneaked it out one night after “the incident.” Nobody seemed to have noticed its absence.

“You’re very talented,” Rhys said, his gaze finally traveling back to her. “You’ve been blessed with some creative hands.”

“I’m sure my parents would rather I’d been blessed with a head for numbers.” The words came out stinging with truth. “My sister is going to be a doctor, so by comparison art is probably not the job they would have chosen for me.”

“But you’re working in a gallery, too?”

Wren dropped down onto the floor and sat cross-legged. After a moment, Rhys followed her. The rest of her canvases sat against the wall, facing away from them like a group of children who’d been sent to the naughty corner.

“Yeah, I’m an assistant for an artist who has his own gallery. I organize his appointments and manage his calendar. I also greet people who come to meet him at the gallery.” She toyed with the end of her long silk skirt, twisting the fabric around on itself. “Then I get to paint in his studio and he gives me critiques and tips. Plus, I learn about how the gallery is run and get to watch him with potential buyers. Stuff like that.”

“And you think you’re not an artist,” Rhys scoffed.

Con artist, maybe.

“It sounds weird to call myself that.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s a leftover doubt from my family always nagging me to get a real job and work in an office. Like you.”

“Working in an office does not mean you’ve made it in life.” He leaned back on his forearms and surveyed the room. “Trust me.”