Daring in the Dark

She tugged at her shorts. She’d skipped her run this morning and she felt it in their snug fit. Some women were blessed with svelte, slender bodies that actually fit into sylphlike fashions. She, however, didn’t belong to that club. She’d learned long ago that eating half of what was on her plate and exercising every day was the only thing that kept her from resembling the Pillsbury Doughboy in drag. Petite and curvy all too easily slid into short and fat.

Tawny made the mistake of double-checking her behind in the mirror while she sang about him killing her softly with his song. Ugh. It was still there…all of it and then some. Elliott was right. The last time they were in bed, he’d mentioned that her butt had gotten bigger. Not exactly what she’d wanted to hear, but she supposed the truth sometimes hurt.

She’d seriously considered having her ass liposuctioned with her last bonus, but what if those fat cells relocated to her thighs or some other equally heinous body destination? Unwilling to risk fat-cell transference, she did an extra set of butt-killing donkey lifts every other day. And from the looks of things, it was time to make that a daily habit.

An outraged yowl in the other room diverted her attention from the shortcomings—or rather the over-abundance—of her behind. She went into the kitchen and dumped a measure of cat food into the empty bowl by the refrigerator.

“Uh-huh. You’re as close to wasting away as I am.” She laughed and snatched Peaches up for a quick hug before he squirmed out of her arms. “But I understand. I’m hungry, too.” She put him down in front of his food bowl.

Peaches, a five-year-old declawed Maine coon abandoned by his former owner and promptly rescued from the animal shelter on his last day before the big E—as in euthanasia—in no way resembled a peach in either coloring, countenance, or personality. However, Tawny had named him that because it reminded her of her Georgia roots without bringing home too close. Which probably made no sense to the rest of the world but perfect sense to Tawny.

One might reckon that Peaches would be grateful to have been snatched from the jaws of certain death and appropriately fawn over his savior. One would be wrong. It had been Peaches’s arrogance in the face of his impending demise that had stolen Tawny’s heart and sealed the feline’s fate.

The sound of the buzzer reverberated through the apartment and Tawny’s heart thudded in her chest. Simon and Elliott. The idea of coming face-to-face with Simon had tormented her all afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since he’d begun to invade her dreams, and subsequently her body, in a most satisfying, but totally disquieting, manner.

She swallowed and turned the radio down on her way to the door. Peering through the peephole, her heart hammered even harder as Simon’s lean face stared—not at the door but down the hall, as if he’d actually prefer to be anywhere rather than outside her apartment.

On the radio Etta James crooned in a low, sultry voice, about her love coming along at last and the end of her lonely days, which did nothing to dispel Tawny’s nervousness and the sexual anticipation curling through her.

She mentally slapped herself around. Get a grip. So in her dreams she’d had wild monkey sex with Simon. By no stretch of her overactive, oversexed imagination was he her own true love coming along.

She squared her shoulders, pasted on her best loaded-with-Southern-charm smile, slipped the locks and opened her door. “Hi, Simon.”

“Hullo, Tawny.” It was wickedly unfair the way his voice, with its hint of British accent, revved her engine. That was one thing about her dreams—he always talked to her during sex and it always turned her on. This was no dream, but she’d been conditioned and felt a familiar heat stir within her.

She looked past him. “Where’s Elliott?”

“I had a shoot today so we came separately,” he said without a glimmer of a smile in the depth of his dark eyes.

Tawny stepped aside. “Come in.”

His dark hair, cut close and combed back, lent his lean face an ascetic look. She felt his body heat as he stepped past her into the room, his camera equipment slung over his shoulder. This was much worse than she’d anticipated, far more potent than any dream. His clean, subtle scent teased her. In her dreams his scent didn’t entice her as it did now. She caught her breath and strove for a light tone.

“How was your photo shoot?”

“Fine. It went quick. I’ve shot Chloe before,” Simon said.

The name evoked an image of a tall, thin, beautiful model. Tawny didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse at hating the unknown, unsuspecting Chloe—that was the price paid by thin, beautiful women without an ass the size of a principality.

A few weeks ago, after their engagement, Simon had photographed Tawny at Elliott’s request. Elliott possessed an eye for art, but he wasn’t an artist. Simon, however, was a genius with a camera. She wasn’t a professional model and it had taken an entire day of Simon working with her, cajoling her, but her photographs had been fantastic. She’d seen herself in a different way. She’d seen strength, but also a sensual vulnerability.

He’d been patient and almost charming, as if when he got behind the camera he forgot himself or perhaps he could truly be himself.

During the shoot, she’d thought she’d finally reached Elliott’s best friend, won him over. It had been a magical day. But then afterward he’d retreated even further behind a wall, cooler and more aloof than ever. Mercifully their paths hadn’t crossed since.

Except at night. In her bed. In her dreams. The night following the photo shoot she’d dreamed of erotic, explicit sex with Simon. And every night since. Now the object of her writhing lust stood in her apartment, having spent the day photographing some skinny model. Tawny bit back a bitchy comment.

“I haven’t seen you to tell you I thought the photos you took of me were great. Not that I’m great, but the photos were. You’re very good at what you do.” Whoa. Instant image of him bringing her to orgasm in her dream. “I mean, you’re good with your camera.” She closed the door. Tawny, honey, find a brain cell and grab on to it. She sounded like a dithering idiot.

“You’re very photogenic. You have a great smile and good bone structure,” he said.

He spoke very matter-of-factly. He could’ve been discussing the weather. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to pound as if he’d just claimed her beauty equal to that of the legendary Helen of Troy. She felt as gauche as she had when she’d been a third-grader and Henry Turner had pulled her braids. Except she’d liked Henry Turner. And while she might have toe-curling dreams about Simon, she wasn’t altogether sure that she liked him.

“Thank you. Your equipment should be safe here.” She indicated a spot between the door and the antique cupboard to the right. Hauling that monstrosity up when she’d moved last year had been a party. “Would you like a drink while we’re waiting on Elliott? Red wine?”

Simon placed his camera and equipment on the floor next to the cupboard with more care and consideration than many mothers with babies. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Absolutely.”

Earth to Tawny. She should stop admiring the way his black T-shirt hugged his shoulders and the lean line of his back. She should also stop eyeing the fit of his jeans over his very fine—make that extra fine—ass.

He stood, pivoting to face her in one fluid movement. He arched a questioning brow. “Need any help?”

Don’t mind me. I was just checking out your eye candy. “No. Going right now.” She indicated the sofa with a flick of her wrist. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

She fled the room, silently urging Elliott to arrive soon. Those dreams were seriously messing with her head. She’d felt as if his gaze, hot and consuming, had licked across her shoulders bared by her halter top and across her buttocks snugged into her shorts.

She leaned against the counter and dragged in a calming breath, dismissing her ridiculous notions. Simon had been his usual remote self since he’d arrived. The only heat she’d felt from him had been a product of her own twisted, overactive, inappropriate imagination.

She reached past Peaches to the small wine rack atop the fridge and pulled out a bottle of cabernet. Peaches, who spent most of his time on top of the refrigerator, offered her a lazy slit-eyed look.

Tawny uncorked the bottle. “You know, normal cats curl up on a bed or in the corner of the sofa or drape themselves across a chair back. Why do you camp out on top of the refrigerator?”

Of course, the cat didn’t deign to answer. Tawny pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet. She personally thought Peaches liked to render himself inaccessible. And what did it say about her that she loved that damn cat? “Don’t mind me. I’m leaving now.”

She went back into the den.

Simon sat on her purple chenille sofa studying the room. Self-consciousness surged through her, knowing he was seeing her personal space through the eyes of an artist. Her taste tended toward eclectic. She favored reproduction art, the occasional antique and furniture more comfortable than stylish.

She placed the wine and glasses on the bamboo chest that doubled as a coffee table. Simon focused his attention on her, and she wished contrarily that he was eying her apartment once again instead. The glow from a stained-glass floor lamp at the corner of the sofa backlit him. Dark hair, dark slashing eyebrows above dark eyes, unsmiling visage, black T-shirt and jeans. He was a dark angel come to torment her.

His eyes snared her. The room shrank to just the few feet separating them. If this was one of her dreams, she’d join him on the couch, where she’d nibble and lick her way past his perpetual reserve until they were both getting naked….

“Do you need any help?” he asked.

“Thanks, I’ve got it.” Don’t mind me while I stand here like some whacked-out nympho and fantasize about taking your clothes off while we wait on Elliott to show up. She disgusted herself. “Glass of wine coming right up.”

She managed to pour two glasses. She handed him one, taking care not to touch him in the exchange.

“Were you talking to someone in the kitchen?” he asked. Surely that wasn’t amusement lurking in the austere Simon’s eyes.

She sat in the armchair on her side of the coffee table, the farthermost point away from him in the confines of her tiny den. Avoiding even the most casual physical contact seemed a good plan. “My cat.”

“And does it talk back?”

Whaddaya know? Simon actually owned a sense of humor. “No. He’s a typical male. Selective hearing. He only talks if it concerns his empty belly. Or the remote.”

“My kind of cat.” Simon’s spontaneous grin did crazy things to her insides. He silently held his glass up in a toast and then sipped.

His fingers, long and lean, wrapped around the glass stem and reminded her of her afternoon dream and where his fingers had been then.

Simply thinking about it left her wet and wanton again. Great. She’d sit here across from him, drinking wine, waiting on her future husband to show up, and wind up with a wet spot. Stop. She would not sit around fantasizing about this man. It was wrong. Guilt churned in her gut. Thinking about Simon turned her on faster and hotter than Elliott’s actual touch.

She only had to make it through the evening. A few short hours. And next week she was signing up for therapy. Alison, one of the executive secretaries, saw a therapist weekly. First thing Monday morning she’d ask Alison for a referral. This thing for Simon was getting out of hand. God knows what would happen if he’d offered a smidgen of interest or encouragement. What kind of woman ran around in perpetual lust for her fiancé’s best friend? And it had actually started her thinking, quite hard, as to exactly how she felt about Elliott and whether marrying him was such a good idea. She and Elliott were good together. They got along well. They had fun. But it was nothing like the dark passion with Simon that haunted her dreams. Toss in a vague sense of discontent with her bedroom time with Elliott….

Did she break it off with someone based on hot dreams about someone else? Which came first? Her discontent with Elliott or this dark sexual attraction to Simon? Was she truly attracted or just scared of commitment? Definitely time for a therapist.

“Good wine. Thanks,” Simon said.

“Sure.” Nervous, she swigged her wine instead of sipping and promptly choked. Then choked some more. Dammit, she couldn’t catch her breath.

Simon skirted the chest and took her wineglass from her. He knelt down and, as if conditioned by her dreams, she automatically spread her legs to accommodate him. He grabbed her shoulders. “Can you breathe? Nod your head.”

She nodded yes. But he didn’t take his hands from her bare skin. Finally the choking fit ended. She was left with him kneeling between her thighs, his fingers curled around the curves of her shoulders, her face hot with humiliation, her body hotter still at his proximity.

“I’m…fine,” she said, her voice wavering. Not from her choking spell but from his touch, the brush of his body against her bare legs. The reality of his touch was a thousand times more potent than a mere dream. Did his hand tremble against her shoulder or was it her own reaction?

Simon released her and stood abruptly. Still between her legs, he looked down at her. “You might want to save the chugging for Kool-Aid or beer,” he drawled. He turned on his heel and picked up his own wineglass to sit once again on the sofa.

Bite me. Tawny hated him at that moment. How could he be so concerned and considerate one minute and then snide and nasty the next? She ignored his comment and focused instead on Elliott. She glanced at her watch. Almost nine-fifteen.

“Elliott should be here soon. I hope so. I’m starving,” she said. Yeah. Simon had just spent the day photographing one of the skin-’n’-bones set and she’d just presented her well-padded ass as starving. “Well, not starving, obviously, but hungry.” She simply couldn’t say or do anything right in front of him.

And then it didn’t matter because she wasn’t in front of Simon. She was in utter pitch-black darkness and sudden silence.

“What the hell?” Simon said.

Her sentiments exactly.

“SIMON?” PANIC FILLED HER voice.

“I’m right here,” he said. He stood, blind in the dark. He bumped his shins against the chest. Cautiously he put his wineglass down.

Damn good thing he did because Tawny grabbed onto his arm, startling him, the uncustomary tremor in her voice reflected in her fingers. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a thing about the dark.”

Moving slowly, he felt his way around the furniture until he reached her side. He’d never experienced such absolute darkness. He couldn’t see her, but he felt her body heat, smelled her perfume, felt her energy pulsing in her hand on his arm, heard the soft pant of her panic. “A thing?”

“Yeah, I don’t like it worth a damn.” Her laugh verged on pathetic and tugged at his heartstrings. As if everything she did didn’t tug at them. “Curiosity got the better of me and I managed to lock myself in a closet for a couple of hours when I was four. I was terrified. Ever since, the dark freaks me out.”

She laughed again, and if he hadn’t been so tuned in to the nuances of her voice, he might’ve missed the nervousness still lurking behind it. Against his better judgment—touching her, as he’d found a few minutes ago, was definitely bad judgment—he caught her hand in his. “It’s okay. I’m here. Does your building lose power often?”

“Twice before. But it was always during the day.” Her voice sounded surer, less panicked, and her hand was steadier. She tried to pull her hand from his. “I’m fine now.”

Her slight breathlessness gave her away. She wasn’t fine, but she was doing her best to give that impression. He fought the urge to pull her closer, wrap his arms around her soft vulnerability and reassure her everything was okay. Instead he contented himself with clasping her hand tighter. “Well, I’m not. I’m blind as a bloody bat in here. Where’s your flashlight?” he asked.

She turned into him and her cheek brushed against his shoulder, setting his heart racing. It was agony to be so close to her, touch her, smell her.

“I don’t have one. It got broken when I moved and I keep forgetting to replace it.” Her breath feathered against his neck and her hair teased along his jaw.

“Okay. No flashlight. Move on to plan B. Where’s a window?”

Her fingers curled around his. “My bedroom. There’s one in the bathroom, but it’s small.”

“Okay. Lead on to your bedroom.” Despite the dark, he closed his eyes when he spoke. Under different circumstances…

“This way.” She tugged him by the hand and within seconds he ran into something hard.

“Ow. Damn.” Obviously the wall.

“Sorry,” she apologized, her disembodied voice beside him.

He rolled his shoulder. “I take it you didn’t hit the wall.”

“No. I’m in the doorway.”

Brilliant. She was laughing at him. Actually banging into walls was rather funny but hard on the shoulder.

“Walking beside you isn’t going to work. I’ll walk behind you.” He braced his hands on her bare shoulders. In the dark he could well imagine her naked. Correction. It was as if she was naked, the way he’d imagined her so many times before. Her shoulders were soft, her skin like warm, supple suede. Her scent surrounded him, seduced him. He ached to pull her back into him, to lower his head and kiss the delicate skin at the back of her neck, shower kisses along the curve of her shoulder. He wanted to absorb her heat, her taste, her.

Longing pierced his very soul. To have her in his arms but still out of reach was cruel beyond measure. Just one taste of her… He leaned forward and she swayed ever so slightly back into him, tensing beneath his fingertips. Wisps of hair brushed his face. What the hell was he doing? He jerked his head back.

“Simon?” The husky way she said his name always curled heat through him.

“Give me a second to get my bearings.” Clothes. He needed to touch clothes. “How about this?” He grasped her full, round hips just below the curve of her waist, the same way he would if they were dancing in a conga line. Yeah, or having sex from behind.

“That’s fine.” Her voice sounded strained. Or maybe it was just him. This proximity had him near daft.

“Okay. Lead the way.” Sod it if he sounded harsh. Better she think him rude than randy.

He walked behind her, keeping a firm grip on her hips, trying to ignore the sweet sway beneath his fingertips. Wouldn’t she be impressed? While she fought off a panic attack, he was getting a stiffy from merely touching her and inhaling her scent with every breath he took.

In the room behind them Tawny’s cell phone rang. She hesitated, tensing, turning slightly in the direction of the ring. Simon tightened his hold on her. “Just keep going. We don’t have a chance of getting to it before it goes to voice mail. Not to mention banging the hell out of us along the way.”

They resumed their dark journey. Almost immediately Simon’s cell vibrated at his side. “Hold on. Someone’s ringing me.” He plucked his cell off his side and flipped it open one-handed, keeping the other hand on her hip. “Thackeray here.”

“Simon, are you with Tawny?” Elliott asked without preamble.

“Yes. She’s right here.”

“I just tried to call her and she didn’t answer.” Elliott’s voice held a petulant note.

“It’s pitch-black in her apartment. She couldn’t get to it in time. Where are you?” Bugger, Elliott. He should be the one here with his hand on Tawny’s hip, tortured by the feel of soft flesh and her womanly scent. Except it wouldn’t be torture for Elliott because she wasn’t off-limits to him.

“I’m at the gallery. We don’t have any lights either.”

“Why are you there? What’s going on?”

“I don’t think we’re under siege, if that’s what you mean. I think it’s one of those blackouts like we had a couple of years ago. I was running late. Richard and I had a few things to iron out and then everything shut down.”

Simon welcomed the dark. Tawny couldn’t see the expression on his face. He didn’t give a farthing about Richard and Elliott’s details, but if Elliott had been here with take-out Thai as arranged, then Simon wouldn’t be holding on to Tawny in the dark. Alone. Tempted nearly beyond measure.

“Excellent. How long do you think it’ll take you to get here?” Simon asked, deliberately keeping his voice neutral.

“We’re locked in. When the electrical system is compromised, the security system goes into total lockdown.”

This was getting better and better. “You’re locked in at the gallery?”

“That’s it in a nutshell.” Simon heard the murmur of another man’s voice in the background followed by Elliott’s breathless laughter. “Listen, you don’t have to stay with Tawny. I’m sure she’ll be okay.”

Hot anger lanced him at Elliott’s careless, cavalier regard for Tawny. This afternoon he’d been annoyed with Elliott. Now Simon was furious with his friend. Did he not know or simply not care that the woman who met life head-on was terrified of the dark while he was cozied up with his new lover? What the hell had he been doing hanging out with Richard instead of meeting at Tawny’s the way he’d set it up? Where did Elliott get off taking that proprietorial tone when he told Simon he didn’t have to stay? And there was no way he could say any of that to Elliott with Tawny listening.

“Of course, I’ll stay with her until the power’s back on. I wouldn’t dream of leaving her alone.”

She moved closer to him, and without thinking he tightened his hand on her hip. They’d both shifted during his phone call and now her left hip nudged his, his hand was still on her other hip, his arm wrapped around the curve of her back. This was bad—very, very bad. How long would he be trapped in this apartment with this woman who drove him crazy? Who touched him somewhere deep inside? Who seemed to slip past every barrier he’d ever erected? His body thought it brilliant, his mind recognized it as a big mistake.

“No. I said you don’t need to stay,” Elliott snapped.

What the hell? Simon didn’t want Tawny to know Elliott was so bloody self-absorbed that he’d have Simon leave her alone in a blackout. Better that his selfish friend appear the considerate fiancé he should be than wound her with the truth. “Don’t give it another thought. I won’t leave until the electricity’s restored.”

“Whatever. Go ahead and play Sir Galahad.” Elliott, the bastard, actually sounded peevish.

Simon hung up on him and put the phone back on his hip. “That was Elliott. He’s fine. He thinks this is a blackout. He’s stuck at the gallery with the acrylics painter. In the event of an electrical failure, the security system locks down.”

“Apparently Elliott asked you to stay. You don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be fine.”

Piss it all. This was a fine conundrum. He’d never wanted to leave a place more in his life, to flee the hounds of hell nipping at his feet—those beasts of longing and desire that made it nearly unbearable to be in her presence. On the other hand, he didn’t think she relished being abandoned during a blackout and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her alone. He knew it had been sheer terror and a gut response when she’d clenched his hand earlier but now she didn’t want to be an obligation.

“I know I don’t have to stay, but I’d rather not have to make my way home without benefit of the subway. Do you mind if I stay until the power’s restored?”

“Not at all. I’d like for you to stay if you want to.”

He tried to lighten the moment. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me until then.” Please let it be sooner than later.

Her laughter sounded more relaxed and he knew he’d done the right thing. “Okay. Looks like we’re stuck with one another.”

He wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, but in that moment…she moved…he moved…in the inky black, and his hand closed over her breast. For several stunned moments he could only stand there, his hand wrapped around her soft breast, her nipple stabbing against his palm through her shirt material.