Sensual Secrets
Автор
Jo Leigh
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1
SOMETHING SHIFTED IN THE AIR. It wasn’t a scent; the front door to the cyber café hadn’t been opened. In fact, no breeze stirred. But she felt it, all right. Electrical. Sharp. The moment before lightning strikes. Yes.
Amelia Edwards’s gaze moved surreptitiously to her right. David, who was in her poli-sci class at NYU, felt it, too. His shoulders, usually slumped forward in a perpetual hunch, had straightened. He ran a nervous hand through unruly dark hair.
She looked past David to a girl she’d seen several times before. Another student, if her backpack was any indication. Blond. Really pretty. Nibbling on her lower lip, thrusting out her chest, gaze darting to the door.
Everyone felt it. Not just Amelia. There was no law of physics to explain it. It was an X-file, a phenomenon, a mystery wrapped in an enigma. But she knew what it meant.
He was coming.
His name was Jay Wagner, and he owned the Harley shop next door. Slightly older than her—maybe twenty-six or-seven. Tall, with dark wavy hair that was a bit too long, and the most intense brown eyes she’d ever seen. When he walked into the room, everything else faded to shadow. Time slowed….
The wicked thoughts began.
Amelia’s hand went to her hair—the top, the sides—checking for who knows what. A quick swipe of her lips with the tip of her tongue, a tug on her skirt.
Brian, the owner of the café, started a CD. Stevie Ray Vaughn.
Her gaze flew to the door seconds before it opened.
He had on his leather jacket. Black. Black jeans, white T-shirt, black boots. Shades that hid his eyes completely. That made her think of secrets.
She guessed him to be around six-two. Lean, wiry, but strong. His hands fascinated her, with their elegant fingers and flexing tendons.
He let the door close behind him, then headed for the bar. Glasses still on, looking neither right nor left. But that was only the first part of the game. The real action would begin when he got to her table. He didn’t have to pass this way. Her workstation was in the corner, hidden from prying eyes. But he made it a point to cross the room whenever she was there.
Sure enough, when he stood about five feet away, he took off his glasses. Tucked them in his pocket. Then his head turned toward her. She tried not to look at him, but she knew it was a useless struggle. He wouldn’t leave until she met his gaze. Why? Why did he do this to her? He had to see that it embarrassed the dickens out of her. She felt herself turn three shades of scarlet. Did he enjoy the power? The way she squirmed?
And why, oh why, did she keep coming back here, day after day? And please, would someone explain why her heart sank if he didn’t show up?
Another brief stab at resistance, then she gave it up. She focused on his chest first. His jacket. Then her gaze climbed slowly to his neck, the squared jaw.
She exhaled a breath she hadn’t remembered holding. Then she stopped breathing altogether when her gaze moved those last few inches.
He locked on to her the moment she was in range. Like a heat-seeking missile, he wouldn’t let her go now until he’d had his fun. His right brow arched with wry amusement, as if she were quaint, as if she were a child. His lips curved into the tiniest of smiles. But it was the challenge in his eyes that made her insides turn to mush.
They’d never spoken. She never had the nerve. But for weeks now, he’d played this game with her. Daring her. Inviting her.
A part of her wanted to meet the challenge. To walk up to him and kiss him, right here in the middle of the café with the music blaring and the rich scent of strong coffee in the air. Boy, that would wipe that smug smile away. It would be so great.
Unfortunately, she was a chicken. A big, fat, yellow chicken. Her cheeks burned hotter, and she forced her gaze back to her monitor. He’d won. Again. She sighed when he chuckled. Just like he had yesterday, and the day before.
She focused on the screen. The words she’d written moments ago seemed unfamiliar and disconnected. A paper due in four days. She saved the file to disk, then, with shaky fingers, typed the Web address for TrueConfessions.com. The familiar page filled the monitor screen as she logged in, using her screen name. Good Girl.
She winced at her propensity to tell it like it was, even when the truth was as boring as a cable-knit sweater. She was, indeed, a good girl. At twenty-four and a graduate student at NYU, she was an anomaly. A throwback to the days when girls got pinned and went steady. Only, she had no one in her life with whom to do either of those things, not to mention anything racier.
At the thought, she raised her head, only to see Jay still standing right in front of her. Closer now. Her face heated instantly as she realized her mistake. He’d always wandered off when she’d hidden behind work. But this time he’d stayed to stare, his gaze so intense that she wriggled in her seat.
He took a step toward her, and her heart reacted by pounding in her chest. When he took another, she forgot how to breathe. Oh God. He kept on coming, his boots clicking softly on the hardwood floor.
He reached the side of the table. Everything in her told her to run, to hide, at the very least to duck. But she sat perfectly still, her head back as she looked up at the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
He smiled. Not a big grin. A slight upward curve of his lips. Then his hand lifted and she nearly died. He was going to touch her. Pet her cheek. Only, his hand stopped inches away, then withdrew. She burned with embarrassment at his retreat, sure she would burst into flames any second.
His low chuckle made things infinitely worse. Perhaps sensing that she was going to pass out, his gaze shifted to her computer screen. She took advantage of the situation and gasped in a lungful of air.
“Good Girl,” he whispered.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
He chuckled again, the sound deep and sexy. Mercifully, he walked past her, heading toward his buddy Brian at the coffee bar.
She closed her eyes as she struggled to get her pulse to slow and her breath to normalize. He’d spoken to her. Directly. Oh God.
Despite the fact that he’d looked at her before, made her blush, she’d always felt invisible. She was, most of the time. In class. Around her gorgeous roommates. At the student lounge. People bumped into her all the time. They just didn’t notice her, that’s all.
But he’d spoken to her.
Her gaze darted to the girl across the way. Just as Amelia figured, the girl seemed upset. Jealous. Of her. Not that she wanted the blonde to feel bad…
Okay, so she did.
Amelia turned back to her computer. She’d paid for two hours, and she only had fifteen minutes left. Typing furiously, she tried to capture it all. The moment, the excitement, his whisper, the scent of leather. It poured out of her, and she didn’t even go back to correct the misspelled words.
But at the end, when it was all out there, her bubble burst. He might have noticed her. How could he help it? She was here all the time. And she blushed so hard she could stop traffic. He’d just been messing with her, that’s all. Teasing. Which was such a shame. Such a heartbreak. Her aunt Grace used to tell her that no one ever died from being shy, but Amelia wasn’t sure. People did die of loneliness. Of yearning.
The truth of the matter was that the Amelia she was on the inside was nothing like the person she was on the outside. She dressed more conservatively than was fashionable; her skirts were longer, her blouses looser. She wore her hair pulled back, most of the time in a bun, and her hair was her biggest vanity.
She’d grown used to being invisible. It was easier that way. No one expected anything much. Only…
She paused. Sighed. The woman I am inside isn’t shy. She’s brazen and erotic and she dresses in sexy clothes and she feels beautiful, she typed.
Amelia closed her eyes, letting her fingers work on the keyboard she knew so well.
If only someone could see how I ache for a touch. How I yearn to be set on fire by a kiss. If only he knew how I dreamed of him. How I longed for him to take me to the heights of ecstasy. Oh, who am I kidding? I want him to make love to me until we both die of starvation. I want him to do anything, everything. I want to go crazy, and stay crazy, with him.
The buzzer on her computer went off, and she didn’t have the time or cash to extend her stay. She saved her journal, then she logged off the confession Web site. Moving as quietly and efficiently as she could, she collected her belongings, stood up and hurried outside, never once looking behind her to see if Jay noticed—but blushing all the same.
JAY WAITED while Brian poured a cup of coffee for a customer—another student. The place wasn’t large or fancy, and it didn’t have the Starbucks chairs or upscale coffee paraphernalia. But it did have six workstations, all linked to the Internet by high-speed, high-bandwidth T1 connections, which meant instant and immediate access to research material. And porn.
The decor owed more to sixties rock than good taste. Posters of Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Grateful Dead were tacked on the odd wall, and Rolling Stone magazine was always available. Brian, who must have been a hippie in his past life, played current top-twenty songs, but only because he had to. Curious, Jay thought, that Brian had opened such a high-tech business. But Jay had to give it to him. Brian had made the café a success. At thirty-two, Brian made a mean pot of coffee, and he could hack into almost any computer system around. He made sure his customers were happy. It was a lesson Jay had taken to heart when he’d opened his Harley shop next door.
Brian finished up with his customer, and Jay gave him a nod. Brian came over with a pot of coffee in hand. “You need more java?”
“What’s TrueConfessions.com?”
Brian shrugged. It was an unconscious habit, one that most people assumed meant he didn’t know whatever was being asked of him. Jay knew better. The shrug was Brian’s way of telling the world they really needed to come up with better questions.
“It’s where people go to confess their sins. Or their fantasies. Mostly teenage girls declaring their undying love for the boy toy of the moment.”
“And other people can read these confessions?”
“Yep. It’s public. But it’s also anonymous. There’s a router in there that makes it difficult to trace back user names.”
“Difficult, but not impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible until I can’t do it.”
Jay lifted his mug. “I salute your arrogance.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Jay smiled as he finished off his coffee, then handed the mug to Brian. “I’m going over to the computer for a minute. Bring me another cup.”
Brian rolled his eyes. “Yes, master. Is there anything else you’d like? A foot massage, perhaps? A date with Penelope Cruz?”
“Yeah. I’d like to shut you up for once.”
“You’d shoot yourself if you didn’t have me to pick on.”
Jay headed for the table. Her table.
He liked hanging out at the café, even though he rarely used the computers. Conveniently, it was next door to his shop. And while the coffee was good, it wasn’t the main selling point. He came here primarily for the women. All those beautiful NYU coeds, just dying to fling themselves at his big bad self.
But not her.
Damn, but he liked to see her blush.
When she first started coming to the café, he didn’t even notice her. He didn’t know who dressed her but, Christ, they needed to be drawn and quartered. She looked like someone’s grandmother, with her cardigans and loafers. Except…
He couldn’t remember now what had made him look at her. A sound she made, or a cough. Most likely, her blush. He’d been shocked as hell, that much he remembered clearly. She was gorgeous. Her skin was pale and flawless, delicate, like her body. Tall—he’d guess around five-seven or so—and a little too slender, she walked like a dancer. She’d smiled only once in all the months she’d been coming here. Not at him, but he’d caught it.
She was a natural beauty. No fake boobs, no fake hair, no piercings anywhere visible. She reminded him of someone from another time. The Renaissance, perhaps. But he also felt something else hiding behind those old-fashioned clothes, behind that blush. He knew it. He felt it. And he wanted it.
He sat down, ran his fingers over the keyboard. Was it his imagination or was there a trace of talcum lingering in the air? He turned on the machine and typed in the address for TrueConfessions.com. Once there, he checked it out, saw how it worked.
Good Girl.
That was the name he’d seen. If she hadn’t been so flustered, she’d probably have blocked his view or turned off the computer. But she hadn’t. And he was just the son-of-a-bitch to take advantage of the situation.
About five minutes later, just after Brian brought him another cup of coffee, he hit pay dirt—Good Girl’s journal entries. He never did drink any of the coffee.
THE MUSIC from Tabby’s bedroom reverberated through the apartment, the thundering bass making vases tremble and the crumbs on the table shift into interesting patterns. Amelia tried not to mind. At least, not too much.
Her roommates were nice girls, all three of them. A bit self-centered and obsessed with sex—but they were in their early twenties, so what did she expect?
Oh, please. While she hoped she wasn’t quite so self-centered, she would be lying if she said she wasn’t just as obsessed. Her roommates didn’t help with that, either. Every one of them brought men home on a regular basis. Tabby had Josh, and they were the only two who were in a somewhat monogamous relationship. Donna rotated three guys, and for the most part, that worked smoothly enough.
Twice, though, two of her guys had shown up on the same night. Donna’s solution? The three of them went to the bedroom. Amelia had had to use the earplugs that night. And the pillow over her head.
She’d been shocked, of course. For a while. Then, the idea of two men, two beautiful men, in bed with her, doing all manner of wicked things, made the idea almost appealing. Of course, Amelia would never have the nerve to do anything like that. She barely had the nerve to speak up in class, let alone flirt.
The thought made her blush, and her blush made her think of Jay. She closed her eyes to picture him better, and within moments she had to get a cold bottle of water from the fridge.
As she drank, she scolded herself. It was almost four-thirty, and she hadn’t gotten back to her term paper. That meant she’d be in for a long night, which meant she couldn’t go to the café in the morning. Or that she’d be so tired she’d probably fall asleep in class.
She wiped her mouth with a tea towel as her gaze moved to the dishes in the sink. She knew exactly how long they’d been piling up. Since the last time she’d washed them.
The others, especially Kathy, took advantage of her, she knew that. But she was also the only one of the four who seemed to have any time for the mundane things in life, like laundry and dishes and vacuuming. Every time she cleaned up their mess, she swore it was the last time.
If she couldn’t gather the courage to let her roommates clean up after themselves, how on earth was she going to be strong enough to talk to him?
Right. Like that was going to happen. And monkeys might fly out of my butt. She chuckled, only slightly scandalized at herself. The slightly was because she’d been practicing. She’d said all sorts of bad things in the past two months. Curses that would make a freshman jock blush, insults that cut to the quick, and jibes so clever she had to laugh out loud. Of course, she’d only said them to herself, but hey, it was a start, right? Soon, she’d be just as brazen and hip as everyone else at school. Maybe not so crude, but she’d be in the ballpark. Not such a freak. An outsider.
She sighed as she leaned against the fridge door. Jay would never want a girl like her. Not in a million years. She should give it up. Chase him out of her thoughts. Forbid him to visit her dreams.
As if.
AT FIVE-FIFTEEN, Jay couldn’t stand it another minute. He had to do something, and do it now. “Karl.”
His assistant looked up from behind a vintage Harley. “Yeah?”
“How do you feel about locking up tonight?”
Karl nodded, then pushed his Buddy Holly glasses up to the bridge of his nose. The guy was older than Jay by ten years, but his long, scraggly hair and sparse goatee made him look like one of the students who came in here to drool. “You got a date?”
“Of sorts.”
“No problem. Marie isn’t gonna be home until after eleven.”
Jay grabbed his jacket from the counter, shoved it on, then picked up his helmet from the floor. “So she’s still got that job?”
“Yeah. For some reason she likes working with numbers. Go figure.”
Jay headed toward the door of his shop, his gaze automatically checking the display models, making sure the bikes were polished to a shine. “At least she’s working.”
“The second income is pretty welcome. Of course, if you’d pay me what I’m worth—”
“You don’t want to go there, buddy.”
Karl sighed like a lovesick teen.
“Get a grip.”
His assistant laughed, but Jay had left behind the conversation as he pushed open the door. He’d hardly been able to think of anything all day…except Good Girl. At the café, he’d read a number of her early journal entries, and the more he read, the more intrigued he became. She came as a complete surprise to him—and that didn’t happen often.
No one would guess that inside that Minnie Mouse of a girl lived a Jessica Rabbit woman.
He slipped his helmet on, then mounted his bike, a 1965 panhead, full dresser, electric glide, in mint condition. The engine came to life with a jolt, and then he was off, heading straight home to his computer, relaxing instantly as he listened to his bike purr like a kitten.
As he maneuvered through the Manhattan traffic, he kept picturing Good Girl peeling off her clothes piece by piece. But he had to cut that stimulating scenario short when he almost crashed into a hot dog vendor.
Twenty minutes later he pulled up to his brownstone. It was an old building, right in the heart of what used to be called Hell’s Kitchen. The neighborhood wasn’t what it used to be. It had been gentrified, with trendy shops and restaurants popping up like weeds. It didn’t matter to him. They could build whatever the hell they wanted, as long as they left him alone.
He pulled the bike into a small alcove on the side of the building, and, helmet tucked beneath his arm, secured the bike with three sturdy locks. The neighborhood might be more upscale, but it was still Manhattan.
He headed for the door, pausing to nod at Jasper, the doorman. The guy was, like, a hundred-and-eight or something, and his uniform looked as if it had been made during the Crimean War. But Jasper had been the doorman for as long as anyone could remember, and that wasn’t going to change until the old guy died. Not much about this building changed, including the fact that the elevator smelled like a wet dog. Jay lived on the fifth floor. The elevator stopped on three. The door slid open to reveal a man almost as old as Jasper.
“Jay, my boy. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Jay grinned. Shawn Cody was his neighbor, and the building busybody. If he’d been on three, it meant he’d checked up on Darlene, made sure she’d taken her meds. At eighty-four, Shawn was still sharp as a tack, and he kept tabs on everyone. He claimed to be a writer, but no one had seen anything he’d written. No matter. He was a good guy.
“How you doing, Shawn?”
The man sauntered in, and the wet dog smell was complicated by camphor and Old Spice. “As my father used to say, I’m as right as could be expected for a man destined to become dust.”
“Not today, old man. Today, you’re up and about and causing trouble.”
Shawn nodded. “That’s right. I’m here to comfort the tormented and torment the comforted.”
The elevator resumed its creaky ascent, and Jay silently urged it along. If Shawn started talking, there was no escaping for a good ten minutes. But Jay liked the man, and his partner, Bill. They’d been together for almost fifty years. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d stuck it out.
“You know,” Shawn said, leaning back on his slightly humped shoulder. “I miss your granddad something fierce.”
Jay nodded. “Me, too.”
“He was a good fellow. A mighty good fellow.”
“That he was,” Jay said, the familiar sadness blossoming inside. His grandfather had passed away four months ago, and had been sick for a couple of years before that. Jay had taken care of him, and they’d grown close. So close, Jay had decided to stay on living in the apartment, even though he was the only one below retirement age in the whole damn place. It was cool. He helped out the old guys now and again. They were his grandfather’s friends. Hell, his friends. Not to mention the fact the apartment was rent controlled. For three hundred a month he had a two-bedroom place that most people he knew would kill for.
The elevator stopped on five, and Jay let the older man out first. “Take care of yourself, Shawn.”
“The same to you, young man.”
Jay headed down the dimly lit hallway. He opened his door, still expecting the scent of his grandfather’s pipe smoke to waft over him. It didn’t, of course. The pipe had been buried right alongside the man, per his request.
Jay took off his jacket and tossed it and his helmet on the couch. He grabbed a beer from the kitchen, took a swig, then went straight to the computer. A few moments later he was at TrueConfessions.com, reading the journal entries of one Good Girl, and the rest of the world faded to black.
