Moonstruck Page 11

  Her career, however…

  That wasn’t ephemeral. It was rock solid. And it deserved—and required—her protection.

  The machine picked up, and she heard her voice, then the beep, then, “Claire? Listen, it’s Ty again. I don’t want to harass you if you don’t want to talk, but I’m starting to get worried here. Can you at least send me a text message and let me know you’re okay? Then I’ll only feel the pain of the stab in my heart because you’re avoiding me, and not because you’re passed out cold in a ditch somewhere.”

  She shook her head, amused, and decided at the last possible second to answer, almost missing him. “Ty?”

  At first she heard nothing, then a sharp intake of air. “Claire. You’re there. I’ve been worried.”

  “Yeah. About that. Look, I’m really sorry. I…I just…well, I just had some thinking to do.”

  “I’m hoping the fact that you’re talking to me now means the thinking came out down on my side.”

  She closed her eyes and didn’t say a word.

  “Or maybe it didn’t.”

  “Ty—”

  “Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “It’s just that you’re going to leave.” She hesitated, waiting for him to deny the inevitable, then closed her eyes when no response came. “You’re going to leave,” she repeated. “And I don’t want to be a fling.”

  “I don’t see you that way, Claire.”

  “Already I’m getting blowback. Those stupid pictures…”

  “I’m truly sorry. But, Claire, we can work it out. I swear. You’re not a fling to me.”

  “Are you going to stay in Dallas?”

  “Lots of couples have long-distance relationships.”

  She hesitated, knowing this was it. This was that line in the sand everyone always talked about and she’d never yet toed up to it before. She had to now, though. If she didn’t do it now, it would only get harder later.

  “Some couples, sure,” she said. “But not me. That’s not for me, Ty.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t think you do,” she said, frustration bubbling inside her. “You say you understand, but you don’t. Not really. But there’s no way we can have a real relationship, Ty, and I’m not interested in a fling—”

  “I told you—”

  “No. It’s a fling by definition, don’t you see?” Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she swiped them away, frustrated. “You leave, and I’m the one left holding the tattered shreds of my reputation.”

  “Claire…”

  “I’m sorry, Ty,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry. But I have to go now.”

  AND THEN SHE HUNG UP, and Ty was left staring at his phone, feeling like an idiot. He was still feeling that way fifteen minutes later when he wandered into the kitchen, ostensibly to get a beer, but really because he didn’t know what else the hell to do with himself.

  “You look lost,” Matt said, looking up from the kitchen table where he was digging into a Big Mac and editing a brief.

  “I feel it,” he said, then gave his friend the rundown of his conversation with Claire.

  “Shit,” Matt said. “Sometimes I hate being right.”

  “I’m not particularly fond of it, either,” Ty admitted.

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  Ty shook his head. Because what the hell could he do?

  “You could stay. Buy a house. Hang here. Get on a plane when you need to and handle business elsewhere. Then come back home to the wife and kiddies and have Sunday-afternoon barbecues in my backyard.”

  “Since when do you have Sunday barbecues?”

  “You manage to settle down, I’ll manage to barbecue.”

  That at least earned a smile, and for that, Ty was grateful to his friend.

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  He took a long pull on the beer. “Not sure what I can do.”

  Matt put his pen down on the brief and looked up at Ty. “You? You’re not sure? The guy who moved to Los Angeles with only the clothes on his back, and now has an empire that can buy my sorry ass a dozen times over. You don’t know what to do next?”

  “This isn’t me playing hard ball to get a piece of real estate, Matt. This is a woman, and she’s made up her mind.”

  “She’s made up her mind she doesn’t want a fling. Prove to her it doesn’t have to be one. Hell, prove to her she can’t live without you.” Matt shrugged. “That’s what I’d do, anyway. If there was a woman I cared enough about, I’d do that in a heartbeat.”

  “HOW ARE YOU DOING?” Alyssa asked, passing Claire a very full glass of wine, the label on which said THERAPY, and which Alyssa claimed she couldn’t resist when she’d seen it at the grocery store.

  “I’ve been better,” Claire admitted. It had been three days, and she’d been unable to keep Ty out of her mind. Part of that was his fault. He had, so far, sent her something every hour, on the hour, from 10:00 am to 5:00 pm. Her living room was overflowing with flowers and candy, and he’d moved on now to season’s passes to touring Broadway productions, sporting events and even gift cards for area boutiques and restaurants.

  “I knew I should have fallen for a man with a bigger bank account,” Alyssa quipped, after Claire outlined the extent of gift inundation.

  “I can’t decide if I should be annoyed or amused.”

  “Amused,” Alyssa said, picking up a giant chocolate pig. “Definitely amused.”

  “It’s pointless, anyway,” Claire said, then took a long sip of wine.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s doing this so that he’s constantly on my mind.” She shrugged. “Really not necessary. I can’t think of anything else, dammit.” She tilted her head back and sighed. “I can’t believe I go back to work on Monday. I’m going to be completely useless.” Thank goodness the Supreme Court had stepped in on the death-penalty case. At least she didn’t have to try and wrangle articulate legal theory out of her lovesick head right away.

  “Maybe you should see him? Try to work things out. Chris and I managed.”

  “We can’t be what the other needs. He hates Dallas, and I don’t want to live out of a suitcase. I can’t. I have a career that I love that’s barely even off the ground. I’m not going to toss it to be the girl who follows Ty around the world. Dammit! I almost wish we hadn’t met. It’s like…I don’t know, if I did say that I’d go with him, it might be fun for a while, but then I’d start to resent it, you know? Ten years from now, when I have friends who are getting appointed to the bench or running their own firms or…”

  “I know.”

  “Damn.” She swiped at her eyes, hating that she was crying. Hating that her insides were a mess. “So, a movie. I just want mindless entertainment.”

  “I’m thinking not a romance.”

  “A movie where they blow shit up,” Claire said. “Lots and lots of nonromantic destruction. That’s what I want.”

  “We can do that,” Alyssa said, then started thumbing through the on-demand channels. In no time at all, they were engrossed in the action, and all too soon, Alyssa was slipping her purse back over her shoulder, hugging Claire, and telling her it would all work out.

  “Glad you’re optimistic.”

  “We made a pact. It worked out for me, it has to work out for you. We have Karma.”

  “So far, I think Karma has been punking me.”

  “Faith,” Alyssa said, then gave her a hug. “And think about what I said. Try to find some middle ground with the guy. You miss him, Claire. It covers you like a sheen.”

  “What does?”

  “Melancholy.”

  Claire rolled her eyes, then held open the door. “And on that happy note.”

  She watched as Alyssa got in her car and drove away, then stood there, wondering what she was going to do now to avoid thinking about Ty. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind, and she ended up baking chocolate-chip cookies, which was reasonably diverting since she
was a lousy cook and had to focus on the ingredients so as to not end up with a big pile of mush. She’d gone to the grocery store finally (the trip had reminded her of Ty) and she’d loaded her kitchen up with way more food than she needed simply because she’d used the trip—and her self-imposed cooking lessons—as a distraction.

  She’d plowed through all of the pending work she had for the committee, with the exception of calling Ty to confirm the bachelor auction and ask about the celebrity involvement. At this point, she really didn’t think she should ask.

  She watched The Maltese Falcon while the cookies baked, but Bogie only made her sad. Then she gorged herself on five of the dastardly things, then took a book and crawled into bed. Honestly, brain mush or not, she’d be glad to get back to work. As it was, she was utterly useless.

  The words were swimming on the page when the sharp tones of her phone on the side table jerked her awake. She snatched it up automatically, pressing the talk button without looking at the display.

  “Claire.”

  His voice, so soft, so liquid, ran over her like warm water, and she could feel herself melting as if she were made of nothing more than spun sugar.

  “Ty.” She swallowed, trying to find her voice. “I should go. I was just about to fall asleep. I didn’t mean to answer the phone.”

  “You’re in bed?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Ty, please don’t.” She needed to hang up. To end this. But somehow, she couldn’t quite manage.

  “Don’t what? Don’t imagine you there, snug beneath the sheets in an old t-shirt and a pair of pink panties?”

  “Please…”

  “Because I can. I can picture everything about you, Claire. Everything from the tiny flecks of gold in your chocolate eyes to the way that one lock of hair curls backward at your crown. I’ve memorized the freckles on your stomach, Claire,” he continued, his words like a lullaby. “You have four that peek out just barely under the lace of your bra. And one that dances on the edge of your navel.”

  She tried to make a word, but couldn’t quite manage it.

  “Will you touch it, Claire? That sweet place were the freckle hides on your navel? Will you stroke it for me, just with the tip of your finger?”

  “Yes,” she said, even before she realized that her hand had already moved to comply.

  “There’s a birthmark on your inner thigh, too. Can you press a kiss to your fingertips? The other hand, and then slide your hand down, and give the mark a kiss?”

  “I—”

  “Please, Claire, I want to know my mouth is on you.”

  Oh, Lord. Her head was swimming, her body tingly, as she pressed a kiss to her fingertips, then found the tiny birthmark on her inner thigh.

  “Did you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now slide your hand up until you just brush your clit. Are you wet?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing with your other hand? Is it still on your belly button?”

  She shook her head, realizing she’d moved her hand up, and now it was kneading her breast, her fingers pulling and tugging on her nipple. And her hips were moving, too, as if by finding a rhythm she could urge her hand to climb higher.

  “How do you do this to me?” she asked. “You just talk, and I turn to goo.”

  “Your hand, Claire. Where’s your hand.”

  “On my breast.”

  “Is your nipple hard?”

  “Oh, yes.” Hard and desperate and longing for attention.

  “I’m flicking my tongue over it. Can you feel that?”

  She whimpered, and as that was all she could manage at the moment, he was just going to have to deal.

  “Good girl. Now slip your hand between your legs.” She did, the sensation almost more than she could bear. She was close, so close….

  “That’s me touching you. I can feel your clit, Claire. It’s swollen under my tongue.”

  She could feel it. So help her, she could feel the pressure of his tongue. Feel the way it tied her up in knots.

  “I’m licking. Sucking, and, baby, you taste so good.”

  “Don’t stop,” she begged, moving her own hand faster and faster.

  “Never,” he said as the sensations crescendoed within her. “Will you come for me, Claire? Will you com—”

  “Yes—”

  And as his words flowed over her, Claire arched up and cried out Ty’s name, certain that she really could, in fact, feel his hands upon her.

  10

  TY’S FINGERS ACHED with the need to touch her. To stroke her. To feel her tremble beneath him as she came.

  But she was all the way across town, her naked body at the other end of a phone line, and him in his car in the parking lot behind Decadent, trying and failing to keep his mind on work and off the woman whose mere existence made him want to do nothing more than hold her and lose himself inside of her.

  He’d seen the fall coming, but he could never have imagined the intensity with which he would descend, crashing down into the realm of mortals. The realm of men who wanted a woman—one single woman—who completed him like no one else ever could.

  And the hell of it was, he didn’t know how to have her. Didn’t know the magical phrase that would make her become his. He’d told Matt once that this wasn’t a negotiation, but at the time, he hadn’t realized just how true those words were. And now all he could do was try to keep himself front and center in her thoughts, her heart, her mind.

  Sex. And yet he wanted so much more than sex.

  But every night for the past three nights he’d called her at bedtime. They’d fallen into a sensual rhythm, with his words an aphrodisiac between them. He’d caressed her with his voice, and imagined her arching up to meet his touch, her lips ripe, her body ready for him.

  Damn, the mere thought made him hard, and he closed his eyes and drew in a breath as he whispered good-night to her, her soft moans and labored breathing making him desperate with need, and not even for sex. But for that connection.

  “Claire,” he whispered, because he had to tell her. Had to break his own self-imposed rule. “Claire, I miss you.”

  He waited, wanting to hear her response, but instead hearing only breathing.

  And then—thank you, Lord, yes—a soft, whispered, “I miss you, too.”

  It did him in, and though she hung up the phone, avoiding any further chatter, he knew that he’d crossed a line. Made a dent. And, yeah, that gave him hope.

  He fed off that hope for the rest of the day, then knew that he had to take it further. He had to see her. Had to convince her that they could be together, because it was hell for both of them being apart.

  Somehow, someway, they could work this out. Except for his parents, he’d never once failed at something he’d set his mind to. And, to be honest, maybe he could even fix that parental rift if he really focused. But the point was he wanted her. She wanted him. And there had to be a way around, under or over this chasm that loomed between them.

  He couldn’t find it over the phone, though.

  Time to move on to something else. Time, he thought, to bring out the big guns of romance.

  SHE WAS LATE, and Ty was getting nervous. He’d spent the day dealing with Heaven’s issues and consulting with Fred and looking forward to seeing Claire that night. Hoping that she would see him. But if she didn’t even come home, that possibility was shot all to hell.

  And if she didn’t come home, then where the hell was she?

  He forced himself not to consider the possibility that she was out on a date because, frankly, the idea was simply too, too depressing.

  Instead, he waited. And waited. And waited some more.

  When midnight turned to one in the morning, he began to think that maybe he’d have to give it up and go home. He was about to pack up the PDA he’d been reviewing documents on when he saw a pair of headlights turn onto the street. He held his breath, and then—yes!—a
Volkswagen Beetle turned into the driveway and Claire slid out.

  She didn’t see him at first, too busy concentrating on getting her purse out of the car. She bent over, and he watched with appreciation the way her jeans curved against her body. He imagined her running her own hands over those curves, following his directions. And, yeah, he wanted to be the one doing the caressing now.

  More than that, though, he simply wanted to hold her.

  She hooked her purse over her arm, then took a step toward the door. One simple step before she halted, her expression wary. “Hello?”

  He stood, at first unnerved, and then amused. Because she didn’t see Ty Coleman. She saw a handyman in coveralls, a gimme cap and a paint-splattered toolbox. “Claire,” he said. “It’s me.”

  She paused, and the expression of pure delight that he saw on her face rocketed through him. She could try to deny it with words, but he knew—he could see—that she wanted him there.

  Her expression shifted, and she pursed her lips. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just getting ready to leave, actually. Then I saw you drive up.”

  She moved to the door and slid her key into the lock, glancing down as she did at the box filled with various supplies he’d picked up at Home Depot. “What on earth is all that?” She pushed open the door, then met his eyes. “How long have you been here?”

  “Since eight,” he said.

  She blinked. Then she pressed her hand over her mouth. “Eight?”

  He shrugged matter-of-factly. “I needed to see you, Claire.”

  Her expression softened. “Yeah. I know. Me, too.” She closed her eyes and breathed in, and although his heart was leaping, he was certain the admission cost her. “Well, you better come on in. Chances are The National Enquirer is parked across the street, taking pictures.”