The Right Side of Mr Wrong (6 page)

Outrageous. Beyond redemption. If that wasn’t totally off the rails, she didn’t know what was. She was running now, her hand still in Brando’s iron grip, but he wasn’t hauling her any more. She was somehow floating effortlessly beside him.

Thank liquorice there was no-one here to judge her, apart from herself. She’d gone downhill fast! Her housemates would’ve had a field-day if they’d known. In her head they were already crowding around her, each giving their own take on the situation, throwing in their warnings and suggestions. Being supportive. And she cringed to think what her parents might say. So many people, who’d put so much effort into to protecting her these last four years, and the moment she was away from them she’d totally lost it. Something so powerful here, it was even eclipsing her guilt pangs. She should be a lot more ashamed of herself than she was.

‘Not too far now … ’

He shot her a half grin that made her legs wobble. Amazing that one man, who knew no more about her than that she couldn’t do geography and that she liked eating burgers, had unleashed this hormonal rush.

He made her feel alive again. And maybe that sudden rush of vitality was why she was keeping the guilt at bay.

Her feet were flying over the ground, her body burning with a radioactive glow.

‘That’s good … ’

Brando ignored her reply. He was a weird combination. Pent up, hard as nails one minute, then slicing straight into her under-belly with unexpected rushes of concern, or flooring her defences with that disarming grin of his. Throw in jaw-droppingly beautiful, sexy beyond belief and explanation – animal magnetism didn’t begin to cover his brand of lust-inducing excitement. She didn’t like him, and she didn’t respect him. But he was a complete stranger, miles away from the claustrophobic judgement of friends, offering the glorious liberation of anonymity.

We need to go and finish this.

Maybe she
could
see the sense in that.

‘Still hanging on in there?’

And then there was that chocolate voice.

Technically, he wasn’t her employer, he definitely wasn’t her friend, and he claimed his relationships lasted around thirty minutes. In fling terms, men like Brando got what they wanted and got out. End of. What if she did give in to that alien, driving urge in the pit of her stomach?

‘Just about … ’

She wouldn’t be messing anyone around with her own screwed-up situation. Sugar, she’d never even considered she might fancy anyone again – and somehow the fast forward nature of the attraction made it feel less of a betrayal – but a quick fling might help her get on with life. Every step made this crazy idea more perfect.

‘Okay?’

As he turned to ask, she took in those broad shoulders under the worn denim of his jean jacket, the sculpted shadows of his cheekbones, the hard sneer of his illegally sensuous mouth.

Ideal material.

And the way she was amped up right now, it wouldn’t take five minutes, let alone thirty.

It was a win-win situation. No losers. She’d never have to see him again. No-one would know. And afterwards she’d be free.

A shudder of anticipation juddered through her.

‘Okay, yep … ’
More okay than you’d ever know.

Brando swung to look at her, as the shiver arrived at his hand. She bit her lip, felt her hot cheeks flush hotter, and flashed him an extravagant grin.

Shea Summers, professional, reliable, cool, and capable, was planning to be very bad.

Shea lost her wellies by the front door, shed her coat halfway along the landing, tore off her scarf and tossed it on the sofa as she dashed past, and was standing by her bed when Brando caught hold of her shoulders from behind. She’d left the door to her room open, but hadn’t been sure that he’d follow her in. Now he was here, his breath, hot on the back of her neck, making her heart jerk against her ribcage.

‘Not so fast!’ His growl, as rough as his grasp, sent tingles zipping down her backbone. ‘What’s the hurry?’

What’s the hurry?

If only he knew.

It had to be fast, and it had to be now. A moment’s hesitation, and she might lose her nerve. Feeling suddenly too small in her socks, she drew in a shuddering breath, attempted to steady her nerves, pull herself together. She lurched forward as he scored his thumbnail lazily across the base of her neck, and sent an electric shimmer zipping through her. She felt her nipples tauten, as the current zigzagged down her body, and landed smack between her thighs with a zap which reminded her
exactly
why she was here.

‘No hurry, none at all.’ To her relief, the words came out clear and strong. ‘In which case, I might as well get some shoes on.’

She padded across the deep carpet, and slipped into some high patent courts she found lying by the wardrobe. Four inches taller, and definitely empowered, she strode back, smiling strongly now, to face Brando, who was leaning, arms folded, one shoulder nonchalantly resting against the wall.

‘Although sometime today would be appreciated … ’ He was laughing at her now, his voice low and husky, and below one quizzically raised eyebrow she noticed his eyes were darker, and smudgier.

Charcoal, not granite.

He took a moment to study her as she came to a halt in front of him. Even in her heels, her eyes were only level with the open neck of his shirt, and she saw him swallow deeply. With light hands, he spun her around so he was behind her again, and began gently teasing the clips from her hair, letting them fall, one by one, to the floor. She jumped as his teeth found the base of her neck, nipping, gently, as he shook her hair free.

‘That’s better … ’

One more track of a fingernail across her neck.

One more electrically charged shiver, which set every nerve ending in her body jangling.

Slow.

Suddenly slow was good. Slow was exactly what she wanted. Slow, so she could savour him.

Slow and aching.

With a low moan she spun, tilted her head. She stretched a hand out to steady herself, rested it lightly on his chest. The violent thump of his heart under her palm took her by surprise. Breathing raggedly, eyes barely open, she turned her parted lips towards him.

Expectantly.

Bracing herself for a storm.

But when his mouth came down on hers, it didn’t crush, it didn’t plunder. Instead it was soft velvet, tangling. Hot molten gold, darkly delicious, sweeping her away, demanding her response. Irresistible compulsion, daring her to respond.

So long, it had been so long.

Four years and more, and it had never been like this then.

His hand was grazing her breast, gently teasing through the cashmere, making her cry out through the kiss. Skilled fingers slipping under her sweater, sliding down the cup of her bra, to stroke and tease the aching bud. One side, then the other whilst her nipples peaked, thrusted, wild for attention. He was playing, tormenting, circling, whilst she writhed, helplessly.

Never like this.

She groaned again, curled against him, rubbing her jeans against the thrusting ridge of his erection, soft denim onto hard denim, bending her knees to grind herself onto him, pushing herself to rub the insane pulse that was throbbing between her folds. Suddenly crazily close to the edge here. Dizzy, spinning, gyrating, banging against him now, she parted her legs, opened her mouth wide, and screamed deep into his kiss as her whole body erupted in a spectacular, thundering, jolting explosion of pure pleasure.

* * *

Brando wasn’t certain, but he had an idea that might have been the sexiest move he’d ever seen. And he hadn’t led a sheltered life.

She was leaning against him now, panting, exhausted, clinging onto his shirt to hold herself up.

Jeez.

And she was still fully clothed.

In one sweeping movement, he scooped her up, deposited her on the bed to recover.

He tried not to think of his own need, bursting as it was. Given what she’d inadvertently revealed to him, that was going to have to wait.

That was the sexiest move he’d seen, yes, but also the most innocent, uncalculated, and guileless. He was still fully clothed, dammit. That had to be the biggest accidental orgasm of the century. Unless she was entirely calculating, and faking, which somehow he doubted. Not even the most cynical of schemers would have dreamed that one up.

‘Crikey, awwww, no! That shouldn’t have happened! I’m sorry Brando … ’

You only had to listen to her to know.

He shook his head, raked a hand through his hair. He watched her lying with her cheeks still flushed, chestnut curls tangled across the quilt, her perfect rosy lips, swollen. Yep, and there was that blasted chain with a ring on, pulled tightly across her throat, disappearing behind her hair.

‘Brando?’

Her wide violet eyes, fixed on him, a sudden shiver making her all the more childlike.

How the hell had he got her so wrong?

And how the hell was he going to walk out of this one now?

‘Sorry Shea, I need to go … ’ Even as he muttered the words he was backing out of the room.

Sure, he was wild, and yes, he liked wicked, but even he drew the line at being bad and wicked with nice girls like her. That was simply out of order. Not on.

Bad and wicked were for women who could handle bad and wicked.

And this woman wasn’t one of them. He’d get the hell out of here, as soon as.

Dammit, he was loathed to walk away.

But it had to be done.

* * *

‘Phew!’

Shea put the phone down, some time later, and let out one huge sigh of relief. She’d talked to her mum about everything from her dad’s lumbago to whether Jilly from next door was too old to carry off a fringe, without giving anything away about earlier this afternoon.

She’d phoned home early, from Mrs McCaul’s office downstairs, hoping to stay clear of Brando until she’d decided what to do.

The blinds on the office windows were up, and as she turned out the lights and prepared to leave, she glimpsed a view across a courtyard. In the wash of the floodlights, she could make out a single storey building, perhaps an orangerie, its dark gable silhouetted against the sky. It was difficult to be sure in the darkness, but she thought she caught a movement. Someone on the roof.

Then the figure plunged from the parapet, fell through the air, hit the ground, rolled, leapt up and ran off.

Liquorice sticks!
What should she do now? As she chewed her nail, trying to decide, the figure reappeared on the roof, then plummeted to the ground, rolled, and ran off.

She waited. Watched it happen again. And again. And again.

Then the figure paused on the roof, raised their arm, raked their hand through their hair – and the penny dropped.

Brando. It had to be Brando.

Her stomach went into freefall and stopped somewhere around her knees. She shuddered. It was the same kind of shudder that had rattled up and down her spine non-stop since this afternoon in the bedroom. She’d promised herself not to think about that mind-blowing release, or the way it had left her longing for more, with a longing so strong that it put all traces of guilt into the shadows. One thought of how it felt to rub against that rock-hard denim. The telltale fluttering playing between her legs escalated to a throbbing ache.

It had to be crazy to feel this level of physical desire for a man she didn’t even like. But worse was the way her body was so out of control, whenever he was there. It was completely illogical. And illogical was something she didn’t do. Ever.

Shea was hooked on logic. A logical approach put her in control of situations and being in control made her feel safe. When everything else in life failed and control was all you had left, that’s what you hung on to. She liked to function in a world where everything had a place and everything had an explanation.

So why the hell did she have the uncontrollable hots for Brando?

Okay. She was away from the pressures of everyday life, away from the scrutiny of family and friends. Add in she’d had no sex for five years.

The sex-starved holiday effect?

Obvious when you thought about it. She gave a low groan.

Perhaps if she’d got away earlier, she might have got a perspective on her life sooner, realised that moving on was the only way forward. It was physical not emotional and that made it easier to handle. One-off no-strings sex, with an irresistible guy? Her chest fizzed at the thought of the freedom that would hand her.

And Brando was made for the job. Guaranteed to walk away the minute it was over. Whether she liked him or not, they didn’t come any better than that. And up until an hour ago he had made it perfectly clear what was on offer – all the signals had been there, practically whacking her in the face.

Out of the window, she could still see his silhouette as he hurled himself off the roof, again and again, as if he was stuck in a repeating loop. One guy, pushing it to the limit. There was something of her own obsession she could recognise in him.

Ker-ching! And suddenly, it couldn’t be clearer! Brando had the power to set her free, and it was up to her to take her chance! This had to be
the
perfect opportunity. She’d be mad to pass it by. There was the small matter of his cold feet to overcome, but she’d just have to work on that.

If he ever stopped jumping off the roof that was.

She simply needed to screw up her courage, go to him, and take what she needed.

* * *

Much later, standing in the flickering firelight in her room, her resolve hadn’t faltered.

It was a while since Brando had come thumping along the landing. The thud of his door closing as he went into his room had set her own heart banging, and it hadn’t stopped since then. She had lost just enough clothing to ensure that he would come in from the cold, kept enough on to feel dressed herself. Brushed her teeth, her hair. Put on lip gloss, shoes.

Only one thing left to do now.

She ran her fingers lightly along the chain around her neck, closing them around the wedding ring that hung from it.

For a moment she hesitated, holding the ring, still warm, on her open palm.

She took one deep, juddering breath, to remind herself that what she was about to do had nothing to do with caring.

Then with quick, shaky hands, she undid the clasp, slipped the ring and the chain onto the table, and headed towards the door.

* * *

‘Brando?’

It was Shea, and she hadn’t waited for his reply. She’d simply pushed the door open, and waltzed on in. Marched through the sitting room, the bedroom, and straight into the office, where he was lounging on a swivel chair, in front of his desk.

‘Not working are you?’ Shea peered at his computer screen. ‘No, I didn’t think you would be.’

Brando wondered, in passing, if having an orgasm with someone, fully clothed, somehow bestowed un-negotiated rights of entry on that person. Free passage, or something. Then, as he felt eight pints of blood make a direct rush for his groin, he wished he hadn’t thought of it at all.

He shouldn’t even have been here now for her to crash in on. He should have been long gone. He was Brando Marshall after all, famous for his lightning fast responses to changing situations. He’d planned to make an immediate get away, by helicopter, car, train, bus. On foot if necessary. Head back to London. In short, he’d been ready to do anything it took to get him away from the hideous temptation of rhymes-with-day Summers.

Except he hadn’t. The Brando Marshall fast response instinct had completely failed. The best he’d managed was an hour of throwing himself off the roof of the Orangery.

And he was still here. And now, so was she.

Staring at his computer screen, over his shoulder.

And what the hell was she wearing? Or rather, not wearing?

A whole lot less than she’d been wearing this afternoon, that was for sure.

‘Nice shorts! They’re great when they’re so short they only leave half a bottom to the imagination, aren’t they?’ He was lying of course. Ideally he wouldn’t want
anything
to be left to the imagination, but at the same time, if he was trying to resist her, tiny shorts spelled disaster.

She didn’t make a direct reply, but the dimples in her cheeks told him she knew he’d love them.

He definitely wasn’t going to play into her hands and mention the fact that her legs were bare and her heels were as towering as something else he could think of. Nor was he going to raise their usual teasing subject of underwear. It would be obvious to a blind man that she wasn’t wearing any. No knickers. No bra. He shifted on his desk chair, trying discretely to rearrange his jeans to accommodate the erection of the decade. If things continued in this vein his he’d soon be passing out due to lack of blood on the brain.

‘Did you enjoy your dinner?’ He decided to try meaningless conversation. Given that she’d come in uninvited, he doubted if she’d leave, even if he asked her. It crossed his mind that this was another instance of him playing into her hands, doing exactly what she wanted him to.

‘You might be here to discuss dinner Brando, but I’m not.’

Short, snippy. Told him straight, pulled him up.

‘So, what would you like to talk about?’ A dangerous, open-ended question. He realised too late he should have put some conditions on that. Forty-eight hours out of London, and he was already losing his edge.

‘I came to ask why Playboy-of-the-Year ran out on me back there.’ She was leaning in towards him now, dangerously close. Smelling like heaven.