Dirty Work Page 17

  “I know. Neither is this.” He pulls me closer to him and takes me into his arms. “It’s called artistic license.”

  “Well, if we’re going off script...”

  I grab the collar of his vest and yank his mouth down to mine. I pour everything into this kiss. Passion. Promise. Loyalty.

  Love.

  After a moment of stunned inaction, Jake’s an active participant, his hands tangling in my hair, his lips parting, his head tilting to deepen the kiss.

  Roscoe howls. The crowd whoops and hollers. The drag queens do some sort of celebratory dance behind us. But it all fades into the background as we kiss like there’s no one watching. Like we don’t have a whole host of cell phones trained on us, ready to share on social media with just a few clicks so even more people can watch us later.

  So much for my aversion to PDA.

  “Hey,” Jake says when we finally come up for air. “This is supposed to be my mea culpa. I’m the one who messed up. You were right. Top Shelf can live without Miami. But I can’t live without you. You make me a better man. One who’s not afraid to channel his inner Ferris and stop and look around once in a while.”

  I burrow my nose into the crook of his neck, letting his sweaty, soapy scent permeate every cell of my body. God, I’ve missed his smell. “Your inner Ferris, huh?”

  “Yeah. I’m through letting life pass me by. I want to live it to the fullest. With you. I want us to go to drag queen diners and decorate for penis parties and play strip Scrabble and have wild, wall-banging sex and slow, soft, sweet sex as much as you want for however long you’ll have me.” He cups my face, one thumb tracing tender circles on my cheek. “I love you, Ainsley.”

  My heart’s beating so fast I swear it’s going to burst free from my rib cage. “I love you, too. And we both messed up.”

  I’ll explain about Dale later. My ex is the last thing I want to think about right now. I want to get back to the good stuff.

  The kissing.

  I go for his vest, my greedy hands eager to drag him back down to me. He takes them in his, holding me off.

  “We’ll probably mess up again,” he says. “At least I will.”

  “I’m sure I will, too. But we’ll work through it. Meet each other halfway. Make sure the seesaw doesn’t tip too much one way or the other.”

  His brows furrow. “Seesaw?”

  “I’ll explain later.” I loop his hands around my neck and lean into him, enjoying the way his hard body feels against my softer one. “Now I need you to kiss me.”

  He does. This time it’s less frantic, less hurried. This kiss is a leisurely dance, a slow exploration. His lips are everywhere, trailing soft, teasing nips along my collarbone, under my chin, over my shoulders.

  Someone—I think it’s Aaron from on high—yells for us to get a room, and a horn honks, starting a symphony of discordant beeping. We break apart, breathless and laughing.

  I rest my head against Jake’s chest. Beneath my cheek, his heart beats a rapid rhythm that matches my own. “Looks like our time’s up.”

  He brushes my hair back from my face and runs a finger along my jawline. “More like it’s just beginning.”

  Jake signals to Connor, who gives him a thumbs-up and hops back into the driver’s seat of the SUV. It inches forward as someone fires the music up again and the Beatles blast from the speakers. The drag queens start twisting and shouting, and Marilyn hands Roscoe’s leash to Jake so she can join in on the fun without a one-hundred-and-eighty-pound canine holding her back.

  “What are we going to do now?” I ask, not really caring. As long as we’re together. Although a little privacy would be nice so we could get started on that wall-banging sex he talked about. Followed by the slow and sweet variety.

  He reaches down to pet Roscoe—the dog that started it all—then brings his mouth inches from mine, a confident, sexy smile curving his lips. “The question isn’t what are we going to do. It’s what aren’t we going to do.”

  * * *

  Look for Regina Kyle’s next book in Fall 2020!

  And if you liked Dirty Work, why not try:

  Take Me by Caitlin Crews

  Bad Business by JC Harroway

  Under His Obsession by Cathryn Fox

  Available now from Harlequin DARE!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Take Me by Caitlin Crews.

  WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK FROM

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  Step into stories of provocative romance where sexual fantasies come true. Let your inhibitions run wild.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WASN’T UNTIL she’d landed in Sydney after the long-haul flight from London, pale from all the recycled air and a bit drunk from the mess of time zones, that it occurred to Lady Jenny Markham to worry about her welcome.

  “Don’t be silly,” she told herself, astonished by the raspy sound of her own voice in the too-bright corridor, lost somewhere deep in the Sydney Airport. “It’s Dylan.”

  And the one thing she knew to be true, no matter what else happened or how life kicked her around, was that Dylan Kilburn was always happy to see her. Always. That was why she always kept her visa to enter Australia current. On the off chance she might pop off down under and visit the man who’d been her best friend since their university days.

  In all the years since Dylan had moved to Australia, she’d never done it. But here she was at last. Wilted straight through, but here.

  Jenny had packed light, mostly because she’d been in denial about what she was doing. She’d thrown a few things in a shoulder bag in her flat in Central London, that was all, because she wasn’t taking a trip. She’d set off on a happy little lark and could as easily have simply wandered about London for a while, playing tourist. Maybe she’d pretended that was exactly what she was doing.

  Though she didn’t usually head off to enjoy the sights and sounds of the city with her passport in hand.

  She was being spontaneous, and that felt weird only because Jenny was rarely spontaneous. Make that never. But she was an engaged woman now and her life was changing, and there was no time like the present to do things she’d never done before—because she never would again.

  She certainly wasn’t running from an
ything, she assured herself as she made it through customs and immigration and officially entered Australia for the first time.

  Everyone deserved a little time to themselves before getting married. An engagement ought to come with bit of reflection and preparation, surely, before standing up before all and sundry and making vows to become legally bound forever. Some people went off to extreme yoga retreats or some such at times like these, where they could twist themselves into alarming shapes and slug down green concoctions that tasted of mud and self-righteousness. Jenny accidentally found herself at Heathrow.

  But thinking about her own impending marriage was depressing, so she busied herself with finding and hiring a cab when she wasn’t sure she had access to her own brain. It was possible she’d left it somewhere over the northern hemisphere.

  Once she located a taxi and climbed in, she directed the driver to take her to Dylan’s address. Assuming he still lived in the house he’d bought on the coast, south of Sydney proper.

  Jenny doubted he would have moved without telling her. They texted all the time. When Dylan had bought this place, right after what he’d called his wee start up went public, he’d sent her pictures.

  Just bought nauseatingly posh bachelor pad, complete with ocean views, he’d written. Guest room always available, should milady find herself in NSW.

  Who wants to visit a bachelor pad? she’d texted back. That sounds medically questionable. Also, it’s lovely.

  She remembered white, stark, modern lines and a gorgeous view of the sea, everything sunny and sweet and bursting with vivid color. As everything Australian always was when she thought of it. That or the red hot desolation of the outback.

  Sydney had always been on Jenny’s list of places to see, but she’d spent most of her time before and after university filling the role of her father’s hostess and companion. Her mother had died when Jenny was twelve, and she’d considered it an honor that she got to accompany her father to his business events. There was a part of her that would always be that grief-stricken twelve-year-old in a pretty dress and her mother’s pearls, pretending to be grown up while her father’s usually dour friends and associates acted as if it was a great privilege to meet her.

  Lord Markham was not a man given to having feelings, much less expressing them. Jenny rather thought what few emotions he’d had must have died with her mother. But she always remembered those first few years. And how he’d included her when it would have been so much easier to leave her at home. She always remembered that he’d cared for her as best he could, in a way that had made them both breathe a bit better, for a time.

  Maybe it wasn’t surprising she felt duty bound to do the same for him, now it was her turn.

  She had gone on all the dates he’d set up for her. She had smiled and had awkward conversation—or, more often, listened in appropriately reverent silence as her date banged on about himself. It was better than subjecting herself to a dating app. At least the men her father set her up with were vetted, in some form or another. They weren’t pretending to be someone else—they really were that boring.

  But Jenny didn’t mind. Her passion wasn’t for men, it was for her work. Once she’d left uni she’d gotten a job in a worthy charity—meaning, one that supported something that wouldn’t embarrass her father at a business dinner. Jenny’s provided aid and care to children in war zones. And that meant that most of Jenny’s trips were to places that did not glitter or attract highflyers like Dylan.

  She’d always told herself—and him—that it was her work that kept her from coming down under. No matter how many times Dylan told her she was more than welcome to come and make an adventure out of it.

  You’re making an adventure of it now, she told herself a bit wryly as she settled into her seat, the cab lurching a bit as it headed away from the airport.

  For the first time in years, she hadn’t given the charity a thought. She’d simply...gotten on the plane.

  It had to be an adventure because she couldn’t take it back.

  She blew out a breath and looked out the window. It was coming up on half six in the morning in Sydney, and the sun was only just making its appearance. Jenny was sure that once it rose, her head would feel less fuzzy. That the strange weighted feeling tugging on all her limbs, and the odd sensation that she was scraped raw, was a gift of her long plane ride. No one could possibly spend nearly twenty-four hours on two planes and not feel like an alien. Even her feet felt as if they belonged to someone else.

  You felt equally worn out in London, a voice inside her piped up. It wasn’t the flight.

  The voice sounded suspiciously like Erika Vanderburg, her other best friend.

  Erika had looked at Jenny almost pityingly the last time they’d seen each other. Jenny had been perhaps too enthusiastic about Erika’s plan to return to Oxford to finish her degree course, all these years after she’d left her degree course.

  Geography isn’t going to cure anything but your location, Erika had said gently.

  Because the new version of Erika was not the messy creature Jenny was used to, always drunk and inappropriate, scandalous and fun. The new version of Erika was settled in her relationship with the intimidating Dorian Alexander, best friend to Erika’s older brother, Conrad. Easygoing in a way Jenny would not have believed possible if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. Even having seen it, she wasn’t sure she believed it. How could she? The new Erika was so self-possessed it made Jenny’s lifelong pretense of self-possession look like exactly what it was. A sham.

  But as the cab navigated the early morning streets, she stared down at the enormous ring on her hand that she kept meaning to get fixed so it wouldn’t slide about so much, blinding unwary passersby, and wondered if it was as simple as the fact Erika was in love.

  Love was something not even Jenny could fake.

  Luckily, her engagement—to Conrad Vanderburg, Erika’s chilly older brother, whose success in business made Lord Markham as close to giddy as a man not given to such displays could get—was practical, not passionate. No faking required.

  “Dylan will sort it all out,” she told herself, muttering staunchly beneath her breath so as not to alarm the driver. “He always does.”

  Erika had always been Jenny’s most vivid friend, the mad one who could go out for chips and end up dancing on tabletops in a different city at dawn. She was ardently loyal, she was passionate about everything and Jenny had wanted to be her, some years. But Dylan had always been her stalwart. He listened. He gave good advice. He’d been keeping Jenny grounded as long as she’d known him.

  If he couldn’t help her, no one could.

  Not that she needed help, she corrected herself as the cab continued east. She was fine. Her life was carrying on according to plan. Some people—Erika, for example—might think that was a bad thing, but Jenny knew better. This was life.

  Dylan would take the rawness inside of her, name it and laugh at it, and in so doing, make it feel better. And make her feel better.

  She looked around as they drove, trying to take in architecture that looked both brand new and comfortingly familiar at once. It was like looking at proper British streets, but with a certain overlay that was distinctly Australian. She couldn’t have said what that was. The extra filigreed bits on the gratings and railings, perhaps? Or all the years she’d spent sneaking episodes of Neighbours, more like. Everything was Ramsay Street, if she squinted.

  Eventually, the car went around a bend and she realized that wasn’t only sky in the distance, it was the sea. And Jenny had to remind herself, with a kick of wonder, that it was the Pacific, deep and blue. Not the gray North Atlantic she knew better.

  And for the first time since she’d jumped on a plane in Heathrow, on a whim, the fact that she’d taken herself off across the planet hit her.

  Hard enough that she found herself quite glad she was sitting down.

 
She worried that huge ring on her hands instead of thinking about all the likely reactions back home, turning it around and around and telling herself that she was exhausted. Obviously. And that was why the weight of the ring, which had never been light to begin with, seemed more like a brick.

  The cab wound around through narrower streets, with houses built up high on hillsides that sloped toward the sea. All of them made mostly of windows, to make the best of the view from every angle. And what a view it was, with neighborhoods clinging to rugged cliffs, and sandy beaches stretching in between. It was nothing at all like an English seaside.

  The driver pulled up before a sleek white building. The street was at garage level, and the only thing to see was the wooden door to the garage and beside it, a closed entryway. Jenny paid the driver, climbed out with her small case and stood there as the cab drove off.

  There were butterflies leaping around inside her, and she told herself she didn’t know why.

  It was only Dylan. One of her two best friends from her Oxford days. They’d been first years on the same stair, along with Erika, and Jenny had been close with both of them ever after. She and Erika saw more of each other, it was true, but only because Dylan had relocated here, built himself a fortune and liked to call himself an accidental billionaire.

  Before anyone else can, he’d told her when she’d asked him why. And then had texted something incomprehensible about Californian tech giants.

  Jenny had spent several hours on the plane thinking about when she’d seen Dylan last. In person. She was sure it had been in Cape Town, a year or so back. She’d been at a charity ball and he’d been in town for business meetings. They’d met up at a lovely restaurant with panoramic views of Signal Hill, had a typically uproarious dinner, had laughed until Jenny had tears streaming down her face and had parted on their usual merry, friendly terms. Because that was Dylan. Always easy and fun, and the most undemanding person in her life.