New Lease on Love Read online

  And after that, when they'd eaten their fill and talked enough about nothing, he'd broach the subject of beginning an affair. He didn't think she'd object. Of course, he'd have to be honest and discuss all the ground rules. He didn't want either of them to risk getting serious.

  And then… ?

  Nick sucked in his breath as a bolt of fire flashed straight through him. Lord, how he wished this old van could fly.

  Chelsea stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and groaned. "You're a wreck, Lawton." Her shirt was filthy, her face sagged with tiredness, and her hands looked like hamburger.

  But at least the apartment was ready for Nick and Katie to move in. Her energy and efficiency had thoroughly amazed her. She'd even run out to the market for food, staples to get them through tomorrow, and tonight's dinner, which was in the oven now.

  She smiled, imagining Nick's surprise when he walked in the door. He'd check out the polished rooms, sniff the aromatic chicken, gaze at the beautifully set table, and his pleasure would be all the thanks she'd need.

  She'd sit him down and serve him dinner, maybe unpack his clothes while he ate. Moving was such a chore; he was sure to appreciate the help.

  And after he'd eaten and she was clearing the dishes, maybe they'd have a chance to talk. She sorely wanted to dispel the misconceptions he had about her. She was a responsible woman, a serious person, not a flighty kid. She wanted him to know they shared the same ideals—of home and work and family.

  And after the talk…?

  Chelsea didn't know what she hoped for then. Approval? A new respect? His acceptance of her as the sort of woman he could love? Her smile softened.

  But first, she really had to do something about these clothes. She checked her watch. Still time to zip home and change.

  He knocked first. "Chelse?"

  "Coming."

  The door opened and Nick felt an almost uncontrollable urge to scoop Chelsea into his arms. But in the very same moment, an assortment of fragrances assailed his senses. Strong scents like bleach and furniture polish, freshly baked cake and barbecue sauce.

  "You made good time." Chelsea smiled expectantly.

  "Wasn't much traffic." He dropped the bags of food on the coffee table and took a quick sweeping look at the room, then at her. "You changed your clothes."

  She looked very nice. Too nice. She was wearing a rather dressy turquoise sheath, pearls, prim white pumps, and she'd put on makeup. Lipstick, eyeshadow, the whole works.

  "Are you going somewhere?" he asked.

  "No." She chewed on her lip, and he sensed disappointment had slipped into his expression.

  "Well, good. You look nice." Untouchable, unkissable—but nice. "What have you been doing while I was gone?"

  "Oh, just a little straightening up. I got restless."

  "Holy…" Nick couldn't believe the extent of her "straightening up." One look at her hands told him the rest of the story. She looked tired, too. The dream that had kept him going all that day began to unravel.

  "Did the gas man come?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Of course he had. Nick could smell food cooking. He gave the bags on the coffee table a disappointed glance.

  She followed his gaze. "What's that?"

  "Uh… Chinese."

  "Oh." She looked rather disappointed herself. "I noticed you didn't have any food, so I went out and got a few things. I didn't think you and Katie would appreciate waking up tomorrow to an empty cupboard. I hope you don't mind, but I got a little something for dinner, too."

  Nick felt a knot of frustration tightening inside. This wasn't the sort of evening he'd envisioned. "I told you yesterday I'd get Chinese."

  She wrung her fingers. "I forgot. Sorry. But that's okay. Now you and Katie'll have lots of leftovers the rest of the week."

  Nick walked into the kitchen, almost afraid of what he might find. Sure enough, the table in the dining alcove was set—flowers, candles, napkin fanning perfectly from a wineglass. The floor had been washed, too, and a chocolate cake was cooling on the counter.

  "Chelsea, for heaven's sake. What have you been doing?"

  She followed him into the kitchen, a little unsteadily, he thought. She bit her tip again and grimaced. "You don't like barbecued chicken?"

  Nick rubbed a hand over his face. "No. Yes. I mean it's fine. But you shouldn't have gone to all this trouble."

  "My pleasure," she said softly, but he noticed her exuberance was gone.

  "Is there enough time for me to move some things up from the van before we eat?"

  She glanced at the stove and shrugged uncertainly.

  "I just thought it'd be nice to hook up my stereo…"

  "Stereo? Wouldn't you rather leave that till last? It's not exactly the most essential thing…"

  Okay, so there'd be no spontaneous dinner on the floor, and there'd be no Brazilian sambas. Nick pulled in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

  "I hope you have some sheets down in the van. There aren't any on the beds, you know."

  "Yes, I think I do."

  "Good. While you're eating, I'll fix up your beds."

  "Aren't you going to join me?"

  "Maybe for dessert."

  Okay. So there'd be no Chelsea, either. He yanked out a chair and said goodbye to the last of his fantasy.

  "Would you like the Chinese food or what I cooked?"

  "Yes, that." He pointed distractedly toward the oven.

  "The chicken turned out okay, but I'm afraid I burned the rolls." She carried her head so stiffly. What on earth was the matter with her?

  From the refrigerator, she pulled a bottle of chilled white wine. Nick had had enough. "What are you doing, Chelsea?"

  "What do you mean?" She sounded as if her throat was closing.

  "I mean this." He indicated the entire gleaming room with a sweeping gesture of one arm. "And this." He plucked at her turquoise skirt. "Hell, I go away for six hours and you turn into June Cleaver!"

  Chelsea lowered the wine bottle slowly, her jaw wobbling.

  "I'm sorry." Nick raked his hair back and sighed. "But you've obviously been knocking yourself out today, and I can't figure out why. This place has a cleaning service, you know. They just haven't had a chance to come in yet."

  "Where are your sheets?" Chelsea looked up at the ceiling rather than meet his gaze.

  "Behind the driver's seat. White bag."

  She nodded and clopped off, head still held high.

  Nick hardly tasted anything he ate. He kept listening to Chelsea bumping around his bedroom. Finally he threw down his napkin and strode out of the kitchen.

  She was just tucking the spread over the pillows of his bed. Though she wasn't making a sound, tears were sliding down her cheeks.

  Chelsea's gaze shot up. Nick was standing in the doorway, watching her. Great. As if she hadn't made enough of a fool of herself! She'd thought she was doing him a favor, cleaning the apartment, cooking his dinner. She'd thought he'd be so pleased.

  It wasn't until he'd returned, however, and she'd seen herself through his eyes, that she'd realized what a jerk she was. Nick's face had said it all. She was a clown, fussing around his apartment like some sitcom caricature of a housewife.

  And why? As Chelsea gazed at Nick standing in the doorway, she knew the answer clearly. She wanted to be the woman of Nick's house. She wanted to share his life, but since she didn't fit his image of Mrs. Perfect, she'd tried to imitate the woman who did.

  Nick crossed the room in three long strides and gripped her by the arms. "What's wrong?" He leaned close, peering into her eyes.

  "I should go…" She tried to pull away, but he only held her tighter.

  "Nick, please."

  "What's wrong?" His fingers dug deeper.

  Chelsea looked up. Nick was everything she ever wanted in life—and would never have. "Everything," she finally admitted, her voice catching on a sob. "Just about everything. I'm sorry, Nick. I didn't mean to insinuate myself into your home, into
your kitchen and all." She wished her mouth would stop trembling. "I had no right. It was presumptuous. We really don't know each other well enough for me to have done what I did."

  Nick tilted his dark head, a strange little smile breaking through his concern. "Oh, Chelsea. You think I was upset because you'd… you'd insinuated yourself?"

  "You're not?"

  He dropped his forehead to hers. "No. I was looking forward to a different sort of evening, and I was frustrated. That's all. I didn't want you cleaning. I didn't want you cooking. I just… wanted your company tonight."

  This admission touched off a response in Chelsea she didn't anticipate. She wasn't sure if she was sad or happy; she only knew she couldn't keep from breaking down.

  Nick folded her close, rocking her gently as she cried.

  "I f-feel s-so stupid," she sobbed into his chest.

  He smoothed back her hair, stroked the length of her back. "Shh. I don't want to hear it."

  "I'm getting your shirt all wet," she choked out.

  "I almost care."

  For some reason, this made her laugh. Nick lowered his head and brushed his cheek against hers. He pressed his lips to her hair. Chelsea snuggled closer. Nick was warm and safe—exactly where she wanted to be.

  "Oh, Chelsea," he whispered shakily, and the next moment his lips were touching hers.

  Nick feared she would push him away. He hadn't meant to kiss her then, but he couldn't help it. Holding her in his arms, feeling her press against him, he'd just lost all control.

  Chelsea didn't resist. Rather, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed closer. Nick moaned, feeling the fire he'd been banking since the day they'd first met blaze into an inferno. He wanted to kiss her everywhere, touch her everywhere. To his astonishment, she seemed to feel the same.

  He finally managed to pull away from the kiss, and she dropped her head to his chest. He could feel her heart hammering.

  "I just couldn't hold back anymore," he whispered against the soft crown of her hair. "I'm sorry. You drive me crazy."

  She smiled, gazing into his eyes with a look that turned his knees to mush. Nick wondered how he'd ever thought he could live without this.

  He kissed her again, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her. He moved his hands along her back to her head, his fingers threading through the thick silk of her hair. The kiss deepened, and he heard her whimper. At that moment, the world swirled away, leaving them on an island that consisted solely of sensual contact.

  The dress she wore was soft, silky. It slid like hot fluid beneath his exploring hands. The material was thin, and through it he could almost feel the pores of her skin. Yet it wasn't enough. If he wasn't careful, he was going to tear the damn thing right off her back.

  He felt her press closer, her legs rubbing the coarse denim of his jeans. She overwhelmed him, swept him along on a tide as uncontrollable as an ocean surge.

  This isn't the way it was supposed to happen, Nick thought. They were supposed to have music and egg rolls and conversation. But as she arched against him, her smooth, white neck inviting his kiss, he realized they didn't need any of those trappings. Here was the center of his dream, here the source of his need.

  Chelsea was vaguely aware of being lifted off her feet. A moment later Nick lowered her onto his bed and settled alongside her. She snuggled closer, searching for his warmth.

  He stroked back her hair, for a moment not kissing her but just gazing into her eyes. She stared at him, too, reeling in the intoxication caused by his attention. Her happiness was overwhelming.

  "You're so beautiful…" His whisper was heartfelt, awestruck.

  "You, too." The knuckle of her index finger trailed along his rough cheek to his jaw. She felt him shudder under the light touch, just before leaning over her to take her in another kiss.

  He kept on kissing her, their hunger deepening until Chelsea was nearly mindless with it. This wasn't how she'd thought the evening would go. Their food was getting cold, they were messing the bed, her outfit was a shambles.

  But when all was said and done, who cared? Nick was here with her, without the preliminaries, and that was all that mattered.

  Vaguely she wondered where all this was leading, but she thought she already knew. For heaven's sake, they were already lying on the bed! There was no middle ground when it came to her and Nick. No dinner. No conversation. Just spontaneous combustion. She'd never known anything like it in her life. Would she stop him? she wondered, hearing the zipper whisper open down her back. Did she have the necessary self-control?

  Nick eased her dress off her shoulders, over her arms, all the while kissing her with an intimacy that was causing major shock waves through her nervous system.

  Would she stop him? she asked herself again. And the answer came back, Why should she? She loved seeing him happy, loved giving him pleasure. She suspected he hadn't allowed himself a whole lot of that during the past few years.

  Her breathing was labored as she worked her hands under his T-shirt and over the hot, tensed muscles of his back. The next moment, he'd ripped off the shirt, and the crisp dark hair that matted his chest was prickling through the lace of her bra. Chelsea sank into the soft pillows, burning with sensations she'd never dreamed possible.

  "I… I love your body," she whispered shyly, tracing the muscled curve of his neck.

  She felt a reaction. "Chelsea, are you sure this is all right?"

  "Oh, Nick," she cried, hugging him tight to her. "Of course it's all right. I love you. I love you." The words poured out like a song suppressed too long.

  Nick lay very still, his cheek pressed to her ear. Chelsea waited—then tried to move. She wanted to seal her avowal of love with a kiss, a smile—something! But he'd stiffened into place, his breathing arrested.

  His eyes were closed when he eased away from her onto his back, but she could still read his anguish. There and then, she knew she'd made one hell of a mistake.

  She loved him? Nick dropped his arm over his face and prayed he was just dreaming. But of course he knew he wasn't. The heat of passion draining from his body was all too real, as real as the cold sweat of alarm that was replacing it.

  The silence lengthened. Did he love her in return? Is that what he was supposed to say now? His blood began to pound. Damn! This never should've happened. If only he'd stuck to his plan, talked to her, set limits on what they could expect. But no, he'd had to throw caution to the wind.

  "Nick?" Chelsea's voice sounded so small.

  He turned to look at her, wishing there were some way to erase the last few minutes.

  "Nick, I think someone's knocking at your door."

  "Oh." He sat up, feeling cold and hollow. "Oh, yes." He tugged his shirt on and pushed a hand through his hair. "Are you all right?"

  Chelsea sat up, not looking at him, and nodded. The turquoise dress lay in folds around her small waist. Her lips looked bee-stung, and her near-ebony hair fell in tousled shocks across her face. She looked more enticing than anyone he'd ever seen, but she'd also withdrawn into a hurt he knew he'd caused.

  "Here, let me zip you up."

  "No. I can manage." He didn't like the way she was avoiding his eyes. "Go answer your door."

  He pulled in a breath. "All right. Be back soon."

  Nick hurried off. He had a problem on his hands, one he didn't know how to solve. But he would. Chelsea was too important for him not to. He would, as soon as he got rid of whoever was pounding on his door.

  He swung it open, and his heart plummeted, for there stood Grace Lockwood, hands on her hips and murder in her eyes.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Chelsea zipped up her dress and sat on the bed again, tears of humiliation scalding her eyes. Had she really told Nick that she loved him? Had she been that out of control that she couldn't hold in the words? She'd never said them to anyone before. Why him? Why now?

  She supposed everything would be different if only Nick had said he loved her, too. But he hadn't, and that wa
s the crux of the matter. Nick didn't love her. She knew she had no right to expect him to. Still, it had hurt to feel him withdraw as if she'd done something repulsive. It hurt now.

  She pressed her eyes with unsteady fingers and prayed for a way to erase the tension she'd created. She wanted them to return to where they'd been before she'd opened her mouth, but she feared it was too late.

  Chelsea stiffened. She swore she heard Grace's voice. My Lord, it was Grace! At the door, talking to Nick. She'd forgotten all about Grace when she'd been in Nick's arms. Forgotten? Or had she just dismissed her as unimportant? Either way, Chelsea felt mortified.

  Deep down, she'd never believed Nick loved Grace, and that, she supposed, was why she'd never been able to rouse any guilt. But Grace and Nick were involved, however thin the relationship, and she'd had no right to ignore the fact.

  It didn't matter that Nick had ignored it himself. She wasn't responsible for what he did. But she was responsible for herself, and she'd acted reprehensibly.

  She stood up on legs that quivered. Grace must know she was here. Her van was parked right out front. Would Grace believe an excuse? Could she think of a plausible one? She wanted to spare Grace's feelings if she could.

  "Hi, Grace." Chelsea smiled, hoping she appeared to be coming from the kitchen.

  Grace swung on her, her pale blue eyes burning with anger. Her mouth was so tight her lips had disappeared. One glance at the lipstick smudge on Nick's cheek, and Chelsea cringed.

  "And I thought you were my friend," Grace seethed.

  "You'd better go, Chelse," Nick warned. "Take my car. I'll call you later."

  Was he trying to protect her from the bedlam that was about to erupt, or did he just want her out of the way so that he could comfort Grace without distraction?

  "No, she might as well stay and hear this, too." Grace sounded vindictive.

  Chelsea stepped closer. "What's the matter? Has something happened?"

  "You bet something has. Katie's missing, that's what."

  "What?" Nick demanded.

  "She's taken off."

  He gripped Grace's arm. "Where? When?"