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She was fixated on it, waiting breathlessly for him to take her. She needed it badly. Now.
His fingers danced between her thighs, then retreated to stroke her backside, each intimate touch sending another shock wave reverberating through her. His tongue swirled into the shallow cup of her belly button. Even that was intense and erotic.
“It’s okay,” Rory said, pushing to her elbows. “I’m ready. You can—uh…you know.”
Tucker looked up, his expression as taunting as his fingers. “Tell me.”
She did. Two words that left nothing to the imagination. No sense in being coy about it.
“I’ll get to that,” he promised, “soon enough.”
“But you must be hurting by now. I know I am.”
He smiled tightly. “Let me take this trip my way. The slow, scenic route.”
“Whatever you like. But don’t say I didn’t offer.”
His hot-as-sin gaze traveled down her body. “Darling, there’s no missing your open invitation.”
Dear Reader,
Do you believe in fate? I often wonder how couples that were “meant to be” find each other. Fate’s got to play a part. But if that’s so, what happens when fate is fiddled with? Or was that also meant to be? Hmm…
Tucker and Rory, the fated couple in the third book of the LOCK & KEY trilogy, come together at a key party, where random matches are the name of the game. Or maybe not.
I hope you enjoy traveling with Tucker and Rory on their Slow Ride to love.
Carrie Alexander
Slow Ride
Carrie Alexander
www.millsandboon.co.uk
For my key partners, Jamie and Shannon, with thanks and appreciation. Working with two of my favorite writers was a true pleasure!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
1
“WANT TO SLIP IT TO ME?” a sultry, spray-tanned blonde said to Tucker Schulz at the crowded entrance of Clementine’s. When he paused, astonished, she giggled and leaned over to shimmy her breasts against his arm. “Your key, silly boy.” Her shiny lips puckered as she ran her hand over his midriff. “Mmm…to start with, anyway. Nice abs.”
He realized that he was supposed to insert his key into the locket nestled between her cleavage and his biceps. This would entail prying his hand out of the pocket of the black denim jeans that had suddenly grown tight.
“I’ll catch you later,” he said to the willing blonde, strangely unwilling himself. The meat market at the Marina dance clubs wasn’t his usual scene. Then again, neither was turning women down.
“Remind me again why I’m here,” he shouted to his old friend, Nolan Baylor, as they entered the hot, pulsing atmosphere of the high-decibel party. Clementine’s, a popular nightclub that featured gold-rush decor juxtaposed with a contemporary dance floor, was packed with a shrill crowd of young, single and trendy San Franciscans. Tonight’s event was a charity key party. The expectation of sexual chemistry was so thick in the air Tuck could taste it in the back of his throat.
“See there, at three o’clock?” Nolan nudged Tucker with his elbow. Their eyes followed the swaying mini-skirt of a Chinese enchantress whose slim hips could probably talk dirty in five languages. “That’s why you’re here. The hot babes.”
Beneath his breath, Tuck whistled appreciatively. “Nope, that’s why you are here. But wasn’t it supposed to be one hot babe in particular?”
Nolan nodded. “Doesn’t hurt to look.”
“It’ll hurt plenty if Mikki catches you.” Tuck chuckled as a server skimmed by with a tray of used glasses. “The phrase ‘balls on a platter’ comes to mind.”
Nolan took the familiar ribbing with a wry grin. On a mission to find his ex-wife, Mikki Corelli, he’d donated a small fortune to the charity’s building fund to guarantee the reunion via the supposedly random matching of locks and keys guests had received at the door as they’d turned in their tickets.
“Unlock the Possibilities” was the theme for the evening. Tuck fingered the small key he’d shoved into his jeans’ pocket. He’d rather be opening a cold beer and kicking back to watch the Giants play the Mariners, but when a buddy needed a wingman….
“Did you wear a cup?” he asked, thinking of Mikki and the stilettos she favored.
Nolan placed a defensive hand over his fly. His laugh wasn’t altogether convincing. “You’ll have to be my bodyguard.”
“No way. I’m not getting between you and Mikki on this one.” Nolan planned to tell the hot little mama whom he’d married during law school that their quickie Mexican divorce decree had crumbled like a cheap tortilla. Her explosion might rock harder than the Northridge earthquake.
“You do have my sympathy,” Tuck added as they pushed deeper into the crowd. One zap of Mikki Corelli’s electric-blue eyes could shock a man to the core, even when he wasn’t delivering unwelcome news.
But that was Nolan and Mikki. They were meant for each other, even if their love-hate relationship was too tempestuous for Tuck’s taste.
Keeping his dealings with women at a flirtatious level was his preference, one that had worked out fine for him ever since he’d been fifteen and asked his very first blonde to come for a ride. Surfboards, motorbikes, convertibles…himself. Any conveyance would do, as long as the coupling was fast and sweet.
He was thirty-two now, which added up to seventeen years of fast rides.
Sweat sprang up on the nape of Tucker’s neck. He pulled at the collar of the nancy-boy purple silk shirt his older sister Didi had forced on him. Either he was too old for this game or the weekly—sometimes daily—haranguing of his four siblings was finally getting to him. Happily married one and all, they thought Tuck’s life wouldn’t be complete until he was, too. And they weren’t shy about airing their opinions and advice.
They’d already been successful at luring him into a permanent address. Several of the family had invested in an apartment building that he managed and lived in while completing the lengthy renovation process.
Marriage was the logical next step; Didi was pressing the charms of her single friend Charla hard. If Tuck wasn’t careful about what bed he hopped into, one of these mornings he’d wake up to find himself fully settled down with a wife beside him and a passel of kids in the next room.
Nolan stopped short. “There she is.”
Tucker gazed past his friend, who was clad in a black polo shirt that might do as a shroud after Mikki got her hands on her once-and-present husband.
“Go on. Make your move.” Tuck pressed a knuckle into the small of Nolan’s back. The man could talk circles around opposing counsel in court. Facing the lash of Mikki’s sharp tongue and hot temper shouldn’t faze him.
But she just might knock him out of his designer loafers, at least temporarily.
Mikki’s dark head had snapped up. She turned slightly away from a small table crowded with drinks and food, ignoring her two companions as her eyes locked with Nolan’s. Tucker watched with interest. Either a head-to-head challenge or spontaneous combustion was in the offing.
Nolan’s features had tensed. “She’s as beautiful as ever,” he said under his breath.
“Gorgeous,” Tuck agreed. Personally, he was partial to blondes, but there was nothing on Mikki that he’d say no to—if she hadn’t been claimed by his best friend from the moment that the two had met in law school.
Nolan strode over to the table, radiating such an intense heat that the crowd parted in front of him. A small white-gold key had appeared in his hand.
Tuck followed. He knew exactly what would happen when that key made its way to Mikki’s lock, but he still wanted a ringside seat for the show.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped.
“Nice to see you again, too, Mikki.” Wisely, Nolan slipped the key back into his pocket. He’d always been a man to pick his moments, as opposed to Tucker, who took things as they came.
While the pair struck at each other like flint and steel, Tucker glanced over at the two women at Mikki’s table. Her sisters, according to Nolan. Foster sisters, in fact, which explained their presence to support the cause of Maureen Baxter’s transitional halfway house. Both wore the suitcase locket on a chain around their necks, symbolic of the disrupted lives of the troubled teenage girls Maureen Baxter aimed to help.
“You remember Tuck,” Nolan was saying in a tone that betrayed his need for a temporary buffer from Mikki’s ire.
Mikki’s scowl was replaced with a generous smile. She and Tucker had always been friendly, even when he’d had to stand by his man Nolan during their rancorous split.
She climbed down from her perch on the stool and gave him a heartfelt hug. In the next minute she was introducing him to her sisters.
The first one’s name was lost in the din. His eyes slid past her to the other as Mikki said, “And this is Lauren Massey.” He nodded as she continued. “Tucker Schulz. He and Nolan have been friends for…”
“More years than I care to keep track of,” Tuck said, deciding that seventeen years of brotherly bonding and flirtatious females was just about right, after all. He flashed a devil-may-care grin at the blonde.
Lauren was a slim woman with a froth of honey-colored curls, prettily dressed in sleeveless peach silk. More his type than the other sister, but after a brief hello she made her excuses and departed. He’d missed his shot at trying his key on her.
Tucker shrugged. Easy come, easy go. He eyed the abandoned stool, well in range of the sparks that Mikki and Nolan were still striking off each other. Mikki was trying to leave, and if the fierce light in Nolan’s eyes was any indication, he wasn’t about to let her go without a fight.
Good for him. Tuck slid into place, snagged a server to request a beer, then remembered the brunette sister remaining at the table, a glass of white wine in front of her. She was the eldest, he recalled. A hippie like her mother, according to Nolan. If so, she’d forgotten to sign up for the retro-issue love beads and headbands.
Tucker gave her a quick once-over. Curved wings of nut-brown hair framed her calm face. She had a strong nose and jaw, paired with a wide mouth painted a shiny plum color. Even sitting, he could see that she was tall and comfortably built—statuesque, he guessed. There was a casual but well-taken-care-of air about her that spoke of salons and designer labels.
Generally he preferred women who romped on the beach without a care in the world. But there was something about Mikki’s sister. The longer he looked, the more he liked. He found himself drawn to her bare arms and hands, struck by the elegance of her long fingers, the graceful turn of a wrist beneath a heavy silver bangle. Instinct told him she’d be good with her hands, talented with her fingers. He could easily imagine her sliding them across his body….
She lifted the glass of wine. One eyebrow arched.
He nodded. “I’m sorry. I missed your name.”
She tilted a haughty chin at him. “Aurora Constable. But you can call me Rory.”
He leaned closer to hear. Her voice was low and smooth, soothing among the high-pitched shrieks of the other women. “What kind of a name is Aurora?” he asked, raising his voice above the live band playing an eclectic mix of jazz, swing and pop.
“From the Aurora Borealis. Northern Lights. My mother claimed she saw them over Woodstock on the night I was conceived, but I have my doubts. Woodstock, colored lights dancing in the sky, sex that was an out-of-body experience…” Rory shrugged, then caught her shawl from slipping down her arms. “You do the math.”
He grinned. “At least you got an interesting story out of it. A genuine Woodstock baby. Don’t think I’ve ever met one.”
“Oh, many make the claim, but few are the genuine article. My mother’s been known to tell a few wild tales. This one I believe. My birthdate proves it, although I was born on a commune in Oregon. We didn’t come to California until I was six.” She stopped and bit her lip. “I’m talking too much. Sorry.”
“No problem.” He scanned the crowd. Couples were quickly pairing off as keys found their way to the matching locks. The flirtatious procedure was producing much laughter and raunchy banter. He could have been off among them, searching for his soul mate for the night, but he’d been raised with manners. For now, he’d stick with Rory.
“What about you?” She pushed a plate of pastries toward him. “Try one.”
He picked up a cream puff drizzled with chocolate. “I’m a native Californian. Lived here all my life.”
“That’s rare, too.”
“My parents have been in the same big Victorian for as long as I can remember. They raised five of us there. Now the bedrooms are mostly empty, but they fill them up with grandchildren as often as possible.”
She glanced at his hand. “You’re not married.”
He shook his head and took another bite of the pastry. A dollop of filling squirted into his mouth. Rich and smooth—like Rory.
He swallowed. “None of the kids are mine. I’m the only holdout.”
“At least you’re an uncle.” Rory’s face softened with longing. She had that tender look in her eyes, the mushy one his sister Jenny got when she was cradling her pregnant belly and thinking about soon being able to hold her newborn.
A look like that, even from a woman he barely knew, would usually have Tucker running for the exit. But Rory was only remotely an option. Attractive, in her own way, but not his type. Despite the expert hands.
“How many nieces and nephews?” she asked.
“Eight and counting.”
“Aw, wonderful. A big family.”
“You must know what that’s like. Mikki used to tell me stories about life at Emma Constable’s. There was a constant stream of foster kids coming and going, she said. Wasn’t Maureen Baxter even one of them?”
“She wasn’t with us for long, but we’ve stayed in touch.” Rory glanced at the commingling singles, the set of her mouth betraying a trace of discomfort. “That’s why I’m here, to help get Baxter House up and running. Not to—” she waved a hand “—unlock the possibilities.”
“I figured as much.” Tucker’s gaze lingered on a Britney clone baring her bikini wax in a pair of low-slung jeans. “You don’t seem like the type.”
Rory blinked. “What type would that be?”
“You know. On the make.”
The brow inched upward again. She was going all high and mighty on him. “But you are, I take it?”
He smiled. “I’m young, male and single.”
“Of course.” She toyed with the locket around her neck, wrapping the delicate chain around the tip of one finger and swinging the suitcase charm back and forth. Her shawl had shifted, revealing the loose neckline of her dress and a hint of the shadowed hollow between her breasts.
Full ones, he realized. Round and weighty, the kind of breasts a guy could roll and grip and squeeze and suck—Damn. Although it wasn’t unusual for him to have sexual thoughts about most any eligible woman he met, these lustful reveries were making him uneasy. Nolan was like a brother, which made Rory a…well, not a sister, but maybe a cousin. Not by blood, of course. Only by association. Still, it’d be less complicated if he didn’t have impure thoughts about her.
Blame the swinging locket. No degree in psychology was necessary to deduce that she was offering him an invite, if only subconsciously.
Insert your key, her amber eyes seemed to say. I’ll take you on an a wild ride you won’t forget.
Tucker put his hand into his pocket, intending to withdraw the key. How could it hurt?
Before he could follow through, a man came up and leaned over Rory’s chair, sliding his hands along her arms. He was big, muscled, bald, sporting a white button-down shirt with a loosened tie and an ostentatious platinum watch that must have weighed a couple of pounds. “Hello, lovely lady. Waiting for me?”
Rory’s face tilted up. After a beat, she smiled provocatively. Tuck couldn’t tell if she knew the guy or not, but he was surprised at her willingness to flirt so openly.
Maybe he should have acted faster.
With an airy laugh, Rory offered the man her locket. “All packed and ready to go, as soon as I find the matching key.”
The man tapped the suitcase charm. “Let’s see what you’ve got in there.”
Rory swiveled on the stool and allowed Big Baldy to try his key on her necklace. It didn’t turn.
“Just my luck,” the guy said.
She dropped the necklace back into her cleavage and rearranged her shawl, crisscrossing it over one of the most magnificent pair of real breasts Tuck had ever hoped to see. “Maybe next time.”
Big Baldy shot an assessing glance at Tucker before he addressed Rory again. “Want to come with me, anyway? I promise…” He lowered his face nearer to hers and whispered into her ear.
She laughed, but with less playfulness. Her eyes went to Tucker. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Tuck cocked two fingers at the man, flicking them in a shooing gesture. “Okay, fella. You took your shot. Now you’re out of here.”
The guy straightened. “The lady can make up her own mind.”
“And she did.”
There was a moment of challenging silence, then Big Baldy shrugged. “Her loss.” He faded into the crowd, smoothing a hand over his shining scalp as he went.
Tuck waited until the joker was well away before he gripped the edge of the round table and leaned across it toward Rory. “What did he say to you?”
Her lashes lowered. “Oh, just something about making himself fit.”
Tuck saw red. He forced himself to pry his fingers from the table and tear off a hunk of the pastry. After he’d chewed as if the flaky crust had been composed of nail filings, he swallowed and was able to say almost casually, “Do you know him?”
She shook her head. “Not really, though I’m fairly sure he’s been in my bakery a few times.” Her gaze on Tuck’s face was level. Frank. She didn’t seem to be a woman who played games. “It was nice to be asked. My only other option so far was a semifamous actor who was making the rounds earlier. Pint-size—I could have broken him like a twig.”
Tuck was a solid five-eleven, one-eighty-five. Not bulky like the bald man, but he worked out. He would match up with Rory just fine. Maybe his imagination was tricking him, but he was beginning to sense a simmering heat beneath her cool exterior. She was an intriguing female.
Unfortunately, after her remark about how nice it was to be asked, pulling out his key now would look like a pity attempt.
Tuck popped the rest of the cream puff into his mouth. “You have a bakery?” Nolan may have mentioned that, now that he thought of it.
“Several of them, all local. Lavender Field. Bread and sweets. That’s one of my pastries you’re gobbling.”
He swallowed. “Good stuff.”
“Thanks.”
The music stopped. They looked at each other, finding nothing further to say.
Tuck wiped his mouth with a napkin. He scanned the club from the etched-glass mirror behind the bar to the velvet curtains forming the private dining alcoves. Glass doors opened onto a deck with a sparkling view of the harbor. “Looks like Nolan went after Mikki.”
“I saw her heading outside.”
“What happened to your other friend?”
“My sister—Lauren. She’s probably circulating, collecting quotes for a freelance article she’s researching.” Again, the direct gaze. “Did you want to go find her? I saw you looking.”
“That’s okay.” Under the focus of Rory’s unblinking stare, Lauren’s face had faded from his memory.
“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Not as up-front as Mikki, but she’s single and available.” Rory shifted on the bar stool, the hem of her long cotton dress lifting to reveal a smooth firm calf as she recrossed her legs.
“Are you trying to set us up?”
“I can, if you’re interested.”
“Not right now.” Suddenly his mouth was dry and the key was burning a hole in his pocket.
After a momentary silence the music started up again. Should he ask her to dance? The tempo was fast; the dancers were rocking. There was no doubt in his mind that Rory Constable was strictly a slow-dance woman.
“You’re fidgeting,” she said. “It’s all right if you want to leave.” Another hand wave. “Go. Circulate. Search for cute locks.” She gave him a doting smile. “You know you want to.”
“No.” He drained his beer in one long pull. “What I want is a dance. Are you game?”
She pressed a hand to her chest and batted her lashes, putting on, just a bit. “Me?”
“Yes.” He held out his hand. “You. Come on.”
Her hand fit snugly in his and she swung off the stool, giving him a peep down the neckline of her dress to the locket dangling between her breasts. Heat throbbed through him, in beat with the music.
As he led Rory to the dance floor, he had to remind himself one more time that she wasn’t his type. She was Mikki’s sister; he was Mikki’s husband’s best friend. They were destined to be friends who met up now and then at backyard barbecues or family birthday parties. They would drink a beer together and maybe share a moment when they remembered the night that they might have hooked up, if the dice had rolled another way.
Actually hooking up would make future encounters too awkward. He’d been down that road before, with a good friend of Didi’s who to this day shot diamond-cutting laser eyes at him whenever they ran into each other at his sister’s house.
But one dance wouldn’t hurt.
Rory was surprisingly carefree on the dance floor. For all his certainty that she was a slow-dancing type, she moved fluidly to the samba beat of “Hot, Hot, Hot,” the skirt of her black-and-white patterned dress swinging in a bell shape around her long legs as she swooped and twirled.
He finally managed to catch her close, keeping one arm firmly looped around her waist so she couldn’t slip away. He looked into her eyes. Their hips swiveled, side to side, forward and back.
Rory’s cheeks glowed, bathed in the hot colored lights. She licked her lips. “You’re a good dancer.”
“Only when the mood strikes.”
“The mood,” she repeated. Her eyes were liquid, the color of the expensive brand of Scotch he used to see in decanters at Nolan’s house.
He spread his fingers over the small of her back. Her hips moved just beneath them, the swell of her backside inches away. If he’d been even a little bit drunk and she hadn’t been quite so classy, he’d dip lower for a quick grope.
“Then the elusive mood must have struck,” she said, moving her face closer to his so he could hear. “I haven’t danced like this since…I can’t remember when.”
Her hair brushed the side of his cheek. He closed his eyes, inhaled a fragrance of sweet sage and lavender. The weight and warmth of her generous body was more arousing than he’d expected.
He could sink into her.
Go deep, get comfortable.
Spend the night.
Maybe even longer…
He tightened their embrace until her voluptuous breasts were riding plump and full up against his chest, the locked charm trapped between them. In heels, she was almost his height. Maybe twenty-five pounds under his weight, which meant that her curves fit just right against him, filling his arms, his senses.