Damaged Beauties (Romanced by the Damaged Millionaire (Erotic Romance)) Page 5

  This stuns me.

  “Oh,” I exclaim, putting a hand on my mouth. “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” His mud green eyes register concern.

  We are both perched upon a cliff that looks down upon the valley from another angle. It’s a beautiful afternoon, with birds flitting through the canopy of trees and the sun beating down on our heads. The leaves are beginning to turn gold and red, and the scenery is so blissful that I simply cannot imagine anything haunting us.

  I say, “No . . . I’m not scared. I’m just surprised.”

  I am more than surprised. I’m stricken.

  I think back to the entry in Ethan’s diary, the one that I haven’t had the investigative tenacity to revisit since – mostly because he’s been around so much, and I don’t want to be kicked out of the house for doing something as mundane as snooping around my host’s study.

  I can’t contain him anymore. All I know is that he is becoming more powerful. Suddenly, in light of Ethan’s revelation, that phrase takes on a whole different connotation.

  Cold fingers run down my spine.

  Stop it, Virginia. Stop it. You don’t believe in ghosts.

  I take a deep breath and calm my nerves to the point where I can be objective again. Yes. Now where were we?

  I’m getting to the stage where I am dreading the part where I have to reveal myself to be a reporter. Do I have to reveal myself at all? I mean, it’s not as if I’m exposing Enron. But Ethan Greene clearly has a dubious reputation in these parts, and there’s a story in there somewhere that would make for riveting reading.

  Of course, he can sue me and my newspaper if the allegations are not true. That’s the fine line that investigative journalism treads upon. Right now, I’m just taking baby steps. Making sure that everything in my article will be verified by sources.

  I’m supposed to remain impartial, of course. If Ethan Greene has done something wrong, and if he has not been brought to justice for it, then he should pay. But I can’t believe that this man can be capable of doing something heinously wrong. I pride myself on knowing people, of being able to size them up within moments. And Ethan Greene strikes me as . . . inherently good.

  I have to report back to Sharon Contralto every two days, of course, which I do by phone. She was piqued when I told her about the hookers and the unsolved disappearance of one.

  “OK,” she said. “Find out more.”

  So here I am with Ethan, gradually building up his trust so that I can stab him in the back. Only I don’t really want to stab him. I already like his company so much, God help me.

  His face clouding a little, Ethan says, “The previous owner killed himself in the study.”

  The study I have been in only once, but of course I don’t tell Ethan.

  “That’s awful.”

  “Nobody wanted to buy the house for a long time. It was empty for a good twenty years. Until I came along.”

  I take my cue. “Where did you grow up, Ethan?”

  “New Jersey,” he tells me truthfully.

  “Why did you move here?”

  He pauses for a long time. “I had a different job. A different life. It wasn’t working out as I expected, and so I decided to get away from it all.”

  “What sort of job?”

  He waves his hand. “Oh you know,” he says vaguely, “projects. Here and there.”

  So he doesn’t want me to know.

  “You don’t have family?” I press on. “Married? Divorced?”

  “No, I never married. My family lives back east. I don’t . . . see them very often.”

  Back in the day, David Kinney was scarcely seen in the company of women. He was a notoriously difficult celebrity to track down. He was seldom papped because he was never seen in the usual Hollywood joints. Those, of course, gave rise to certain rumors, which he ignored.

  I’m going to play one of those rumor cards right now. Not that I believe in them myself, of course.

  “Ethan, I hope you won’t mind me asking you a personal question.”

  He tenses, but does not stop me.

  I clear my throat and try to look as innocent as possible. “Are you gay?”

  He seems taken aback. The thought has obviously not occurred to him. Then he throws back his head and laughs.

  I can’t help smiling myself. Ethan Greene laughing is a glorious sight to behold. His eyes crinkle and his mouth turns up at the edges, and he is so beautiful that my guts wrench at the spectacle of him.

  “Am I gay?” he finally says, wiping tears out of his eyes. “Oh, that’s rich.”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Why does that thought even occur to you?” he says, still laughing. “I don’t have anything against gays, I just want you know, but it’s just so . . . so . . . ”

  I know what he’s going to say. So ‘ridiculous’. Because the same questions surfaced about his sexuality twelve years ago when he didn’t jump at the bait to date the next starlet.

  “Then are you attached?” I persist.

  “Obviously not.”

  I am bold. I’m an investigative reporter, for Chrissake. I thrive on the edge.

  I say, “You’re single. I’m single. We’ve been spending a lot of time together. I’ve been told that I’m singularly attractive. Then why haven’t you made a pass at me?”

  Even as I say that, I realize that I really, really want him to make a pass at me. I’m not a fan girl anymore, I swear. I just happen to find Ethan Greene remarkably, ludicrously attractive in every way. Even with the dark questions hanging above his neck like a proverbial sword.

  He’s astonished.

  Hit by a freight train.

  At least, the way his mouth gapes open suggests that.

  He finally stammers, “Y-you want me to make a pass at you?”

  My heart sinks. OK, I’ve gone too far. He doesn’t find me attractive, and this will be the cold dose of reality my mother says I sometimes need when I used to misbehave. Not every boy is trying to get into your pants just because you’re a blonde. So get over yourself. Besides, he didn’t really deny that he was gay. He may prefer brunettes. Or someone more intellectual, more artistic, more –

  I freeze.

  He is leaning very close to me now, and his hand lightly touches my cheek. His eyes are large and magnificent and reflecting every single known color in the universe.

  He says in a strangled whisper, “You have no idea . . . just no idea how much I want to . . . how much I’m trying to stop thinking about . . . ”

  I seize the moment.

  I dart my lips forward and engage his mouth in a kiss. The moment our lips clash, my skin becomes electrified. His lips are oh-so-soft and oh-so-nuanced. I taste the faint traces of coffee on them, and indeed, that was what he drank at breakfast. I drink in his contact, the delicious moment of being in such close proximity to him.

  I meant it to be a quick kiss. More like a peck – to show him I find him sexually attractive and that I would be open to more before my visit is over. That is, if he would like to explore any further.

  But his reaction astonishes me.

  Instead of the quick, chaste kiss I envisioned, his mouth opens against mine. His tongue hungrily slips inside my mouth and roams thickly against the landscape of my palate. He licks my tongue, my teeth – stroking each smooth, round molar as though it’s an erogenous zone.

  I moan despite myself. A rush of heat crests between my legs. His tongue dips across the back of my throat. He’s practically drowning in my mouth, devouring me like some voracious animal who hasn’t kissed a woman in years. His hands grasp my waist, my hips, wandering up, up, up, to pause at the swell of my breasts.

  I want him so much to touch me. I want him to grab my aching mounds and squeeze my nipples. I want him to rip the clothes off me and lower me down to that soft, leaf-strewn ground beneath the shady umbrella created by the trees – with the wind softly rustling their tops – and press his bod
y against mine. I want him to part my thighs and grind his hips against mine.

  I want to see his manhood. I want to kiss and taste and suckle his cock. I want him to do things to me that only a man can do to a woman. I’m aroused now. Visibly so. My skin is flushed and the color is high on my cheeks. There’s an ache within my pelvic region that can only spell a brimming, overwhelming need.

  But he stops – as if he has come to his senses.

  He withdraws his luscious tongue.

  I immediately feel a withdrawal, as though my life force is being pulled away from me towards him. I have never been so magnetized by a man before. I believe it’s a culmination of his beauty, his sophistication, the fact that I know he is much more than he portrays himself to be, and that element of danger unknown lurking beneath his seemingly normal façade.

  I’m breathing very hard, and so is he. Across the divide between our bodies, we gaze at each other in confusion. My heart is drumming a war tune in my chest, and his eyes are inexplicably filled with an emotion that I can only describe as pain.

  Pain . . . but why?

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I shouldn’t have done that. Forget it ever happened.”

  I reach out with my hand to touch his face, but he flinches. He quickly scrambles to his feet. A few stray leaves spiral to the ground from his lap.

  Suddenly, it’s as if he needs to get away from me as urgently as possible, as if I’m a contagion.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again.

  Abruptly, he turns and strides quickly away down the slope where we came. I am left sprawling on the ground, my desire unquenched, my blood roaring in my ears like the combined falls of Niagara and Angel, my disappointment flooding me in an engulfing tide.

  What am I doing?

  10

  When I finally trek back to the house, Ethan is nowhere to be seen. I make myself as noiseless as possible, not wanting to disturb whatever equilibrium this house has managed to maintain for years.

  Too late for that, don’t you think?

  I make to ascend the stairway, but the low rumble of voices creeps to me from beyond the back patio.

  I pause.

  I would not be my reporter self if I didn’t attempt to eavesdrop. My mind is still reeling from Ethan’s rejection. I tell myself it’s not rejection. If his kiss is anything to go by, he wants me as much as I want him. And yet, something is holding him back.

  I pad softly in the direction of the patio and flatten myself against the wall to listen. Ethan is speaking to Jeffrey in soft, tortured tones.

  “I couldn’t help myself. God, I wanted to restrain myself so bad . . . but when she came on to me, something inside me exploded.”

  “How long has it been?” Jeffrey’s measured voice. “Years?”

  “Two years.”

  “You’re not a monk, Ethan. Things are not the same anymore.”

  “I wanted her.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish I knew what the triggers are. They’re not the same anymore.”

  There’s that word again – ‘triggers’. The one in the diary.

  Jeffrey says, “Indeed. You can only try . . . and find out for yourself.”

  “But what if – ?”

  “Don’t think about it. I will know what to do.”

  A pregnant pause stretches the air.

  “Did you hear something?” Ethan says.

  I freeze and try to melt into the wall.

  After a long while, Jeffrey says, “I’ll prepare dinner. Your favorite scampi. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah.” I can hear Ethan’s voice smiling. He says, “Do you mind bringing it up to my room? I don’t feel like facing her.”

  “I understand.”

  My gut wrenches a little to hear this. My mind in turmoil, I detach my body from the wall and quietly scurry upstairs.

  11

  Ethan did not come down for dinner. I sit alone at the table, disconsolate, wondering how the hell I got myself into this mess. I’m not supposed to feel anything for my subjects. But I knew, even before I came to Kelowna, that I would not be able to completely separate myself from my teenage object of adoration.

  Only, he is no longer David Kinney – the man boy who filled my fantasies all those years ago. I am infatuated with Ethan Greene, the man he is today.

  I lie in my bed. It is dark. The clock on the wall ticks softly, like a time bomb.

  I get up. I am dressed in my nightgown – a sheer, faux silk number from Victoria’s Secret. I have a mission. I am going to set my assignment back on track.

  I’m going to read Ethan Greene’s diary.

  After that, if he wants me gone from the house, I will go to Aberdeen and track down that hooker called Marla Sanchez. And then I will pay a visit to the police to find out exactly what they were investigating Ethan Greene for.

  My feet trawl the carpet of the dark corridor. The window at the end portrays a pale moon hidden by wispy clouds. The moon gives me just enough light to find the door of the study.

  I try the handle, and it resists three quarters of the way.

  The door is locked.

  I furrow my brow. Does Ethan suspect I have been going through his things? I recall his tale about the man who owned this house previously who killed himself behind these very walls – in that very room. Did he hang himself from the lamp in the ceiling? Was it a gunshot to the head? I didn’t get the chance to ask Ethan and he didn’t volunteer.

  I turn away from the study. My restlessness will not allow me to sleep for a long, long while. My gaze is drawn towards a white rectangle down the corridor – the door to Ethan’s bedroom. Like a magnet, I am drawn to it.

  I shut my eyes and open them again. My pulse thrums like a hummingbird’s wings.

  Be bold, Ginny.

  My feet pad on their own volition to his door. I raise my fist to knock, and then think the better of it. My hand closes around the doorknob instead. Why does he have a knob for this room and an old-fashioned handle for his study?

  The knob turns fully and does not resist.

  My heart fluttering in my throat, I push the door open.

  The room is lighted only by a single lamp on the bedside table. I have never been in Ethan’s bedroom before.

  Ethan is lying in bed, covered by a white sheet. His shoulders and chest are bare, and I don’t know if he’s wearing anything else underneath. Like the one in my bedroom, his bed has four posts and a canopy that falls around it in waves. Its sleeves are tied back to the posts by golden tassels.

  He does not seem unduly alarmed that I am here. His features are serene, almost as though he is expecting me. His liquid eyes gaze at me as I enter and softly close the door behind me. Perhaps he has worked out his inner demons where I am concerned. But then, I can never be sure.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t at dinner tonight. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”

  Well, this is certainly awkward. Then I remember what he told Jeffrey: I wanted her. That conviction that he was speaking about me gives my feet the courage to move towards his bed. He doesn’t stop me, and he never takes his eyes off me either. I can see my own desire mirrored on his face.

  He wants me all right.

  And I want him. Desperately. With all the heat between my thighs.

  I am on the bed before I can stop myself, and he is not stopping me. He holds his arms out to me and I go to them. We are a tangle of entwined limbs before I can register what is happening. He’s kissing me and I’m kissing him – long-drawn, passionate, sucking kisses. All tongue and meshed lips and taste.

  His hands are on me, my breasts, and suddenly, he is shucking off my nightgown over my head. I help him by slipping off my fragile panties.

  And I’m naked, and he is naked. The sheet is off. His penis rises – hard as brick. I seize it, my need escalating. He flips me onto the bed so that
my back is pressed deep against the mattress. I’m sinking into it as his hips straddle mine. My skin is overheated and the ache in my loins actually surpasses anything I have ever experienced before.

  He murmurs, “I need you, I want you. Please – ”

  Such is his urgency that I don’t caution him when his bare cock stubs my pussy hole. I’m already so wet I’m practically oozing. We are too caught up in our shared fervor for condoms. Besides, I’m on the pill, and he hasn’t had sex with anyone for two years. So I’m willing to take the risk.

  Little did I know then that the risk I’m taking will be far eclipsed by what will be coming.

  “May I?” There is such heat in his voice.

  His eyes burn into mine, and I nod.

  His cock plunges into me. It occurs to me that his unbridled lust is more out of prolonged abstinence than any raging attraction for me. OK, maybe both. It certainly hasn’t been two years for me (not even two months, I believe) and my vaginal canal is once again pushed apart by that familiar rush of spearing flesh.

  He begins to move inside me in earnest – short, sharp bursts of penile activity that is more enthusiasm than technique.

  As he fucks me, his mouth bends down to kiss me again. He is a phenomenal kisser, even if he does not have as much finesse as a stud. But I don’t mind. He is perfect in every other way. Thank goodness he is huge. His girth stretches me and fills me right up to the cone of my cervix.

  I lie back and let him move within me. I close my eyes to savor him. I almost can’t believe it. I’m making love to David Kinney. I envision all the girls on my old Internet fan board turning green with envy.

  His breathing grows more labored. His cock stabs me with more effort and alacrity. I brace myself to ascend the familiar upslope. I need him to give me more time. I try to angle my hips upward to meet the force of his thrust, but he quashes me flat.

  Just as I want to whisper to him to give me more space – to allow me to shift a little – he utters a cry and floods my vagina with his semen. Oh! I sink back into the mattress and let his warm tide gush into me. I’m disappointed because I haven’t come yet, and there appears to be no chance of that now because he is pulling his softening and very wet penis out of me.