Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) Read online

Her mother turned her attention back to the pearly, teardrop-shaped cloves. As she minced them, the room filled with the tangy scent of garlic. “You’ve been with him a long time, sweetie. Do you really want to throw all that away?”

  “I’ve been with him too long.” Monica kept her attention focused on the tomato she was slicing. “We weren’t growing. We weren’t growing closer. We were just going along, same as always, in a rut. It’s time for something new.”

  “Something new wouldn’t happen to be riding a motorcycle, would it?”

  Monica believed her mother truly did want to have dinner with her. But the real reason for this invitation was now clear—and it was what Monica had suspected. Her father must have informed her mother about Monica’s new “friend.”

  Rolling her eyes, she swallowed the sarcastic whine that threatened to color her voice. “Mom,” she said as calmly as she could. “I’m an adult. I’m allowed to make friends without checking in with you and Dad about it.”

  “Oh, I love that you’re making friends,” her mother agreed. “But riding on a motorcycle? Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

  The real danger wasn’t the motorcycle, Monica thought. It was Ty. His bedroom eyes. His seductive smile. His ability to make her toss caution aside.

  And his possible criminality, added a small, nagging voice inside her skull—a voice that sounded uncomfortably like her mother’s.

  “Dad met Ty,” she said, pleased that her tone remained level, neither defensive nor hostile. “He’s a nice guy. He’s in town for a few days. He’s going to help me with Rose Cottage. He’s a carpenter, and he says he can repair the wall once the plumbers are done there.”

  “Even though he’s just a tourist? Why would he want to do that kind of work if he’s only here for a few days?”

  Monica couldn’t very well tell her mother that he was stuck in Brogan’s Point because he was under investigation for smuggling drugs into town—drugs no one had found, so they might not even exist. Nor could she tell her mother that Ty’s desire to work on Rose Cottage’s walls might be related to the fact that he and Monica had spent an orgasmic night together in her bed. “He enjoys the work,” she said, assuming that was pretty close to the truth. “And…he’s a good friend.”

  “A very good friend in a very short period of time.” Her mother poured some olive oil into a skillet and added the garlic. More mouthwatering aromas plumed into the air. “If he’s that good a friend, maybe we should invite him for dinner.”

  “We can think about it.”

  “I mean now,” her mother said. “Louie gave me way too many clams. Does your friend like clams?”

  ***

  “I’m sorry,” Monica said. “I know this is last-minute, but my mother wants you to join us for dinner.”

  Ty turned off the motorcycle engine and digested Monica’s words. He had decided to explore Brogan’s Point a little, cruising around the winding, tree-lined streets, journeying along the waterfront well south of the marina and the inn and the restaurant Monica had taken him to for chowder last night. He’d set his cell phone on “vibrate” and stuffed it into a front pocket of his jeans. In his hip pocket, the phone’s vibrations would melt right into the vibrations of the bike’s engine against his butt. He’d never detect an incoming call.

  He had to keep his phone close at all times, in case Caleb Solomon needed to reach him with news about his legal predicament. But the truth was, he was far more eager to hear from Monica. They hadn’t figured out their plans for tonight yet, although when he’d departed from that flower-named cottage at the inn, he’d done so with the assumption that those plans would include hours spent naked and sweaty and gasping for breath. Just kissing her for a few seconds in the cottage had turned him on like a light—the sort of blinding light stadiums relied on for night games. He’d glowed with it, blazed with it. If there hadn’t been workmen banging around upstairs, he would have dragged her onto the sofa across the room from the broken wall and done the naked, sweaty, gasping-for-air thing with her right there.

  When his cell phone vibrated against his thigh, he pulled it out, saw who the caller was, grinned, tugged off his helmet, and shifted into neutral. When he heard Monica’s invitation, he shut the bike’s engine off completely. “Dinner?” he asked. “With your parents?”

  “Spaghetti with clam sauce. It’s delicious the way my mother makes it, if you like garlic.”

  “I like garlic,” he said, although his mind was not on food. It was on Monica. And her parents. Christ, he hardly knew her, and now he was supposed to have dinner with her parents? “I got the impression your father wasn’t my biggest fan,” he muttered.

  “The invitation came from my mother. I’m in her apartment now. In another room,” Monica added, although she lowered her voice slightly. “You can say no if you want.”

  Gazing out at the tranquil water lapping against a pebbly stretch of coastline, he mulled over the invitation. He wanted to say no, but he wanted to be with Monica even more. And he did like garlic. “What time?” he asked.

  She gave him the details, assured him he didn’t have to dress formally, and thanked him. After stuffing his phone back into his pocket and wedging his helmet back on, he ignited the bike’s engine, pulled a U-turn, and steered back toward the heart of Brogan’s Point. The wind coming off the ocean mixed with the stronger wind blasting his chin and neck below the helmet’s eye shield. It carried a pleasant trace of warmth. Not the furnace heat of southern Florida at this time of year, but definitely a hint of summer.

  The road paralleling the coastline wasn’t clogged with vehicles, but he shared the pavement with enough cars to have to remain below the speed limit. This must be what passed for rush hour in a small New England town, he thought.

  He didn’t mind the traffic. He needed to think.

  Why had he agreed to have dinner with Monica’s parents? The obvious answer was that he wanted to have dinner with Monica, and accepting her parents’ invitation was the only way he could accomplish that. But Ty didn’t trust obvious answers.

  More than spending mealtime with Monica, he realized that he wanted to prove her father wrong. He didn’t know exactly what her father thought of him, whatever it was, Ty suspected it wasn’t good. He wanted to turn the old man around. It was a challenge. It would be fun to prove to Mr. Reinhart that Ty knew to spread his napkin across his lap and chew with his mouth closed. His grandparents drilled good manners into him during those stultifying years in Kansas.

  It was more instinct than any brainwashing on his grandparents’ part that guided him into a parking space when he spotted a florist shop. Survival instinct. Bringing Monica’s mother some flowers might earn him her approval. He reminded himself that he didn’t have to go out of his way to impress the Reinharts; they weren’t going to be a part of his life for very long. Sooner or later, he’d be exonerated and allowed to return to Florida. But for as long as he was stuck in Brogan’s Point, he intended to spend time with Monica, and if bringing a smile to her mother’s face made that easier, he’d do it.

  Five minutes later and fifty dollars lighter, he strapped a bundle of flowers wrapped in green tissue and protective cellophane to the back seat of the bike and continued up Atlantic Avenue, past the downtown shops, past the rows of modest three-story row houses squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder along the sidewalk across the road from the sea wall, past larger houses with broad green lawns, and onto the driveway leading to the inn. He parked in the visitors’ lot, carefully gathered the flowers from the back seat, and jogged up the porch steps into the main building and up two more flights of stairs to his third-floor room. The inn had an elevator, but he needed to burn off some nervous energy. Stairs were good for that.

  In his room, he checked his watch. He had time for a very quick shower, and after tooling around on the bike—and poking around the ravaged wall of the cottage, which he could see from his window—he felt a shower was called for. A shave. A fresh shirt, which was unfortunately wrinkled from
having spent too much time crammed into his duffel bag. When he’d packed for the sail, he hadn’t expected to be spending multiple days in Brogan’s Point.

  He’d noticed an iron and board in the room’s closet. Screw that. He wasn’t going to knock himself out just to present himself to Monica’s parents in a pressed shirt. At least the damn thing was clean.

  After his shower, his hair was wet, and he debated whether it would be more gauche to arrive at Monica’s parents’ apartment late, or to arrive on time with wet hair. He toweled his hair as he best he could, slapped on some aftershave, grabbed the flowers, and climbed one more flight of stairs.

  Judging by the placement of the door, the apartment consumed a full third of the fourth floor. He thought of his apartment back in Miami—a one-bedroom on the second floor of a square lemon-yellow building overlooking a noisy side street. No balcony, but the building’s stairwell was open-air. Landscaping consisted of a couple of squat, sickly palm trees flanking the entry. He rented month to month, which he preferred to a lease. Wherever he lived, he liked knowing he could take off the instant he felt the time to move on had arrived.

  He pressed the doorbell, then raked a hand through his hair. Still damp. He should have taken the time to dry it. A drawstring sack hanging from a hook in his room’s bathroom held a compact hair drier. It would have taken only five minutes, and—

  Why was he so concerned about making a good impression on Monica’s parents?

  The challenge, he reminded himself, catching a sweet whiff of bouquet’s perfume.

  The door swung inward. Seeing Monica, he forgot about the flowers, about making a good impression, about everything except the way he’d felt kissing her a few hours ago, the way he’d felt bedding her a few nights ago. Just one look at her smooth, mink-black hair, the elegant angles of her face, the slender grace of her body, her tentative smile as she gazed up at him… He reflexively reached for her, and she took a discreet step back and said, in a clear, firm voice, “Come on in. My parents can’t wait to meet you.”

  That sure put a damper on his lust. Her father had already met him, and Ty was sure the guy would have been happy to wait a nice, long time before having to meet him again. As for her mother, Ty didn’t know.

  “I brought these for your mom,” he said, joining Monica in the entry to the apartment. The floor was a burnished hardwood—oak, he’d guess—covered with a patterned rug. Amber lamps added to the fading daylight that seeped through the windows of the living room beyond the foyer. As Monica led him into that room, the scent of the flowers was overpowered by the aroma of garlic drifting from the kitchen.

  Monica’s father was working the cork out of a bottle of wine beside a formal dining table in an alcove off the living room. The cork gave with a gentle pop, and he set down the bottle and shot Ty a smile that looked forced. “So we meet again,” he said.

  “It’s a pleasure,” Ty said, extending his right hand and then realizing he was holding the flowers in it. With a grin, he shifted the flowers to his left hand, freeing him to shake hands with Mr. Reinhart.

  Her father seemed taken aback by the flowers. “How thoughtful,” he said, then called into the kitchen. “Cheryl? Tyler is here and he’s brought you flowers.”

  “Flowers!” Monica’s mother bounded out of the kitchen. Monica hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Ty this would be an informal gathering. Her mother was dressed in clothes suited for an exercise walk on the beach, or maybe for spending an hour cooking pasta with clam sauce, heavy on the garlic. The smile she gave Ty was a much more genuine than her husband’s, and her eyes widened at the sight of the flowers. “Oh, they’re lovely. How sweet of you. Monica, can you get a vase from the breakfront?”

  The next few minutes were a jumble of activity and instructions and food being carried to the table. “Don, honey, give the salad a final toss,” she commanded her husband. “Monica, is there room on the table for the flowers? Maybe put them on the credenza for now. The bread is in the oven…where’s the bread basket? Go ahead and pour the wine, Don.”

  Ty stood out of the way, watching the Reinharts moving in a smooth choreography, transporting the meal from the kitchen to the table. The dishware looked old, heavy cream-colored porcelain with a textured border. The table cloth was thick, the furniture solid and classic. In spite of the fact that the apartment was part of a hotel, the atmosphere was one of permanence. This was not just a residence. It was a home.

  It was Monica’s home, or at least the home where she’d grown up. For a brief, crazy moment, Ty experienced a twinge of envy. She had two parents. They used endearments when they addressed one another. They anticipated one another’s moves and offered assistance. There was an intimacy in the way they interacted. Nothing he could identify, but he sensed it.

  Had his parents been that way? When he thought about them, his memories shimmered with warmth. They had loved him. They hadn’t been wealthy, but they’d been rich in affection. And it had all ended so suddenly. He hadn’t felt any sort of permanence since then—not until he’d set foot inside Monica’s parents’ apartment.

  Their home. Her home.

  Chapter Twelve

  “So, this inn has a private beach?” Ty asked once they’d finally extricated themselves from Monica’s parents’ apartment.

  The dinner hadn’t gone badly. Monica had had a moment of anxiety when Ty had shown up with his hair a tangle of long, damp locks, but he’d smelled so good—at her insistence, a few years ago, the inn had upgraded the courtesy bottles of shampoo and conditioner the housekeeping staff placed in the bathrooms, and now she was personally reaping the rewards every time she caught a whiff of his freshly washed hair’s spicy fragrance. And bringing her mother flowers had been such a thoughtful gesture.

  But mostly, things had gone well because, to her amazement, Ty and her parents had gotten along splendidly. Her parents hadn’t been too nosy with their questions, and he’d been relaxed and generous with his answers. He’d told them about his carpentry business in Florida, the fine detail and finishing work he was known for both in boat restorations and in the luxury residences he worked on. He described the hand-carved newel post he’d created for the bridal staircase in the mansion of a well-known fashion designer, and the teak cabinetry he’d constructed for the yacht of a hedge fund manager. He didn’t mention his rootlessness, but he did tell her parents that this was his first visit to New England, which gave them the opportunity to sing the region’s praises. They were in the hospitality and vacation business; they loved telling everyone how magnificent New England was.

  Ty had complimented Monica’s mother’s cooking. He’d sipped his wine. He’d insisted he was stuffed but still managed to accept a second cube-shaped chunk of tiramisu—baked downstairs in the resort’s kitchen, Monica knew, but she kept her mouth shut when her mother allowed Ty to believe she herself had made the rich dessert. Monica’s father was slightly less captivated by Ty than her mother was, but he’d treated Ty cordially and opted not to comment on the motorcycle Ty had been driving when he’d chauffeured Monica to the inn earlier that afternoon.

  Finally, by eight-thirty, they’d made their escape. In the hallway outside her parents’ door, Monica had wanted to hurl herself into his arms and kiss him senseless in gratitude. She realized she hadn’t known him long enough to predict how he’d weather a dinner with her parents, but he’d been a true gentleman, wet hair notwithstanding.

  And of course she wanted to kiss him senseless just because. Because he was Ty. Because sitting across the table from him for the past two hours had allowed her to gaze into his crystalline eyes, to imagine the solid sculpture of his torso beneath his loose-fitting shirt, to brush her feet against his under the tablecloth. Because being within ten feet of Ty—hell, being within ten miles of him—turned her on.

  But she exercised restraint as they descended the stairs together. After such a filling meal, she appreciated the exercise. She’d appreciate another kind of exercise even more, but before
she could drag him back to her apartment, he asked her about the beach.

  “A small private beach, yes.”

  “Let’s go look at it.”

  A bit of fresh evening air might cool her off, which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, she thought as she led him down the final flight of stairs into the inn’s lobby. The last traces of daylight colored the sky a pale lilac, interrupted by a few smudgy purple clouds. From the veranda, she escorted him along the path of crushed seashells that circumvented the guest lot and cut through a small garden of shrubs to a plank stairway that led down to the sand below. Long strands of beach grass covered the dunes.

  A couple with a toddler in tow were on the beach. They rolled a plastic ball back and forth across the sand, and the little girl charged after it on her stubby legs, shrieking with laughter. The ocean was calm, the breeze gentle. Ty bent over to yank off his sneakers. “This is beautiful,” he said, offering a hand to Monica so she could lean on him while she removed her shoes. The sand was chilly against the soles of her feet. Summer hadn’t baked it yet.

  She supposed it was beautiful. She was used to this beach, especially during the off season, when it wasn’t crowded with guests of the inn. She was used to gathering here with her school friends, huddling beneath blankets on the sand on cold nights and racing barefoot along the water’s edge on warm nights. She and Jimmy used to make out in the small, protected cove, and argue here. It was simply a part of her world, like the veranda and the dining room’s tiramisu and every other aspect of growing up inside a classic old hotel.

  Viewing the beach and the gray-green ocean beyond it through Ty’s eyes made her appreciate it more. “You must go to the beach pretty often in Florida,” she said.

  “Not as much as I’d like.” After stashing his shoes and hers beneath the stairs, he took her hand and strolled out onto the sand. “I haven’t done much surfing since I left California. How’s the surfing here?”

  “It’s not bad if there’s a hurricane off shore,” she told him. “We get big waves then.”