Right Place, Wrong Time Read online

  Go where? Gina wanted to ask. She hadn’t planned any activities for the day. She hadn’t known how this brunch would go, or even if Ethan would show up.

  He’d shown up, and it had gone wonderfully. He was still smiling, his eyes still radiant. Maybe he’d made plans for them. Eyeing his preppy outfit, she wondered whether those plans included spiriting her off to Connecticut.

  As she wove among the tables, he placed his hand on her shoulder. His palm was warm, lightly possessive, and it reminded her of the way he’d touched her that last night in St. Thomas. And suddenly a plan took shape in her mind, a plan she didn’t want to want, a plan that was probably the worst idea she’d ever had.

  A plan that was undoubtedly nothing like whatever he had in mind. He’d touched her shoulder only as a courtesy, one of those chivalrous things men like him did when they escorted women out of restaurants.

  Exiting into the bright sunshine, they blinked and squinted until their eyes adjusted. He tightened his grip slightly, and turned her to face him.

  “Well,” Gina said.

  “Gina,” Ethan said simultaneously. His hand lingered on her shoulder, his fingers gentle but firm, and he searched her face with his gaze.

  She inclined her head, inviting him to continue talking, since she couldn’t come up with any profound comments.

  “Gina,” he said again, then sighed. “There’s no simple way to say this.”

  Oh, great. Hadn’t Kyle uttered words like that the night he’d told her he didn’t think things were working between them? That she’d agreed with his assessment hadn’t taken the sting out of his statement. Of course, there was nothing between her and Ethan to be working or not working, no way he could break up a relationship that didn’t exist.

  Except that his eyes were telling her he thought a relationship did exist, and that maybe his plans bore a dangerous resemblance to what she’d been thinking as they left the restaurant. “It’s still there,” he said. “That’s why I had to see you, why I’ve been trying to track you down for the past month. It was there in St. Thomas. We both felt it. We both knew it. But you were dealing with Alicia and I was dealing with Kim, and…” He paused, as if aware he was rambling. “I had to see you again once our lives were resolved and we were back on familiar territory, just to find out if it was still there. Now I’ve seen you and found out.”

  He didn’t have to spell out what “it” was. She knew. It was there, just as it had been there during their shared vacation. They were in a different place now, at a different time, and she couldn’t deny what Ethan was saying. The pull between them, the heat, the connection, the fact that he didn’t have to define “it” for her to know exactly what he meant…

  It was still there.

  His hand remained on her shoulder, his other hand rose to her other shoulder, and she couldn’t keep from leaning toward him. His mouth brushed hers and he made a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan. Then his mouth came down on hers hard. This kiss felt as much like a homecoming as landing in LaGuardia Airport had, and riding in a cab through the familiar streets of New York, and wiggling her key into the lock of her apartment door, and stepping inside. Kissing Ethan was like crossing a threshold.

  She reached under his jacket to grip his waist and he made that sound again. She made a sound, too, half gratitude and half begging for more. This was probably a stupid move—she and Ethan knew each other hardly any better than they had in St. Thomas—but she lacked the willpower to fight her longing for him.

  She wasn’t going to fall in love with him, at least. She’d keep her heart out of it, and accept whatever Ethan had to offer the way a tourist might, visiting this exciting place, experiencing it, temporarily immersing herself in it, but never forgetting that she belonged somewhere else. For now, she would just enjoy the trip.

  Two teenage boys on skateboards whizzed past them down Ninth Avenue, shouting obscenities. Ethan eased back from her, glared at the boys as they skated off the edge of the curb and away, and then turned back to Gina. His smile was hesitant.

  “I live around the corner,” she said before she could stop herself.

  He took her hand and let her lead the way to her apartment.

  She briefly contemplated what he’d think of the building, with its drab brownstone facade and its dingy glass front door. The vestibule was cramped and stark, two rows of mailboxes and an intercom panel occupying one wall. No doorman in her building, no polished marble floor, no potted plants—not even plastic ones. She wasn’t going to apologize for her modest residence, though. Given the exorbitant rent she paid, the landlord ought to be apologizing to her.

  They rode up the elevator in silence, Ethan’s fingers twined through hers. Fortunately, they had the elevator to themselves. She wouldn’t have been able to make small talk with any of her neighbors, not with him standing beside her, not with her heart thundering against her ribs and her mouth still tingling from his kiss.

  They arrived at her floor, and she ushered him down the hall to her apartment. She hoped he didn’t notice the slight tremor in her hand as she manipulated the key into the door’s three locks. She wasn’t used to being this nervous, even when sex was imminent. She didn’t have sex that often—in fact, she hadn’t slept with anybody since the breakup with Kyle—but she usually faced the prospect of it with poise and confidence.

  She felt confident now—sort of. But poised? Not even close. Not with Ethan hovering behind her. Not with her awareness of how seductive his kisses and caresses could be, her memory of his arousal that night, her comprehension that he’d spent the past two months thinking about her, searching for her and traveling all the way from Connecticut to see her. Was it only for this? Would sex be enough?

  Sex and conversation, she reminded herself. Sex and connection. Sex and “it.” There was a lot going on, and it would indeed be enough.

  She jammed her hip against the door to shove it open. Ethan followed her into the entry and closed the door behind them. She tossed her keys into the lumpy, lopsided ceramic dish Alicia had made for her in art class last year, and stepped aside so he could view the entire apartment.

  He circled the main room with his gaze, taking in the single window, the flea-market furniture, the palm-tree-shaped floor lamp, the footlocker that doubled as a coffee table, the bed that doubled as a couch, the rectangular carpet remnant covering most of the hardwood floor, the coat tree draped with scarves, purses and belts. He scrutinized the paintings hanging on the wall—a couple of abstract acrylics from her college days, and a lot of smaller, simpler watercolors of street scenes, the arch in Washington Square Park, the view from the fire escape outside her window, a chic lady sipping a cosmopolitan at a sidewalk café table and a study of Gina’s own feet as observed from the opposite end of her body. He peered into the kitchenette, which wasn’t much bigger than a bus-stop shelter but was clean and cockroach-free, then returned his attention to the paintings. “Wow,” he said.

  “I know. I’ve got too many scarves,” she admitted as he wandered around the room.

  “No, the paintings. They’re amazing.” He studied the one of her feet for a long moment, then the one next to it, of a cluster of pigeons pecking at bread crumbs beside a park bench. “You painted all of them?”

  Gina nodded. She didn’t pretend humility; she knew she was talented. That Ethan recognized her talent gratified her.

  He turned toward her, apparently awed. “I know this is a huge thing to ask, but would you make a painting for me someday?”

  His question implied that they weren’t just dealing with “it” anymore. “Someday” had been added to the equation. Did Ethan think that whatever existed between them would last all the way to “someday”? Did Gina believe that? She shouldn’t let herself—a woman needed to protect her emotions—but she wanted to. When Ethan turned back to her, his eyes captivating her, his hands reaching for her, she wanted to believe it more than anything she’d ever wanted before.

  “Yes,” she said, altho
ugh whether she was speaking about creating a painting for him or something else she couldn’t say. And then it didn’t matter. He pulled her into his arms, bowed to kiss her and nothing mattered, nothing at all.

  She skimmed her hands to his shoulders and shoved off his jacket. It hit the floor with a soft thump. He lifted his hands to her cheeks, threaded his fingers into her hair and kissed her deeply, his tongue filling her mouth. She played her tongue against his and caught her breath when he stroked the skin behind her earlobes. Shimmers of heat spread through her, ripples of a desire so powerful it might have alarmed her if she’d been thinking clearly.

  Clear thinking didn’t seem terribly necessary right now. What did seem necessary was stripping off his shirt. She brought her hands forward and tugged at the buttons. He released her to join in the effort, and within seconds his shirt was off. And then hers. He yanked it free of her jeans, lifted it over her head and let it fall. She had on one of her less inspired bras—under a white T-shirt, she hadn’t wanted to wear anything colorful—but he clearly didn’t care. He opened the hook with a flick of his fingers, and the bra joined the growing pile of clothes on the rug.

  “Oh, Gina,” he whispered, bending his knees so he could nuzzle the skin between her breasts. She combed her fingers through his hair, holding him to her, loving the damp friction of his tongue on her skin, loving everything he was doing to her, everything sensation he was awakening inside her. “Gina…” He straightened up and pulled her to the sofa bed. She shoved off the pillows and cushions to give them more room, and he urged her back until she was lying across the bedspread, exposed from the waist up and feeling utterly vulnerable as he gazed down at her.

  The late-morning sun seeped through the pleated shade covering her window, filling the room with a dreamy light. She watched as Ethan lowered himself beside her on the mattress, as he slid his hand over one breast, the other and then her belly, his fingers splayed to cover all the skin above her belt. His touch was like her mood, confident yet not entirely poised, his hands caressing but not quite claiming. He lifted his face and she saw the question in his eyes.

  “Take off my pants,” she said, hearing a faint tremor in her voice.

  He undid the buckle, then the zipper. She watched him ease the denim over her hips, dragging down her panties, as well, and stopping only when everything got jammed up at her ankles, blocked by her sneakers. He unlaced them, wrenched them from her feet, and flung them across the room. She kicked her legs free of her jeans.

  He touched her bare feet, traced the bones of her insteps, gave each toe a gentle pinch. He ran his thumb over the silver ring circling the second toe of her left foot, then sketched a ticklish line down the arch of each foot. Bowing, he kissed her ankle. When he straightened, he looked abashed. “I’ve never been a foot person before,” he confessed.

  “Didn’t you say something about being a breast man in St. Thomas?” she asked, once again hearing a quaver in her voice. What he’d done to her feet had aroused her far too much.

  He directed his attention to her chest. “I’m a breast man, too.” His gaze skimmed down her body and she saw him swallow. “I think I’m a Gina man,” he conceded as he tackled his own belt.

  Gina remained sprawled out on the bed, watching as he shed the last of his clothes. She felt like a voyeur, except that he knew she was there, staring at his body as he stripped naked. She’d seen plenty of men in her life—all those life drawing classes she’d attended at art school had given her a comprehensive education in the subject of male anatomy. She briefly entertained the desire to draw Ethan, his long, lean legs, his streamlined torso, the dusting of hair on his stomach, the thicker hair at his groin. He was gorgeous, every feature wonderfully proportioned.

  He was also fully erect. They’d barely begun, she thought, and he was as aroused as she was. They could skip the foreplay and just get down to it.

  For a moment, she suspected that he had the same idea. Sitting on the bed, he reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a condom. But instead of putting it on, he tossed the foil square onto the foot locker and then stretched out next to her, sliding one arm under her and tracing her cheek with his other hand.

  “You came here expecting sex,” she said, gesturing toward the footlocker. She wasn’t sure how she felt about his having brought birth control with him.

  “I came here with no expectations at all,” he murmured, touching his lips lightly to her forehead. “But I came prepared for anything. Maybe you wouldn’t be at the coffee shop. Or maybe you’d be there and you’d tell me to go away. Or maybe—” he brushed her mouth with his “—maybe you would be happy to see me.”

  “I guess that third option comes closest,” she admitted, running her hands over his chest. His skin was hot and silky, shaped by hard male muscle and bone.

  He ran his hand over her body, too, riding the curves, teasing her nipples, exploring her belly button, scaling the rise of her hip. Happy wasn’t the right word, she realized as his touches became more adventurous, more demanding, as he probed the curve of her bottom and wedged his leg between her thighs. Happy seemed so safe, so placid. When he flexed against her, she felt anything but safe and placid. Quite the contrary, she felt as if she were racing toward the edge of a cliff, unable to slow down, eager to jump.

  He rolled onto his back, lifting her on top of him and freeing both his hands. They roamed her back and sides, kneaded her breasts, spread her legs around him. He pulled her down so he could kiss her, and arched against her. When he grazed the hollow of her throat with his teeth, she managed only a helpless sigh.

  He must have heard the plea in that sound, because he groped for the condom and tore off the wrapper. Her fingers collided with his as she helped him roll on the sheath. Then she sank onto him, guiding him where she needed him to be.

  He clamped his hands over her hips, refusing to let her move. She reared back and gazed down at him, and she saw the sublime strain in his face, his need as desperate as hers. “Gina.”

  “Let me,” she said, fighting his hands as she rocked her hips.

  “If you do that…” He swore when she moved her hips again. “Don’t, Gina. I’m not going to last.”

  “Ethan…” He didn’t have to last. She was so close to gone all she wanted was him, hard and fast, now. She writhed against him and he reluctantly yielded, loosening his hold on her, letting her take him, surging deep into her. He cupped one hand behind her head and moved the other to where their bodies were joined. One touch was all it took to set her off. Her body convulsed and she collapsed on top of him, savoring his last, fierce thrust as he came.

  She closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. His chest rose and fell beneath her as he struggled for breath, and she felt the wild pounding of his heart against her breasts. His hands wandered down her legs to her feet; with her knees bent at his hips, he was able to reach as far as her heels. He rubbed them tenderly.

  “I’m usually a little better at this,” he finally said.

  “You hear me complaining?”

  He chuckled, and she smiled at the sensation of his rib cage vibrating beneath her. “I just hope you’ll let me do it properly next time.”

  “Properly?” She propped herself up and peered down at him. A laugh slipped out. “What—is there a fancy Connecticut way to do it that I don’t know about?”

  He joined her laughter. “I don’t know what ways you know or don’t know. I’m hoping I’ll have a chance to find out. And I’m hoping—” he eased her off him and onto her back “—you’ll give me a chance to make love to you slowly.” He kissed her throat. “With a little more control.” He touched his tongue to one breast. “Like a grown man instead of a horny teenager.” He licked her other breast.

  Her thighs tensed. Her belly clenched. He sucked her nipple into his mouth, cupped his hand between her legs and stroked her until she came again, moaning, lost in a pulsing rush of ecstasy and love.

  “Like that,” he whispered.


  If she could have spoken, she would have promised to give him all the chances he wanted. But speech seemed impossible, so she only gathered him to herself and hugged him, and hoped he would know.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HOW CAN SHE live in this place?

  Ethan tried not to be judgmental. And indeed, her apartment had some things going for it—specifically, her paintings, which were phenomenal. The large acrylics on canvas were vibrant with color, bursting with energy. They captured her personality—unpredictable and exciting. The watercolors were more subdued but exquisitely precise, revealing an elegance that fascinated him. He’d never guessed, when he’d watched her constructing sand castles with Alicia on the beach at Palm Point, that she had such talent.

  He sat on her bed in his boxers. She had ducked into her minuscule kitchenette to answer her cell phone, grabbing a robe from among the scarves on the coat tree along the way. The robe was a kimono style, scarlet with yellow and blue parrots on it, and it fell only to mid-thigh, revealing her glorious legs. Since she’d opted for discretion, he figured he ought to put on his shorts. He contemplated putting on the rest of his clothing, too. A trip outside—to a drugstore—might be necessary, unless she had some condoms in the apartment. He’d been speaking the truth when he’d told her he’d come to New York with no expectations. He’d brought one condom, just in case, but he hadn’t dared to hope he would use it, let alone need more than one.

  Just as he hadn’t expected to use that condom, he hadn’t expected Gina to be living in such cramped quarters. Anyone who tried to pace in an apartment as small as hers would risk stubbing his toes. Claustrophobics would need years of therapy to overcome the trauma of spending time in a place like this. And if a person wanted fresh air, he’d have to ride down an elevator just to get outside—into air so dense with auto exhausts and soot that it hardly qualified as fresh.