Bedded for His Pleasure: Bedded by a Bad Boy / In the Gardener's Bed / The Return of the Rebel

Ever since that first picnic he had been careful to keep everything light, relaxed. He hadn’t asked her any more questions about her dreams, about her plans, her past or her future, and whenever she tried to ask him any about his own he brushed them off. Jessie had let him, scared to break the feeling of contentment, of unity, that cocooned them.

Propping her head on her hands, Jessie watched a lone woman stroll past in the distance, an energetic young puppy jumping at her heels.

Jessie closed her eyes, willed the doubts away. What was wrong with her? She was being silly. She and Monroe were in the first flush of their relationship and she should just lie back and enjoy it. All those big, serious questions could wait for another time.

The warm sun lotion sprayed onto her back and she stretched like a contented cat.

‘Heck, this stuff’s like house paint,’ Monroe remarked from behind her.

‘Factor fifty-five, otherwise I become one big freckle.’

His lips buzzed her shoulder blades. ‘I like the freckles.’ His hands began to massage the heavy cream in. She could feel the large, callused palms on her skin. She pictured his beautiful hands as she’d seen them late last night, stroking her into a frenzy. His hands, she decided, were the first thing that she’d fallen in love with.

Maybe she should tell him tonight how she felt? It was probably a record for her to have kept it a secret for this long. She’d already promised herself she wouldn’t be hurt if he didn’t tell her he loved her back, straight away. Didn’t men always take longer to figure it out?

‘You like that?’ he said. She could hear the seductive smile in his words.

‘I certainly do,’ she murmured. ‘Even though it’s completely unnecessary.’

‘Well, now,’ he said, running his fingers under the strap of her bikini top. ‘That’s what you think.’ Deftly, he unhooked the clasp.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Turning sharply, Jessie grabbed her top and held it to her breasts.

His knowing grin turned devilish as his eyes flicked down to her bosom. ‘I thought, seeing as you’re European, you might find that unnecessary.’

‘I’m not that European,’ she replied tartly as she rehooked the bikini top. ‘And neither are the families that live around here.’

He shrugged, keeping his eyes trained on her bikini top. ‘You can’t blame a guy for trying.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ She grinned back at him. ‘Here.’ She whipped the bottle of sun lotion off the sand, did a quick twirling movement with her finger. ‘I think it’s my turn.’

His lips quirked, before he turned over and stretched out on the towel. ‘You know what? That was the other thing I was fantasising about,’ he said wryly. ‘Except in my dreams you were a lot more European.’

She laughed, pouring a generous dose of the heavy cream into her palms. She studied the lean, hard expanse of his back. The muscles had bunched up under his shoulder blades where he was resting his head on his arms. Spreading the liquid across the warm, tanned skin, she heard him give a low moan. She began to dig her fingers into the firm, smooth planes of sinew and muscle. He felt wonderful, she thought, and imagined what she was going to do with him that evening.

‘You’re too good at this.’ He groaned. ‘Don’t forget this is a public beach, Red.’

She was having trouble doing just that, when the familiar ridges across his shoulder blades rippled beneath her fingertips. In the bright sunlight, the thin white scars stood out more prominently than ever.

‘Did you get these in prison?’ The question popped out before she’d thought about it. She regretted it instantly when his shoulders tensed. Her hands went still.

His past was one of the subjects they never talked about. From the little she knew about it, she guessed it was something he didn’t want to be reminded of, so she had tried hard not to pry.

‘No,’ he said finally.

‘I’m sorry, Monroe. I shouldn’t have asked that.’

He rolled over, studied her.

She sat back on her haunches. What had she done? ‘I really am sorry, Monroe. I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.’

Seeing the stricken look in her eyes, Monroe reached out, took her hand in his. ‘Don’t look so scared, Red. You’re curious. You’re entitled to ask.’

‘I didn’t mean to. It just sort of slipped out.’

She hadn’t asked, he thought, although he knew she was curious. By not asking, she had given him her unconditional trust. And he hadn’t done the same for her.

He’d told himself over and over that keeping things light, keeping things easy, was how it had to be—especially after their conversation at Montauk Point. He couldn’t be her dream man, he didn’t want to be, so there was no use pretending that they had anything more here than great sex and a good friendship.

But in the last two weeks he’d been more settled than he’d ever been in his life. He didn’t know how it had happened, but gradually the restlessness that had been a part of him for so long had disappeared.

He’d fed off Jessie’s compassion and her generosity, had basked in her approval and had revelled in the passion they’d shared. But underneath it all had been the tug of guilt and the knowledge that, when it ended, leaving her was going to be harder than he could ever have imagined.

He could see, with the worry swirling in her eyes, that the reasons why he had deflected her questions weren’t so clear-cut any more.

Had he kept silent because he didn’t want her getting any wrong ideas about where this relationship was headed or because he was scared? Scared that once she knew all the sordid details of his life she wouldn’t look at him with the same adoration, the same affection any more?

Should he stay silent, let the moment pass, or should he give her something back? Didn’t he owe her that much?

He sat up slowly. ‘I didn’t get the scars in prison. My mother used a belt on us when we were kids.’

She blinked, stiffened. ‘That’s terrible.’The tear that spilled onto her cheek shocked him, and touched him in a way he would never have expected.

‘Don’t cry. It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter now.’

‘Your own mother scarred you. Of course it matters.’ She sniffed, wiping the moisture away with an impatient hand.

‘She hated us. She had her reasons,’ he said.

‘What reasons could she possibly have for doing that to a child?’

The vehemence in her tone made him feel oddly comforted. ‘Do you really want to know? It’s ancient history.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Her eyes were fixed on his face. ‘But only if you want to talk about it.’

Drawing a leg up, he rested an arm on his knee and studied the undulating sand and the insistent drift of the sea beyond.

Could he talk about it? Did he want to?

It was weird. He’d never felt compelled to talk about it before, but, oddly, with her he did.

He couldn’t give her a future, he knew that, but would it be so terrible for him to give her a little of his past?

Jessie waited, watching his profile, her emotions a confusing mix of anger—at the boy he had been, the horrors he had suffered—and anticipation. She so desperately wanted to know more about him. Was he finally going to talk to her about himself?

It seemed like an eternity, but eventually he turned back to her. ‘The night before she had me arrested, my mother told me why she hated us. Me and Linc.’

‘She had you arrested?’ Jessie couldn’t disguise the horror in her voice.