Insecure Page 2

  She was headed towards the harbour. More people about this end of the city, but still the usual Friday crowds were thinned out. Eerie. The explosion, of course, and then he remembered the marathon tomorrow. That made another police barricade in front of them more about procedure than panic. This street, this end of the city would be locked down for the fun run, residents only in and out.

  She pulled over and the purr of the engine was the sound of privilege. The cop eyed the roadster. He hated it; hated them for being in it, while he stood in the street and got a sore back taking rollcall, missing the real action at the other end of the city. You could see it in the lift at the edge of his lips, disapproval. He held his hand out for Jacinta’s licence.

  “You live here, Ms Wentworth?” He jerked his head to indicate the building in front of them. A converted warehouse, swanky, like the car, like her.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be leaving again?”

  “Will it be a problem if I do?”

  He didn’t respond. Made some note on his tablet. Officious bastard.

  “Officer, is there a problem?”

  He ignored her, lifted his chin to Mace. “And you are?”

  She jumped in. “My evening’s entertainment.”

  Shit.

  The cop snickered. Fucking snickered, like Mace was a rent boy, well thanks for that. Was she worth it? He could be out of the car and gone in seconds. Screw his duffel bag. He shifted, fingers to the door latch, but he wasn’t going anywhere without his laptop.

  Her hand went to his thigh. “I’m so sorry.” She dropped her head as though she might be.

  The cop had someone looking under the car with mirrors on long poles. The breeze off the foreshore was cool, funky with brine and the foggy, oily smell of the ferry; better than the smoke. It stirred the fine hairs that had come out of her bun. He surprised himself by putting his hand to the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and sighed. She’d a crap day. The failure was all on her despite the circumstance. No one was going to excuse that. Millions were lost today on her watch. He wasn’t going anywhere yet.

  The cop tapped the windshield and waved them on. She turned into the next driveway, swiped an access card for a security door. She parked in a wide bay and left the roof down. They got out.

  “I plan on getting drunk. I assume you’ll join me. There’s a bar we can walk to around the corner.”

  That suited him and a few drinks would hopefully take the starch out of her. He followed her up a flight of fire escape stairs and out onto the street. She undid her jacket and took it off. Underneath was a dress, not a skirt. Fitted like a sheath; utterly demure and fucking lethal, the way it outlined her body. If he wasn’t already thirsty, the sight of her would’ve curled his tongue.

  She walked slightly ahead of him and had to turn back to be heard. “It’s so hot. The runners are going to feel it tomorrow if it doesn’t cool down.”

  It was a normal conversational sentence. It required a normal conversational response. It’s just that Mace didn’t do normal conversation. The stuff they’d said earlier, that was his quota of wit for the year. He hoped she knew that about him already, but maybe not. She was looking at him expectantly. If he was Dillon, he’d have had something useful to say to fill the silence, some plausible race stat he’d made up, some quip about the weather that might not make sense but would lubricate the situation. But he was an IT geek, he didn’t do clever banter, he didn’t do social. As a rule, he didn’t do conversation either. Mostly that didn’t appear to matter and when alcohol was involved people were happy enough to talk at you.

  He all purposed it. “Yeah.”

  She laughed in his face.

  He’d never heard her laugh before, never seen what it did to her. Opened her up like a treasure chest, all the wealth of her glittered in her eyes, across her cheeks, off her lips. Those riches could make any man lose the power of speech. He grinned at her.

  “You’re dumb but cute, Mace.”

  He found some words and strung them in a line. They were an echo from their conversation in the hotel, nothing original about them. “Do you usually seduce with compliments?”

  She grabbed him by the shirt front, pulled their bodies together and kissed him. That shocked a grunt out of him. He might be dumb, but he wasn’t stupid. He palmed the back of her head and returned the kiss, his other hand wrapping around her, holding her length hard against him. She let go of his shirt and circled his neck. She tasted of coffee and breath mint and a night of rare, strange appeal.

  Someone catcalled and he let go of her.

  She leaned against him. “I liked that.”

  It was out there. “I liked it too.”

  She laughed. “That’s useful.”

  She took his hand and led him down the street to the bar, crowded, thankfully loud. The kind of place you had to shout to be heard or shut up. His kind of place because he could pull the strong silent type shit and get away with it. He found them a corner. They drank shots. He had to admire that. She was going to get drunk quickly. So was he if he tried to keep up. He was out of practice.

  The place was full of talk about the explosion. It was as good a reason as any to let Jacinta press against him, run her hands over him. It was the best kind of talk and not hard to pay attention. Now she tasted of liquorice and Jagermeister and her body had lost its steel-edged stiffening. He pulled her out of there before either of them found it too difficult to get motivated.

  Outside it had cooled down and she wobbled on her heels and laughed at herself. He caught her arm and righted her. “How drunk are you?”

  “Enough.”

  “Enough to want me to take you home and stay, or just take you home?”

  “I can’t make you want to stay.”

  Yeah. She. Could. Like this, loose, relaxed, laughing at herself, her hair falling out of its twist; she could make him do just about anything. They went back in through the fire stairs and he retrieved his bags from the car. She took her shoes off, suddenly so much shorter, younger. He might’ve picked her up so she didn’t ruin her stockings, but he was loaded up, and drunk enough dropping her was a real possibility.

  They kissed in the elevator, a little sloppy, a lot of tongue. She giggled, actually giggled and dropped her keys twice at her front door. Swank, so much swank in just the corridor, the brass railings and distressed concrete, the old polished marble and tile, and glass walls clean as air, floating in space.

  When he finally got inside it sobered him up some. “Fuck.” Serious money was laid down on this place. There was the harbour spread out, watching them, huge open plan room, ceiling way up there, red pipes and metal beams.

  “Something wrong?” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “I live alone.”

  Good to know. That eliminated awkwardness in the morning, awkwardness now, because this would make him feel out of place if he wasn’t juiced. That was some kitchen, all smooth surfaces, the inner workings hidden behind glossy fascias. Beyond it a dining room, a table you could seat a football team at. The TV was a kind of wall of its own and the furniture leather, lustrous, designer chic and retro fabulous. There was a chair hanging from the ceiling. There was a piano with its lid open.

  It wasn’t unusual that the homes of women he slept with were nicer than Buster’s bungalow, but they’d never been this. This was a magazine layout—lifestyles of the rich and famous.

  He put his bags down, took his coat off and laughed.

  “You’re so easily amused.”

  “You own this place?”

  “The company does.” She gave a wobbly curtsy. “I’m here by the good graces of the great Malcolm Wentworth.”

  The CEO. Her father. “Daddy’s girl.”

  She tossed her shoes, bag and coat on a chair that was some kind of freaked out exploded Honey I Blew up the Kid size. “Only when he feels like it.”

  “Selective parenthood.”

  “He’s not my natural father.”


  She wandered into the space and he followed. He might need breadcrumbs, string, to find the way out again. That wasn’t common knowledge and so much about her was.

  “He’s my ugly stepfather.”

  Beautiful daughter.

  “I don’t do this often, but when I do it’s always a hotel.”

  She wasn’t too drunk to make things clear. He wasn’t too drunk to wonder why she’d brought him here. “We do this and then I leave.”

  “Perfect.”

  It was perfect, just the sex; clean, pure then done. Worry about any weirdness Monday. He wondered briefly how this was going to work. Who was doing the seducing? He didn’t have to wonder long.

  She walked into the lounge room. “You’re so fine, so not like the geek you are.”

  He trailed her, watching her narrow hips shift. “You’re exactly like the princess you are.” But she wasn’t anything like he’d expected.

  She laughed. “Want to watch while the princess gets dirty?”

  Like nothing else. There was music now. She made it happen by clapping her hands, smooth jazz, rich sound. And she danced. Jesus, how she moved, all hip and shoulder, all slow shake and low grind. He found his way to a leather sofa and collapsed into it to watch his private show. She took her hair down, shaking pins everywhere, cascading mahogany softness; waves of it, around her shoulders. She stole the beat and made it thrum through her body and pulse in his.

  “I hate my stepfather.”

  She moved like a tabletop dancer, like sex shot through with rum and set alight. Like she’d forgotten he was there.

  “He hates me too. Are you listening?”

  “Yeah.” But more to her body than her words. Her body was a blockbuster he’d only seen the previews of.

  “You shouldn’t. I’ll say things I don’t mean.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “You’re so easy.”

  “You didn’t pick me to be hard.”

  Her brows shot up. She went to her knees on the floor laughing, arms wrapped around her middle. He should’ve kept his mouth shut, but it was funny. He hauled her up and kissed the shrieks out of her. He’d kiss the butter soft of her, the spice of her all night if she’d let him.

  “You’re lovely, Mace.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I am drunk, but not blind.” She deadpanned, “I’m hysterical!” She draped herself on him and he held her upright, this completely other person to the one he’d agreed to come home with, this viscerally real, surprising woman. “How’d you get to look like this?”

  “Magic.”

  “No. Something you do. No pizza and coke.”

  “I work out. Punch a bag, run.”

  “Why?”

  “My brain works better if I work my body.”

  She raked up his chest with her short square nails. “Nice body.”

  He grunted. Her hands on him made him thirsty, but not for more to drink, to drink her.

  “Dance with me.”

  He grinned. “You can’t stand up.”

  “So hold me. No one ever holds me.”

  He lifted her—she weighed nothing—and spun her around. She braced her elbows on his chest. It wasn’t dancing by any stretch of the definition; it was stumbling, swaying, hands roving, grasping, and long, deep eye contact that made him forget he was wearing clothes.

  “Take me to bed, Mace.”

  “Got any more instructions?”

  Her expression changed. She shook her head, pushed away, struggled out of his arms. He let her go.

  “You can leave.”

  He wasn’t going anywhere. “Why doesn’t anyone hold you?”

  She swayed, her weight shifting hip to hip, her eyes on her feet. “I don’t want them to. They only want to hold the money. I said you should go.”

  “I want to hold you.” Had he not proven that?

  Her head shot up and she pointed at him. “You’re like everyone else, you only want the money.”

  He frowned at her. “I couldn’t give a fuck for your money.” His voice was two octaves too threatening. He backed it off. “I’ll make my own.”

  She didn’t shift. “Big dreamer.”

  He should’ve known she was hard to intimidate and he’d sound like an idiot. He reached for her, but she stepped away.

  “Don’t hit me.”

  Her words did. He dropped his arms and stepped back. “I...”

  “Play nice.”

  Was this some kind of kink code? Not his scene. If that’s what she wanted, he was out of here.

  “You can do anything, but don’t hit me.”

  He watched her eyes. She could negotiate her way out of bad weather, was this a game? She blinked, her guard open, her jaw clenched and chin dropped. This was real.

  “Fuck, Jacinta, who hit you?”

  “No one.”

  “Someone.”

  “Someone. Not now. A long time.”

  He sat. Gave her space. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  “I trust you.”

  He looked up at her. A fierceness in her eyes. He’d never knowingly hurt a woman in his life and he wasn’t going to start now.

  “Hold me.”

  How could he not. “Yeah.”

  “Kiss me.”

  He didn’t hate the instructions.

  “Stay till morning.”

  He never did that, but okay, one time, how bad could it be?

  She turned her back, watched him over her shoulder with one wary eye. He stood again, two strides his hands were on her. The jazz was still there, in his head, in his hands as he unzipped her, as he peeled her out of the dress. Her skin was cool, and smooth like the petals of the tulips Buster loved so much. What would Buster make of her, this girl on fire for what they could do together?

  She stepped out of the dress and took his hand; thigh-highs, midnight blue satin underwear, silky, satiny expensive. She led him through the kitchen, handed him a bottle of Perrier and two fluted glasses. Then he followed her down a corridor; doors, one she flung open: a bathroom, sunken tub, the world could look in the glass walls and watch you soak in it. Maybe it was treated glass. Maybe she didn’t care.

  Her bedroom. Part of the ceiling was glass. Clouds and stars. The bed was enormous. She ran and jumped on it. Standing, peeling off her stockings and flinging them at him, then bouncing like a little kid. Gorgeous. No longer severe but still a princess in this palace of steel and glass and class. His for the night.

  He toed his shoes off, ditched his socks. “Didn’t your mother tell you not to jump on the bed?”

  “My mother died and left me with Malcolm.”

  Snap. That was something they shared, being left behind by dead mothers.

  She stopped bouncing. “Is your mother proud of you?”

  That stopped him, cut through the alcohol buzz. He blinked at Jacinta in surprise. Would Mum have been proud of him? She’d rarely noticed him, except as an audience for her paranoia.

  “Is she dead?” No fake sentiment. She might’ve been asking if it was raining.

  He nodded. “I have Buster.” For now at least, though the disease had more of her than he did. She didn’t like to talk on the phone anymore, got too nervous about being heard, got too breathless, and her hands shook too much to text. He’d forgotten to ring her and it was too late now.

  He poured two glasses of water, guzzled his and repoured. Handed Jacinta a glass. She took a sip, watching him. “Who’s Buster?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “Grandma. She brought you up?”

  “She wouldn’t be called that, or Nanna. It’s a joke name but it suits her.”

  “A woman called Buster brought you up.”

  “Yeah.”

  She shook her head, beckoned him closer. “I like it.”

  He put his hands to the back of her thighs and she tipped her water on him. He copped it in the chest. He had to tackle
her now. Bring her down. He grabbed her behind the knees and she fell back on the bed, laughing, and squirming. She dropped her glass to push on his shoulders, trying to get her knees up between them. He braced down on her, his length against hers, his wet shirt on her hot skin. He swamped her, stilled her. It was no contest, but she didn’t give in, she changed tactics. She relaxed and wound her hands around his neck. “You’re wet.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “I’m getting my own back.”

  Christ, was she telling him she was wet, from this, a little mucking around? Wet and still on fire. “Are you now?”

  She tore at his shirt and he pinned her hands at her sides to stop her, sat astride her, both of them breathing heavily. “Yes.” She hissed it between clenched teeth, rocking her hips against him.

  “Equal opportunity.”

  “It’s not equal, you’re still dressed.”

  He pinned her arms by her body with his knees and dragged the strap of her bra off her shoulder, exposing her breast. When he closed his hand over the swell of it, she jerked and her skin erupted into goosebumps. He stroked his thumb over her nipple, furled and rosy pink, her eyes closed and an audible breath punching out of her.

  “You like that.”

  She arched her back, trying to press against his erection. “You’re not playing fair.”

  He pulled his hand back. “You don’t want fair.”

  She tried to sit. He let her struggle, strain against him. He unbuttoned his shirt and she stopped.

  “I want you.”

  He dragged the shirt off, got rid of it. “I’m a sure thing.”

  She shook her head, her hair all spread out around her like squid’s ink on the white bedcover. “I only have the idea of you.”

  He undid his belt and pants. “Then you know I’m a bad one.”

  She tried to free her arms and he pressed his knees into her sides to stop her. She howled in frustration and he bent forward to run his nose over her jaw, her cheek. She turned her head looking for a kiss and he sat upright denying her. He wanted to be skin to skin with her. He wanted the taste of her under his tongue. He had to let go to get rid of his pants but he didn’t trust her. She had wildfire running through her limbs and chaos in her eyes.