“Okay,” he said, intrigued.
Was it wrong to hope her favor might involve another round of hot sweaty sex? Probably. Definitely. “You better go grab that shower first.” He gave her naked rump a playful slap, any last lingering strains of Catholic guilt now officially toast. “So I can get to work on this mess.”
“Don’t push your luck, Galahad.” She shot him an outraged look, delighting him even more. “Or I might have to lop it off.” She threw the remark over her shoulder as she sashayed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
And God help him, he laughed.
*
“So, fire away.”
Zelda looked up from her plate to find Ty watching her in that focused, intense way that made her feel like a witness about to be cross-examined. She’d been catching him doing it all evening—while he cleared up the mess and she made a new selection of dishes from the supplies she’d stocked in the fridge—and she still wasn’t sure what to make of it. Or him.
And that was starting to bother her, because she usually found men transparent and easy to read, especially after she’d slept with them.
Tyrone Sullivan, though, had surprised her.
She’d expected the heat, but not the forthright apology afterwards. Because when had any man ever been concerned about showing her the proper respect, especially when it came to hot sex? What surprised her most of all though, was the approval in his eyes now, because it didn’t seem to be only about the hot sex.
“Fire away about what?” she asked, at a disadvantage. Again.
His wide shoulders in the plain, white T-shirt made the chair creak as he tilted it back. He lifted the bottle of Sam Adams he’d retrieved from the fridge. “What’s your favor?” he prompted.
Oh yes, that.
Her gaze tracked to his mouth, as he touched the neck of the bottle to his lips and took a long draught. It had been a while since she’d felt the tiny trickle of saliva in the back of her throat, a signal of the yearning to take a sip of the cold, yeasty brew—but it passed quickly. The prickle of anxiety, at the thought that he might say no to her request, wasn’t quite so easily controlled.
No need to get her knickers in a knot. She had other options—just maybe not any as intriguing as the thought of spending a few days on Ty Sullivan’s house barge. The unfortunate thought that she was now more interested in discovering a bit more about the unknowable and unschmoozable Mr. Sullivan—and his ripped body—than she was in avoiding the press didn’t do much for her anxiety levels.
“I was wondering if you?
??d be interested in letting me camp out here for a few days?”
He tipped the chair forward, the front legs smacking the floor.
She held up her hand. “And before you get entirely the wrong end of the stick. This request has nothing whatsoever to do with our impromptu bonk. That was spontaneous and unplanned and is unlikely to be repeated.” She had to admit she wasn’t entirely convinced by that last bit, but she wanted him to realize that sex wasn’t an issue. Well, not for her anyway.
“How long do you want to stay?” he asked, his voice even, if a little strained.
Okay, so that wasn’t an instant no.
“I don’t know, probably just the holiday weekend. Until the news that I skipped out on that charity gig last night is forgotten. I’ve spoken to Seb’s housekeeper and there’s several paparazzi camped out at the Mausoleum,” she said, using the term she’d used for her family’s twenty-five room townhouse on the Upper East Side. “But really, I’m not that big a deal, they’ll probably lose interest in a day or two and I can go back to the house. Me being irresponsible is an old story.”
Speculation about her private life followed a familiar theme and surely couldn’t sustain more than one or two tabloid headlines. She’d never apprised the press of her sobriety, so any and all willful behavior had been written into the whole Zelda Is Off the Rails Again scenario. She considered that collateral damage, and was prepared to weather the odd misinformed headline rather than put her sobriety under constant scrutiny. But if they got hold of her citation for disorderly conduct on Manhattan Beach at midnight, she’d find herself in the midst of a media circus which was more hassle than she needed at the moment. Especially with her brother, who’d been his usual austere, autocratic, and distant self ever since she’d arrived in New York several months ago.
Her stomach muscles twisted at the thought of Seb’s reaction to her latest faux pas. He could be a total beast about it if he was getting door-stepped by the paparazzi, so laying low in Brooklyn until the storm blew over made sense.
The only problem was, now she’d made wild passionate love to Ty Sullivan on his couch, she’d complicated what should have been a simple request.
Shame she hadn’t considered that while wrapping feverish fingers round his phenomenally gifted cock.
“What charity gig?” Ty asked.
“I was scheduled to appear at the Madison Foundation benefit on Thursday night at the Guggenheim for …” She paused, struggling to recall what the two-thousand-dollar a plate gala supper the foundation had organized had actually been in aid of. “Some very worthy cause.”
“So worthy you can’t remember it?” The question didn’t sound particularly judgmental, but it didn’t sound particularly complimentary either.
“I don’t pick the causes, the foundation’s management team does.”