The Lovers Read online

  The Lovers

  Eden Bradley

  The Lovers

  This book is for all the writers’ groups that are so crucial to any writer, but which have played an especially important role in my life. A huge thank-you to Romance Divas—my Divas are the best!

  Thank you also to the members of Los Angeles Romance Authors.

  But, most of all, this book is dedicated to my fellow Smutketeers:

  R.G. Alexander, Crystal Jordan and Lilli Feisty, who have stuck by me through the brainstorming and the inevitable meltdowns, the exhilaration and the moments of self-doubt.

  I also must thank my agent, Roberta Brown, for daring to shop this book, my editor, Susan Swinwood, for allowing me to write this book in the way it needed to be written, and to them both for championing this story.

  Last, but never least, to S, for bringing love into my life.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Demo version limitation

  CHAPTER TWO

  It’s time for dinner and I leave my cozy little cabin with some trepidation. Already it feels like some sort of refuge to me. I can see the ocean from my windows, smell the scent of the sea, the scent of summer, even with the windows closed, although I opened them all up and left them that way until right before I slipped into my sandals to go up to the main house.

  I unpacked my suitcases, put my clothes away in the small closet, set my laptop and a small pile of books on the little table and tucked my vibrator away in the drawer of the nightstand, I felt immediately at home, all of my things fitting perfectly.

  I have the strangest sense of being secure here, protected, of fitting as perfectly as my belongings do, as though this place was made just for me. But there is also this sort of strange tension that makes me all loose and shaky inside. Maybe it has something to do with what happened with Audrey earlier. Even though nothing happened. Except that I am beginning to think I want it to.

  God, I don’t even know what I’m thinking!

  I shut the door behind me and make my way back up the gravel path. Everyone is on the patio, which is dominated by a long table covered in a white cloth that flutters in the small breeze coming off the water. The table is already set with big bowls and platters of food, dishes in bright blue and yellow and stark white. There must be half a dozen bottles of wine on the table, along with baskets of bread, glass carafes with what I think is olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Everyone is still in casual clothes: Viviane in her jeans, Kenneth in his shorts and Hawaiian shirt, Patrice in cropped cargo pants. And Audrey in her shorts and bikini top, with a sheer white blouse hanging open, moving in the breeze like the tablecloth.

  Audrey spots me first and, smiling, comes to take my arm possessively in hers as she leads me to a chair.

  “I’m claiming Bettina tonight,” she announces, then, turning to me, whispers in my ear, her breath warm and tickly, “I always sit with the newest arrival. It’s a tradition.”

  Why do I feel as though she’s paying me special attention?

  Maybe I need it that badly.

  Everyone sits, with Viviane at one end and Kenneth at the other, and Patrice across from Audrey and me. Sid circles the table, stopping to grin and wag his stump of a tail at each place, hoping for table scraps, perhaps. I reach down and give his big head a scratch before he moves on.

  The open wine bottles are passed around, and I fill my glass with a California Chardonnay, cold and crisp, and take a sip. Audrey chooses a Cabernet, I notice.

  “Let’s make a toast,” Viviane says. “To our newest summer-retreat member, Bettina Boothe.”

  “Hear, hear,” Kenneth says.

  Everyone raises their glasses. Audrey winks at me as her glass clinks mine, smiles, dimpling. She has gorgeous teeth, almost perfectly straight except for one on the bottom row that’s the slightest bit crooked.

  Why am I noticing everything about her in such minute detail?

  I am all nerves again, suddenly. Too aware of that delicate female flesh next to me.

  “Bettina, what did you bring with you to work on over the summer?” Patrice asks.

  “Oh, well, I’m halfway through a book about a girl who’s orphaned and raised in these awful foster homes. But I’ve been stuck…”

  “Ah, the sagging middle,” Patrice says, nodding her head sagely. “That’s always the time to up the stakes. Make something exciting or tragic happen.”

  “I usually blow something up,” Kenneth says, grinning.

  He has a kind face. I think I’ll like him much better than Patrice. I don’t know how to get past my intimidation with her.

  “Well, this entire story is a bit tragic,” I tell them. “I need to…think about it some more.”

  “This is an excellent place to think,” Viviane says.

  “Yes, I believe it will be.”

  If only I can think of something other than Audrey’s smooth, gold-touched skin, the citrus scent of her hair.

  “What about everyone else?” Viviane asks. “I’m working on a contemporary romance, an older woman, younger man story. Forbidden fruit and all that. Absolutely sad and desperate love.” She sighs happily.

  Patrice gestures with her wineglass. “Mine is a murder mystery with a dark twist.”

  “They always are,” Audrey says, sipping her wine slowly. I can see the ruby liquid pool on her lower lip through the dome of the glass before she swallows.

  “True. But that’s why we’re all together, isn’t it?” Patrice says. “We each understand the dark side of a story. The darkness in people. In the world. That’s what brought us all together.”

  “Who started the online group?” I ask, suddenly realizing I don’t know.

  “You don’t know about Angela?” Audrey asks.

  “Angela?”

  “Angela Moore,” Viviane says, her voice low. She casts a furtive glance at Patrice. I don’t know what it’s about.

  “I know the name. She wrote those really intense psycho logical thrillers, didn’t she? Whatever happened to her?”

  “She died,” Patrice says, her tone flat. She picks up her glass and takes a long swallow, then another.

  “Angela was Patrice’s partner,” Viviane says quietly, watching Patrice. But her features are as impassable as ever.

  No, looking closer, I can see the clench of her jaw.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling completely inadequate.

  “It happens,” Patrice says, reaching for a thick chunk of sourdough bread from the basket. She picks up the bottle of olive oil and makes a small puddle on her bread plate, then adds a few drops of the balsamic. “Let’s not sit around like a bunch of mourners. It’s been five years already. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Of course you are,” Viviane says, her eyes going soft. After a moment she reaches for a large wooden salad bowl, serves Patrice, then herself. “So, Leo should be here soon, and Jack.”

  “It’ll be nice to have the boys here,” Audrey says, turning to wink at me.

  “You do like the boys,” Patrice mutters, forking a piece of lettuce from her plate.

  “Yes, I do, Patrice,” Audrey says, her tone a little forceful, tense. She swigs her wine again, drinking it down fast.

  Why are they baiting each other? Or is it only the sort of family banter that goes on in most people’s houses?

  I wouldn’t really know. My family never had that. No siblings,
just me and my parents, who were never really quite there. Living with two professors is an isolating existence for a kid. We spent dinners with everyone’s heads buried in a book. Which is, perhaps, why I’m so lacking in social graces myself. And that is one reason why I’ve made this trip. To learn this stuff. But they’re all talking again, and the tension at the table is dissipating.

  “I thought we should have a Mary Shelley night,” Viviane is saying. “You know, sit up all night drinking wine and writing the darkest stories we can come up with.”

  “And that’s different from what we always do how?” Kenneth asks, laughing.

  “I know, but it would be more of a formal arrangement. Maybe we can write our own versions of Frankenstein, each in our own genre? Oh, I’d love to write Frankenstein’s love story. He’s always been such a tragic figure.”

  “He’s a monster, Viv,” Audrey says. “He’s meant to be tragic.”

  “Yes, but even a monster deserves love. Look at Beauty and the Beast.”

  “You’re such a romantic,” Patrice accuses.

  “Yes, I am.” Viviane smiles at her and pats her hand. Patrice frowns, but as she looks away I can tell she’s trying to hide a small smile behind her napkin.

  Dinner passes with the same sort of meandering conversation, wonderful food, perhaps a bit too much wine. When it’s over we all help take the empty plates into the big kitchen, but Viviane shoos us out, not allowing anyone but Patrice to help her clean up. Kenneth settles into a chair on the patio with a pipe, Sid sitting in a lump beside him.

  “Bettina, why don’t we go down to the beach,” Audrey says, taking my hand. Hers is small, birdlike, the bones so delicate I feel as though I could easily crush them.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s so dark.”

  “There’s plenty of light from the house, and from the porch light on your cottage. And you haven’t been yet. Come on.”

  “Okay. I guess it’ll be…fine.”

  “We’ll just take this with us.”

  She grabs half a bottle of red wine from the island counter and heads out the back door. I follow her around the house, down the gravel path between my cabin and the other one, which is dark, empty. A half-moon hangs in the sky, its silver glow reflected in the water, helping to light our way, and it’s not nearly as dark as I’d thought it would be. Audrey is a black silhouette in front of me as we make our way over the dunes, her white shorts standing out, catching the moonlight.

  She stops and plops down on the sand, and I sit next to her, a foot or two away, and stare out at the water, like swirls of ink, the foam barely visible in the night. The sound is awesome, exhilarating, as the waves rumble and crash. The ocean feels kinetic, powerful.

  So does my awareness of Audrey next to me, her long, bare legs stretched out before her.

  “I love this place,” she says to me.

  “I think I’m going to.”

  I’m more relaxed than I should be. Too much wine. Or maybe just enough. Audrey takes a swig from the bottle, then hands it to me. I sip more carefully. It’s the Cabernet, a little strong and rich for me, but I like it. I kick off my sandals and dig my toes into the dark sand. It’s damp beneath the surface, a little cold, but it feels good on my heated skin.

  “Tell me about your life, Audrey.”

  “What would you like to know? I’ll tell you whatever you want. Anything, my darling Bettina.”

  She’s a little drunk. But then, so am I.

  “Tell me about your family.”

  “Really? Wouldn’t you rather hear about my sordid sexual history?”

  I laugh. “Maybe after.”

  She sighs, takes a long pull from the bottle, hands it to me, and I drink as she begins to talk.

  “They live in Richmond, Virginia.”

  “That’s where you’re from?”

  “Yes, originally, although I’ve lived all over. It’s a staid, solid place, Richmond. Big banking town. That’s what my daddy does, banking. That’s what every good citizen of Richmond does. That’s one of the reasons I was so fucking desperate to get out. You can imagine how well I fit in there.”

  “So, you’re not close with your family?”

  Audrey laughs, a short sort of humorless bark. “My mother is the second wife. I have two half brothers and a half sister, but they want nothing to do with us. No, they’re just worried that Daddy will die and leave all his money to my mother, which he probably will. Daddy dotes on my mother, and she dotes on him. Which left very little room for me. They come a few times a year to visit Daddy. I always try to be gone then.” She takes another long sip from the bottle of wine while I sit, quiet, not knowing what to say. “Actually, I try to be gone most of the time. It’s better that way. Especially for me. I got tired of being invisible.”

  “God, me, too.”

  Audrey turns to me then, and I can see her eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Are you invisible, Bettina?”

  I nod. “Yes.” It comes out as a whisper. My heart is pounding.

  She stares at me for a long moment. “I see you.” Audrey lifts a hand, strokes my hair from my face, her gaze hard on mine, her dark, elegant brows drawn together. “We understand each other, you and I. I knew right away we would.”

  I am warm and shivery all over. I lick my lips, which have gone dry in the breeze coming off the water. I have an odd sensation of being grounded to the earth, suddenly. And my attraction to Audrey is part of it, although the knowledge that we share this bit of our histories is part of it, too.

  “I do understand,” I tell her. “My parents haven’t been aware of my existence since…maybe ever. Or maybe only vaguely, as though I’m at the edge of their consciousness. It’s better not to be there, not to have to feel that. Easier.”

  “Yes, exactly. I don’t want that in my face every day. I don’t want to have to feel that exclusion. I can get that shit anywhere in this world.”

  “But you…you never do, I’m sure. Not from anyone else.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  She looks truly puzzled.

  “Because,” I start, having had too much to drink to censor myself, “you are the most amazing person, Audrey. Fascinating. And I don’t mean that in any sort of patronizing way. Not like some zoo animal to stare at and study. But you make me want to…be with you. And I think everyone must feel that way.”

  She smiles brilliantly, leans over and kisses my cheek. Her lips leave a hot, damp imprint on my skin. I want to lift my hand, press my fingers there, but I don’t do it. Instead, I cross my legs, trying to ease the sudden ache there.

  I really shouldn’t have drunk so much wine.

  “Sweet Bettina,” she says, pulling her hand back to swig from the bottle once more. The wine is nearly gone. “But it’s not true, you know. The world at large rejects me. Always has.”

  There is pain behind this simple statement. I want to make her feel better. But I don’t know how.

  Yes, you do…

  God, what am I thinking? She is not flirting with me!

  Is she?

  “We should get back,” she says. “I want to get up early tomorrow and hit the beach before I write.”

  “Oh, okay. Sure.”

  She stands, and, taking my hand, helps pull me to my feet. I’m a little dizzy with the wine. And she pulls me in, her arms going around me. The wine bottle is still in her hand and it presses, hard and cool, against my back. And against the front of my body, her breasts are warm. My nipples harden instantly, my sex going damp. She hugs me tightly, briefly, then lets me go.

  “Come on. Time for bed.”

  Yes, please…

  I follow her silently over the dunes, my legs working against the sand, my muscles fatigued. We reach flatter ground, the sand turning to gravel, and then we’re at the door to my cabin.

  “’Night, Bettina. See you in the morning.”

  She waves and is gone, disappearing down the dark path to the main house.

  I stand there, stupefied.
I realize I’m barefoot, the gravel biting into the soles of my feet. My sandals are on the beach somewhere. I should go get them, but I don’t.

  What had I expected? Wanted? I don’t even know.

  Shaking my head, I step onto the small porch, open the blue door. Inside, I turn on a bedside lamp, then go into the bathroom to wash my face. But the splash of cold water doesn’t help. My body is on fire.

  I know what will help.

  I strip my clothes off as I walk from bath to bed, pull open the nightstand drawer and grab my flesh-colored vibrator. In moments I am on the bed, naked, my legs spread wide, as the cool night air plays over my skin, seducing me, taunting me. My nipples are two hard points, red and swollen.

  I turn the phallus on and lower it between my thighs. I often tease myself, let the buzzing instrument play around my pussy lips, lovely, light touches. But I am already so turned on I hurt. I go right for my clit, turning the vibrator up high and pressing down hard.

  God, it feels good, that humming going through my system, a sharp, stinging current. Desire builds, my entire sex engorged, painful. I need to come so badly.

  I press harder, moving it slowly from side to side, rubbing my hard little clitoris with the textured head of the vibe, closing my eyes and thinking of her.

  Her face. Her lush red mouth like sex itself. And her saying to me, a wicked smile on her beautiful face, “I can make you come, Bettina.”

  So hot, those words. And I imagine her lowering her face between my legs, her wet tongue lapping at my wet slit, her fingers sinking into me.

  Oh, yes…

  I spread my legs wider, welcoming her. And she pulls my clit between her lips, sucking hard, her fingers pushing into me. My hips arch into the vibrator, and my climax is shattering, like a hard current in my pussy, my belly. My thighs are shaking, I’m moaning. And in my mind is her face, her wicked mouth.

  She’s smiling at me as I come, saying, “I told you so.”

  Mornings on the beach are different than they are anywhere else. There is the slow process of coming out of my dreams to the muted roar of the surf, the gray, fog-dimmed light coming through the windows as soft as a whisper.