Manhandling Read online

  Mac stretched his arm across the back of her seat, curving his fingers along the nape of her neck. She shivered and tried to focus on the lecture.

  Melanie’s voice seemed to get more distant. “At the start of the art deco movement, furniture was based on traditional styles but opulence was the keynote. Exotic woods like amboyna were used and decoration incorporated materials like ivory. These were the objects that were designed as objects of fine art as well as for functionality. By the mid 1920s the taste for such flamboyant furniture was waning. Modern materials like chrome were incorporated into the designs and they become more geometric and streamlined. It was at this time that Rene Lalique was making glass panels to be used in the furniture.”

  He traced the soft skin of Laurel’s throat with his thumb. It was a simple caress, but his touch and the way he treated her, elicited complicated feelings inside her. Ones she had a very tough time fighting.

  Laurel closed her eyes, thoughts buzzing through her head as the woman’s voice filled the auditorium.

  She shifted closer to Mac, breathing in the scent of him. He slipped his hand into her unbound hair, letting it sift through his fingers. Resting her head on his shoulder, she released a soft sigh. She couldn’t remember the last time one of her boyfriends had read her so well, or taken the time to observe her as thoroughly as Mac had.

  She was truly impressed with him and partly dismayed. He seemed like two different sides of the same coin and she liked both sides very much. But that only complicated matters more since she was expecting her fling with him to be purely physical and not stimulating intellectually or rich with emotion. He’d surprised her once again.

  Laurel opened her eyes and tried to concentrate on what Melanie was saying. “Jacques-Emile Ruhlmann is only one of the fine designers that we have on exhibition thanks to the generous donations of Anne Wilks Malone. He is considered to be the premier art deco furniture designer. His furniture making techniques were flawless. Joints could barely be discerned, giving pieces the impression of being made from a single carved section of wood. For all its elegance, the furniture was designed to be used and to be comfortable. Form and design served to enhance the use of the furniture.”

  Laurel shifted at the sound of her mother’s name. She was swamped by the enormous sense of pride that she had for her mother’s achievements and humbled by her mother’s dedication. She had been relentless in her procurement of furniture that showcased the beginning movement of art deco.

  Melanie’s eyes met Laurel’s in the crowd and Laurel suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here.

  Through the rest of the lecture, Mac was a solid, tempting pressure against her side.

  Thank you ladies and gentlemen for your attention,” Melanie said in closing. “Please be sure to visit our fine exhibition in the Anne Wilks Malone Memorial Art Deco Wing.”

  Melanie immediately came down from the podium and called Laurel’s name.

  Laurel stopped and faced the curator, her palms suddenly clammy.

  “Laurel, it’s so good to see you.”

  Laurel smiled and turned to Mac. “Let me introduce you to Mac Hayes.”

  Melanie acknowledged him with a smile and a handshake. She said, “I’m so flattered that you attended my talk, Laurel. We don’t see you at the museum much anymore.”

  “I’ve been very busy,” Laurel said, her stomach beginning to churn.

  “Your mother was such a wonderful, delightful woman. I still can’t believe that she’s gone,” she paused and sighed. “How is that wonderful memorial you’re planning coming along?”

  “It’s stalled somewhat. We just found out that Christie’s booked a big auction on the same night as ours, and they can’t move it or cancel it.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “I will.”

  They turned to go and Mac slipped his hand into Laurel’s. “You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t seem fine. Did the curator upset you?”

  “No, really. I’m fine.”

  “Okay, if you say so. Why don’t we go out front and get something to eat?”

  “Hot dogs with the works,” Laurel said hopefully, trying desperately to act like she was fine. She was suddenly feeling feelings she didn’t want to feel, that elusive sense of wanting something…she wished she knew what. The thickness in her chest climbed higher.

  “A woman after my own heart.”

  They made their way to the massive entrance to the Met and found a hot dog vendor. After Mac paid for the heavily laden dogs, they sat down on the stairs to eat them.

  “Did you know that in recent months, residents of that building across the street want the Met to stop their plans to renovate? Can you believe that?” Mac said, gesturing to the impressive building.

  Laurel felt some of the tension in her release at the sound of Mac’s soothing voice. She was here with him and that was enough for now. She’d sort her feelings out later. “Some people don’t have any vision. They probably think that they’ll get their million dollar view of Central Park cut off.” Her eyes scanned the snarled traffic on FifthAvenue and watched trucks delivering things to the museum.

  She could remember the day they had moved everything from the attic and clogged rooms of their big mansion in Westchester County. Her mother had been as giddy as a schoolgirl and her infectious sense of humor had rubbed off on everyone around her. She even had her stoic father in stitches. The memory made her smile and the rest of the tension drained out of her.

  A truck rumbled by interrupting her view and drawing her out of the memory. Fumes rose from grates in the sidewalk. A tour bus pulled up and a large group of noisy, excited visitors congregated on the steps. In the street, Laurel watched a crowd of young kids goofing around, and farther away there was an old, disheveled man playing a flute in front of a case of coins. This was New York at its finest. Truly, some people just didn’t appreciate it.

  Mac looked at his watch. “Ready to catch the exhibit?”

  “Yes. I can’t wait.”

  AFTER THREE HOURS of looking at the finest pieces of art deco furniture in one collection, Mac walked hand and hand with Laurel through the hall to reach his car, wishing the day wouldn’t have to end.

  Mac stopped at the entrance to the wing which included a large rotunda with pictures of Laurel’s mother on the wall, along with numerous awards for her work in the arts.

  “Laurel, I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Hear me out. You could line up chairs right along here and put the podium there. The furniture could be set up down the hall to be showcased.”

  Laurel looked at him and then she looked at the space. Tears filled her eyes.

  “It was just a thought. Damn, did I make you cry?”

  She shook her head and wrapped her arms around him. “What a fitting place to have my mother’s memorial. I should have thought of it myself.”

  He held her, her body warm and soft against his.

  Somehow this had been a trying day for her, but he wasn’t sure why. He wanted to know, but each time he’d tried to broach the subject, Laurel had put him off. Either she wasn’t sure herself, or she didn’t want to share her thoughts with him.

  “Now all I have to do is call one hundred and fifty people and let them know there’s been a change of venue.”

  “Need some help with that?”

  Her gaze locked on his face. A startled look appeared in her eyes. “Mac, it’s going to be a couple of late nights for me. After the calling, I have the catering to handle, the flowers, and all the designers who are donating the furniture. You have to work tomorrow. It’s very kind of you, but you don’t have to.”

  He knew what she was saying. He was violating his bad-boy persona, but he didn’t care. Getting into her personal space was too enticing for him to give ground now. He was afraid if he didn’t push a little too hard, she wouldn’t let him
in ever. She’d end the affair and damn if he didn’t already have too much invested to back off now. He realized that she saw him as a temporary stud. It was his choice to play this game and now he was caught in it. But he didn’t have to play by Laurel’s rules. He could make up his own as he went along. “You have work tomorrow, too. I didn’t offer because I had to, Laurel. I want to help you.”

  Laurel studied him, her dark eyes suddenly unreadable. Mac prepared for another argument and even for her to tell him no. She didn’t need his help.

  Instead, she bumped his hip and said “So,” her voice deceptively casual, “just what do you want for this help you’re offering?”

  Now she was trying to pass it off as sexual and, therefore, meaningless. He could play along if it would make her feel better.

  He dredged up an off-center smile, injecting a touch of humor into his tone. “You must have me mixed up with some other sex-crazed maniac.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, but I guess you’ll have to do,” she said in a long-suffering tone.

  “Oh, I will?” he replied, catching her around the waist and swinging her. Her laughter echoed off the marble walls. Off balance, she fell into him and they laughed even harder as they fell to the floor, her on top of him.

  Laughing, his whole body going on full alert, he slid his arms around her hips. “Way to go, Gracie,” he murmured needing to taste those smiling lips.

  “Hey, don’t get mouthy. You had a hand in this, too.”

  “So I did.”

  Laurel stared at him and then managed a wry smile. “You are bad.”

  “And you love it.”

  “Yes, I do.” She looked down into his face and he felt something shift, crackle, and expand in his chest. This woman was getting under his skin faster than stocks could plummet and crash.

  “Come on,” she said getting to her feet, showing that she felt that shift in the air every bit as much as he did. “Let’s go take Melanie Graham up on her offer to help…and book this beautiful rotunda.”

  MAC MANEUVERED the car through the heavy stop-and-go traffic, he took Laurel’s hand and pressed it against his thigh, covering it with his own. Her only response was to turn her hand palm-up, lacing her fingers through his. When he glanced at her, she was sitting with her head tipped back against the headrest, her eyes closed, as if absorbing the invigorating rush of the wind. She looked serene and relaxed, but he could see the slight tension along her jawline, as though she had her teeth clenched.

  Twilight had settled in by the time they reached her brownstone and he pulled to the curb. Laurel took his hand in hers.

  Inside her brownstone, she kept ahold of Mac’s hand and brought him into her living room.

  “Let me get the list,” she said as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  She returned a few moments later with a sheaf of papers. She handed a few to him and kept some for herself. Giving him the house phone, she pulled her cell out of her purse.

  Hours later, Mac disconnected his last call. It was simply too late to make any more. He looked at Laurel who had fallen asleep on her side of the couch. He slipped his arms under her and headed for the stairs. Up in her dimly lit room, he stripped her and tucked her into bed.

  After a moment of debate, he shucked his clothes and climbed in with her. Pulling her against him, feeling as if he was in sheer heaven, he closed his eyes.

  Only to have them fly open immediately. Her soft hand slid down his body, over his buttocks, just a slow caressing glide as if she was savoring the shape of his muscles, the texture of his skin.

  He met her gaze in the dim room, her gaze was direct and she looked pretty wide awake to him. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you.”

  “No problem,” he managed, sliding his arms under her, kissing the curve of her shoulder as he shifted his hips between her thighs. Her breath caught, and she clutched him tighter. He moved his hips again, deliberately maximizing body contact, and there was another sharp intake of breath.

  She rolled over and fumbled with the nightstand drawer. When she moved back, she made short work of slipping on the condom.

  Shifting until he was on top of her, he braced his weight on his elbows and used his knees to open her legs wider. Thrusting inside, he held himself immobile. Grasping her face between his hands, he commanded huskily, “Look at me, Laurel.”

  He heard her swallow; then she caressed her hands down his spine to his buttocks, kneading them with hard, firm strokes. Holding her gaze, he slowly flexed his hips again, rocking hard against her, and she arched her neck and closed her eyes, the pulse point in her throat beating erratically.

  Watching her face, he moved again, and he could feel the tension mount in her. And he knew. He had an intuitive sense about her delectable body. She was already close.

  His fingers tangling in her hair, he gripped her head. “Look at me,” he said softly. “I want you to look at me.”

  As if it cost her an unbearable effort, she did as he asked, her eyes glazed and dilated. “Stay with me, babe,” he whispered; then he moved again, and she tried to arch her neck, but he held her still. “Stay with me.”

  His gaze locked on hers, he slowly moved against her, in her, maximizing the pressure against her. She clutched his arms, her eyes glazing even more, and she drew up her knees alongside his hips, her body arching with tension. His breathing turning erratic, he continued to move, watching her respond, her tightness driving him on. She gripped his arms, a desperate look turning her eyes black; then, on a fragmented moan, she twisted her head, her whole body arching, and he felt her contract hard around him, her release shuddering through her. Feeling as if something wild and unbearably beautiful had been set loose in his chest, he closed his eyes and gathered her up in a fierce embrace, experiencing feelings that went far beyond the sexual.

  It took several moments for her to come back down to earth and he grasped her, holding her tight and secure. Finally she shifted under him, letting go a long shaky breath.

  Her arms locked around his shoulders, she buried her face against his neck, her whole body trembling. “Oh, no. Mac. You didn’t….”

  Experiencing a rush of tenderness, he smiled. “I had too much fun watching you come and let me tell you. You’re making my ego big.”

  She tightened her arms around him, still trembling a little. “That’s not the only thing that’s big about you.”

  He grinned.

  She pushed on his shoulders and made him roll over. “It’s one of the things I so like about you,” she said softly. To prove her point, she reached down and curled her hand around his erection and stroked upward.

  Mac lost any teasing comeback he might have had on his lips.

  Unable to hold back the rampant male instincts firing his blood or to resist the hot female invitation in her eyes, he curled his hand around her neck and pulled her sweet mouth down to his. Her lips parted beneath the coaxing pressure of his mouth, and his tongue swept inside, slow and teasing, then gradually taking possession of her mouth in a deep, wet, ravenous kiss that was unmistakable in its carnality and sexual intent.

  Shifting her body, she took him to the hilt and he gasped and groaned.

  She met him movement for movement. Plunging in deep, he grasped her hips, holding himself inside her, his biceps bunching with the exquisite strain of holding himself immobile. Her fingers curled in his hair, tugging so hard it was painful. He gritted his teeth against the intense pain and pleasure of holding back. Then she cried out his name and his mouth took the sound so deep inside, he let himself go. He thought he could die right now and never regret it.

  She collapsed on his chest and for a moment he held her smiling. He felt pure happiness.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Just because.” Running his hand up and down her back, he rested his head against hers, liking the feel of her damp, naked body against his. Then he felt the brush of Laurel’s long eyelashes as she closed her eyes. He continued to
stroke her back. After a few moments he felt her body go slack, and he knew she had dropped off to sleep, which gave him a certain amount of satisfaction. She felt comfortable enough to fall asleep on him. He shifted her to the soft mattress, releasing a contented sigh. Drawing his arm around her, he closed his eyes, his throat suddenly tight.

  He hoped like hell he wasn’t messing up this relationship by not telling her who he was.

  MAC STOOD AT her bedroom door watching her sleep. He wasn’t sure why he woke up—maybe it was because the room had turned cold, maybe it was the soft drip, drip, drip of the faucet in the bathroom. Or maybe because he was in her house and unaccustomed to waking up here. But whatever it was, he was too awake now, with no blurred edges from a deep sleep or half-forgotten dreams. The fading sky that preceded dawn was illuminating the room and as it brightened he could see more of Laurel.

  She was sleeping on her side, facing him, one leg drawn up, her breathing deep and even. The windows had been left open all night, and the room was chilly, cooled by the breeze full of the scents of Manhattan along with the sounds of a waking city—blaring horns, squealing brakes, and slamming car doors.

  He sipped his coffee and took in the brightening room.

  It had been too dim the previous night for him to notice or appreciate the décor. The giant bed. The intricate furniture. Even the midnight-blue walls made him think of cooling water and he felt himself begin to relax. Colorful, erotic abstract art hung on the walls in pea green and dark-blue colors. Pea green wasn’t a color that he would have thought would have meshed well with the multicolored carpet, but it did.

  Her sanctuary was worlds apart from the conventional look of her living room. For a moment he just stood there and took it all in. His curiosity about Laurel went up a notch, a woman who had deep facets. Why was her bedroom so very different from the rest of her house?

  Bracing his weight against the doorjamb he finished the coffee in his cup in one gulp. He walked across the bedroom and set the cup on the nightstand. He ran his hand down her bare arm then he reached over, tugged the sheet loose and drew it over her. He watched her sleep for a long time, until parts of his body started sending him messages that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the woman beside him. For an instant he indulged in a fantasy about easing her onto her back and slipping inside her while she slept, giving her a special wake-up call.