Take Me Twice. Isabel Sharpe

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СКАЧАТЬ groan and bunched the pillow around his ears, then sat up and shot both hands through his hair. Fine. He still thought about her once in a while. He still wanted her. Didn’t mean his whole life revolved around her. He’d work out, shower, call Judy and get the whole thing out of his system.

      For now.

      He pulled on his running shoes, shorts and a T-shirt, went down the hardwood stairs to his large, sunny kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. A little sugar in his system to get him through his run. Then out the front door, greeting the morning with a huge breath, stretches in his driveway and a two-mile trip through Princeton’s peaceful residential neighborhoods, particularly gorgeous in the spring when homeowners outdid each other with floral splendor, and dogwoods and magnolias blossomed in the woods and along the streets.

      Back home on Knoll Drive, he went into his basement for extra punishment with his weight machines. He and Laine used to work out together. Sometimes he’d do her girly aerobic tapes, which he’d never admit busted his ass, and sometimes she’d come with him jogging. Those legs of hers could run forever. Once in a while he’d drop behind her deliberately to enjoy the sight—her ponytail bouncing, feet pounding, arms pumping an easy rhythm. They’d shared a passion for working their bodies to the limit, in bed and out.

      The barbell clanged back onto his weight rack. Damn it all to hell.

      He wiped off with a towel and stomped upstairs in disgust. They’d broken up because of his immature collegiate stupidity twelve years ago, thinking he could have his Laine and eat Joanne, too. He was still suffering for it, even though they’d managed to stay friends after the worst blew over. In fact, they’d seen each other off and on for the next seven years while they’d both lived in New York, before he moved to Chicago and they’d lost touch. Or rather, he’d tried to block her out.

      Fat chance.

      He took the second set of stairs two at a time and ran into the bathroom, shed his clothes, turned the stream full-blast and hot. Scrubbed furiously at his skin and hair, then stood, eyes closed, letting the water flow over him, then letting the memories do the same. He and Laine loved sex in the shower. She’d slide her slippery, soapy body over him, down to her knees, take him in her mouth and blow his mind. She’d tip her head up, his cock still between her lips, and give him that look of sensual mischief that said, You are so in my power, little boy. He’d reach for her and push her against the cracked yellowing tile in his crappy New York apartment and show her who was really in control.

      God, they’d had fun. Sure, sex with other women since then had been fun, too. But nothing like the wild, playful passion with Laine. Even after their initial breakup, after the anger and bitterness and pain had blown over and they’d managed to be friends again, getting together invariably involved sex. Plenty of it. All incredible.

      Grayson yanked off the shower, grabbed his towel and dragged it roughly over his body. Better get going. Time spent in useless mooning was wasted. He wasn’t even going to call Judy today or any other day to see what was up with Laine. Now that he was back east, the temptation to start things up again would drive him nuts. He hadn’t seen her in five years, not since he’d moved to Chicago. What was done was done.

      He pulled on shorts and a cotton shirt and prepared for his morning commute to his office—a converted bedroom on the second floor. Given his and Chuck’s start-up company’s cramped and only semiprivate office space at 1841 Broadway, opting to call from home had been a no-brainer.

      He sat at his desk and brought up the week’s schedule on his monitor. Meetings in the city nearly every day this week, which meant he’d get into the office fairly regularly, but spend too many back-and-forth hours on NJ Transit trains. Damn shame he couldn’t afford a studio for overnights. But with the price of real estate in N.Y., a midtown, one-room apartment would set him back more than his entire three-bedroom house here. And Princeton wasn’t exactly bargainsville.

      He opened his e-mail program, scanned the messages, deleted ads promising him a larger penis or a chance to earn thousands at home.

      Good. Carson Industries wanted a bid for their Web site; he’d send an e-mail to Chuck to let him know. And he’d managed to sell Granger Healthcare on the idea of redesigning theirs; they wanted a bid, too. Excellent. Other than that, more calls to make, trying to put Jameson Productions on the map in the Web design business. They’d done very well so far—he’d brought in enough jobs that they’d had to hire a second programmer, and Chuck had finally gotten his dearest wish—an assistant to spare him paperwork.

      So it looked as though he’d be on the phone most of the day. Just not to Judy.

      He picked up the receiver, made a call to Ralph Scannell, V.P. of Marketing at Office Mart, who was not Judy and who knew nothing about Laine. Ralph wasn’t interested in a new Web site or any other promotional material. Grayson shrugged. Rejection was part of the job. He made another call, strangely enough also not to Judy. Managed to chat with the office manager, but was stalled trying to get someone higher up in marketing. Three more calls, then three more, none of them to the woman known as Judy or anyone who could possibly tell him anything about his sexy ex-girlfriend Laine Blackwell.

      In fact, he was going to sit here, with his butt parked in his overpriced ergonomically correct chair and not call Judy all damn morning long.

      2

      “YOU’LL NEVER GUESS who called me.”

      Laine glanced up from her menu at Clark’s Diner, her and her oldest friend Judy’s regular Saturday lunch spot. She had a pretty good idea. The same person it always was when Judy said, “You’ll never guess who called me.”

      “Who?”

      Judy leaned forward, one dark brow lifted, brown eyes sparkling behind her narrow, aqua-framed glasses. “Grayson Alexander.”

      “No kidding.” Laine did a quick internal scan of her emotions, noting with triumph that she wasn’t feeling even a hint of that crazy thrill his name used to provoke in her without fail. Nothing but friendly, affectionate warmth. “What’s he up to?”

      “The usual.” Judy sat back, watching Laine entirely too carefully, so Laine continued to explore the menu she knew practically by heart. She wasn’t in the mood to be psychoanalyzed. She’d been trying to find a roommate for an entire week, in fact had interviewed her sixth candidate this morning. A woman named Shadow, who hoped it would be okay if she burned incense every day. Oh, and her pet rat would be welcome, wouldn’t he? Worse, Shadow had been the most promising candidate.

      “He and Chuck Gartner—do you remember him? He was a year older than us at Princeton. Charming geek, about twenty feet tall…”

      “Yes, I remember.”

      “He and Chuck are making a go of their interactive media business. They have an office on Broadway by the park. And Grayson bought a house in Princeton on Knoll Drive.”

      Laine nodded. “Sounds like he’s doing well.”

      “I know. Huge sigh.” Judy patted her ample chest. “He still makes my heart go pitter-pat. Killer looks, perfect body and enough charm to sink the Titanic. Not that he’d look at a lonely, overweight doormat like me.”

      “Oh, will you stop.” Laine glared and held up a finger. “One, you are not overweight and—”

      “Ahem.” Judy raised her hand to interrupt. “I weigh what you do and I’m a foot shorter.”

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