“What do you mean?” he asked, leaning in.
“There’s no right guy for me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not sleeping with ax murderers. But if I meet someone and we enjoy each other’s company, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with sleeping together. I love sex—or loved it before I lost my ability to have an orgasm. But you see, for me, sex is a release. I don’t want monogamy. Sex is sex. I’m not looking for anything more.”
“Ever?” Raz threw back, curiosity woven into the word. “You don’t want a boyfriend or a husband someday?”
She shifted in her seat. It wasn’t usually difficult to answer this question. She thought she’d made her peace with the answer. “No,” she rasped, grateful she was able to produce the syllable. The word seemed stuck—like it didn’t want to come out.
“You weren’t kidding tonight when you said you didn’t need a man to teach you anything,” he said, letting go of the steering wheel and resting his hands in his lap. “You’re a rare find, Libby Lamb.”
But she wasn’t. She was simply cautious—or broken. She wasn’t quite sure which one she actually was. She’d seen firsthand what one reckless man can do to a fragile heart. She had to play it safe, and that meant keeping her guard up.
“In my experience,” she began, “when it comes to the big stuff, the heavy stuff, the stuff that isn’t easy, most men are remarkably unreliable. When the chips are down, I have my friends and myself. I’ll never rely on a man.”
She left out a pertinent word.
Again.
She’d never rely on a man ever again.
“What about your brothers? Would you say they’re unreliable?”
“That’s different. They’re good men.”
“Couldn’t there be other good men out there?” he challenged.
“Perhaps, but they’re not meant for me.”
“Just sex, no love?” Raz continued.
“That’s right, just sex,” she repeated, working to keep her tone even.
Why was that so difficult?
She and Raz stared at each other as another gulf of silence encapsulated the car. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and she watched him study her. What was going on in his mind? Had she shocked him? Did he assume every woman dreamed of falling in love?
Had he been in love? Was he still in love with someone?
She’d never even entertained the thought that this stupidly sexy, arrogant beefcake of a man was even capable of the emotion.
“Libby,” he said, his voice taking on a gravelly quality that had her libido taking notice.
“Yes?” she breathed as a flash of light lit his features.
“I agree with,” he began, then reared back. “Bloody hell!”
“What?” she asked, searching his face as the light faded to black.
“There’s someone in my house. The lights just flickered,” he replied, looking past her.
“Should we call the police?” she asked, turning to survey the massive home.
“No, they already think we’re crazy. Stay in the car. I’ll handle this,” he said, opening his door.
If Erasmus Cress thought she was a stay-in-the-car damsel in distress, he had a lot to learn.
“You’re not going in there alone,” she called, grabbing her yoga tote and meeting him on the walkway that led to the front door.
He looked her over. “What will you do? Throw vibrators at the burglars?”
She checked the bag. “I don’t know. There’s a mini gong in there, too.”
“Brilliant, we can gong the thief. Great plan!”
“At least it’s a plan,” she threw back.
“Let me take care of it, Libby. They don’t call me the Lion for nothing.”
“If that’s because you’re big and dumb, then I can see where you got the name,” she hissed. She was not the type of person who hissed, but this man, when he wasn’t making her head swim with dirty thoughts, made her blood boil.
He lifted a lid near the door handle, revealing a keypad, then entered a code. The bolt clicked.
“If you insist on coming with me, we’re going in on three,” he whispered.
She nodded.
“One, two—” Raz counted when the mansion’s grand front door swung open in a whoosh of air.
She shrieked as two tiny forms loomed in the darkened doorway.
“We thought you’d never get out of that giant car,” came a girl’s huff of a voice.
Then the other pint-sized person shrouded in darkness lunged toward them. “Say, beefcake!”
Seven
Libby
Beefcake?
“Smile for the camera!” came a boy’s familiar voice.
Light blasted from below, followed by a sharp, mechanical hum.
She screamed bloody murder, then jumped into Raz’s arms.
As if he were expecting her to hurl her body at him, he caught her and held her close. Instinctively, or maybe it was the adrenaline surging through her veins, she nuzzled into him. Their bodies melded together in a predominantly chaotic yet slightly erotic motion. Her hammering heartbeat evened out as she inhaled Raz’s virile, earthy scent. It made her want to press her lips to the hollow of his neck and lick a trail down to his rock-hard torso.
This man was built like a brick house—and clearly, she was a-okay with that.
Sweet Buddha’s belly, she could not allow her mind to go there.
She only had a second to get her bearings before the smack of plastic meeting a hard surface erupted in a cascade of cracks, rattles, and an echoing buzz.
The vibrators.
A jarring clang—her gong—accompanied the cluster of sex toys that proceeded to vibrate on the polished floor as the sound echoed through the cavernous, darkened room.
She’d barely caught her breath when the lights came on, and an ornate chandelier illuminated the grand foyer. She shielded her eyes from its glow. Blinking as her pupils responded to the onslaught of the glare, she squinted and took in not an intruder or a thief but six pairs of eyes attached to six of her favorite people. Six people who stood stock-still, staring at her slack-jawed.
What in the world were they doing inside Raz’s house?
Libby surveyed the stunned group. Penny cocked her head to the side then shared a curious look with Charlotte as Mitch and Rowen stood there, dumbfounded. She focused on the little bodies that had met them at the darkened doorway and spied none other than her favorite six-year-olds, Phoebe Gale and Oscar Elliott.
For what felt like half a century, no one moved.
Libby forced herself to employ her yoga and meditation training.
Breathe and be mindful.
She took stock of her body—a body that clung to another body. And this other body, Raz’s body, cradled her in his arms like this was some deranged version of whooshing a bride across the threshold. Except this bride didn’t come in throwing bouquets of roses and lilies. Nope, this modern woman chucked vibrators at the guests.
The mechanical hum that greeted—or scared the ever-living crap out of her—cut through the stunned silence as Oscar snapped another shot with his Polaroid instant camera.