I call Mandy as I start my car. “I need Lulu MacLeod’s address.”
“I beg your pardon? Good morning to you too. And why on earth would you need her address?” Hmm, didn’t quite think this through. Plausible excuse needed—and fast.
“I gave her a lift home last night, and she left her, ahh, her jacket in my car. I’d like to drop it off to her in case she needs it.”
There’s a long silence before Mandy answers. “Her jacket? It’s twenty-five degrees outside. Why would she need a jacket?” There’s another long pause. “And if you took her home last night, don’t you know where she lives?” I can hear the wheels turning in Mandy’s head, which is never a good thing. But I’m in too deep to back out now. And I need this address.
“I dropped her off in North Sydney. And you never know, it might turn cold. Anyway. I don’t want it lying around in my car, so could you be a dear and cough up the address, please, Mandy.” The sooner I get off this call, the less likely Mandy is to twig that I’m up to something, well, not quite professional.
Fortunately, she can log into her files from home, and in no time, I have an address. Which could be a good thing. Or a very bad one. Right now, though, it seems essential. Inevitable.
“That can’t be right. Is this her business address? Because it’s Saturday, Mandy. I’d like to drop it off today. What’s her home address?”
“That’s it. She works from home, I think.”
“But that area is all factories and warehouses …” I can’t believe she would live there. No. Wait. Maybe I can. It’s Lulu, after all.
“What can I tell you? She’s an artist …” Mandy is beginning to lose patience with me.
“Fine. Thank you.” I’m not entirely convinced, but since it’s all I have to go on, I head off, a bag of sexy underwear on the seat next to me.
I take the time during the drive to call Ben and let him know I won’t be racing this evening. Something tells me I’ll be busy. He laughs and agrees to act as skipper. I’m sure he’ll find someone to crew.
Some of the old warehouses in this part of town have been done up—now housing cafés and designer clothing or homeware stores—but not the address Mandy gave me. Still unconvinced, I hit the button for the industrial lift. Enormous steel doors clank open and I’m hit in the face with an explosion of colour. Every centimetre of the lift, even the ceiling and floor, is painted in swirls of reds, yellows, pinks and oranges, which somehow resemble flowers without actually looking like them. It’s breathtaking. And so unmistakeably Lulu MacLeod, I know I’m in the right place, the widget-making factory on the ground floor notwithstanding.
The ride is short and filled with ominous creaking and clanking. I have no time to second-guess myself before the doors open again on a freshly painted—red—industrial sliding door. It occurs to me I might be unwelcome. I might be intruding. But I can’tnotfollow through on my plan. It’s as irresistible as she is.
Music drifts out onto the landing as my knock echoes in the small space. Suddenly the door slides open, clanking in harmony with the lift, and I’m hit with simultaneous waves of sound and desire.
“Hello.” She looks a little startled to see me.
“Good”—I pause to check my watch—“afternoon. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.” She’s wearing overalls covered in paint, as are her hands. Red, purple and a deep midnight blue.
“Is there something you wanted?”
Yes. Yes, there is. You. Again. Already. But I manage not to verbalise my thoughts.
“Well, yes. I wanted to drop this off for you.” I hold up the bag, attempting a charming smile and probably failing. Charming is not my natural territory. “I found your, ahh, underwear.” I can feel the tips of my ears burning. Lulu says nothing, so I blunder on. “You left them behind. They were a little ruined. A lot ruined. Completely my fault. I thought perhaps I should, well, replace them.”
Lulu steps back, allowing me to enter her apartment. Although apartment seems like an astonishingly inadequate word for the space. Much like Lulu, it’s an assault on the senses. As though a fireworks manufacturer, florist and art gallery all exploded together. It’s an enormous open space filled with colourful couches, mismatched rugs and furniture, and dozens of paintings hung and propped against bare brick walls. Sunlight pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto what looks like a small rooftop garden.
“That really wasn’t necessary, but thank you.” She moves to take the bag and then pulls back, looking at the paint on her hands. “Would you mind putting it down over there?” She waves me towards a deep red velvet sofa, picking up a remote as covered in paint as her overalls. The music drops abruptly to background noise.
I can feel the tension between us like a physical being taking up most of the oxygen in the massive room. I want to ask her why she left without saying goodbye. Want to ask her if she would like to do it again. I want to bury myself in her. But I stand staring at her, mute.
Eventually, I blurt—blurt?—I’ve never blurted in my life, “I’ve interrupted. You’re working.”
“That’s … okay.” Her eyes shift to the far side of the room where an enormous canvas is propped on an easel. A work in progress. It’s spectacular. I can’t help myself. I move closer. I don’t know much about art, but I feel the passion rolling off the canvas. The colours, the bold brush stokes, the thick paint, all scream with intensity and lust.
“Wow. That’s incredible. It’s …” For a moment, I feel lost for words. And then it hits me. Right in the chest. Like a wrecking ball, as Miley Cyrus would say. “Is that … is thatus?” I don’t know why I’m asking. I already know, deep in my soul. Lulu has put on this canvas the feeling I haven’t been able to articulate, even to myself, all day. Words are inadequate, but the painting says it all.
Her cheeks turn pink as she nods, not looking at me as she whispers “Yes.” She must feel my gaze on her face because she looks up and our eyes lock. They say the eyes are a window to the soul, and what I see in Lulu’s is what I feel in my own. “I had to get it—the emotions—out while they were still … fresh.”
I have no idea who makes the first move, but somehow, we’re kissing again. Lulu grips my shirt with paint-covered fingers, and I drop the shopping bag I had no idea I was still holding to the floor. It’s instantly intense. I’m not simply kissing her with my mouth. I’m kissing her with my whole body.
“I need to be inside you again,” I growl as my fingers find the snaps on her overalls.
“Yes. Yes. Me too.” Her hands are already pushing my jeans down my legs. I toe off my shoes and step out of the pants as my shirt hits the floor, along with her overalls. Sliding my hands under her perfect arse, I lift her against me, her legs wrapping around my waist. It’s a big open-plan apartment, and I head for the bed in the far corner, dropping her on top of the quilt and pulling her to the edge before falling to my knees and burying my face between her thighs. There goes another pair of knickers as I push the lace aside and suck her clit into my mouth. Lulu hisses out a breath, and within seconds I can feel her begin to pulse.
