0758215630 (R) (12 page)

This pull, this thing, with this woman, seemed askew, like a sloping unmarked path. Different. Unknowable. Hell, he didn’t know what it was about or where it came from; all he knew was he liked the feeling as much as he liked the pulsing in his groin, the warmth in his chest, and the intrigue in his head.

With April, all systems were go.

“You know,” he said, his voice sounding low to his own ears, “what’s on my mind, don’t you?”

That little lip twist again, an irritating, beguiling half smile. “No. I don’t have a clue.”

He grinned. “Then maybe I should show you.”

“Try words first. They’re such a challenge for you.”

She was playing him. He liked playing—especially when he had an edge. He slipped his other hand to her shoulder and with her delicate neck between both hands, he stroked her jaw with his thumbs. Her skin was soft and silky from the warmth of the shower. “I, Joseph Jonathan Worth, would very much like to kiss you.”
Then I want to do a hell of a lot more. I want you naked, and doing some of that twisting and snarling you say you don’t do, where we can make the most of it. Because I think you’re a match for me, April Worth. I think you’ll give me as good as you’ll get. Which I’ll make sure is
so good
you’ll never forget it.

She met his gaze, her own curiously thoughtful. “Not that I have anything against kissing,” she said, her tone as low as his. “And I think you and I could be . . . interesting.” She touched his mouth, smoothing three fingers over it with a touch so soft he wondered if he imagined it. “But I’m not going there with you until we talk. Straighten a few things out.”

He tilted his head, slid one hand across her straight shoulder, which luckily for him was bared by one of those skinny strapped things that made a man want to lift that quarter inch of fabric with his little finger and slip it down and over the arm—which he did.

Get it off. Get everything off.

His blood was running too high. And those words she wanted? Not a problem. Small hurdles on a track where the race belonged to the sprinter who jumped the highest. “Okay.” He took a step forward, backed her against the door, and leaned close enough to see her irises darken, smell the woman mystery under the flowery scent of soap, and hear her sharp intake of breath. “Exactly what kind of
things
would you like straightened?”

“Joe, this is not talking.” She narrowed her gaze but didn’t look the least intimidated by having six-feet-three-inches and two-hundred pounds of man in her face. She looked determined—and she was breathing heavy. Which he took for a good sign. A very good sign. He ran a finger along the edge of her top, over the swell of her breasts, one still covered by cotton, the other partially exposed by the dropped strap. Breasts he couldn’t wait to get his hands on—his mouth on.

“You were saying?” His eyes followed his finger, trailing the top of her semi-bared breast, and his ears deadened to anything except the blood pounding in his ears. For a second or two—he was losing it fast now—he watched the rise and fall of her breathing, his erection seeming to pulse and grow in an identical rhythm.

Oh, Jesus
. ..

“For one thing—”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her silent, a first taste, then another, until their mouths knew each other. Until he felt the blood beat in her throat, his own heart slam against his ribs, and the weight and length of him behind his zipper set up clamor enough to draw a goddamn crowd. He groaned against her lips, slid his fingers into her hair, held her mouth to his.

Oh yes . . .

He kissed her again, deeper, then deeper still. Sliding his hands across her shoulders, down her arms, he clasped her narrow waist, then cupped the roundness of her ass. Pulling her rough and flush to the desperate demand between his legs, appeasing it with body against body.

Too many clothes . . .

She gave him her tongue and he took it, sucked, and gave back. No angel kisses now. Just the devil’s own hard need.

She put her arms around his neck, lifted herself on her toes, crushed her breasts against his chest and gave into the kiss fully.

Her mouth was hot heaven and he wanted more.

More.
He swept her mouth, her lower lip with his tongue. Tasted the peppermint flavor of her toothpaste.

More.

He lifted his head, looked into her eyes—as blindly glazed as he was sure his own were—and whispered close to her mouth what his body dictated, “I want you, April. I need you.”

He heard her drag in a rocky breath. “We’re in the hall,” she said and blinked. “We’re still in the damned hallway.”

Laughter came from somewhere behind them. A couple stood at the elevator, the woman had a hand over her mouth. The elevator doors opened and they got in. The guy held the door open long enough to stick his head out, smirk, and say, “Y’all have a nice evening. Hear?” There was more laughter as the doors closed.

“Oh, my God,” April said, her tone a mixture of shock and confusion. “I can’t believe we did that.” She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out the room’s keycard, but her hand was shaking so bad they’d be out here a week before she got them inside. She glanced at the guard down the hall; he snapped the newspaper up to cover his grin.

Joe took the card from her, slid it in and out of the slot, and opened the door. “And I sincerely hope we do it again—real soon.” He closed the door and reached for her.

She evaded him with catlike ease, and held up a hand, palm out. “Down boy. We need to talk.”

Her eyes were wide and kind of gauzy and the flush on her face was hot pink. He liked it, liked what it meant. “We just did that.”

“You call that talk?” She touched her still moist lips.

“Works for me.” He reached for her again.

She eluded him, again, her wide eyes narrowing dangerously.

Shit.
He put his hands in his pockets, and with every nerve, muscle, and sinew in his body readied for sex, he figured it was best to keep them there.

April stood back from him, not breathing too steadily herself, and dropped her eyes to his crotch—his bulging crotch. Her looking at him had him stifle a moan and the bad boy in his jeans consider another hurdle jump.

Her eyes met his then, and she said, “I knew this would happen.”

“Happen? Did something happen?” he looked at his staggering erection. “Maybe somebody should tell Bigfoot down there.”

She smiled, and he could see she was trying not to laugh. “You’re not mad.”

He thought about that. “I would be if I thought what we did back there”—he gestured with his head toward the hall—“failed to qualify as foreplay.” He watched her face. “Did it?”

She thought a moment, moistened her lips with her tongue, and shook her head. “No.”

He nodded. “Round one, then. Do you want a drink?”

“Just some water—and that talk you promised.”

The woman was a pit bull.

Joe headed for the bar, working to cool down as he walked. He wanted to bed this woman so bad his teeth hurt, along with a million other parts of his anatomy, but he knew when to push, and he knew when not to. Although he didn’t much like the idea of that talk she was so keen on. Talk, to a woman, generally meant digging in old hard ground, a lot of work for no return.

On the other hand, if he went along with her, maybe he’d learn a few things. Ever since she’d mentioned the scarred man who’d come by her apartment, he’d wondered if her connection to his mother had played a part in Phyllis’s disappearance. Now was as good a time as any to find out— nothing else currently being on his agenda.

He put his hands palm flat on the granite surface of the bar counter and set about turning the tables. “Fair enough. We’ll talk. But you first.”

She frowned. “Me?”

“You.” He reached for a couple of glasses. “You can start by telling me how you came to be Phyllis Worth’s daughter.”

Chapter 12

April, still trying to rein in her hormones and get back to a semblance of sanity, stared at Joe, who, after laying down the question she hated above all others, had set about clinking ice into tall glasses and pouring water from the large bottle of Evian he’d pulled from the fridge. He was as unhurried and casual as if what had happened between them in the hall took place last week instead of mere moments ago.

She turned her back on him, walked to the window, and stared out at the lights of Fremont Street, her thoughts jumpy and haphazard, like pebbles scattering over glass.

Obviously, Joe Worth rallied fast.

Too bad she couldn’t do the same. She stood like a statue at the window, wanting—the dew between her legs telling her exactly
what
she was wanting—and wondered how things had got so out of hand so fast. She was no shy virgin, but she’d never been sucker punched by a kiss before. Never.

She hugged herself tight.
April, you’d be the biggest fool in the universe if you give more meaning to that kiss than it deserved. Until you know more about Joe.

She took some quiet but very deep breaths, got herself—somewhat—under control, somewhat rational, and reactivated her caution light.

Men liked sex. No secret there. Every woman in every chorus line in Vegas knew that. If April’s three years on the line had taught her anything, it was to not get light-headed because a man wanted you. Like Phylly once said, it didn’t mean you’d won the lottery. From the time she’d come to live with Phylly, she wanted to be like her—she just couldn’t figure out exactly what Phylly was. An angel yes, but for a long time crazy weak-headed when it came to the male half of the population.

By the time April was sixteen, she was spooked by Phylly’s parade of men, her on-again-off-again romances, her romantic highs, lows, and broken dreams. Spooked, too, by Phylly’s constant admonitions to “not do as I do—but do as I say.” Be smart, she’d say and find yourself a nice guy and settle down. Which appeared to be the last thing in the world she herself wanted. But watching Phylly play with men, with sex, looked so emotionally dangerous, she’d taken her advice—and married the first man who’d asked her. She’d pegged Royce as strong, decisive, and ambitious, and she’d been wrong on all counts; he was cold, mean-spirited, and selfish. When she’d finally realized she’d married the last man on earth she wanted to father her children, she’d left—both him and the showgirl life—and went to work for Rusty at Hot and High.

Now, given that her man-for-a-lifetime idea hadn’t worked any better than Phylly’s man-of-the-week system, all she had left was wariness and confusion. Not a good launching pad for a successful male/female relationship.

“Here.” Joe came up beside her and handed her a glass of water.

“Thanks.” She took a deep drink.

“Shoot,” he said, taking a drink himself, and like her, looking down at the lights in the street below, glittering to life as the sun reluctantly gave up center stage.

April turned to face him, studied the determined line of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze, and decided to do something she hadn’t done in a very, very long time—take a leap of faith. She would trust Joe Worth—at least partly. Maybe because he was his mother’s son, or maybe because she needed to trust someone, and he was handy. Or maybe because he was simply Joe, a man she’d come to like, more than she’d planned to. Still, she didn’t meet his eyes when she started her sordid little story. “Your mother rescued me from a pedophile when I was nine years old.”

His gaze filled with sick shock then questions. After a short silence, taken, she expected, while he attempted to digest the indigestible, he said, “Other than telling you the idea of you . . . of
that
makes my stomach turn, I don’t know what to say.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” She kept her gaze on the glittering, pulsing lights outside, the effect pleasingly hypnotic. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick with the abridged version.” She glanced at him. “The only reason I’m telling you this is because I want you to see another side of your mother.”

He studied her a moment, then nodded.

She went on, “I was being held in a house in Seattle. When Phylly figured out what was going on—”

“What was she doing there?”

His question caught her off guard. “I don’t know,” she lied—or edited. She wasn’t sure which. But she was sure that Joe didn’t need to know everything, that parts of her story—and Phylly’s—were best left in the past where they belonged.

Don’t say his name. Ever.
Phylly’s rule.

She realized she’d stopped talking, while Joe stood, still as marble, waiting for her to go on.

“Some people came to the house one night. Phylly was with them. I heard music. I suppose, like a lot of . . . those people, he—“

“He? Who exactly?”

“Let’s stick with pronouns, okay. Like I was saying, this guy,
he
led a second life, something close to normal—at least on the surface of things.” She shot him a glance. “All I know is your mother got me out of there, and I’ll never forget it.”
Middle of the night. Out the basement window. Running wildly down the street. Winter. Dogs barking. No socks. Scared. . . Cold. So cold. The red light of a taxi. Finally a taxi.
“We just ran. She didn’t look back and neither did I.”

The way he was looking at her, she thought maybe he hadn’t bought into her claim of not knowing why Phyllis was in the house that night, that he was going to ask for a better explanation; he didn’t. “What you told me, sounds like the abridged beginning of Part Two—the you and Phyllis part. How about Part One? How did you come to be in that house in the first place?”

“It’s ugly.” Everything inside her tightened, twisted.

“It doesn’t get much uglier than what you just told me.” His silver eyes were quiet and watchful, telling her she couldn’t stop now.

Oh, yes it does.
She swallowed, searched her mind for a starting point. “For a few years my brother and I—”

“You have a brother?”

“
Had
a brother.” His interruption rattled her, set her off course. She loved/hated thinking about Gus, but talking about him, about what happened, was new to her. Scary. She’d left it all behind for so many years.