Burning Up (11 page)

Well, she’d attempted to play nice with Liz, and it hadn’t gotten her anywhere. She wasn’t wasting her breath here. “Hey there, Twilight.”

“It’s Dawn!”

“Oh. Sorry. You’re looking perky as ever. Let me guess. Reunion committee chair, am I right?”

The other woman’s chin shot up. “Second chair.”

A snort escaped her. “Not a joint position, huh?” She waved an indolent hand. “But what was I thinking? Like Liz would ever share top billing.”

She saw resentment flash across Dawn’s face for
both the truth of her statement and the fact that Macy would say it aloud where others might hear. “
You
are not invited,” the other woman said coldly.

“To the reunion?” As if she had some huge burning desire to attend
that
to be vilified for three or four hours straight. Still, who elected Dawn the reunion monitor? And apparently she was no more capable now of turning the other cheek than she’d been in her Sugarville High days. “So the ten-year reunion is just for your friends, huh?” She gave the other woman a crooked smile. “Small party.”

The two young women at the table next to them laughed, and one leaned back in her chair to look at her. “You can come to ours.”

She grinned at them. “Why, thank you. I just might take you up on that.”

Janna raised her eyebrows. “You rescinding my invitation, too, Dawn?”

The other woman blinked but then shook her head, looking as if she wondered where Liz was when she needed her. “Um, no. You can come.”

“Well, lucky, lucky, me.”

Dawn nodded. “
You
didn’t ruin three guys’ lives.”

Eyes narrowed, Janna shot upright in her chair. “
Listen,
you—”

Macy gripped her cousin’s arm to hold her in place and leaned down until Janna met her gaze. “Let it go,” she said quietly. “That, at least, makes more
sense than riding me about so-called sexual exploits from ten freaking years ago.”

“
Neither
thing makes sense,” Janna said fiercely, then turned to give Andrew and Company the stink-eye. “Time for you to scoot along, Mayfield.”

“Yes,” Shannon agreed. “You really could use a course at the Thumper School of Charm. If you can’t say anything nice, then why don’t you go find your own table where you can slam each other to your heart’s content?”

“Stay out of this, Chunketta,” Andrew snarled. “It isn’t your fight.”

“No,
you
stay out of it!” Grace surged to her feet. She swayed slightly, but bracing her hand on the tabletop she faced Mayfield like a fierce little cat. “What are you, twelve? Boy, Macy was right—you are still stuck in high school. But I’d like to know where you get off insulting my friends like that. We were sitting here minding our own business—nobody invited you to come over here and start acting like a braying ass. Your father must be so proud. In fact, forget twelve—that’s an insult to that age group. My gawd, I know nine-year-olds better-mannered than you.”

“Is there a problem here?”

Grace collapsed back into her seat as if she’d had her legs chopped out from under her, and Macy looked past Andrew’s group to Johnny Angelini. She didn’t respond, and neither did her friends. They
all merely raised their collective brows at the Idiot Brigade.

“No,” Andrew muttered, his cheeks flushed. “No problem. We were just leaving.” And he turned and walked away, his posse trailing behind him.

Johnny remained where he was, looking down at them inquiringly. Maybe that was the reason Macy jumped when she heard Jack’s voice say, “What the bloody hell was that all about, luv?”

But the shock factor of seeing her friend with the deputy was nothing to the way her heart started to hammer when Gabe strode up, a pitcher in one big fist, the handles of three mugs clutched in the other. He thumped his load down on the table, threw a long leg over the chair next to hers and dropped down, one muscular thigh wedged against her seat.

“Excellent question,” he said. “What the hell kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”

R
AISED MALE VOICES
in the pool room shouted in victory at the same time that Gabe heard an indignant “Hey!” at his own table.

Pulling his attention from Macy, he looked past her to see Janna leaning forward to glare at him.

“Don’t put this on Macy,” she snapped. “I’m tired of everyone automatically assuming she’s to blame for every little thing that happens around here.”

“Yeah, because trouble sure as hell doesn’t follow her,” he agreed with amiable sarcasm.

“Were you here, Gabe?” Grace demanded, and he looked across the table to find her regarding him without her usual warmth—which up until this moment not even his gently breaking up with her had managed to chill. She’d been so sweetly understanding, which was more than he’d deserved and for which he was eternally grateful.

Yet there was something funny about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then he snapped upright. Jesus. Was she trashed?

Guilt hammered him. Only…

If she
was
loaded, and it was due to him calling
their relationship quits, she wasn’t letting it slow her down any.

“We were minding our business, having a nice girls’ night,” she said in her I-mean-business teacher’s voice, “when that buffoon strolled up with his gaggle of goons and started acting like a jackass, accusing Macy of absurd sexual doings and calling Shannon a rude name.”

Say what?
A muscle ticked in his jaw. No one accused Macy of absurd sexual doings—except maybe him. He did wonder, though, what constituted absurd.

“But Gracie here gave him a come-to-Jesus talk,” Macy said, shooting the brunette an affectionate smile. “You’re way more action figure than you give yourself credit for, girlfriend.”

Gabe didn’t know what the hell that was supposed to mean, but he watched it paint Grace’s cheeks pink with pleasure.

“You think so?” she demanded with patent delight.

“Definitely,” Macy said, and Janna and Shannon chimed in their agreement

“Oh, my. If that’s not just one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me—” Still smiling her enjoyment, she turned her attention back to him. “But as Janna said, Gabe, don’t put this on Macy.” She regarded him with big eyes that weren’t fully focused. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Beats the hell out of me.
One minute he’d been
sitting around shooting the breeze with Johnny and the next thing he knew he was here, sitting next to Macy, way too aware of her scent, which was heady like musk and citrusy like oranges.

At least he was spared having to limp out an explanation. Jack grabbed a chair from another table and plunked it down next to Grace. Propping his elbow on the table, he braced his head in his hand and flashed her his rock-star smile.

“I got tired of my own company and found Gabe and the Garda here on Miz Watson’s front porch, knockin’ back lemonade. When I discovered you birds were out having all the fun, I talked them into accompanying me on a—what did you call it, mate?”

“A reconnaissance mission,” Johnny supplied with an unapologetic grin as he wedged his own chair between Macy’s and Janna’s. “None of us have ever been on a girls’ night before.”

“Do you suppose that could be because it’s—hel-lo!—
girls’
night?” Janna demanded.

“That might explain it. All the same, we were curious, y’know? But not without apprehension. I mean—” he waved a hand at the three women “—all chicks, no guys. What if we get caught in the crosshairs when you decide all men are scum?”

“Oh, trust me, deputy, that was discussed and decided years ago.”

Gabe’s attention wandered from the conversation, his gaze drawn to Macy’s hair or wig or whatever the
hell it was. The thing was
blue,
for God’s sake, and should have made her look ridiculous. Instead she looked edgy and exotic. Eye-catching.

Compelling.

Still, it bugged him, and he leaned into her space. “Blue?” he demanded, staring into her darkly made-up eyes. “What’s with you and the costumes? You’re a pretty woman—”

“Pretty is boring,” she said.

He blinked. “No, it’s not. Pretty’s…appealing. Nice.”

She yawned in his face and, scowling, he leaned closer. “Why are you so compelled to play dress-up all the time?”

Because it’s armor when the assholes are trying to drag me down.
But Macy couldn’t say that aloud. So she simply gave him an insouciant smile. “Because it’s fun.”

“Not to mention she looks cute in costume,” Jack added from across the table.

She gave him a crooked smile. “Yes, not to mention that.” But it was as though the pull of the large man at her side was the moon and she was the damn tide. She had a near irresistible urge to turn back to him, to get in his face and make him feel as on edge as he made her. Instead, she casually leaned back in her chair and looked around until she got the waitress’s attention. Once she had it, she flashed the woman a sunny smile.

“Another round here, please?”

G
RACE WAS HIGHLY
conscious of Jack Savage at her side. Not that her awareness was a big surprise. Not only was the man hot and a celebrity, he wasn’t the least bit shy about checking her out.

She knew darn well how she stacked up against his usual
Playboy
Bunny types. It didn’t prevent a shiver from snaking down her spine when he suddenly leaned closer and murmured, “Lace or sheer?”

Politely, she turned to face him. “I’m sorry?”

“Your knickers, luv. I was just wondering if they were lace or sheer?” He looked at her as if he had X-ray eyes. “My guess would be lace.”

Certain she was going to stutter and not be able to stop, she was proud to instead manage a haughty, “You’d be wrong.”
They’re sheer.
“This conversation is so inappropriate I don’t even know where to begin.” Exciting, though. It was exhilarating not be treated like a lady for a change. “My underwear is certainly none of your business. But I’ll satisfy your curiosity just this once. They’re cotton. White. To the knee.”

He laughed, and she had to turn away, because he made her feel so, God, just so…
So.

Either people didn’t ignore him, however, or he wasn’t one to take a hint. He leaned right back into her space and breathed, “It’s like a verbal wall-bang, isn’t it?”

The spot deep between her legs clenched and she nearly gave herself whiplash turning her head to stare at him once again.
“What?”

He indicated Gabe and Macy with a thrust of his
chin. “I can’t hear the specifics over the eejits in the back room, but if that conversation between Donovan and my friend Mace isn’t a verbal eff, I don’t know what is.”

She knew her jaw was agape, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. She didn’t even glance at the subjects of this bizarre conversation, but simply stared at Jack. “You’re certifiable.”

“No, lass. I’ve seen it when a man gets that look.” He reached out and hooked a strand of her hair behind her ear and goose bumps cropped up from the point of contact clear down to her ankles. “I imagine I get the same one when I look at you.”

“Now I know you’re punking me!” Angry that he assumed he could just mock her with impunity, she turned away once again, leaning into the table to compliment Janna on what a nice, bright kid Tyler was. But her ire rose all the while—this time directed at herself. Because she suspected Jack had every reason to believe he could get away with toying with her. If she didn’t call him on his bull she was pretty much giving him permission to persist.

Equally as galling was that Savage was right about the other stuff, too. The tournament or whatever was going on in the poolroom did make conversation iffy unless you were right next to the person with whom you were attempting it. And looking at Gabe and Macy, she had to admit he might have a point about them as well, damn him.

From the little she could hear, it sounded as though
they were trading their usual slings. But Gabe’s posture defined sexual awareness as he leaned in, towering over the blue-haired bombshell. And although Macy didn’t look as intense—she lounged in her chair with her usual insouciance—Grace couldn’t help but notice, even in this dim lighting, that her cheeks were stained with color.

She felt as if she should be a little indignant—but she just couldn’t work up the steam. She and Gabe simply had better-friend-than-lover chemistry. And wasn’t
that
the sorry story of her life.

Grace reached for her wine, only to murmur a swear word most people wouldn’t dream she even knew when her hand encountered the Perrier.
Picked a helluva time to go back to your boring, sober ways,
she thought sourly, even as she wondered about Gabe. Had he ever looked at her that way? And if he had, how had she failed to notice?

Feeling Jack’s rough-tipped fingers brush her nape, she jumped, twisting toward him. She might be cursed with nice-girl manners, but the knowing slant of his mouth, that barbell piercing his flesh just beneath the curve of his eyebrow and his heavy-lidded eyes watching her as if she were a timid mouse to his swaggering cat made something inside her snap.

She swatted his fingers away. “You think you can just make fun of me and I’ll sit here and take it? Think again, Savage. I don’t care if you are some hotshot rock star—I’m not nearly as mealy-mouthed as you seem to think I am—”
occasionally,
anyway
“—and darned if I’ll sit here listening to you ridicule me!”

He had the gall to shoot her a lopsided smile that displayed white, slightly crooked teeth. “Ooh, there’s a temper under that mild-mannered exterior. I
like
it when you get all feisty—it makes me wonder what else I’d get if I scratched that silky surface. Although, just for the record, I’m not—”

“Excuse me,” a female voice interrupted. “But aren’t you—”

Breaking eye contact, Grace looked up and could practically
feel
her heart plunge. The young woman staring down at Jack was everything she was not. Now
that
was
Playboy
material, what with the woman’s bottled red maximum-volume hair and shrink-wrap minimal clothing. A hummingbird tattoo rode the generous swell of the other female’s cleavage just above her low-cut neckline.

“Omigawd,” the redhead breathed reverently. “It
is
you. Can I have your autograph?”

“Sure thing, luv,” Jack agreed amiably. “Got a piece of paper?”

“No, but here.” Handing him a pen, she leaned forward, running scarlet-tipped fingernails along the edge of her top before tugging it farther down her breast. “Sign this.”

Grace pushed back from the table.

Jack said her name and reached for her wrist, but she whipped it out of range and dodged between the tightly packed tables, just wanting to get away.

Once she’d put enough distance between herself and Jack, however, she hesitated, unsure where to go. She could head for the Ladies’ but that was bound to be packed with women gossiping and freshening makeup. Shannon had driven, which was just as well, since she was probably in no condition to climb behind the wheel, anyhow. That’s all she’d need to round out her night—to end up in a jail cell for driving under the influence.

“Crap,” she whispered and made her way to the front entrance, where she let herself out.

The noise level decreased dramatically as the Red Dog’s front door closed behind her. The night air had cooled a good twenty degrees from the day’s high eighties, and she picked her way across the crowded blacktop, weaving between tightly packed pickup trucks, American-made sedans and the occasional foreign car to the edge of the lot. It was dark and quiet and she wrapped her arms around herself, leaned against the trunk of a misshapen alder tree and stared out at the stars and a neon slice of moon.

She didn’t know how long she stood there. Occasionally she’d hear laughter and music as the bar door opened, but then it would fade as it closed again, until the only sound left was the crickets in the wheat fields stretching out behind the Red Dog.

The soft slide of a shoe whispered against the blacktop behind her, and she whirled, thinking that seeking out the darkest, most isolated section of the
lot maybe wasn’t the brightest move she could have made.

But it wasn’t some drunk looking to relieve himself or the Mad Rapist. It was Jack.

Which, come to think, wasn’t a huge improvement. She pressed her back harder against the tree trunk.

He walked straight up to her, not stopping until he was less than a foot away. Gripping an overhead branch with both hands, he considered her, his usual easy smile missing.

“I only meant to tease you, Grace. Nothing I said was intended to mock or ridicule you.” The densely patterned tattoos on his right arm were briefly illuminated in the meager moonlight as he lowered his hand as if to touch her. But if that was his intention, he changed his mind, for he reached back up to grip the branch again.

She blew out a sigh, because, really, this guy was so far out of her sphere it was just stupid to get all bent out of shape over not being
Playboy
material in a world where tens of thousands of women were. “You don’t have to try to make me feel better,” she said without heat. “I get that I’m not your type.”

“Do you, now? And what would my type be?”

“Girls who yank down their tops so you can autograph their boobs.”

“Are you daft?” Pushing off the branch, he took a step back, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. “Birds like that are a dime a dozen—there ain’t feck-all unique about ’em. I wasn’t kidding when I said I
go for you Peter Pan–collar girls. Women with conversation to them, not just a set of tits on display.”

A little throb pulsed deep inside and being a half glass of wine less circumspect than usual she said, “Congratulations. You have the distinction of being the only man to have ever said ‘tits’ to me.”

“I’m sorr—” Looking at her, he cut himself off. And gave her a crooked smile. “You like it.”

She raised her chin. “I do not.”

“Yeah, you do. I’m thinking blokes treat you like Royal Tara fine bone and maybe you’re a little tired of it.”