Drop Dead Gorgeous (10 page)

But T. Larry was on a mission, and nothing was going to stop him from completing his thought. “James thanked me for taking care of your tires.”

She yanked his arm. “You promised you wouldn't tell.”

He yanked her forward. “I didn't tell. He knew. I think it was your tow truck pal.”

“That rat. See if I ever bake him double-dipped chocolate fudge cookies again.”

“All you did was bake him cookies?”

That earned him a narrow-eyed glare. “How else did you think I got my new tires?”

He raised a brow.

“You dirty rat.” She punched his arm.

“I thought
he
was the rat.”

“You're both part of the same rat colony.”

Ahead, tiny outdoor Christmas lights glowed, lighting the way up her stairs. She left them on all the time. Amazing how long those things lasted.

It didn't bother her that T. Larry thought she might sleep her way to the things she wanted. She probably would. If the thing was important enough. It was just that nothing ever had been.

What about falling in love? And being loved in return. Seemed to Madison you
couldn't
sleep your way into that.

“I wasn't finished telling you what your brother said.”

“Well, go on, seeing that you're dying to tell me.”

“He wanted to make sure we weren't sleeping together.”

She stifled a giggle. She and T. Larry?

“But if we were, he wanted to be sure I used a condom.”

She laughed aloud. “Where does James come up with this?”

“And then he offered me two he had in his pocket, just in case I wasn't prepared for tonight.”

She screamed. Not loudly, just vehemently. “What was James doing with condoms in his pocket?”

“What the hell was he doing offering them to me? And I thought your brothers were overprotective.”

“They are. Sex just isn't one of the things they feel the need to protect me from.”

They'd reached her apartment. She went up on one step. His hand slid down to her arm to capture her fingers.

She looked at her hand in his, the long, blunt fingers of a big, masculine hand. “Did you tell him you wouldn't dream of sleeping with me in, oh, say, this millennium?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I didn't tell him that.”

“Did you take the condoms?”

“No.” He shook his head again. “I didn't do that, either.”

Madison, who was never at a loss for words, was…at a loss for the
right
words. “Do you want to come up for coffee?”

“Yes.”

Her head blocked the light so she could see his eyes clearly through his glasses. What was written in them wasn't quite so clear. But her heart began to beat just a little faster, and she felt hot all over.
All
over. She must have had too much sun.

“I've got regular coffee or decaf. Or I can make a mocha. Or a cappuccino. Or—”

His eyes smoked. “I'll take whatever you're offering.”

That didn't mean what it sounded like it meant. Did it? Her body, right down to her toes, tingled.

“Espresso.” She turned and practically ran the rest of the way up the stairs, glancing over her shoulder to find him staring at her bare legs. Her bad hand shook more than usual, and her breath came in little pants by the time she got to the top.

Flowers blossomed on the landing. Daisies and carnations and blooms she didn't know the name of dripped from a vase set by the door. The stems were a tad wilted and the petals browned around the edges as if they'd sat in the afternoon sun. A card peeked from the leaves.

T. Larry breathed down her neck.

Why was he standing so close all of a sudden, all day and yesterday, as well, in fact? T. Larry didn't like his space invaded. He didn't like invading others' space, either. Unless he felt the need to intimidate. Which sometimes, as the boss, he did.

“Who are they from?”

She grabbed the card and turned so he couldn't read over her shoulder, her arm brushing the cloth of his shirt.

“Dick?”

“Richard.” He'd signed with a red heart, nothing more, but she knew it was him. Oh, how romantic and sweet.

“Too cheap to buy you roses?” T. Larry's brows knit over the rim of his glasses.

She hugged the card to her breast and stared at the beautiful, if faded, spray. “I don't need roses.”

“You deserve roses.”

She cocked her head. “Do serial killers send flowers?”

She thought she saw one corner of his mouth lift in a hint of a smile that vanished before she could be sure.

“Yes. They send something exactly like that.” He pointed at the vase. “Decayed around the edges. Serial killers are masters of symbolism. Should I throw them out for you?” He looked over the banister to the Dumpster at the end of the alley.

“Don't you touch them.” She bent to gather the bouquet in her arms, a draft sneaking up her skirt.

“Are you wearing underwear?”

She slapped a hand beneath her bottom, almost dropping the vase. This time, she found him smiling.

“Were you looking?”

“Is that a no?”

T. Larry flustered her. The queen of shock, she hadn't been flustered since she'd recovered from her stroke at fifteen. But T. Larry had discovered the knack somewhere.

She fumbled her keys near the lock. He took them out of her hand, crowded her against the wood and unlocked the door for her.

He
was
trying to intimidate her. But why?

Both her hands shook now. If she had espresso at this time of night, she'd turn into a jumping bean. “How about some Baileys Irish Cream instead?”

“Whatever you want, Madison.”

He watched her with smoky gray eyes. Her throat went dry. Whatever was wrong with her? She thought about those eyes. She thought about drinking Baileys from small snifters, about the taste on her tongue, about the feel of it in her blood. “No, I think we'll stick with the espresso.”

“As I said, it's all up to you, Madison.”

Oh goodness.

Flipping on a light, she eyed the room, the sofa no bigger than a love seat, filled with a jumble of stuffed animals her mother knit to sell at the church bazaar—a pink pig, the Cowardly Lion, a white rabbit. And the mess of magazines, newspapers and yesterday's blouse covering the top of her coffee table.

She'd forgotten the state the apartment was in. Panty hose peeked from beneath the chair she'd sat in last night to peel them off. Her high heels tipped over by the leg of that same chair. At least he hadn't seen her kitchen yet. She really had meant to wash those dishes.

She heard his voice and smelled his frosting first, and when she looked up, he was a hairbreadth from her face. She looked at him cross-eyed.

“Do you want me to help clean up?” Miraculously, the panty hose dangled from his fingers.

She grabbed and stuffed them beneath a cushion, then fanned herself with her hand. “Gosh, the place hasn't cooled down.”

With a dash, she opened the front window, then pulled the filmy curtain closed. A soft breeze blew the lace in and out. Once again, T. Larry was right there when she turned around.

She backed away, her buns pressed to the windowsill. She wasn't nervous. She didn't know what she was. Besides overheated. Or embarrassed.

Embarrassed? Nothing she'd ever said or done around T. Larry embarrassed her before. So what was this feeling?

She had a plan for T. Larry. All she had to do was stick to it and the strange tingling would go away. What was the plan?
Come on, Madison.
Oh yeah, a wife. What about BeeBee Barton, her best friend in the whole world? Of course, BeeBee. She was wonderful. Madison bit her lip. Not BeeBee. She didn't analyze that uncomfortable prickle that couldn't possibly be jealousy.

Who then? “I know the perfect woman for you. I've been thinking about it all the way home.”

“And?” His voice was suspiciously low, deceptively calm.

“Barbie Doll.”

Deadpan, he answered, “She's made of plastic.”

“Not
that
Barbie Doll. This one is a friend of mine. Who was unfortunate enough to be born to parents with the last name of Doll. And they thought it would be such fun to name her Barbie. But she's completely done with therapy now, and she doesn't hold an ounce of anger toward them, and she'd be perfect for you.”

He was a step closer, though she hadn't seen him move. “You're babbling.”

“No, I'm not. I'm explaining quickly so you don't have time to shoot down my idea.”

“It was shot down before it even went up. I'm not dating someone named Barbie Doll.”

“You can't hold her name against her. It wasn't her choice.”

“Does she look like a Barbie Doll?”

“Which one? The new version or the sixties version?”

He closed in, giving her heart palpitations. “Aren't they all impossibly large breasted, thin waisted, and perfect hipped?” he said, his gaze traveling to each of the mentioned parts of her body.

Her voice squeaked on the first syllable. “Yes.”

“Not interested.”

“You answered too fast.”

He put a hand to his chin, pursed his lips and tilted his head this way, then that. “After careful consideration, I've decided I'm not interested.”

“But T. Larry—”

“Shh.”

“You should give her—”

He put a finger to her lips “—I said—” and raised a brow “—shh.”

No finger was going to stop her saying something this important. “But—”

He clamped his hand over her mouth, pinned her there with his other hand on the nape of her neck. “Don't you ever be quiet?”

Not if she could help it. And then she became aware of the fact that somehow, in the process of shutting her up, he'd managed to plaster his body the length of hers, front to front, chest to breasts, thighs to thighs, and everything in between. Everything.

Oh my God.

She opened her mouth and licked his palm. Salty. Sort of delicious actually.

He jumped back, let go of her imprisoned lips and cradled his hand as if she'd thrown acid on it.

“What did you do that for?”

“So you'd let me finish what I was saying.”

“Not on your life.”

She put a hand to her mouth. “Did you smudge my lipstick?”

“You lost it with the potato salad.”

He'd been watching? “Why didn't you tell me? How awful to be walking around without lipstick. It's unwomanly. It's—”

This time he used his mouth on her. Madison shut up. He tasted of the chocolate cream mousse her mother made for dessert and smelled of Thomas's cupcake. Sugar and spice and everything nice. That was little girls. T. Larry was all man. His hands dropped from the back of her head to her waist, pulling her against him.

Oh my God. T. Larry wanted her. Impossible. Incredible. Irresistible.

She went up on her tiptoes and wound her arms around his neck. Her nose bumped his glasses. He didn't stop kissing her, touched his tongue to hers and then he was inside. Oh my. His shoulders were muscled from that daily workout—thank God for T. Larry's routines—his chest hard against her breasts. He was hard everywhere. Really hard. Goodness. She eased back a fraction, rubbed lightly against him. T. Larry groaned and deepened the kiss, an arm across her back, fingers in her hair.

The phone rang.

She pushed at his shoulders.

“Don't answer it.” He didn't allow an inch between them.

“It'll be my brother checking to see I got home.”

He brushed his lips across hers. “James wouldn't be calling at a time like this.”

“Oh.” Yes, they'd already covered the condom issue. “One of the others then.” It rang a third time. “They'll wonder what I'm doing.”

“Christ.” He stepped back, running a hand over his head. “I'm wondering the same thing. Answer it.”

She caught it just before the machine picked up. “Hello.”

Nothing. She hadn't gotten it in time. No. There was the slight sound of breathing. “Hello?”

Someone was breathing in her ear. And something else. A faint buzz, then what sounded like a dog barking. Definitely, a dog. Someone on a cell phone. “Hello?”

“Who is it?”

She gave T. Larry a that-is-the-dumbest-question look.

“Hang up if you don't know who it is.”