Heiress for Hire (25 page)

The project that the week before she had so confidently embarked upon now seemed like a dissertation on Amanda Delmar's ignorance.

Pour, roll, paint. What could be so hard about that?

Everything, apparently. The problem with paint was that it got goddamn everywhere. The floor, the woodwork, the ceiling, her arms, and her Betty and Veronica T-shirt. Oh, yeah, and the wall when she got lucky.

But then it didn't coat evenly. The walls were so dull and dingy that the white went over it in streaky little uneven patches, and she could see the roller marks. And hello, a roller loaded with paint was really freaking heavy. Her shoulder was killing her, which meant she now had two bum shoulders, since the left one was still healing from her close brush with Bird of Prey three days earlier.

Piper had gotten bored with the whole thing about six hours earlier and had been playing in Danny's room. Then Willie had come by with lunch for them and had taken Piper into the yard to play on her swing set. Amanda realized that she probably should give up the fight, fling the roller out the window, and watch Piper like she was being paid to do. But Danny wanted her to housekeep, too, and he had agreed to her redecorating plans.

Besides, she could not fail. Painting this room was some kind of a metaphor for her life, and she was going to succeed, damn it. Even if it killed her or ruined her clothes.

Setting the roller back in the pan, she stood back and surveyed the room. Two walls down, two to go. For the first coat. Clearly after it dried, she was going to have to do it again.

Whoopee.

"This is for the happiness of a small child," she reminded herself as she scratched her nose with the back of her arm.

Her cell phone rang, and she went to the dresser and picked it up, grateful for the distraction.

"Hello?"

"This is me, who are you?"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Stuart, this is Amanda. You called me."

"Oh, shit, I did, didn't I?" Stuart took a sip of something, the liquid slurping sound right next to her ear. "I got the kid's sketch you sent, and he's raw, but the talent is there. Get him in art school, and in about five years we'll talk."

"Cool. I'll see what I can do." Amanda actually thought Brady would fit better in art school than roaming around Cuttersville.

"But listen, that's not why I'm calling. I have a job for you. Can you be here in two days?"

Amanda stared blankly at the streaky bedroom wall. "No, I can't be there in two days. I have to stay here until Piper starts school."

There was a long silence. "You're fucking kidding me. You're going to pass up a chance to spend six weeks in Europe on a buying trip with me so you can baby-sit? Cherie, you have lost your mind."

The idea of a trip like that should have her hopping around the room with excitement. But the thought of traveling with Stuart, martini lunches, late nights… felt a little flat. And she had made a commitment. She had to keep it. That little girl was counting on her.

"I can't, Stuart, okay? Piper is emotionally vulnerable. I said I'd stay, and I'm going to."

"The father has a big dick, doesn't he?"

The comment was so unexpected she started laughing. "Stop it! I have no idea." Though that wasn't entirely true. It had bumped up against her in the chicken coop, and Danny was no petit garcon. "It's always about dicks with you, isn't it?"

"You know it, sweetie. Alright, well, never say Stuart didn't try and make you happy."

"Thank you, Stuart, I do appreciate it, I just can't this time." And she wasn't sorry, either. She didn't want to go to New York yet. She just wasn't ready to leave.

"Au revoir."

"Bye, handsome." Amanda set down her phone and reached for the roller.

Then she spotted her shorts.

"Shit! Damn!" She had a big paint blob on her denim shorts. With a rag that was already speckled with white, she scrubbed the spot off and threw the towel down on some newspaper. "That's it."

The shorts had to go. She could not afford to be replacing her clothes every other day. First her Juicy dress done in by dirt, now her shorts almost ruined. She stripped them off and threw them into the hallway. Her bra and panties were white as was her

T-shirt, so even if she did slather paint all over them, you wouldn't be able to see it.

Not that anyone saw her panties anyway.

The T-shirt followed the shorts. Mrs. Tucker would think she was nuts, but they were all women here, and what she was wearing wasn't any different from a bathing suit.

She'd just be sure to put her clothes back on before Danny got home. No problemo. Neither one of them needed any further temptations. He had avoided her since the other night when she had blurted out all her pathetic feelings about her father, and she was glad he'd been scarce. Danny was dangerous. He made her feel things she couldn't afford to feel if she wanted to retain some kind of dignity.

He made her want things she couldn't have.

He made her daydream that she could be a wife and a mother, and actually be good at it.

He made her think she could have a career if she wanted, be respected.

He made her think she could have it all, and that was oh, so dangerous.

It was better this way, to avoid each other and stay reserved.

Amanda bent over to pick up the roller.

"Holy shit…" Danny's strangled oath filled the room. "What the hell are you doing?"

She jerked upright, splattering paint from the roller on the newspaper she'd spread out. And on her leg. "Ummm, I'm painting." Damn, her panties had nudged up into her rear, she could feel them. Trying for nonchalance, she turned around and gave Danny a brilliant smile.

"In your underwear?" he asked in outrage, his voice unnaturally high.

His cheeks were ruddy, and his fists clenched tight. And he had an erection. Not that she'd looked for it or anything. But it kind of jumped out at her.

"Well, I didn't want to ruin my clothes with paint splatters."

"But you're willing to sacrifice your underwear?"

"They're white." And cotton. Plain Jane practical underwear, so it wasn't a big deal. Too bad she suddenly felt naked. "If I drop paint on them, it won't matter because it's white, too."

He rubbed his jaw, his eyes locked on her face like he was afraid to look down. "Princess. Paint doesn't wash off. It just dries on your clothes."

"Duh. That's the whole point." And her arm was getting tired, so she turned toward the wall and started going up and down.

"But sweetie, when it dries, it gets hard. Little, hard, unbendable patches of paint are not going to be comfortable on your bra."

"Oh." Cool white droplets rained over her arm as she rolled and contemplated a crusty bra. "Well, it seemed like a good idea in theory."

He didn't say anything, and she was hoping he wouldn't. Just keep it closed, Tucker. She already felt like an idiot, and she was also feeling a little flushed. Not from the heat of the small room, but from that bulge in his jeans.

A big masculine hand clamped around her wrist. She was so startled she almost dropped the roller. "Why are you on top of me? You keep doing that, and I have to tell you, it's getting old."

Danny didn't move away. Oh, no. That's not what he did. He yanked the roller out of her hand and let it hit the newspaper with a crisp thwack. Then he took her arms and very gently turned her around.

Problem. He was a hairbreadth away from her. Conjoined twins had more space between them.

"This isn't on top of you," he said, his voice husky and tight. "But tonight I can show you on top of you."

Well.

"I'm going to give you a quick Painting 101 lesson. Then I'm going to finish my work for the day. Then tonight after dinner I'm going to encourage Piper to eat dessert at my parents' house unless you tell me no."

Before she could think, answer, swear, beg, he moved his hands to the small of her back, leaned forward, and kissed her.

Disco music exploded in her head. Boogie nights, baby. Danny was both gentle and urgent, considerate and aggressive. He was taking her mouth, working it over, licking and sliding and sucking his way deeper and deeper inside her while she gripped the belt loops of his jeans and clung.

He pulled back, leaving her lips wet and lonely. "Tell me no, Amanda. Tell me we can't do this tonight."

She sucked in a breath, trying to reassure herself that her lungs knew what they were doing and she wasn't suffocating, no matter that it felt like she was.

How could he ask her to do that? How could he expect her to be the rational one? She was in her freaking underwear, and his erection was jammed right between her thighs.

There was no remembering her own name right now, let alone why they weren't supposed to have incredible sex and live happily ever after until the next morning.

When she didn't answer, he did it again. Kissed her. With lots of tongue.

That wet collision had her panting and burning and extremely aware that the crotch of her panties were being compromised. She was damp with arousal and shocked at how easily that had happened. It wasn't like she normally needed a tube of KY Jelly or anything, but it took more than a kiss.

Usually.

Not the case today.

But he felt so good, so hard, so real, so caring, and his callused hands had left her bare back and were playing with the waistband of her panties. Flip down, roll up, flip down, roll up, until she wanted to scream.

"Tell me no, Amanda. Tell me we can't." Danny knew he wasn't being fair to Amanda. She kept telling him no, over and over, and he kept asking. He knew she was attracted to him sexually, knew that eventually she would say yes if he kept harassing her about it, and that he should let it go. Do the right thing.

But fucking-damn, it was hard. Too hard. He couldn't do it.

She was in her underwear.

Looking hotter than hell. Looking long and lean and firm, bronzed and beautiful. Looking like all she needed was a spritz of oil all over her and she could be on the cover of Maxim. Her panties couldn't be serving any other purpose than ensuring her shorts could zip, because they only covered the absolute essentials. She had small, firm breasts, and her bra was shoving them up and out of the half-moon cotton cup.

He was helpless. He was hopeless. He was a quivering blob of ball-busting lust.

Lips on hers, kissing, biting, hands sinking inside the back of her panties, stroking, stroking. His throbbing cock pressing, pressing, while he tried to think rational thoughts.

"Yes," she said in a whoosh of hot air. "Yes, yes, damn it all to hell and back, yes."

He swore his knees went weak with gratitude. "Are you sure?" he asked like a dumb ass.

"Oh, yeah. I'm as sure as sure can get. But if you want, I'll put it in writing." And she nipped his bottom lip.

"Not necessary," he panted, giving her another quick kiss. That turned into another. And another.

While the kisses grew hotter and longer, his fingers somehow managed to stroll to the front of her panties. He cupped her, felt her heat against his hand, while she jerked an inch back and looked at him with glazed eyes.

For a split second he thought they could finish this right then and there. He could just undo his jeans, pull her panties aside, lean against the unpainted wall and be there together in about sixty seconds.