Hot & Bothered (9 page)

It didn't exactly thrill her that her first reaction was a sheer, fierce pleasure in knowing he'd been as affected as she. But she'd put sex behind her over the years, had assured herself that she was beyond all that—at least for the time being. The few times she'd actually stopped and thought about it long enough to realize she didn't even particularly miss it, she'd simply assumed it was because she was too busy with motherhood and making a living. Somewhere in the back of her mind, though, she'd always believed she'd one day introduce it back into her life. Only she never had, and it horrified her to realize now that the reason she'd rarely been tempted by the men she'd dated was because none of them had been
him.

Considering she had serious doubts he'd been similarly celibate, his admitting she'd left an impression seemed the
least
he could do.

She pushed his unexpected revelation aside until she could analyze it more closely at a later, less befuddled time. Giving the shirttails knotted at her waist a tug, she cleared her throat. “We seem to have retained the chemistry, all right,” she agreed, pleased to hear her voice emerge with commendable coolness, considering she felt like one huge, hot, frazzled nerve ending. The only sign she could see that he might feel the same was the hot color
burning high on his cheekbones. “So where do you propose we go from here?”

“To our respective corners, where we keep it nice and professional.”

Victoria wondered how that would work with Esme part of the equation, but she gave him a curt nod. Because he was right. Sex was the
last
thing they needed clouding an already volatile and confusing situation. Keep the physicality out of the picture and they could figure out the rest as they went along. “Great,” she said with frigid composure. “Fine. Works for me.”

She caught him eyeing her legs again, but he yanked his gaze up and lanced her with the blank-eyed military stare. “Yeah. Dandy,” he agreed. “That's what we'll do then.”

 

G
OOD GOING THERE
, Ace.
John stalked back toward the house with angry, long-legged strides.
What are you, a fucking moron?

Tori had always been different from any other woman he'd ever known. Right from the beginning she'd been different, and he should have known better than to get within kissing range of her again.

Most people had a milestone or two in their lives, he imagined. One of his had been the day he'd discovered his dick was more generously proportioned than the average guy's. Up until then, he'd merely been that skin-and-bones sorry-ass kid of Frank Miglionni, the U.S. Navy's biggest screw-up. Life with the old man after his mom died in a boating accident had been a series of fleabag apartments outside one base or another, because decent housing on base simply offered too many opportunities for Frank to start feuds with the neighbors. It had been living alone when Frank was in the brig, and being waled
on when the old man was home and there wasn't anyone else around to afford him a more interesting challenge.

Then one day shortly after puberty's onset, John had started yet another new school in yet another new town. And when he'd dropped his pants in the locker room after gym class, half the guys there had stopped what they were doing to offer up variations of the universally deferential
holy shit, dude.
It was his first taste of respect, and had made him hunger for more. In that moment, he'd grabbed hold of the new identity they offered as if it were a lifeline.

Then he'd learned there were females out there just waiting for a guy with the kind of equipment he possessed, and that was all she wrote. No one had to tell him twice that his cock size
was
his identity. First girls and then women admitted him into a whole new world of sex, one involving so much more than just his own fist and a raft of sweaty fantasies. It was the closest thing he'd ever found to a religious experience, and once discovered, he was its most faithful disciple. His new goal became pleasuring as many women as he could lay his hands on, and regaling his buddies afterward was just part and parcel of the process. One it never occurred to him to question.

Until he met Tori.

He'd known the moment they met that she was totally different from the Marine groupies he usually encountered. But he sure as hell hadn't anticipated the way she would affect him. He'd just blithely laid down the same rules and set the same parameters he always had, never dreaming she'd effect the biggest change in his life since that first milestone. But something about her made him realize he was more than the missile behind his fly that had garnered him the handle Rocket by his Marine
buddies. And the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he thought of anyone discussing her the way he had discussed so many others altered forever his ability to share the details of his sexual encounters with his friends.

“Hello, Mr. M.”

The soft-voiced greeting jerked him out of remembrances of sun-drenched days and hot steamy nights. Brought him back from a time when killer sex shouldn't have seemed brand-new, yet somehow had—mixed up as it had been with emotions he'd never before experienced. He had to blink before he could focus on the housekeeper and was startled to realize she was only a foot or two shy of crossing his path as she headed for the staircase, carrying a stack of fluffy bath sheets in her arms.

Jesus. If those had been weapons, he'd be a dead man. He jerked his mind back to the here and now.
See, that's the problem with Tori, pal. She's bad for your health.
Needing to get back to a place that didn't leave him screwed up and confused, he concentrated his attention on the housekeeper, flashing her the oughtta-be-patented Miglionni lady-killer smile. “Hey there, Mary. My apologies. I was deep in thought and didn't see you.”

“Oh, my, yes, I can only imagine.” She gave him an understanding smile. “You must feel like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders sometimes, what with all your responsibilities.”

Responsibilities. Right.
He cleared his throat and thought it was a good thing she couldn't read minds. “Yeah, I've been, uh, talking to Ms. Hamilton and I'm just heading back to my office to get to work.” He nodded at the towels in her arms. “How about you? Are you restocking the rooms? You sure keep things nice. The way you anticipate every need, I feel like I'm in a four-star hotel.”

A blush of pleasure colored her cheeks. “Thank you! I'm so glad you've been pleased.” She ran her hand up the stack of towels, flipping the folded edges. “I'm not changing out all of the bathrooms right now, though. I'm just taking these up to Mrs. Hamilton. She rang down for more.”

“How's she doing? I haven't seen much of her in the past couple of days.”

“Yes, well, that's probably because she hasn't been around very much. She's been spending a lot of time at the country club. Taking tennis lessons, you know.”

“Has a real passion for the game, huh?”

“Or for the tennis pro at least,” John thought he heard her mutter, but it was said in a low murmur and she gave him such a perfectly polite smile as she headed up the staircase that he might have misunderstood. Making a mental note to look into it, he continued on to the office.

His mind kept trying to return to that all-too-brief kiss up in the workroom above the garage, but he slammed the brakes on, determined not to go there. He had to stay away from Victoria, that was all there was to it. There was just something about her and he didn't try to fool himself into thinking otherwise. One kiss would never be enough with her. Hell, almost a
week
of screwing like minks hadn't be enough, so it wasn't as if there were a hope in hell he was going to work her out of his system that way. He'd learned during their first go-around that one session of lovemaking merely made him crave more.

Crap. He'd said it before and he'd say it again: the woman was crack cocaine and he was a stone junkie. But from now on, no more sampling—cold turkey was clearly the only way he could hope to stay sane around her.

To facilitate that, work was the key. He threw himself down in the chair behind his desk and reached for his
PalmPilot. Then, pulling up the number of Stand Up For Kids, he picked up the phone, punched out the numbers and settled down to do what Victoria Hamilton was paying him to do.

J
ARED FELT ALMOST…CONTENT
. For the second time that week he and P.J. had hit Sock's Place—he had a full stomach, was freshly showered and had even caught a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. He refused to wreck his decent mood that evening by worrying about his dwindling money supply and concentrated instead on the last of the sun shining on P.J.'s hair as she danced around him, talking ninety miles an hour as they headed for the 16th Street Mall. Like the last time she'd washed her hair, she'd left off the baseball cap she usually wore and red highlights sparked threads of fire in her short, chestnut curls.

He found it hard to believe he'd ever thought she was a boy.

She stopped suddenly, favoring him with a brilliant smile. “You know what?” she demanded in her funny, raspy voice. “I think I'm gonna give my mom a call.”

Panic clawed at his gut, but he swallowed drily in an attempt to push it aside. It wasn't as if he wanted her to remain on the streets. He knew her mother had thrown her out of her house following a big argument and that P.J. wanted desperately to make up so she could go home again—even if home wasn't the most ideal place in the world. God knew he could appreciate the contrariness of that wish.

But what the hell would
he
do if she went? He didn't think he could stand going back to being all alone and the temptation to talk her out of making the call rode him with acid-tipped spurs.

He shoved aside the little voice that told him not to be selfish. Why shouldn't he talk her out of it? It wasn't as if it would take all that much—he knew damn well she was scared to death of being rejected. And with good reason, if half the stuff she'd told him about her mother was true. So, hey, discouraging her would probably be doing her a big ol' favor in the long run.

Just thinking of her, huh? What a guy.
He shifted uneasily and looked at her face, alive and shining with hope. Slanting rays of the setting sun picked out the feathery thickness of her eyelashes, highlighted the clear honey-brown of her eyes. He'd never realized it before, but if she ever got enough to eat and wasn't wracked by the worry that was part and parcel of being homeless, she'd probably be pretty—or at least she'd have the potential to be when she was a little older. “So.” Rolling his shoulders, he cleared his throat. “You need some change, or what?”

“Nah.” But her obvious pleasure in his offer made her smile grow even wider. “I'll call collect.”

He tried not to cringe. She'd attempted calling collect the other day and her mother had refused to accept the charges—she'd just flat-out said “no” and hung up. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he followed P.J. to the nearest phone booth, then stood back far enough to afford her a measure of privacy while she placed the call. But watching her from the corner of his eye, he saw the exact moment all hope drained from her expression and realized her mother must have refused this call, too.

She dragged herself over to him a moment later and he could barely stand it. All her bounce was gone and her face was pinched and almost old-looking. “Here.” He thrust a handful of change at her. “You said money was tight at your house. Maybe she just couldn't afford to accept a collect call.”

Tears swam in the eyes she raised to his. “She told the operator to tell me to stop calling. Said that I'd made my bed and could just l-l-lie in it.” Her face crumpled.

“Aw, fuck.” He reached out to give her shoulder a sympathetic pat, but she jerked away.

“Well, the hell with her!” she snarled as if he wasn't even there. “Who needs the old bag, anyway?” But the tears overflowed, streaming down her cheeks.

Jared looked away to show the same respect for her feelings that she'd offered when he'd blubbered. And when she whirled around and stalked off toward the 16th Street Mall, dashing tears from her eyes with jerky movements, he trailed a short distance behind, his stomach churning in miserable empathy.

They were nearly to 16th Street when a newer model silver Toyota pulled over to the curb close to P.J. and slowed down to keep pace with her. A dark tinted window silently rolled down and Jared watched the driver lean over to eye her as he drove slowly alongside.

Still about fifty feet away and not liking the looks of this situation at all, he picked up his pace. Jeez, this was what they needed. When it rained, it just fricking poured, didn't it? One measly half block and they would've been safely on the Mall, a strip of seventeen or eighteen blocks that was closed to all traffic except the free trolley. But that half block might as well have been a hundred miles.

“Hey, little girl,” the man said, eyeing P.J. up and down, his gaze lingering on her flat chest. “What are you, honey, about ten?”

P.J. stopped and stared at the man in the car. “Is that what you'd like me to be?”

He licked his lips and nodded.

“Then, yes, sir, I'm ten.” She stuck her index finger in her mouth and reached up with her free hand to twirl a dark brown curl with her fingers. “But just barely,” she added. “My birthday was last week.”

His eyes went avid. “You wanna make twenty bucks?”

“No.” She waited a few beats, then said, “But I'd like to make fifty.”

“Deal.” He pushed open the passenger door.

Jared watched in horror as she walked toward it. “What are you,
crazy?
” He rushed to catch up, pushing in front of her and slamming the door shut again. Leaning into the window, he glared at the driver, who had jerked back into his seat. “Get the hell out of here!”

The man looked him over and visibly relaxed. “Get lost, junior. This is between me and the girl.”

He was beefier than he'd appeared from a distance, but Jared stood his ground and kept a struggling P.J. behind him. “Bugger off, you fucking perv, or it'll be between you and the police.” To demonstrate he meant business, he looked the man in the eye and recited the Toyota's license plate number. “I wonder how many cops have their eye on you already, just waiting to catch you propositioning some little kid?”

Swearing, the man slammed the car into gear. A second later, the only thing left as a reminder that he'd been there at all was a black patch on the pavement where the car had laid rubber.

P.J. jerked out of Jared's hold and he waited with hunched shoulders for her to lay into him.

But when she stepped around to face him, she merely inspected his face curiously for a silent moment. Finally she asked, “Would you really have called the cops?”

“Yes.” He thrust his fingers through his hair, staring at her helplessly. “Look, I'm not stupid—I know that one of these days you might have to sell your body to get by. God, much as the idea gags me to even think about, we both might. But neither of us has reached that point yet and I'll be damned if I'll watch you let your anger with your old lady shove you into—”

He staggered back with a grunt, the wind knocked out of him more by surprise than P.J.'s slight weight when she hurled herself against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and climbed him like a monkey. Disoriented, it took him a moment to realize that, contrary to his expectation that she intended to try beating the crap out of him, she was actually hugging him. Gingerly, he wrapped his arms around her and gave her back an awkward pat, tucking his chin in to look down at her. “What's this for?”

“You would've called the cops,” she murmured into his chest. “You would have called them to save me—even though it means you'd probably go to jail for that thing with your dad.”

He dropped her faster than a bucket of toxic waste, ripping her arms from around his neck and depositing her back on her feet with enough force to click her teeth together. He took a large step back. “What the hell do you know about my dad?”

“I know he was murdered. And that you're wanted for questioning.”

Sickness crawled in Jared's gut and he stared at her in horror. “How?” he whispered.

P.J. shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I followed you for a couple days before I ever approached you.”

“Why? What the frickin' hell would make you do that? And why
me?
”

“I guess because you were so—I don't know—so preppy, rich-kid looking, except for your earrings and tattoo. And, God, Jared,
so
not like anyone else I've met on the streets.”

“But how did you find out about my father?”

“The day before I approached you, I saw you outside the doorway of the bar in that hotel over on Court Place. You were standing there staring into the place, looking like someone had just shot you, so I got close enough to see what had grabbed your attention. And I saw your picture on the TV above the bar—yours and another man's. After you took off, I heard the news guy say your dad had been murdered and that you were wanted for questioning.”

“And after hearing that,” he sneered, “approaching a killer didn't scare the crap outta you?”

“Nah.” But she couldn't quite hold his gaze when it engaged hers. Then, straightening her shoulders, she met his skeptical look head-on. “Okay, it made me wonder how smart I'd be to talk to you and I thought I probably oughtta leave well enough alone. But then, when I thought about it some more, I figured the man you whacked musta deserved it. That he was probably the world's biggest A-hole.”

Jared laughed without humor. “He was that, all right. But he was still my dad, you know?”

“Oh, yeah,” she agreed glumly. “Do I ever.”

“Yeah, I imagine you probably do. And honest to God, P.J., I never meant to kill him.”

It was her turn to look skeptical. “So what did you think would happen when you st—”

“I don't want to talk about this, okay?” It just brought too many memories of that awful night roaring back, and he turned away.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. But Jared?” She touched soft fingertips to his back.

“What?”

“I'm still grateful you told that pervert you'd call the cops if he didn't go away. You really put yourself out for me and I won't forget it. I owe you.”

He made a rude noise. “You owe me nothing. The whole idea just creeped me out.”

“Tell me about it,” she agreed, falling into step as they headed down 16th Street. “I don't know what I was thinking. But what are we gonna do, Jared? We've still got the same problem.”

“Yeah, I know. Our money's running out.” He didn't mention that neither of them had been overly worried about it until her mom had gone and screwed up their night. Sometimes you just had to take the carefree moments where you found them. Giving the problem some thought now, he finally said, “I've got a couple of baseball cards in my pack. I don't know if they're worth much, but maybe tomorrow we can find a place to sell 'em.”

“Hey, that's good.” She brightened immediately. “And we're both lookin' real fine tonight.”

“We are,” he agreed, but eyed her suspiciously. “So?”

“So, we oughtta take advantage of it to spange some money from the tourists.”

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Okay, I'll bite. What the hell is ‘spange'?”

“You know—
spange
—spare change. Cover up your tattoo and try to look clean-cut and hungry. I'll look cute and hungry.” Skipping around him once again, she elbowed him in the ribs and flashed a cocky smile. “Between the two of us, whaddya wanna bet we blow the frigging competition clean out of the water?”