Pool Man (2 page)

And, without so much as a glance back at Marlee’s plaything, I dove in.

By the time he brought me my drink, I was floating on an inflatable raft I’d rescued from the pool deck, and staring up at the bluer-than-blue sky. Though it was midmorning, I didn’t feel guilty drinking so early in the day because I’d been traveling for hours. Besides, it was five p.m. somewhere.

I paddled over to the side of the pool as Jimmy knelt to hand me my drink, a long, tall mint-green margarita in a beading glass. I tried not to sneak a glance up the gap in his shorts but couldn’t resist. The muscles of his thighs bunched as he balanced. I noticed the bulge tenting his shorts. And while the realization sent a thrill straight to my womanly parts, I ignored it.

I wasn’t here to jump on Marlee’s pool boy. I was here to work on my book. I needed to be thinking about that, not studying the wiry dark hairs on his muscled legs and thinking about how they would feel twined around mine as he thrust—

Damn.

I took a sip. Tart lime with a hint of sweet and a generous bite of tequila flooded my mouth. Delicious.

“Ahem.” He hadn’t moved. He peered down at me through those adorable glasses. “Are you…hungry?” he asked. Again, that voice. It sent shivers over my skin.

Hungry?

Perhaps.

But I couldn’t bear to move. Not just yet. This was far too heavenly.

This, floating in the pool, drinking a margarita and not worrying about shit.

“Maybe later?”

“Um. Okay.” He looked like he wanted to ask another question, but wasn’t sure how to put the words together.

I blinked at him expectantly.

The moment hung between us.

His tongue peeped out to dab his lips and I found myself staring.

They probably tasted amazing.

I could see now why Marlee came here every chance she got. Why she rushed to this island between breaks in her recording schedule and whenever she had an empty spot on her touring calendar.

But I didn’t want to think about Marlee. I certainly didn’t want to think about Marlee with
Jimmy
.

I probably shouldn’t even be thinking about
me
with Jimmy. He was too distracting by far. And I had a book to write.

“That is all,” I said, waggling my fingers at him, shooing him back to his burnt eggs. I needed some privacy. I needed to focus.

His mouth gaped open again—really, not a good look. He cleared his throat and stood, glancing back at the house, and then at me. And then, when I was about to shoo him again, he nodded and trudged back inside.

I took another sip of my drink—it really was perfection—then leaned back on the plastic pillow and closed my eyes. And floated.

I had to force myself to think about my book. A certain face kept creeping into my mind. Visions of the two of us, Jimmy and me, curled together in a bed somewhere, intruded relentlessly.

But my vacation was only a week long. When I returned home I would be flung back into the endless round of interviews and meetings and idiotic soirees. If I was going to get the bones of this project down, it had to be now.

My book would be a gritty, down-and-dirty tell-all on the rock-and-roll industry. Loosely based on my life, but definitely fiction. I wouldn’t be dropping any names, or I’d have to go into the witness relocation program. Not to mention, if I published it under my own name, I would be drummed out of the business. So I was playing around with pen names as well.

The hero—or antihero—was a rocker who heartlessly seduces an innocent, charming, beautiful publicist into a scorching affair, makes her think
this could be it
before dumping her on her ass in a very public and humiliating venue. That he bore a striking resemblance to Harlan Rivers was merely a coincidence.

He would pay, of course. Oh, would he. It gave me great delight to plot his imminent demise. I hadn’t decided yet if I would kill him. But he was definitely getting herpes.

As fun as that was, I kept getting distracted. Every time Jimmy happened to pass by one of the wide open windows, my attention would snap to him. He had lost the apron. And, may I say, he looked mouthwateringly delicious in shorts and a tee shirt. That he appeared to be bedazzled by the sight of me working on my tan in that ridiculous bikini didn’t hurt my ego one iota.

So he wasn’t a rocket scientist. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.

Maybe a scorching fling was what I needed to expel Harlan from my brain once and for all.

I didn’t like being used, and he had used me.

Maybe I needed to get my own back.

Chapter Two

I spent the rest of the morning floating in the pool, contemplating a torrid affair with a pool boy, and accepting fresh drinks from said hunk whenever he brought them by. If I got too overheated, I rolled into the cool waters of the pool. There was a hot tub on one end and I made a mental note to try that later.

I was deep in contemplation—envisioning Jimmy and me in that hot tub—when a shadow fell over me. I cracked open one eye.

The tequila was doing its job, softening the edges and washing away the harsh clutch of travel jitters. I gazed up at Jimmy, who stood at the edge of the pool. Damn, he was fine. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at me.

“You’re starting to burn.”

Oh, I knew it. I could feel the sun baking me. It felt wonderful. I took another swig of my drink—surprised to find the glass empty—and smiled at him. He blinked. His lips opened and closed.

I waggled the glass at him. “Could you bring me another?”

His chin firmed. “Come and eat. I made a frittata.”

I really wanted another drink…but my stomach growled. I realized it had been hours since I’d grabbed that anemic burger in the Miami airport.

“Okay,” I gusted, rolling into the water. It hit my skin with a delightful shush. I shuddered and sank deeper, dunking my head. And then, streaming with water, I stepped from the pool.

Poor Jimmy looked poleaxed. It was probably wrong of me to tease him so. Probably wrong of me to be so delighted at the way his eyes widened, nostrils flared. The way his gaze raked my near-naked body, from my head to my little pink toes, and then zeroed in on my breasts.

My nipples were pebbled. I didn’t have to look down to tell. Hours of thinking about him, in combination with the sudden cold hit of water, had done the trick. They rubbed against the fabric of the suit with a tantalizing annoyance.

I was possessed of the sudden urge to just rip it off. Rip it off and rip his too-tight tee shirt off and then rub against him like a cat. He probably had that wiry hair all over his chest. How good would it feel to—

I teetered a bit and he caught me. Hard hands. Hard and warm. But gentle. “Easy there,” he said in a low thrum. Amusement threaded his voice.

Heat walked through me, sizzled at the spot he touched. I glanced up at him, realized for the first time how tall he was. How truly broad his chest was. How exquisite he smelled.

Some pricey men’s cologne that didn’t smell like cologne, and certainly didn’t smell girly. I wanted to lick him.

Annoyance curled in my gut at the thought that Marlee had bought him that cologne. She’d probably licked it from him.

He let me go—yeah, a curl of annoyance at that too—but only for a second. He reached down to grab an enormous multicolored towel, which he wrapped around me. His hands briskly rubbed my shoulders, as though I were a child who needed drying after a frolic in the pool.

I frowned at him.

Incomprehensibly, laughter danced in his eyes.

They were gorgeous, those eyes, steamy and warm and flecked with fascinating amber lights. He lowered his lashes. They fanned his cheeks.

“Inside, you,” he said, nudging me forward. “You need to eat.”

It felt nice having a man order me around. But only because he was guiding me toward the table in the breakfast nook, which he’d set with elegant china, silverware and linen napkins. A basket of steaming muffins and a carafe of orange juice held the place of prominence.

As I stepped inside the kitchen, the most phenomenal smells hit me. It was like a wave, a barrage of delight. Cinnamon and spices. Cheese and eggs. And something else that made my mouth water—

And then it hit me and hit me hard.

Damn
. I was hungry. Really hungry.

My knees wobbled.

Jimmy was there, right behind me. He guided me to the table and helped me sit.

I didn’t need any help sitting, I was a grown woman after all, but it was nice. He poured me a glass of orange juice and was back in a minute with a redolent cup of coffee. I took a whiff and nearly fainted from the pleasure. I took a sip, and think, perhaps, I did. My vision went a bit hazy.

“You like eggs?” he asked.

I turned my face away so he wouldn’t see me wrinkle my nose. I did like eggs. Just not burned ones. “Um, sure.”

“Excellent.”

He moved around the kitchen behind me, making what I assumed were kitcheny noises. I’d never been much of a cook. I focused on the muffins. Broke one open and took a whiff. It was a delightful froth of swirled cinnamon and tiny chunks of apples. I slathered a half with butter and took a bite.

And I think I had an orgasm.

Holy heaven. It was that good.

I had wolfed the whole thing down by the time he brought me a plate with a fluffy frittata, flecked with asparagus and tomatoes and ribboned with melted parmesan. It smelled incredible. And it wasn’t burned in the slightest.

I cut off a bite with my fork and popped it into my mouth.

Yeah. Another orgasm.

I wasn’t much of a foodie, perfectly happy with a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, but this—this was magnificent.

“
Ohmygod
,” I murmured.

“Good?” He sat down next to me with his plate and another—filled with crispy bacon.

Oh,
that
had been the other smell.

I peeped at him and snagged a slice. His lips twitched.

“How long has it been since you ate?” he asked.

“Why? Am I eating like a Viking?”

“Kinda.”

I had to laugh at his expression. “It’s really good.”

Jimmy leaned back in his chair and watched as I inhaled the frittata, more bacon and another muffin. I didn’t even think about the calories. Who could? I would have eaten more, eaten it all, but my stomach protested.

He watched without saying a word.

When I was finished, I pushed away and fought back a yawn.

The travel, the sun, the tequila and now a full belly had done me in. As self-indulgent as it was in the middle of the day, I wanted a nap.

But that’s what this week was all about, wasn’t it? Pleasing myself.

No whiny clients to placate. No outraged managers to soothe. No ridiculous kerfuffles to unfuffle.

Me.
Me, me, me.

I smiled at Jimmy. “Thank you for breakfast,” I said politely as I scooted back the chair and stood. I wrapped the towel, which had slipped off my shoulders, around me again. “And now I think I’m going to take a nap. Where did you put my things?”

He leapt to his feet and waved down the hall to the left of the kitchen. “The blue bedroom.”

“The blue bedroom?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “Because it matches your eyes.”

I couldn’t hold back a grin. He was so adorable. “And…will you be joining me in the blue bedroom?” Shameful of me to flirt so, but I really couldn’t help it.

The question seemed to befuddle him. His jaw went slack and his nostrils flared. His pupils dilated. “I, ah… Did you want me to join you?”

Good lord. He was shy. I patted him on the chest, fingers lingering on his beefy pecs. They rippled to my touch. “Not now, Jimmy,” I said, stifling a yawn. I really was awfully tired. “Maybe later.”

Later. Yeah. We had all week.

Here’s the thing about power naps.

They are awesome.

A couple hours in the darkened “blue bedroom,” which really was very lovely and feminine and frothy, and I was ready to go at it again. Most specifically, I was aching for a soak in the hot tub.

It had been a five-hour flight from LA to Miami and at least another three navigating the antiquated island hopper network. Plus schlepping my bags, lifting and stretching, not to mention the torture ride with Mr. Lucifer. When I woke up, the sun was just setting on the island, and my body ached, screamed, to be immersed in steamy water for extended periods of time, like a tea bag.

I slipped back into my almost-bathing-suit. Sleeping nude wasn’t really my thing, but I’d been too lazy to unpack, much less rummage through my suitcase for my nightgown. Besides, the silky sheets had felt far too decadent against my bare skin. I had snuggled in, sinking into the soft pillow, and slipped into the warm, waiting arms of Morpheus.

The house was quiet and shadowed as I padded back to the pool. I didn’t see any sign of Jimmy, which was just as well. My dreams had been filled with him; he’d haunted every crevice of my sleep. I felt like I’d been steeped in him, reliving every touch, every glance, every fantasy.

Those dreams clung to my consciousness, as dreams sometimes do, stoking a hunger I hadn’t even realized I had.

I’d been kind of joking when I’d invited Jimmy to my room, but in truth, it hadn’t been a joke at all. I wanted him. Really wanted him. Needed him, maybe.

Needed the oblivion a wild, steamy, pointless affair could provide.

My ego ached after Harlan’s betrayal, but it was more than that. It was more than assuaging a hit to my self-esteem.

I simply wanted Jimmy.

Wanted him in a way I’d never wanted a man before.

Maybe it was the isolation. Maybe it was the magnificent surroundings. Maybe it was simply the fact that he was hotter than hot. Certainly hotter than Harlan with his bad-boy-biker persona, his bull ring. His tattoos. Nothing about
him
had been real in the end. Nothing about
us
had been either.

The tiny lights strung around Marlee’s patio glowed as they bobbed in the breeze. The waters of the hot tub steamed a warm welcome, bathed in a surreal blue that shone like a beacon in the gathering night.

I tossed my towel on a lounge chair and stepped in. And hissed.

Warmth lapped at me. I sank, allowing the water to consume me slowly. My skin shivered as I eased deeper, all the way to my neck. I turned around and leaned against one of the benches formed in the tile and closed my eyes.

Heaven.

I owed Marlee. And I owed her big time.

This place was, indeed, heaven on earth. And Jimmy… Well, the jury was still out on that one. Marlee had been frank.
“Paige,”
she’d said.
“You need to get laid. And trust me, if anyone can help you forget about that douchebag Harlan Rivers, it’s my Jimmy.”
I tried not to let it bug me that she’d put it that way.
My Jimmy.
Not that
I
had any ownership of him. Not that I wanted it.

I just wasn’t used to sharing men with my best friend.

Remembering the ripple of his pec beneath my palm, I nibbled my lip.

I could probably get over it…

“May I join you?”

I opened my eyes at the deep voice, at the question tinged with a throb.

My heart stuttered. My breath caught.

Gawd.

Jimmy. Standing there next to the hot tub, wearing nothing but a tight black Speedo. Everything I had imagined under his casual clothes, everything I had hoped for, was there. Thick muscles roping his chest and forearms, thighs like tree trunks, a flat, taut belly, sculpted abs and a tantalizing dark line arrowing toward a magnificent bulge.

I nearly swallowed my tongue.

“May I?”

Oh lord, I’d been ogling. “Yes. Please. Come on in. The water’s fine.”

Yeah, lame. Cliché. But there you go. It was the best I could come up with. My brain, apparently, was on vacation as well.

The water rose as he eased in. His groan echoed off the shadows. He’d taken off his glasses so I had an unfettered view of his face. When his eyes closed, in that moment of bliss as the water enveloped him, when his lips parted…I thought, perhaps, that was what his O-face would look like.

One could hope.

Many men were like monkeys when their crisis descended. Which was why I rarely looked. I was possessed of the sharp, sudden urge to see Jimmy in ecstasy. To watch him come.

Okay, not so sudden. But definitely sharp.

Though he sat across from me, the hot tub wasn’t too big, and his foot nudged mine. I didn’t jerk away, though my first inclination was to do just that. I reminded myself that any advance had to come from him. Jimmy was Marlee’s pool boy, not a sex slave. And if he wasn’t interested—I ignored the dark dip of my mood at the thought—that would be that.

So when his foot grazed mine, I steeled my spine and left it there. Next to his.

Our gazes tangled. His toe slipped up my ankle, a tentative foray. A fluttery thrill, an unexpected shower of arousal, trickled through me.

I stroked back.

His focus on me intensified, though it flicked, for a fraction of an instant, to my breasts. They bobbed in the water, as breasts often did, buoyed and jubilant to be released from the bondage of gravity. He licked his lips. My nipples pebbled as I imagined his mouth on them.