Skintight (11 page)

And that was what really got him. She genuinely seemed to wring more enjoyment out of a statue that reminded her of the men back home than the much more valuable diamond pendant. If she'd wanted to put on an effusive act, the smart money would have been on doing so over the necklace—not some hunk of rock, wood, and mold-cast bronze that had cost a fraction of the jewelry's price.

But since he could hardly demand to know why she was messing with his head this way, he flashed her his most charming smile and said, “Feeding me a home-cooked meal is thanks enough.”

“Come on, then, and I'll get it started.” She pointed to a bar stool at the counter as she walked around to the kitchen side. “Grab a seat. You want a glass of wine?”

“I'd love one, but I'd better not. I make it a policy never to drink within four hours of a game.”

She nodded. “I can see where keeping your wits about you might be a good idea.”

“Only if I want to stay in the game,” he said lightly, pulling out a stool at the breakfast bar separating the living area from the kitchen and hitching a hip onto it.

But she seemed able to see through him to the truth. “You take your work very seriously,” she said approvingly. “Is that why you keep your hand in with these other games you've been playing, instead of waiting for the actual tournament to start?”

“Yeah. It's kind of like your dance classes—it keeps my skills lubed up.”

“I hear that. So, wine's out. How about a club soda, then?” She stretched to open a cupboard.

“That would be great.”

She pulled one out of the refrigerator and poured it into the glass she'd fetched. “Ice?”

“No. Thanks.” He looked at the bright pottery on the counter and the color-coordinated but mixed pattern towels looped through her refrigerator door handle and hanging from a towel bar. “I know I commented on your affinity for color, but I don't think I said how much I like the way you've fixed your place up.” And he did. There was something very homey and welcoming about it.

Her smile lit up the room. “Thanks. I've done it a little at a time.”

It was the perfect opportunity to find out how long she'd owned the place—and if his father had, indeed, had anything to do with its financing.

Before he could inquire, however, she handed him the highball glass of club soda and gave him a quizzical look. “Playing in a professional poker tournament must require an enormous amount of concentration,” she said as she reached for a bottle of Merlot and poured herself a long-stemmed glass. She nodded at the club soda he'd picked up. “Not to mention discipline.”

“You have to keep your mind on the game,” he agreed and watched the taut pull of her khaki skirt over her world-class ass as she stooped to pull a pan from the drawer in the bottom of her stove. “
You'd
be a definite distraction to have around.”

She flashed him a smile over her shoulder and rose with the pan in hand. “Why, you ol' sweet talker.” Slipping the pan onto a burner, she sipped at her wine and began assembling ingredients from her cupboards, laying them out one by one on the counter.

He watched her work with pleasure. He might have had an agenda when he'd angled for an invitation for a home-cooked meal, but he sure as hell hadn't exaggerated how much he longed for one. “This is heaven,” he said with genuine contentment. “I can't tell you how sick I am of eating out.”

“So you've said before. I doubt you and I will ever see eye to eye on that score.”

“Tell you what: I'll take you out until you get your fill of restaurant fare. I bet it won't take as long as you think.” He observed her as she checked over her array of ingredients then grabbed a package of hamburger from the freezer and threw it in the microwave. “Can I do anything to help?”

“No, you relax. You can help me build the salad a little later on. I just want to get this sauce started so it can simmer a while.” Pouring some olive oil into the pan, she turned the burner on under it, then reached for an onion and a green pepper and proceeded to chop them up with more enthusiasm than expertise on a Lucite cutting board. As she finished preparing the sauce, fragrant steam soon rose to flush her face and tease corkscrew-tight little ringlets away from the bandana tying her hair back. Jax found himself shifting on his stool. Who would have guessed a Betty Crocker moment could be such a turn-on?

Treena suddenly looked up, and for a second he
thought she'd somehow read his mind. But she merely said, “You want to turn on the stereo? It's in the armoire over there, top section.”

“Sure.” He rose off the stool and headed for the indicated piece of furniture. Opening its top doors, he discovered a DVD multichanger on the shelf and several stacks of CDs. Selecting a few, he popped them in the player, used her remote to program a random, all-play mode, and hit Play. Strains of Dire Straits' “Brothers in Arms” soon filled the room.

She smiled at him. “That's quite different from what I expected, judging from what you played in the car.”

“Hey, there's driving with the top down music, and then there's music to cook by.”

She laughed and then disappeared from sight, and he heard her rummaging around in one of the lower cupboards.

“Oh, I don't believe this!” she suddenly exclaimed.

“What's that?” He walked back to the counter and leaned over it to peer down at her.

Crouched in front of a narrow open cupboard, she glowered up at him. “I had all the fresh stuff that I'm usually out of to make the sauce, but I forgot to replace the damn spaghetti when I used up the last box.” She surged to her feet. “I'm going to have to run to the store.”

“Maybe Carly has some,” he said, then could have kicked himself. This was the perfect opportunity to take a look around for the baseball.

Treena laughed in his face. “Carly's cupboards have the finest dog and cat food money can buy, but they seldom have anything in them that's fit for real people to
eat.” Coming around the counter, she grabbed her wallet out of the tote on the credenza where she'd tossed it and pulled out her keys. “Make yourself comfortable. I won't be long.” And a second later, she was gone.

He simply stood there for a moment, staring at the door that had banged shut behind her. Then he made a conscious effort to snap his sagging jaw shut. But, good God almighty. The woman was a firecracker.

Having his imagination segue into the red-hot question of how that might correspond to action with her in bed sure as hell wouldn't get him any closer to finding the baseball, so he shook off the graphic images that had exploded full-blown in his mind and headed across the room. He had a finite amount of time to search, and shoving aside the inexplicable discomfort he felt about pawing through her stuff, he plotted a mental diagram of her apartment. Considering he didn't see the ball out here, the smart thing would be to start in her bedroom. But this burglary business wasn't exactly his usual milieu, and he couldn't quite get past his unease at going through her personal belongings. He decided to search some of the apartment's less intimate areas first.

He started with the beautifully inlaid credenza, sliding open the rounded front panel. The craftsmanship of the piece was exquisite, and it must be worth a small fortune. It contained nothing more than china, however, and he closed it again. The small bookshelf held books and girl-type pretties, and he passed it by. He opened the sections of the armoire that he hadn't already seen and found a TV and a VCR in the middle compartment and tapes, a set of candlesticks and two vases in the bottom.

Since there was no sense in rising to his feet merely to have to squat again a couple of feet away, he crab-walked toward the tiny cabinet she used as an end table.

He was just reaching for the decorative pull on its door when a key turned in the lock.

T
REENA LET HERSELF
into the condo and headed through the archway into the living room. “Hi, I bet you didn't expect me back this quic—”

The sight of Jax's muscular butt, thrust up in the air where he knelt at the end of the couch, severed her power of speech. He was twisted from the waist, his right shoulder dipped to the hardwood floor to fit his arm biceps-deep beneath the little cabinet she'd picked up at a Palm Springs flea market and fixed up for an end table.

“Do I dare ask what you're doing?” she finally managed, as her gaze ping-ponged between his rump and the slice of flesh above his waistband where his sky-blue T-shirt had separated from his jeans.

“Hang on a second—there!” Pulling back, he flipped over and rolled to sit on that very fine butt, holding up a gold-rimmed black coin draped in a dust bunny. “I dropped George—my good-luck two-pound piece—and he ran for the hills.”

She crossed the room and took it from his fingers, blowing off the streamer of dust. “Well, this is embarrassing. Now you know I don't move my furniture to clean.”

“Yeah, that's a real priority in my life. I don't know if we can still be friends after this.”

“Hey,
I,
at least, don't name my money.”

He climbed to his feet and reached out to turn the coin in her hand. On the back, in a bold relief of gold against black, was a man on a horse, thrusting a sword into a dragon. “It's a 1987 St. George and the Dragon.”

“Thus George, I'm guessing. I also imagine he's worth more than two pounds.”

He grinned at her. “A bit. It's the luck he brings me that's his real worth, though.”

“You're superstitious?” She probably shouldn't have been surprised, but it wasn't a label that ever would have occurred to her to pin on him.

He smiled. “Well, I've got something of a split personality when it comes to that. The math lover in me believes in numbers and nothing but. Yet I'm a gambler—and by nature we're a superstitious lot.” Plucking the coin from her hand, he kissed it, rolled it in a nimble display across his knuckles from index to baby finger and back again, then dropped it into his pocket. “Therefore George here always accompanies me when I play.” His gaze went to her empty hands. “So where's the spaghetti?”

“Oh!” She smacked her palm off her forehead. “I lent my car to Carly earlier. It was supposed to be back in its spot by now, but I guess she ran into trouble.” She crossed to the answering machine on the end of the breakfast bar and sure enough it was blinking its red message alert. “I didn't even look at this when we got back.” She pushed the Play button.

The first message was from the studio offering her
a newly opened time slot the following morning. The second was from Carly.

“Treena, I'm sorry!” she said. “Rufus got away from me when we were leaving the vet's and I'm hunting him down. God, who knew one mangy mutt could disappear so fast? I swear this dog's going to be the death of me—he's more trouble than Buster, Rags and Tripod put together! Oh, for— I just ran over the damn curb.” Her stressed sigh came clearly down the line. “I suck at this multitasking crap so I better hang up before I kill somebody. I'll get your car back as soon as I can. I'm really sorry. I hope this hasn't screwed up your plans.”

Treena laughed. Then she considered her predicament. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Let me think. I suppose I could go ask Ellen if she has any spaghetti.”

“Or you could take my car.” Jax tossed her the keys.

She caught them out of pure reflex but simply stood clutching them in her hand for a moment as she stared at him. “Are you serious? You'd let me drive that marvelous car?”

“Sure.” He shot her a look from those blue eyes. “That is—you
will
bring it back, won't you?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She headed for the entryway before he could change his mind. Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, she shot him a grin over her shoulder. “In a week or two.”

And knowing the value of a good exit line, she sailed out the door.

Jax watched her go, shaking his head. Then he went back to the work she'd interrupted.

That had been close. Too close, and with renewed de
termination he headed for her bedroom, telling himself firmly that he couldn't afford to be squeamish.

But he stopped short in the doorway, as surely as if he'd run up against a stone wall. Man. The scent in here was elusive and girly and without conscious thought he dragged in a deep breath, inhaling appreciatively through his nose.

He ordered himself to snap out of it. He couldn't afford to be sidetracked. Crossing the threshold he glanced around, noting the bright silks and altogether feminine look of the room. Then he shoved his impressions aside for more practical concerns. Focusing on her closet, he decided to start with that, and opened one side of the mirrored slider.

He had to breathe shallowly as more of that incredible scent wafted out. He was behaving like a callow fourteen-year-old.

That shook loose a bitter laugh. Treena had said today that he always seemed so at ease and debonaire, but he worked like a Trojan to protect that image. Not that it was a sham. The confidence of having done something well for the past twelve years
was
ingrained in him by now. He'd established a good life for himself. He'd moved beyond his childhood problems, yet just about the time he grew cocky enough to believe that stupid kid desperate for his daddy's approval was gone forever, his insecurities would return. The disappointments of a somewhat-less-than-functional childhood still managed to stage the occasional hit-and-run visit on his adult psyche.

And nothing could shoot his normal self-assurance to hell faster than knowing that he was never fully braced against it, knowing that he had waited too long
to tell the old man exactly how he felt and now it was too late to rectify any of it.

“Jesus,” he muttered. This was the
last
train of thought he ought to be pondering. He had to quit moping around like some sorry-ass kid and focus on what needed to be done.

The baseball was what mattered, so he picked a spot to start searching and got busy. Given the ball's worth, he doubted Treena would just toss it in the bottom of the packed closet. But he'd start there all the same and work his way up. Squatting, he began sifting carefully through the clutter on the floor.

It was filled with shoes. Red shoes, black shoes, blue shoes, green; they came in all shapes and styles: high heels both of the spiked and the chunky-heeled variety, ballerina-type slippers, sandals, wedgies, and flats. There were also a few handbags and a box that contained some hand weights and some other assorted odds and ends. Mostly, though, it was a jumble of shoes.

And definitely no baseball.

After double-checking to be certain he'd left the clutter the way he'd found it, he rose to his feet and reached for the nearest box on the overhead shelf. It was filled nearly to the brim with loose photographs, and he carefully sifted through the pile, working his hand down to the bottom of the carton to make sure the ball hadn't been buried beneath several inches of snapshots.

It hadn't.

He replaced the box and reached for the next one. Removing the lid, he saw that this one, too, had photographs in it, only this batch were all matted and framed. The one on top was the same professional head shot of
Treena that his father had sent him. The one that showcased the slight half smile he now knew was pretty much her default expression. Looking down at it, he remembered the day the photo had caught up with him—it had shown up a good month or two after it had been mailed, arriving in a padded envelope covered with forwarding stamps.

He watched his thumb brush back and forth against the glass-covered quirk of her lips for another moment, then tipped the frame on end against the side of the box and reached for the next. This one was smaller, a framed snapshot, and he lifted it from the dimness of the box and turned it toward the light.

He froze, his mind a sudden hot jumble of broken words and scrambled thoughts. His heart pounded with slow, sickening thuds, just the way it had done in the chest of that poor, inept eleven-year-old standing so stiffly within the drape of his much larger father's arm when the photo was taken more than twenty years ago.

He remembered that day. A humorless laugh burned his throat, because
remembered
was such a pallid word. The day was etched in his mind in acid. Big Jim had yelled invective and instructions from the sidelines of a softball game Jax hadn't wanted to play in the first place but had participated in at his father's insistence. After the game was over the old man had slung an arm around his shoulders like they were the best of buds while another father snapped their picture. Then, just when he'd thought the whole torturous ordeal was finally over—that he couldn't possibly be humiliated any further—Big Jim had hauled him off to the pizza parlor where Jax had let him down
again
with his losing
struggle to interact with other players who hadn't wanted him on their team any more than he'd wanted to be there.

What the hell was that photograph doing here, all framed and matted? As he pawed through the other photos in the box it quickly became apparent all of them had once been his father's. Staring down at this picture, he saw in his younger self every single bit of the wretched awkwardness he had worked so hard to eradicate.

So, get over it,
he ordered himself sharply.
Christ Almighty, you're not eleven anymore. It was a long time ago, a lot of water under the bridge, spilled milk, yesterday's news—

The absurd host of clichés served to steady him. With a slight smile he began straightening the rifled mementos.

Then another worry assaulted him and his hand stilled within the box. Even though he'd taken care not to disclose anything that might fire off a synapse in Treena's brain and link him to Big Jim's son, he'd never genuinely worried about her making the connection between his younger self and the man he'd become. He'd changed so much since he'd left Las Vegas that he doubted the few people who'd actually known him back then would recognize him now. The only thing at all distinctive about him was the shade of his eyes, and how likely was it that anyone meeting him for the first time would think to associate the blue eyes of a stranger to those of a long-gone kid?

Never in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined the old man would keep a picture of him on display. After all, this was the relative who hadn't even bothered to
come watch his seventeen-year-old graduate with honors from MIT.

Retrieving the framed snapshot once again from the box, he took it over to the window and unwound the blinds a fraction of an inch to study it by the harsh light of the afternoon sun. And by increments, the tension in his shoulders eased.

He wore a baseball cap in the photo, and between that and the thick lenses of the glasses he'd worn before undergoing laser surgery, his eye color didn't even show. The geeky shirt and the jeans that were nearly an inch too short for his then still fast growing legs told him he'd been an even lousier dresser than he'd thought. Smiling, he closed the blinds again, replaced the photograph in the box and put it carefully back where he'd found it. It would prove harder to erase the host of questions its unexpected discovery raised in his mind.

But he squared his shoulders. This waltz down memory lane wasn't helping him find that ball, and as that charmer Sergei had reminded him, the clock was ticking.

He was reaching for the next box on the shelf, a lidded, heart-shaped floral number, when someone pounded on Treena's front door. He nearly jerked the box off the shelf and, sucking in an angry breath, he grabbed its tilting front tip to stop its downward trajectory. He pushed it back in place.
What the hell is the matter with you?

Usually he had nerves of steel. But ever since he'd connected up with a certain white-hot redhead, his much lauded steadiness seemed to be unraveling faster than a ball of yarn in a kitten's paws. He gave the closet a quick once-over to make sure nothing was glaringly
out of place, and slid the door closed. Smoothing his hand over the front of his T-shirt, he watched his features adopt their expressionless game face in the mirrored slider, then stepped back and turned his back on his reflection. The caller pounded again, and he strode out to the tiny entryway.

Opening the door, he found a short muscular man with steel-gray hair standing on the other side.

Impatient dark brown eyes regarded him with suspicion. “Who the hell are you?” the man demanded. “Where's Treena?”

“I'm Jax. Jax Gallagher.”

“Ah. The new boyfriend.”

His eyebrows shot up in a silent demand to elaborate. Is that what she was telling people he was? Inexplicably, his ego swelled.

A moment too soon, as it turned out. “Or so Carly's been saying, anyway. I'm Mack.” He didn't offer his hand. “The guy who makes sure the girls' dates are good enough for them. What took you so long to answer the door?”

He gave the man a cool smile. “I was tossing the joint.”

“I'll take that as gospel until the day comes that I know you well enough to tell if you're serious or just being a smart-ass. If you even last that long, that is.” Suddenly he inhaled sharply through his nose. “Whoa. Treena's making spaghetti?” He took a purposeful step forward.

Jax had the impression that Mack would have no compunction about mowing him down if he didn't step aside, even though Jax was more than a head taller than the older man. And since he wasn't here to get in a pissing match with one of Treena's friends, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped back. “Come on in,” he said drily.

Mack either didn't hear the irony or he chose to ignore it. He looked him up and down with steely eyes. “So, where did you say Treena is?”