Skintight (23 page)

A delicate rose colored her cheeks. “Thank you. You look very nice yourself.”

He looked down at his charcoal suit, white shirt and
the silver-gray tie that felt like a noose around his neck, and hitched one shoulder. “Yeah, I'm passable, but you…you look good enough to eat.” He nodded at the little top that commanded his attention. “I sure like your whozit there. What do you call that color?”

“Purple,” she said, deadpan. But her pretty hazel eyes twinkled with suppressed humor.

He laughed. “Come on, what do you really call it? I know you ladies have fancy names for colors. Like puce. I remember my mother calling something puce once. What the hell is that?”

“A brownish purple.”

He shook his head. “Jesus. And this shade?”

“Periwinkle.”

“Okay, sure, like the flower. Maryanne grew some of those in the yard of the house we rented before we bought our first home. It's a very pretty color. You look real good in it.” He cleared his throat. “So, which restaurant hits your hot button?”

“Lawry's. I've never been there and I love prime rib.”

“Hot dawg.” He rubbed his hands together. “That's what I had my taste buds set for, too. You mind if I borrow your phone? I should probably call Austin's and cancel the reservation I made there.”

He ushered Ellen into the red-carpeted reception area of Lawry's a short while later and admired her by the light of the fireplace while they waited for the hostess who would take them to the main dining room. “Did I mention how pretty you look tonight?” he asked.

“You did, yes.” She smiled demurely. “But a woman can never hear a compliment like that too often.”

He threw back his head and laughed, then placed his
hand at the small of her back as he guided her to the white linen-covered table the hostess indicated. The silky material of her slip-top shifted beneath his hand and her jacket.

They were seated and a waitress appeared at their table to introduce herself as Mrs. Baxter and take their drink order. After she walked away, Ellen smiled at him. “This is very pretty. I love the Art Deco decor.”

“Is that what it's called?” He looked around at the coved ceilings, hardwood floors and colorful rugs, before turning his attention back to her. “I like the use of all the wood.”

“Isn't it lovely? Oh, and the waitresses' uniforms!”

“Yeah, I read somewhere that they haven't changed the style since the first Lawry's opened in Beverly Hills in 1938.” Mrs. Baxter returned with their wine and they both silently admired her crisp old-fashioned uniform that was the same rich burgundy color as the restaurant's velvet banquettes and chairs. It sported a starched white collar and cuffs and a pristine white apron that tied behind her back in a huge bow.

When the waitress had performed the wine ritual and left them once again Mack gave Ellen an inquiring look. “What do you suppose those tall head things they all wear are called?”

“I have no idea, but I remember seeing them on the counter-servers at Woolworth's when I was a girl.”

“You know what they remind me of? My nurses at the hospital where I had my tonsils removed back in the early fifties.”

“In the fifties, huh?” Her eyes held warm interest as she gazed at him across the table. “How old were you?”

“Just turned ten.”

“Was it awful? I had mine taken out when I was fourteen. It was on the first day of spring break and my mother promised me I'd be up and at 'em by the following day, but I was sick as a dog the entire week and furious that I'd missed my vacation.”

“I had an easier time of it. I got to eat ice cream and Jell-O for two days, then pretty much bounced back to my usual trouble-making ways.” Mack leaned back in his chair. He had been half-afraid they wouldn't have much to say to each other once he finally got Ellen to himself, but he found himself completely relaxed. “So tell me what it was like to work in a library all those years.”

Her face lit up. “I just adored it. I enjoyed my coworkers and loved helping people find a novel they'd enjoy or the research material they needed to complete a paper or a project. I loved that each day I learned something new.” She sighed with pleasure. “But most of all I adored being surrounded by books.”

He grinned. “From the looks of the shelves in your living room, you're still surrounded by books.”

“Yes, I admit it, I'm an addict. How about you? Are you a reader?”

“Nothing like you are, I bet. But I like a good Elmore Leonard or Neal Stephenson book. Especially if I've had a particularly busy day. I'm not a big fan of all the reality TV that seems to be the big craze these days, so I find it a great way to unwind.”

“And you certainly keep busy.” Leaning in, she reached across the table to touch her fingertips to the back of his hand. “It must be very rewarding to be so competent at so many things.” The corner of her mouth
crooked. “Winston, bless his heart, was a whiz when it came to banking. But when it came to keeping anything running around the house he was utterly helpless. I so admire the way you seem to master every single thing you put your hands to.”

I'd like to put my hands to you,
he thought. Feeling heat rise up his throat, he tugged at the knot of his tie.
Down boy,
he lectured himself sternly. He didn't want to blow the opportunity he had with Ellen. Focusing on the topic she'd begun, he told her a bit about his background in the aircraft industry and how his father had started him down his current path as a handyman by teaching him how to work with tools.

It was difficult not to think hot thoughts, however, when she fanned herself with her hand a few moments later and said, “This wine has certainly warmed me up,” and pulled off her suit jacket, rising to drape it over the back of her chair. He stared at her shoulders gleaming in the muted light as she reseated herself, gazed with covetous eyes at the way the skimpy periwinkle slip-top cupped her pretty breasts.

He felt enormous gratitude toward Mrs. Baxter for her timely intervention when she returned to take their order.

Unfortunately, once he'd allowed sexual thoughts into his mind, they stuck like a freeloading relative to the guest-room bed, and he had to work like the devil to evict them. His choice of restaurant helped, for Lawry's service was a show that provided built-in distractions. Instead of tossing their salads, the waitress spun their mixed greens, shreds of beets, bits of egg, grape tomatoes and croutons in a stainless-steel bowl atop a bed of ice, drizzling in dressing, then serving the
mixture onto their plates and presenting them with chilled salad forks. The chef rolled a stainless cart to their table and carved their individual servings from the majestic standing rib it showcased.

Then there was Ellen herself. The more they talked, the more imperative grew his need for a relationship deeper than a quick tumble into the nearest bed—although that desire was rapidly reaching near-addictive proportions. She was smart and funny and a whole lot earthier than he'd ever imagined.

Discovering that their senses of humor often meshed, they laughed frequently. She told him about her canceled trip to Italy and he told her about his one and only vacation in Europe, the excursion he and Maryanne had taken to England and France the year before she'd died. They talked about his daughters and about “their” girls, speculating on how serious Treena was getting about Jax and how long it would take Carly to whip Rufus into shape. The conversation flowed almost nonstop, but even the occasional silences were companionable.

Once they were enclosed in his car heading home, however, all the sexual tension he'd managed to tamp down during the meal returned with a vengeance. On the drive back to the complex he found himself growing more and more edgy the closer they got to home, and by the time they reached Ellen's door he had outright knots in the back of his neck. He wanted in the worst way to push her up against the unyielding wood and put his hands all over that seductive little top.

Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her with the utmost gentleness, taking extra care not to touch her with anything except his lips.

And he did all right, he held it all together, until her soft lips opened beneath his. Then, promising himself he'd take only one little taste, he eased his tongue into the warm, damp cavern of her mouth.

That was a big mistake. His kiss turned fierce, desperate, and he trembled with the effort it took to hold himself back, to not plaster his body against hers and simply take and take and take. He ripped his mouth free and stared down at her, breathing hard. “Well, uh, good night,” he said hoarsely, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep himself from pawing her like a rabid dog.

She blinked, then drew a shuddery little breath and opened her purse to retrieve her key. Upon unlocking and opening her door, she looked up at him and bade him a soft good-night.

Then the prim curve of her lips turning into a siren's smile, Ellen reached out, wrapped his tie around her petite fist and hauled him through the doorway into her apartment.

Nobody had to invite him twice and, heart beating fast and furiously, he grasped her fine-boned shoulders. Kicking the door closed behind them, he pulled her into his arms and rocked his mouth over hers.

J
AX WAS STILL
asleep when Treena came back to the bedroom after her shower the next morning. They'd certainly been burning their candle at both ends and she knew she'd feel like sleeping for a week, herself, once this afternoon's audition was finally behind her. That was a pipe dream, of course, but she at least intended to sleep late tomorrow morning.

Looking at such a large man sprawled out on his stomach like a little boy made her feel all gooey inside. His arms curved over his head and one knee was pulled up, his thigh free of the covers tangled around his hips. Observing him, so big and male and utterly at peace in her bed not only touched a tender spot inside of her, it managed to settle some of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach over the upcoming audition.

She moved quietly about the room as she pulled fresh undies and a gauzy top and jeans from her drawers and dressed. Then she headed back to the bathroom to apply her makeup.

Jax still hadn't stirred when she returned to the bedroom, so she set about gathering her stuff together for the tryout. Forgoing her usual ratty leotard, she packed fishnet stockings, an almost new double-cross halter
top and a pair of V-front boy-cut shorts into her dance bag. She polished her black T-strap shoes and placed them in the bag's end pocket.
la Stravaganza
didn't require its dancers to audition in full makeup and costume like some of the shows did, but she'd learned over the years that putting an extra effort into her appearance paid off. The choreographer and GM who conducted the tryouts paid attention to that sort of thing.

And this year she needed all the help she could get.

She spotted Jax's wallet on the floor by her vanity chair as she passed by on her way to grab an additional pair of stockings. Pausing to pick it up, she tossed it atop his jeans on the little chair and had taken several steps away before she suddenly came to a halt. She glanced over her shoulder at the leather billfold, then over at Jax, still deep asleep.

And she grinned. “Driver's license,” she whispered gleefully.

Whipping around she retraced her steps and dropped to a squat in front of the chair. She picked up the wallet and with one final glance over her shoulder, flipped the tri-fold open.

Jax's license had been issued in Massachusetts, a state she'd hadn't even realized he'd ever lived in, and it occurred to her there was a lot they'd never discussed. He'd taken a good, if slightly sober-faced, picture and his birthday was—aha!—October third.

“Gotcha.” She smiled at herself, tickled to have won the ongoing game between them. Now her biggest decision was whether to let him know right away that she knew exactly when he was going to turn thirty-four or to wait for his birthday and surprise him. The fact that
he was slightly younger than she was didn't bother her, though she was surprised.

As she happily considered her options, her gaze drifted across the name on the driver's license. And her stomach dropped. Her smile froze. No. No, that couldn't be right.

But reading it again, she saw that, indeed, the license had been issued to Jackson Gallagher McCall.

The man she'd fallen in love with, the man she'd trusted, the man she'd been weaving goddamn
fantasies
of a rosy future around was Big Jim's son. Something almost audible reverberated in her head.

She thought it must be the sound of all her dreams caving in.

 

J
AX JERKED AWAKE
as someone yanked urgently on his left biceps. Blinking groggily, he struggled up on his right arm. “Huh? What?”

He saw Treena bent over him. She slapped at his head, his neck, his shoulders with both hands then wrapped them around his upraised biceps again and tugged, obviously trying to pull his two hundred and eighteen pounds out of bed. “Get out,” she yelled. “Get out of here now!”

“Honey?” He sat up. “What's the matter? Is the condo on fire?” But he knew that wasn't it. He was waking up fast now and beginning to realize she wasn't concerned for his welfare.

She was furious with him, and there was only one reason he could think of for that. Acid poured into his gut and his heart started banging like a loose shutter in a hurricane against the wall of his chest.

“Oh, God.” She laughed, but it was an arid, humor
less sound. “What's the matter? What's the
matter?
I thought I knew you, but I didn't know squat. And I want you out of my house, Jackson McCall.” She spat his name as if to get it out of her mouth before its corrosiveness could eat through her tongue like acid.
“Now!”

Shit.

“How did you find out?” he croaked.

Wrong question. He knew it the instant the words left his mouth. Dodging the fist she sent hurling his way, he said hastily, “That's not what I meant! Listen to me, Treena. I was going to tell you myself tonight, I swear.”

“Liar!” She came at him, murder in her eyes and her hands an erratic blur as they smacked at any part of him she could reach. “You goddamn liar!”

Jax surged to his feet and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her hands to her sides. She bucked and fought, and this wasn't some delicate little English flower he was wrapped around. Treena was tall and strong and mad as hell, and he had to plant his feet, tighten his hold and hang on until she wore herself out.

It took a while but finally she went limp. His heart just broke when he felt scalding tears trickle down his chest, and he pressed his cheek to the top of her head, where he swore he could feel steam escaping.

“I was going to tell you tonight,” he reiterated, his voice hoarse with the urgent need to make her listen to him—to make her believe. “When I first met you I didn't plan to tell you at all. But then I fell for you. God, I fell for you so hard, and I didn't know what the hell to do—so I kept putting off telling you who I was. But
I swear on my mother's grave that I'd made up my mind to tell you tonight. I just didn't want the knowledge of my identity to foul up your audition.”

Her head snapped up so fast she damn near shattered his cheekbone, and he bit back an oath as pain radiated out from the point of contact.

She glared at him through narrowed lashes. “Oh, trust me, you son of a bitch, I'm going to pass that audition. You will
not
screw that up for me, too.” Her heart pounded against his diaphragm. “How long have you known who I am?”

He was tempted to lie and say the morning following her birthday when she'd first mentioned Big Jim's name. But he had to tell her the truth. He owed her that.

And, God, so much more. “Before we met.”

The pain that flashed across her face nearly brought him to his knees.

“You bastard,” she whispered. Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs as she stared at him and her voice was anguished as she demanded,
“Why?”

“To get my grandfather's baseball.”

“Your…what? A baseball?” Incomprehension furrowed her brow. Then her eyes widened. “The World Series ball?”

“Yes. I got myself in a jam, and I need the ball to get out of it with both hands still intact.”

It was clear she had no idea what he was talking about, and Jax drew in a deep breath and eased it out again, trying to marshal his thoughts. “Look, all my life I've had the history of Grandpa's baseball shoved down my throat—and the lecture always ended with my father telling me that someday it would be mine. Well, the
truth is, I never wanted the damn thing. It seems like all we ever did was fight about my disappointing skill in sports, and that stupid ball epitomized our entire dicked up relationship. So the day I found out Dad was dead I did something incredibly stupid. I allowed my ego to do my thinking during a poker game. The result of
that
brilliant move was that I let myself be maneuvered into putting up the ball for a wager.”

“You
bet
it?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him as if he were a slug with a mile-long slime trail. “So let me get this straight. You couldn't be bothered to attend your father's funeral but you had time for a card game, where you wagered his most prized possession.”

Trying not to let the contempt in her voice get to him, he said levelly, “I received the letter informing me of Dad's death months late because it ended up chasing me all over Europe. And the day it finally caught up with me, I went a little crazy. I was drinking and not thinking real straight.”

“So you lost it.” It wasn't a question.

“Yes. And the guy I lost it to is threatening to have his goons break all my fingers if I don't give it to him after the tournament tonight.”

For the first time she looked perhaps the tiniest bit sympathetic toward him. “Some man threatened to break your fingers?”

He gave a little shrug. “Not in so many words. But he implied it, and having his henchmen bend my thumbs backward made it pretty damn clear.” Sucking in another breath, he felt Treena's breasts flatten against
his diaphragm and realized he still held her immobile. She seemed to have calmed down enough to abandon her plan to beat him to death and he knew he ought to ease away and set her free.

He didn't. He wanted to hang on to her for as long as he could. He loosened his hold slightly, though. “I honest to God wanted to do this the right way, Treena. When I found out the ball hadn't been left to me after all I authorized my lawyer to make you an offer for it.”

“That was
you?
” She stared up at him, dumb-founded. Then a maniacal laugh burst out of her, and it wasn't a pretty sound. It was harsh and loud and went on much too long.

He was beginning to fear what he'd have to do to stop the hysteria when the crazed sound stopped with the abruptness of a needle being snatched up off a record. She looked up at him and his head jerked back at the scorn that flared so hotly in her eyes it had burned away the last of her tears.

“You sorry-ass buffoon,” she said contemptuously. “I wanted to take that offer in the worst way. It would have given me the security I'd enjoyed before I gave up the cushion of my savings—it would have allowed me to start my dance studio should today's audition not go the way I hope it will. The way it
has
to go now.”

She wrenched free of his hold and stepped back. “But you know what,
Jackson?
I couldn't sell it. And would you like to know why?”

“Sure.” Without taking his eyes off of her, he snatched his jeans off the little chair and pulled them on.

“Because I knew Big Jim wanted it to go to his
worthless son. Gawd, don'tcha just love it? Isn't that
rich?
All this time that you were planning to—what, steal it from me?—I was saving it for you.”

Crap.
His head swam, his usual methodical mind a frozen wasteland.

She laughed bitterly. “The joke was certainly on me, wasn't it?”

“No.” Dropping the T-shirt he'd picked up to put on, he ran his forefinger down the soft skin of her cheek. It was flushed and hot beneath his fingertip. “The joke was on both of us.”

She made a skeptical sound and knocked his hand aside. “What the hell did
you
lose? I mean, come on! This is pretty much a win-win situation for you. You get your precious ball.” For a second she faltered. “Or maybe you've stolen it from the closet already.”

“I left it where I found it, Treena.”

“Well, hallelujah—you managed to keep your sticky fingers off of it. So, you get the ball, you get to keep your clever hands in one piece, and hey! You didn't even once have to visit your sick father to get your inheritance! You didn't have to go through all that dreary effort of putting yourself out for a man who pined to see you one last time before he died.”

It was a direct jab at Jax's hottest button, and all his warmly concerned penitence turned to ice. He stepped back, his spine snapping straight, his most noncommittal poker face slamming into place. “You don't know what the hell you're talking about,” he said coldly.

“Oh, don't I?” She thrust her face up under his, poked a long finger into his sternum. “I was there,
buddy, you weren't! And it was all
Jackson
this and
Jackson
that. He lived for your sporadic phone calls, bragged to his friends about what a mathematical genius you are. Big Jim was the nicest man I ever met and you never once, in all the time I knew him, came to see him!”

“You're damn right I didn't! I don't know where all that newfound fondness for me came from, but when I was growing up I couldn't do
anything
to make that man proud. And as for his so-called pride in my math abilities—”

“There was nothing so-called about it,
Jackson.
”

“Stop calling me that!” He was nearly beside himself, hearing the hated name coming from her lips. “The only person who ever called me Jackson was my father—and that was usually when he was haranguing me for missing some stupid pitch in some stupid game I didn't want to play in the first place. I'm
Jax.
Got it? That's what my mother called me and that's who I am.”

“Fine then,
Jax.
Don't you tell me what I know. And I know he was proud of you—leagues beyond what you deserved, if you ask me. I must have heard once a day how you'd graduated top of your class from MIT at seventeen freaking years of age.”

“Then why the hell didn't he bother coming to my graduation?” Jax roared.

“He was sick, you ass. He didn't want to take away from your big day.”

“Had better things to do, is more like it.” He remembered the old man's phone call that day.
“Sorry, kid,”
Big Jim had said.
“You know how it is. Things come up.”
“I knocked myself out trying to please that old bastard,
but it was an exercise in futility.
Nothing
I did was good enough for him.”