Tempt Me Tonight (14 page)

She plopped back on the bed, only to feel the sharp edges of her hair clip bite into her head, so she yanked it out and tossed it to the floor. She stared at the ceiling because she couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. He was too beautiful. “What I mean is…it won’t change anything. Our lives will still go on as they have all these years.”

“So making love with me didn’t change anything for you?”

Making love?
Whoa. She’d never been with a man who’d called it that, and Joe was the last guy she’d have expected it from. And she couldn’t help remembering how frantic their coupling had been, both times. She glanced up at him. “Would you call it that? Making love? We were…like animals.”

“Lots of different ways to make love, cupcake.”

She looked back to the ceiling. His blue eyes shone on her too intently.

But when he reached under the bedspread still covering her to graze his palm up her bare thigh, hip—oh boy—desire flared again.

“I don’t think I could ever get enough of you if we did this every day and night forever,” he said, and the startling notion sent a great warmth rushing through her womb.

Yikes. She needed to put a stop to the temptation that kept erupting inside her. She needed to get to the
end
of this hot encounter.

In fact, she needed to quit being
real
Trish and instead act like Patricia Henderson, attorney at law, take-charge woman who didn’t pull any punches.

“That’s too bad, Joe, because it can’t happen again.”

Damn, that was good. She’d sounded utterly sure, completely in control.

He hesitated, probably because her voice had just changed—yet his gaze continued to burn through her even as she kept her eyes focused on the plain white ceiling. “So you think if I come back here again,” he asked, “you’ll be able to send me away? I gave you the chance to say no, Trish. And you couldn’t. You wanted it as much as I did.”

True. But Lawyer Trish knew how to dodge an answer and change the topic. “If you come back, I won’t be here. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Back to Indy?” He sounded disappointed.

If only it were that simple. “No,” she confessed, “just to my mom and dad’s.”

Even in her peripheral vision, she saw relief flood his expression—but she resolved to ignore it. She
could
resist him, and she was getting stronger inside with each passing second. It was just like being in a courtroom, putting on a grand show, pretending she believed in something she didn’t, as defense attorneys so often had to do.

“And,” she went on, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to see each other again.”

But—oops—apparently she’d taken her little act too far, because in an instant, every ounce of cocky confidence returned to his gaze. “I dare you to look me in the eye and tell me it was just sex, Trish. Last night or right now.”

She could have. She was in full attorney mode now. But she saw no point, since she’d already surrendered that truth. “It
wasn’t
just sex,” she admitted, and she met his eyes to say it, since it would drive her point home. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a mistake.” She gently forced out the next, vital words. “You should go now.”

He sat there for a long, painful moment—then finally rose from the bed, making it feel big and empty, to calmly zip up his jeans, his back turned. God, even from that view, he looked incredible—the denim hugging his butt beneath the tail of that white shirt, his shoulders stretching the fabric out so broad.

Stop staring, damn it. Be strong.

As he walked slowly to the sink outside the bathroom, she listened as he washed his hands, maybe his face. She took the opportunity to reach for her shorts—which had fallen near the bed—and scurry into them, but then she lay back down, wanting to appear nonchalant about his departure. She realized for the first time that the heavy scent of pizza permeated the air.

He’s going to leave now. Then you can eat. And sleep. And take care of business tomorrow. And put all this behind you, once and for all.

He crossed the room and she thought he was headed to the door—but instead he rounded the bed and dropped to his knees, leaning toward her. “I’ll go, but I’ll need a kiss good-bye.”

Oh my.

With that, he skimmed one palm up onto her cheek and lowered his mouth to hers. He pressed his tongue between her lips and—damn it—she responded. Hell, her whole
body
responded, perking to life from head to toe as she kissed him back, drank him in, even found herself threading her fingers through his soft, thick hair.

It would be so easy to forget everything she’d just said and pull him back down onto the bed with her, open those jeans back up, and let him fill her again. So, so easy. And so, so good.

He stretched it out, letting one kiss turn into another—each as warm and fevered as the ones shared in that Trans Am so long ago—and she got lost in them, at once loving the simple, sweet melding of their mouths but also yearning again for more, for their bodies to be interlocking.

Oh God, could she do this? Let herself have him again?

Maybe. Maybe it would be all right. Just one more time.

Which was when he finally pulled away, ending the kisses, pushing to his feet.

He gazed down on her, his eyes knowing. “Still want me to go?”

No. God, no.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Right little word this time.

Or at least she thought it was.

Joe spent much of the next day under the hood of a Lamborghini Gallardo, which no one was allowed to touch but him. Even though the guys in his employ were good mechanics, he wasn’t sure he trusted anyone but himself with a $150,000 car that belonged to one of his wealthiest customers. And besides, getting to put his hands inside a car like that was one of Joe’s pure joys and he was too selfish to share it. Working on this car wasn’t work at all—it was something he sank into, each turn of the wrench made lovingly, each task in the tune-up completed with the utmost respect and care. The service—which involved removing the engine, adjusting the valves, replacing the timing belts, and changing all the fluids, filters, and spark plugs—would take him the better part of a week, but he didn’t mind, especially since it came with a tidy chunk of income. Guys who owned Lamborghinis didn’t scrimp on service.

“Hey, Joe.”

Even before looking up, he knew it was Carissa. “Just…one…minute, Care Bear,” he said, tightening a bolt. Then he rose up, reached for the rag in his back pocket, and wiped his hands as he turned to face her.

“What the heck kind of car is
that?
” she asked, wide-eyed.

“That, Miss Care Bear, is an Italian Lamborghini.”

“Cool.”

Joe didn’t personally love the look of this particular model—he was more of a roadster man—but there was no denying the car was a fast, well-tuned machine. “Yeah,” he said. “Cool.”

“You should quit calling me Care Bear, though.”

He blinked. “Why?” He feared he wouldn’t like what was coming.

“I’m
thirteen,
” she said as if she were thirty. “I’m going into the
eighth grade.
”

Joe sighed. Over the summer, Carissa had started acting more like a teenager than the tomboyish little girl she’d been up to now, but he’d been trying to ignore that. Tomboys he knew how to relate to—teenage girls, not so much. “Tell you what. I’ll keep it quiet, just call you that when it’s only me and you.” He winked, then shouted over to the garage’s other three bays, “Nobody heard me call her Care Bear, did they?”

“Not me,” his buddy Carl’s voice echoed from beneath a Mustang.

“Me neither,” called Johnny Rogers, a young mechanic who’d only been with him a year or so.

“I guess you think you’re funny or somethin’,” she said with an exaggerated eye roll.

And he felt the urge to ruffle her hair, but resisted since she’d probably have a fit. She looked kind of dressed up, wearing flare-legged jeans and a tight little top that showed off her shape. Hell, when had she gotten a
shape?
Of course, he’d noticed it just the other day at the Waffle House, too, but that didn’t mean he was
used
to it.

“What?” she said, narrowing her gaze on him.

Aw, crap—she’d clearly caught the troubled look in his eye. But he answered honestly. “You’re growing up. I’m not sure I like it.”

The truth earned him another eye roll. “Then you’re
really
gonna hate
this.
”

“This what?”

“What I came to talk to you about.”

He raised his eyebrows, as if to say,
Go on.

“Justin Vance asked me to the Fall Fling.”

“The Fall what?”

“Fling. It’s a dance.”

Oh. A dance. Okay. He usually associated the word
fling
with sex, or at least fooling around. But then again, he knew what happened at dances. He’d taken Trish to dances. They’d made out like maniacs in the dark. “This dance, what’s it like? Will there be…chaperones?”

She shrugged. “I guess.” Then gave him a sarcastic look. “Relax, dude—it’s a middle school dance, not an orgy.”

Christ,
how did she know what an
orgy
was?

“Why do you look weird?” she asked.

Because I’m freaking out.
He had no idea what Carissa knew about sex or about waiting ’til you found someone special, no idea what Beverly might or might not have taught her—especially given
Bev’s
past in that area. “Just tell me about this boy,” he said, probably too gruffly. “What’s his story? What does he do? What kind of grades does he make?”

What kind of grades does he make?
Aw, crap—he really
was
acting like a dad.

But one of the things he loved about Carissa was that she never let his brusqueness intimidate her. “I haven’t checked his report card,” she offered, crossing her arms indignantly, “but he’s in the gifted math class. He’s good at video games, and he’s into skateboarding.”

Sounded like an average enough kid, so Joe couldn’t complain. And the closest
he’d
ever come to any “gifted” classes had been when he’d walked Trish to hers. So he boiled it down to the heart of the matter, lowering his voice. “You like the guy, Care Bear?”

She nodded, a coquettish little smile stealing over her face, but what really answered the question was the red stain climbing her cheeks. He tilted his head, remembering first crushes and girls so pretty he’d thought they’d never look at him—but they had.
She
had. He’d had a crush on Trish since the fifth grade. “And would
I
like the guy, Care Bear?”

“Why? You want to go to the Fall Fling with him?”

“See, I was trying to be nice, not mess up your hair like I used to—but now you’re just asking for it.”

Her smile widened, and she looked more like little-girl Carissa than teenager Carissa as she took a playful step backward, just in case he made good on the threat.

“This dance,” he said instead, “is it dressy?”

Another nod from her. “Not formal, but the girls all wear fancy dresses.”

“Do you have something?”

As usual, when topics like this came up, she went a little sheepish, rocking from one foot to the other, letting her eyes drop to her beaded flip-flops. “I have a dress from last year,” she said, trying to sound cheerful about it. “I might go with my friend Taylor and her mom over to Columbus and see if I can find something on sale.”

“Got any money?”

She kept rocking. “Grandpa gave me twenty dollars for the yard work Saturday, and I made twelve babysitting Sophie’s little boy last week.”

Wiping his hands on the rag again, Joe eased his arms out of his coveralls and reached into the back pocket of his work jeans for his wallet. He’d just been to the bank this morning, so he had ample cash on him at the moment, and he slid a fifty into her hand. She took it but looked reluctant. “Joe, you don’t have to give me money.”

“I know that. Must mean I want to.”

“Well, at least let me work for it or something.”

They’d been through this before; he guessed Carissa had developed a healthy understanding that money didn’t grow on trees. He tried to think of something for her to do and remembered a stack of paid invoices sitting on the corner of his desk. In fact, the whole damn office had been pretty messy lately. “You’ve filed invoices for me before, right?”

“Yeah.” She nodded.

He motioned toward the door just beyond the Lamborghini. “There’s a pile on my desk marked paid. You know what to do with ’em.”

She smiled, then scurried toward the office. The job wouldn’t take her half an hour, but that was all right—he didn’t want her to waste her whole afternoon at the garage.

She paused, hand on the doorknob, to look back at him. “And Joe?”

“Yeah.”

“When I’m done…you think we could talk for a few minutes? About Justin and the dance. I mean…” She blushed prettily and lowered her voice, probably in case the other guys were still listening. “Maybe you could tell me what to say, what kind of stuff he’ll want to talk about.”

He met her gaze. “Sure, Care Bear.”

She smiled, eyes sparkling, then disappeared behind the gray office door.

Whether or not it made any sense, he was glad she was in his life, glad he’d decided to take part in hers. He knew some people gossiped about him shirking his responsibility—they assumed he wouldn’t be in her life at all if he wasn’t her father, so they thought he should have claimed her. And he knew others just wondered what the hell the deal was. Even Debbie didn’t know for sure, because he’d sworn Kenny to secrecy all those years ago, and as far as he knew, Kenny had followed through. Mainly because everyone—including Kenny—knew that telling Debbie a secret was like taking out an ad in the
Eden Gazette.

He didn’t much care what anyone thought—he was just glad that maybe he gave Carissa something she needed. Money—but something else, too. They’d never talked about what his connection to her might be, yet they’d always shared a comfortable bond.

Although what the hell he was going to tell her to help with her “date” he didn’t know. Zipping up his coveralls, he picked up his wrench and stared into the inner workings of the Lamborghini as if all the wires and tubes and hoses might spell out an answer. He’d never actually had those awkward adolescent dates. He’d known Trish their whole lives, so by the time he’d actually asked her out, it had been pretty easy. They’d been in some of the same classes, had hung with the same friends.