Tempt Me Tonight (4 page)

Which is why I need to leave.
“You’re out of your mind,” she said instead.

“Look, if you just stay and see that you can have a good time in the same group with him, think how freeing that’ll be. Because say what you will about how over it you are—we both know what a huge deal it was when it happened, and we both know it’s what got you in the habit of not coming home very often. It’s time you face this demon.”

Damn it. Debbie was right. Although it wasn’t that Trish had spent fourteen years away from Eden in order to avoid Joe Ramsey. Almost from the day she’d decided to pursue law, it had become her life—her work kept her in the city a lot, most recently because she was busy trying to make partner. But Joe
was
the main reason she’d stayed away in the beginning, and it had started a pattern.

And hell, if she stayed a while, maybe he’d do something to make her really dislike him. Really disliking a guy could kill lust fast. Or maybe he’d become drunk and disorderly—another thing that could squash her attraction to him in a heartbeat.

So she would force herself to stay, watch the guys play pool, act like a normal person, and face her demon.

She just wished the demon weren’t so darn sexy.

Twenty minutes later, Trish had watched Joe and his snake beat Kenny twice. Of course, Kenny was drunk, so that obviously made Joe’s work easier.

But she hadn’t really been watching the game. She’d been watching Joe’s body as he bent over the table, stretching out long, muscular, and lean, his butt appearing just as firm in that denim as she remembered it from all those years ago. She’d been watching the confident little twitch at his lips—too cool to smile—each time he made a shot. And she’d been watching his eyes—focused, sparkling when he laughed—and she’d found herself annoyingly disappointed that they never raised back to her, not through the whole two games.

Debbie had strayed to the bar at some point for a beer, but Trish had insisted she didn’t want anything to drink. Intoxication and Joe Ramsey just didn’t mix.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced to her friend.

“The window’s too small to climb through, just so you know.”

Trish ignored that and retreated to the small, dank room. She found herself looking in the pockmarked mirror, freshening her lipstick, trying to fluff her blond hair and hoping the darker roots weren’t showing too badly. Then an irritating thought hit her—
Why on earth do you care? And what does it matter that he didn’t look at you when he was shooting pool? You said it yourself—he’s not even a remote possibility.

Fortunately, she came up with a satisfactory answer.
I just want him to think I look good.
No crime in that. Who
didn’t
want their old boyfriends to think they were hot?

So that meant it was perfectly okay to add a little mascara, too.

When she exited the bathroom, she found the pool area deserted, then realized her group—although she hesitated to think of them as
her
group—had pulled together a couple of small tables and sat down around them. One chair in the circle was empty—and it was next to Joe.

She glared at Debbie, who grinned and shrugged. One more reason to plan a painful demise for her friend. Since nothing could happen between her and Joe. Since he was fudge and she was allergic.

Joe had turned his chair around backwards to straddle it, balancing his muscular arms across the back. Trish drew in a deep breath, pulled out her own chair, and took a seat, careful not to bump him. Bumping, though, she discovered, really wasn’t necessary to create trouble here—just having him that close to her made her
feel
him, smell the musky scent of him. She found herself glancing down at his thigh, the denim stretched snug across it. She flashed back to all the times it had been pressed between
her
thighs.

“So you’re a big lawyer in Indy, huh?”

Trish cringed, yanking her gaze upward to the scruffy brown-haired guy she now realized was Tommy Hudson from their class, his cap shading his face.
Act normal. As opposed to overwhelmed with carnal desire.

She tried for a laugh. “Well, I don’t know about big.”

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Debbie said. “Trish works for Tate, Blanchard & Rowe downtown and has been named Best Up-and-Coming Attorney in Indiana by…” She looked at Trish. “What’s the name of that magazine?”

Trish shook her head. “Not important.” She felt far enough removed from these people as it was—she didn’t want to distance herself even further. “I’m just thankful to have a job I love.”

Everyone nodded, but no one responded, and Trish feared even
that
had been the wrong thing to say. At least three of the table’s occupants worked at the local food-processing plant—they probably weren’t doing a “job they loved.”

“I know what you mean.” The deep voice came from her right, and when she turned to Joe, she was startled again to find how close he was—their faces mere inches apart. His eyes met hers briefly, then he shifted his gaze to the rest of the group. “Makes earning a living a lot easier if you like what you do.”

He was rescuing her, she realized. Reminding them all that
he
did something
he
loved—that attaining your goals wasn’t reserved for the uppity girl who’d left town and never come back.

Joyce Carnes, another girl from school, there with one of Kenny’s buddies, added, “I just got my hairdresser’s license. I’m cutting hair down at Sophie’s, and so far, it’s a whole lot better than the factory.” The one that made the tin cans for the food-processing plant, Trish presumed.

She smiled, happy for Joyce, and happy that Joyce was making her feel more normal. “That’s great—how long have you been at it?”

“Three months—and I don’t even mind getting up in the morning anymore.”

“You guys need another round?” Trish looked up to see Rowdy Lancaster. “Hey there, Trish—remember me?”

She nodded. “Of course. How are you, Rowdy?”

“Fair enough. This place keeps me busy, but I like it. What can I get you to drink?”

“A glass of Merlot would be great.”

Rowdy pursed his lips and the table went silent.

Finally, Joe said, “Don’t think Rowdy has that.”

Not just Merlot, he meant—wine, period. She looked up at Rowdy again. “How about a cosmopolitan?”

Rowdy blinked, looked slightly confused, then shook his head.

You’re not in the city anymore.
She made her next choice more carefully. “A screwdriver?”

Rowdy grinned. “Vodka and OJ, coming up.” He looked around the table. “Another beer for everybody else?”

And Trish sighed. She was the odd man out here, no disguising it—the freak-of-nature lawyer in capri pants who didn’t drink beer. She planned to slug down her drink quickly and get the hell out of here. An hour of this agony was enough—enough to “make nice” with Joe, enough to please Debbie.

Just then, the jukebox spouted out a new song—some country ballad Trish didn’t know. “My song!” Debbie screeched, and Trish laughed inside. Ever since high school, any song that Debbie liked she claimed as her own. She must have thousands by now. Debbie grabbed Kenny’s arm. “We have to dance!”

Kenny rolled his eyes yet took his wife’s hand and pulled her to her feet as he glanced to the rest of them. “Gotta keep her happy.” He tried to look put upon but failed.

Before Trish knew it, the other two girls at the table had cajoled their men up to dance, as well. Which left…her and Joe. Sitting elbow to elbow, shoulder to snake. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this awkward, but it had probably been in high school. “So…” she said.

He rested his chin on his crossed arms and looked at her. “Little weird, huh?” he asked, offering half a grin.

I’d go so far as to say surreal.
But she just nodded, returning a small smile. “Yeah.”

His gaze dropped to her wrist, to the thin gold bracelet she wore. Tiny gold cat charms hung from it at one-inch intervals. “Still got a thing for cats, huh?”

Everything inside her tightened as she was forced to remember that cat necklace he’d given her. Despite what had happened between them, she’d worn it anyway, because she’d liked it, and because it had seemed like a good way to tell herself he didn’t matter—as opposed to throwing away a perfectly good necklace. It had started a trend in her life—friends had started giving her cat-themed jewelry and eventually home décor, and they still did. She owned black cat bookends, she hung her bathrobe on a pewter cat whose tail formed a hook, and a big rustic folk-art print of an orange tiger cat hung over the dining table in her downtown loft. And never before this moment had she realized—let herself acknowledge or remember—that it had all started with the little keepsake Joe had given her that last night. Whoa.

“Yeah,” she said, hoping her strange reaction hadn’t shown in her eyes. “I guess I do.”

“Do you have any? Cats? At your place in the city?”

She would have liked to, only…“I’m not home enough. But Mom and Dad still have Pumpkin’s two kids—Pickles and Morris. Good mousers, my dad says. Although they’re getting old now.”

The look in his eyes told her he was remembering the cat necklace, too. And the kitten he’d given her. Then the corners of his mouth quirked softly. “I didn’t know Pumpkin had kids. In fact, I didn’t even know Pumpkin was a girl.”

She remembered how hard it could be to tell with kittens sometimes, then laughed lightly. “Yeah, I got an angry phone call from my mom at college, telling me
that cat
I’d left behind was pregnant. Although they managed to give away all but the two, who are both boys, so no more surprises since then.”

Joe smiled, but then sighed, letting the amusement fade from his eyes. “Truth is, cupcake, I’m glad to have a minute alone with you.” Like before, the old nickname seemed to bore into her, reattach her to him somehow.

“Oh?”

He spoke slowly. “I’ve never had a chance to apologize.”

She broke eye contact, heat ascending her cheeks. Oh, hell—was it possible she still felt that awful hurt? Or was she just embarrassed all over again remembering the betrayal? She spoke kindly but firm. “It was a long time ago, and I got
over
it a long time ago, so there’s no need.”

“There is,” he insisted. “For me, anyway. I…” He shook his head, as if at a loss. “I’ll never know what got into me that night.”

She cautiously returned a soft gaze to his, even managed a grin. “I do. Beer. And hormones.”

He shrugged concedingly. “Guess that pretty much sums it up.” And she didn’t realize she’d quit looking at him again until he lifted her chin with one bent finger. The touch moved through her like liquid as their eyes met. “I wished for a long time I could tell you how sorry I was, but you said you didn’t want to hear from me and I took you at your word. Now that you’re here, though, I can finally tell you. I’m sorry, Trish.”

The words hung between them like something volatile, alive. Part of her wanted to
really
talk to him, really discuss it like two normal, mature adults. But a bigger part of her couldn’t go there, couldn’t give the past that much presence in her life today. So she took the easier road. “It’s all right, Joe. It’s ancient history and there’s no reason to dredge it up. Life went on and we’re both fine. Right?”

He took a moment answering, those warm blue eyes nearly drowning her. “Right.”

Fairly desperate to lighten the mood, she pointed at the snake curled on his arm. “What’s this?”

He glanced down at it, then at her, amused. “It’s called a tattoo.”

She raised her eyebrows. “But…a snake? Why a snake?”

“Not just a snake,” he pointed out. “A cobra.”

She could tell from his tone of voice that it actually meant something to him, but she still had no idea what. “What’s so special about cobras?”

“I have one. Not a snake—a car. I’ve spent the last eight years restoring a 1967 427 Shelby Cobra. I just put the finishing touches on a few months ago.”

A Shelby Cobra. Trish wasn’t sure, but she thought one of the top partners in her firm had fought over the same model of car in his divorce settlement—and if so, it was a fairly valuable vehicle. Just how well
was
Joe doing for himself? “So you celebrated by getting a tattoo?” she asked with a half smile.

“Not exactly. Got the tattoo about five years back. Remember Billy Sturgis? We were out drinking one night over near Cincinnati. Tattoo place was next to the bar, so we both decided to get one. I was deep into the restoration then, so the cobra made sense.”

“What did Billy get?”

The corners of his mouth quirked. “Not a damn thing. I went first and he backed out after he figured out it hurt.”

Just then, Debbie’s song faded into another slow country tune, one Trish actually knew—a sexy song by Billy Currington called, “Must Be Doing Something Right.” Joe reached for her hand, closing it in his. “Dance with me.”

Oh boy. The request, the warm hand—together, they were as paralyzing as when she’d first seen him tonight. But she had no intention of dancing with him. Dancing would mean touching, swaying. You couldn’t dance to
this
song
without
swaying.

Just then, Rowdy arrived with a tray full of beer bottles and one lone mixed drink, and she thought,
Saved by the bartender.
When he set it before her, she drew her fingers from Joe’s and took a long sip. She still didn’t want to drink much, but she needed a little fortification, and it gave her something safer to do with her hands.

Yet as soon as Rowdy departed, Joe took the glass right back out of her grasp and set it down, then drew her to her feet as easily as if she’d been a rag doll without a brain.

And she let him. Just plain let him. Because it was so easy. And who could resist a nice, sexy slab of fudge—allergic or not? Simple as that, she let him pull her a few steps from the table; she let him take her in his arms.

Clearly, Joe Ramsey had never learned the art of dancing any differently than he had in a dark high school gym—his hands settled low on her hips and their torsos pressed gently together. Her arms came to rest around his neck, same as if she’d last danced with him like this yesterday.